Un prólogo --- A Preface

The purpose of this blog is not to brag by any means. I believe that if one is given the opportunity to travel they should. There is much to see in this world. I say this and I have seen only a relatively small portion of the world myself. I am merely stating what I have seen over the course of ten days in Argentina. Ten days is insufficient to pass any sort of judgment on Argentina, nor is it to make in depth observations. Nevertheless, in this blog (named for and modeled specifically after Ernesto “Che” Guevara’s Motorcycle Diaries) I attempt to show you what I have seen, heard, felt, tasted and sensed during the course of my voyage.

My father, a flight attendant, took me and my brother Steven down to Buenos Aires, dropped us off there for a week and we traveled the country. We went westward to Rosario, Córdoba and Mendoza and then back to Buenos Aires again to rendezvous with our father to come home. We saw much, loved most, and remembered all of it. Without further ado, my notes on this trip, take them as you like.

jueves 15.05 --- Una argentina nueva --- A New Argentina

After arriving at Ezezia Airport well rested from our overnight flight, we embarked on the crew bus for our Argentina journey. The bus ride was pleasant, as were the accompanying refreshments, the Hilton in Puerto Madero (our lodging for the night) is by far among the best hotels in the city and quite possibly the best I’ve ever inhabited. A quick shower and we were ready to go. Seeing how this was my brother’s first time to the country, we had to enjoy a delicacy; grilled steak (known as churrasco) sandwiches. We were joined by tens of pigeons and parrots, who vied for our extra bread. After lunching on the River Plate, we headed over to El Retiro bus station to purchase tickets for our next trip to Rosario. The bus station was rather busy, but I thought it manageable. We would make our bus the next day no matter what. We departed from El Retiro and walked through bustling Buenos Aires.

Our first steps into the big city.

We encountered a monument to the Malvinas / Falkland Islands War. For those unfamiliar, the war was fought between England in Argentina and lasted a little over three months in 1982. The islands were declared British at the end of the war. Plaques and statues are scattered through out the country. Argentina will not forget its armed conflict against the juggernaut that is Britain and nor should they. I will always refer to the islands as the Malvinas in reverence to their rightful owner, Argentina. An eternal flame and constant guard remain with this small commemoration to Argentina’s heroes.

Nuevo de julio Ave., and Across from the Malvinas Monument.

Going through San Martín Park, we made it to the famed Flórida Street. Perusing shops along the large pedestrian walkway, my brother found a shop where he could purchase a leather jacket. Argentina is famous for, among other things, exports in beef and leather. Satisfied with his new apparel, my father and I conversed with the store owners. They were from Brooklyn so we discussed sports (particularly the fates of Yankee and Shea stadiums) and the state of the American economy. We departed, browsed other shops and eventually made it to Plaza de Mayo and the Casa Rosada.

Navigating at Parque de San Martín.

The Casa Rosada.

There is so much history in this one central plaza. From the colonial age of Spanish conquistadors, to the tomb of Argentina’s George Washington (José Francisco de San Martín), to the very balcony where Juan and Eva Peron gave there speeches and a small plaza in front where the famed Madres del mayo protest and still protest for the abduction of their children during Argentina’s Dirty War. A disclaimer to the reader. If you do not like history, I apologize in advance, but, in my opinion, a country is not represented fully without some history. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.

San Telmo was our next barrio of choice. We headed for the oldest church in the entire city, San Ignacio de Loyola. An older woman gave us a tour in full English and with much enthusiasm. She spoke of the church’s history both older and recent. It was undergoing a renovation that was to be completed by the nation’s bicentennial in 2010. She communicated efficiently, passionately, and did not expect anything in return. An early treat for our trip.

Afterwards we went to a café and relaxed. We drank Quilmes, which is the equivalent to American Budweiser, jingoistic and light. I say jingoistic because there is no other drink so ingrained in the local bars around the country than Quilmes, the same for Budweiser here. We jumped the subway or Subte over to Palermo another barrio. The subway was packed! It was nearly 7:30 and the ten stops on the subte linea verde were near brutal. We barely had room to breathe. We ascended back to the surface and even the smoggy air of Buenos Aires was refreshing. After a minor directional miscue (there would be many on my part, so I take the blame up front) we found El Trapiche restaurant. The meal, after all my father’s boasting and hyping it up, was mediocre. The palm nut salad, provoletta (a grilled provolone with oregano and oil), and lomo (steak) were good, but not the best I’ve ever had. The house Malbec (Argentina’s wine) certainly improved the experience.

We hopped a cab back to the hotel. Our driver had superb English speaking skills and this made my father very happy. The two discussed the city’s attractions, some colloquial expressions, and the night life here in Buenos Aires. Pulling up to the Hilton’s lobby I felt a sense of relief. My Spanish skills, though rusty, had improved over the course of the day. Also a confidence in my ability to navigate a South American city had been strengthened. I rest assured that I am ready for this trip and can not wait for what this trip has in store for us. Exploring further than the confines of Buenos Aires, this is will be my new Argentina.

A Late Night Protest in Plaza de Mayo.

viernes 16.05 --- Salimos la ciudad --- Leaving the Big City

We got off to a late start out of Buenos Aires. Out of the Hilton by noon we revisited Florida Street and picked up my brother’s leather jacket, which had been modified to fit him better. After that we headed back towards the hotel (because our bus was to leave at 14:15 from El Retiro. We arrived at a pizza place along the way. Argentina’s pizza is very different form that of the United States. The country is known for its large Italian population, something exemplified in its pizza and wine. The pizza is not like American pizza as we know it but rather European. It is heavier on cheese and toppings and lighter on tomato sauce. Also, for those unaware, on every other country pizza is eaten with a knife and fork, not by hand. If were to consume a pizza in the American fashion, they would be gawked at.

In a hurry, we sped back towards the hotel by way of side streets the intersected perpendicularly to the bigger Flórida Street. We also crossed el puente de la mujer. It is a bridge that crosses over from the main city to Puerto Madero and is said to resemble a tango dancer holding a woman for a lower embrace. We were packed by 13:30 and made our way to El Retiro via taxi. We had a long goodbye with our father. As we watched him from our seats atop the double decker bus we waved and watched my father disappear in the distance. Steven and I realized now, we were alone.

Our bus ride was only four hours and it went by quickly. Argentina has a remarkable bus system. We rode on the Chevallier line which is supposed to be the best in the country. We reclined comfortably in our seats, read for a bit and got lost in the infinite countryside. We experienced a typical event, a protest. The farmers have been at unrest in the country for several months now. We zoomed by a crowd of angry proletariat workers and three or four tractors that sport the Argentine flag. I could only catch one banner. It read ¿Dónde está Scioli? I would later learn the Scioli was the governor of the province and his presence was requested by these protesters to settle the dispute.

Argentina's Endless Plain.

We ventured onward to Rosario and arrived at 18:30. The bus station was much smaller and thinking it safer to purchase tickets to Córdoba sooner than later, we did. Unfortunately, Chevallier was unavailable and we took a lesser known company called Sierras de Córdoba. Our bus leaves at 08:30 on Sunday. We caught a cab to Hostel Rosarinos 938 and checked in. The hostel is pleasant and located in the direct center of the city. This would prove very convenient for Steven and I. We found a small sandwich shop and had a bite to eat.

Steven in front of the hostel.

We were pretty beat from the bus ride and willing to call it a night when we encountered some more Americans. Figuring that English speakers would be a commodity this trip, we decided to go out with them. After trudging through the downtown area for twenty minutes, we turned around and visited a bar which was right next to the hostel. It was a pool bar so we had some drinks and played a game. We chatted about our impressions of the country and all were favorable. At 01:00 we grew tired and headed back to the hostel. Retiring for the evening, I went to bed happy we made it to our first city in one piece and with ease. The adventure had only just begun.

Taking a break after the bus ride.

sábado 17.05 --- La confusión --- Confusion

Once again we arose later than intended. The night life in Rosario (or in Argentina as a whole for that matter) is well known for its ability to push into the early hours of the morning. And last night was no exception. Argentine youths crept back into the hostel as late as 07:30 this morning. Their clamoring up the hostel’s stairs served as an early wake up call, yet we were unable to move from our beds due to fatigue. This is not a complaint, solely an observation in the difference between American and Argentine lifestyles and partying hours.

We were out of the door by 10:30 and were in search of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara’s house of birth and brief residence. The guidebook said it was a must see, so the hostel worker, Martín, showed us on the map where to find it. We came to the block where it was located but found nothing. There was a small plaza with a picture of Che. Steven and I were confused and disappointed. With the warm sun beating down on us, we pressed onward towards the Río Paraná. We were met with many stray dogs (the entire country is filled with them) and a beautiful riverside view. We scaled the river and eventually came to the Monument of the National Flag.

Lounging along the Paraná.

Some 200 years ago, Manuel Belgrano (Argentina statesmen and freedom fighter) designed the simplistic yet symbolic national flag. The monument itself was a bit of an eye sore at first. It was mostly a large obelisk of unpolished marble. After surveying the grounds, however, the monument wasn’t that bad. To the rear of the towering obelisk stood some impressive fountains, sculptures and Roman columns. Underneath the columns sat an eternal flame for fallen soldiers during the country’s independence wars. We were originally fearful that the stairs would go on for ever and we’d be drenched in sweat by the time we reached the top. This was not the case as we were greeted by an elevator attendant who saw us to the top. We entered the monument, read the sacred writing explaining its history and climbed the stairs which took us to an elevator to the top.

Steven in front of the "Cradle of the National Flag"

The Río Paraná from the top.

The view from the top was breath taking, as we tool our obligatory pictures. We could look out all four faces of the monument; it required some shuffling past other tourists in a very small hallway. We came back down and saw a park, some mounted howitzers/cannons, and several artisans setting up shop along the banks of the river. We proceeded to the tourist information, still in search of Che’s house. They kindly aimed us in the right direction. We found the apartment complex which is still in use today! There is no exhibit or museum, only a small, red flag that flies over one of the windows that reads casa natal de Che Guevara, and an adjacent plaza with a small mural. We could have kicked ourselves for missing it the first time. Disappointed, we didn’t even take a picture to log our visit to the revolutionary’s house.

Steven at Che's plaza with a friend.

Instead we went to lunch. We went to a restaurant named El Mejor or The Best, which lived up to its expectations as its name would suggest. We both had entrecot (a steak) and went back to the hostel to freshen up. We picked up some warmer clothes in anticipation of the weather getting colder and headed to Plaza de la Independencia. In search of a garden we never found, we settled for a long stroll in the park which was very reminiscent of Madrid’s El Retiro (not to be confused with B.A.’s bus station). I say this because the park was a family setting, filled with football games and paddle boats in its man-made reservoir. It was as large and beautiful as its Spanish counterpart too.

We departed and sought out the city museum for some history. We did so only to be snubbed again and found no museum, nor any pedestrians who knew of its whereabouts or in one case its existence. I do not respect the city with what I am about to say, but Rosario is not a tourist friendly city. The people are friendly, but that is it. If you don’t know where you’re going, chances are you won’t find your destination. We caught a cab and drove up lengthy Oroño Boulevard and found the modern art museum that had been recommended to us by various sources.

Plaza de la Independencia.

We arrived at the museum and were impressed by its outside. It looked like an old refinery, with six tanks panted in vibrantly different colors. The inside proved to be another disappointment on the day. Perhaps it’s because I’m not a big fan of modern art. Or maybe I don’t get it. Whatever the reason, the museum did not sit well with me. I found the lack of variance in pieces boring and some pieces too droll to be called art. The highpoint for me was seeing a digitally modified shot of El Prado and a motorbike race taking place inside. This day had me thinking of Madrid and how I must go back. Even the lookout over the city wasn’t anything to write about (even though I’m mentioning it now). We left the museum and browsed the artisans fair but found nothing.

The Modern Art Museum.

We walked along the river again and encountered a myriad of football games. We found a small café, had some Quilmes and relaxed a bit. After being mercilessly attacked by mosquitoes, we retreated to out hostel. The cockroaches on ground and sidewalks throughout the city made our flight form the park a slow one. Rosario is not a very clean city, and I began to wonder what I was getting myself into. We had dinner around 21:00 and retired for the night. Tomorrow our bus leaves in the early morning and will last for seven hours. What a confusing city this is.

Dapple, Sancho, and I.

domingo 18.05 --- Salida de domingo --- Sunday's departure

We finally got up early for a change. I think that this is only because we had to. Our bus was scheduled to leave at 08:30, so an early departure from the hostel was necessary. I was up at 07:15 and by 07:45 we were both showered and ready to go. We caught a taxi that early Sunday morning to the bus station and our bus left on time. I was happy to be leaving the city. Perhaps if I had a better chance to acquaint myself with the city I would have left with a favorable impression. However, I was not presented with such an opportunity and I can see why Che’s parents left the city some seventy years ago. The bus ride was taxing and long and I managed to get a few winks of sleep in.

Argentines are not tall people. There may be the freakishly tall one now and again, but this is very rare. I say this because since there are no tall Argentines, there was no reason to design a bus seat to accommodate one. Steven and I were very limited in terms of movement and comfort on the Sierras de Córdoba bus. The seats weren’t impossibly comfortable, but they were not the Chevallier bed/seats were had grown accustomed to.

Since most of the day consisted of sitting on a bus, there is not a lot I can describe until we reach Córdoba. I can only briefly remark on the vastness of the Argentine countryside. It commands a strange respect. You stare off into it for hours and not realize what you’ve been looking at. It is different from the American Midwest because it is much greener, yet equally as flat and seemingly desolate. It is all grassland, with some scattered trees. Every once and awhile there would be a herd of at least 50 grazing cows that couldn’t be bothered with anything else. This was pretty typical of my preconceived notions of the country’s landscape.

I counted the shacks made of corrugated tin and wood. There are campesinos (field workers) who are barely surviving live off this land. This is a people I can not relate to, being of suburban New Jersey, but I still sympathize for them. I can see what they’re protesting for; they just want a better life. And from the very quick glances I was allowed from the bus, they deserve better. Our bus pulled into the station at 15:30 and we immediately purchased tickets for Mendoza. Fortunately Chevallier ran there and at a reasonable time. Tomorrow night we would be on the night bus westbound for the city before the Andes. We took a cab to the hostel and were checked in by 16:00.

View from the hostel.

Córdoba, aptly named for its Spanish predecessor, seems much larger than Rosario. It is appropriately named because it reminded me of the city in Spain that was once a Muslim stronghold of the peninsula. There were no grand mosques in this city, but the cobblestones streets and general easygoingness of the town made me yearn to return to Spain yet again. Within minutes of being in the city, I recognized it to be better than Rosario. The city is much larger, cleaner and there is more to do. We trekked down to Nuevo Córdoba and searched for an ATM. We passed Paseo del Buen Pastor, a hot spot for families and couples to hang out and enjoy the afternoon and early evening. We went through the main plaza de San Martín and there were street performers and artisans en masse. We located an ATM, withdrew some cash and got a late lunch.

While we ate we watched a national football game between River Plate and Independencia. The clientele of the restaurant grew restless over River Plate’s increasing margin over Independencia. It is quite an experience to watch football in a different country. The people are so passionate. It’s different from baseball. I love baseball, but unless I was at the game myself, I would never get up and start shouting at the television in the same manner these Argentines did. It was awe inspiring. The meal was good and with our cerveza we became very tired.

We headed back toward the hostel and encountered a Franciscan cathedral during mass. Still a little buzzed, we headed in to pray and give thanks for a safe arrival to the city. The familiarity of the church procession, even in a different language, eased my weary mind. We left the cathedral and passed by Paseo again, which since our first passing had grown very crowded. We made it back to the hostel by 20:00 and were almost ready to turn in. I spoke with the hostel workers and he said there was a 24 hour Laundromat. Steven, too tired from the day’s traveling, stayed in. I went and dropped off our laundry. I was told to pick it up in 12 hours.

Franciscan Cathedral.

I wandered by the artisan’s tables and picked up a few souvenirs. Tomorrow is our second and last day in the city. Tomorrow night’s bus ride is going to be longer than today’s. I am not sure whether I can deal with that. I returned to the hostel and crashed for the night. There is so much to see in this city and yet I am left with only one day. If only Córdoba and Rosario had been switched on the itinerary. With no time machine at my service I went to bed wishing for an alternative, knowing I would receive none.

At Paseo del Buen Pastor.

lunes 19.05 --- ¡Viva Córdoba! --- Long Live Cordóba!

A full night of rest yielded us a full day of activity. Sadly, it was our last day in the city, so we had a very condensed day. We arose early and I went to go pick up our laundry that I dropped off the night before at around 09:00. The city, starting its week this Monday morning was full of vitality, a stark contrast to the relaxed Sunday afternoon when we arrived. I returned to the hostel, packed up and we checked out by 10:30. The hostel was nice enough to let us leave our backpacks there for the remainder of the day.

The Argentines are a kind people. Every encounter I’ve had with one usually ended with a warm ciao, hasta luego or adios. There have been maybe only one or two exceptions to this. I mention this because I was, at first, very apprehensive about leaving our bags in the hostel. To those unfamiliar, hostels are generally small and make just enough money to get buy. Charity is not a profitable field. However, when I asked what to do with our bags and how long we can leave them there, the response was “of course you can leave them here…a day, a week, a month, as long as you like.” Now I know this may appear to be just one example and is insufficient to judge a people. But I am making such a claim about Argentina hospitality. It followed us wherever we went.

And not only were people kind to us for our tenure in the country, but curious to learn more about us. I was always asked where I’m from in the States. To avoid confusion, I always counter with a sharp Nueva York. And everyone has had some sort of commentary about the Big Apple, be it its size, fame or just plain greatness. This is not a lie either. I was born in New York City and much of my family continues to reside in the great city and state. The interest of the people, to me, seemed sincere and not sycophantic because we were tourists with money to spend. This is why I proudly judge the population as kind, intuitive, and generous.

We left the hostel at about 10:30 and Steven and I had the whole day in front of us (12 hours until our bus would leave for Mendoza). We made for Plaza de San Martín in the newer part of town. On the way we stopped for coffee and pastries in a café for breakfast. Afterwards we headed to the tourist information booth to see what needed to/could be seen in our last day in Córdoba. We were then kindly informed that since it was Monday, nearly all museums and historic sites were closed. We were discouraged and broken hearted. Following the in footsteps of a young and near indomitable Mr. Guevara, we chose not to let such details affect our time here. My brother and I were going to enjoy our last day in the city and see as much as we could no matter what stood in our way.

We visited the city’s first cathedral (under renovations) and it was fantastic. Several of the country’s influential idealists, religious figures and politicians were buried in the floor of the cathedral. Keeping up with the Catholic theme our day had started us with, we pressed toward an old Jesuit crypt, one of the few attractions open that day. We first mistook the entrance for a subway station. Descending the stairs under Avenida Colón (a major avenue for Córdoba) we were met with a very enthusiastic young woman named Marissa. She implored that any questions be directed to her.

We explored the minute burial chamber and twenty minutes later (and ready to leave) Marissa asked if we would like a tour. She very passionately explained the history of the crypt, its possession passing from the Jesuits to the Bedlamites, to private use and then lost in time for 60 years. It was rediscovered by Argentina’s telephone monopoly Telecom when they were drilling to install phone wires in 1989. Marissa’s English skills nearly surpassed my Spanish skills, however, she insisted on giving the tour in Spanish and leaving me to act as translator, so we wouldn’t miss any information. I was surprised by this tactic, but had no problem serving as the medium of communication between Marissa and Steven. She confirmed everything I translated which raised my confidence in my Spanish abilities. After the tour, she refused a tip and told us where else we could go on a Monday. We departed with a meaningful hasta luego, even though we both knew we’d never see each other again.

Crypt Keepin'

We proceeded to the Jesuit block that included another church, a monastery and the first university. The Jesuits, despite their expulsion in 1767, still maintain a strong influence on the city. The university is still in use and teaches a variety of humanities. We broke away form our catholic theme for the day and visited a museum that was open. It was the best preserved historic site in the city, called Sobremonte. It had many artifacts from pre-conquistador eras to the colonial time and into the late 19^th century.

Sobremonte.

We walked through the entire city to get a good look at her. For a small city, Córdoba maintains a good crowd and is very busy. We came across Parque Sarmiento and stopped for lunch. Afterwards we made it to Steven’s beloved attraction; the zoo. We spent nearly two and a half hours in the facility. There was nothing special about this zoo, except for its endemic exhibits which featured many animals for the Amazon as well. We exhausted ourselves in that zoo. Pushing forward, we went to Buen Pastor for a beer and to recharge our over worn batteries. We still had five and a half hours to kill.

Steve on a snake.

A friend at the zoo.

We made our way back to the familiar Plaza de San Martín and shopped for a long time. I finally found my long lost Che hat. I had been searching for one since I had arrived. We wandered around for a bit and due to my famous navigational skills we found ourselves on the outskirts of the city. We took a break in a small square, gathered our bearings and made our way back to the main plaza. We located a small restaurant and indulged in a much needed meal. I sampled some gnocchi, to see whether Argentina’s Italian influence had stretched this for west. It has, and the meal was delicious.

After dinner we got back to the hostel, retrieved our bags and caught a taxi to the bus station. The driver was of bad humor and was our first negative Argentine of the trip. I’m on the bus now, and while I’m writing this I can see Córdoba in the rearview mirror. I’m sad to be leaving her so soon. Now, there is only darkness and our future in Mendoza on the horizon.

Sculpture at Paseo del Buen Pastor.

martes 20.05 --- Siempre al oeste --- Ever Westward

In the way of our forefathers and their manifest destiny, Steven and I ventured west again, to Mendoza. The overnight 11 hour bus ride was soporific; however, I did not receive much sleep. I had to send several gentle nudges to my brother, whose snoring made sleep (an already difficult task to accomplish) near impossible. We were into Mendoza’s bus station around 08:30 and walked to the hostel. Unfortunately, Hostel Lao didn’t provide check in until noon. We were too tired to do anything remotely interesting like explore the city, so we lounged instead. We watched television, played with the owner’s dogs (a lively German Shepard and a lively mutt), sat in the hammock and waited. At noon we were informed that we would have to wait a little longer. The owner politely apologized by saying “bienvendos a Mendoza, dónde todo pasa lentamente” or “Welcome to Mendoza, where everything moves slowly.” We finally got into our room at half past noon and put our bags down. We were so tired we couldn’t sleep at all. Fatigue has a way of energizing you.

Steve lounging around.

So we did the next logical thing and toured the entire city. The hostel’s owner, an animated Brit named Mike gave us all the hotspots to visit. We pressed through to what we could. I paid homage to my hero, José Francisco de San Martín. He commanded the respect and adoration of the entire country (and Chile, Perú and Ecuador as well). I haven’t really explained my reasons for interest in this man. To do so at length now, would be desultory and ruin the flow of this blog. Suffice to say I, as a North American, also have a deep respect and liking for the national hero. I wrote two term papers on him in college, and would recommend any history buff to research this man. He freed the southern part of the continent, and would have finished the royalists off, had it not been for a meeting with the egotistical Bolívar. San Martín, being the nobler of the two, abdicated his power, army and funds to leave the task to Bolívar. There’s just something glorious in surrendering in the name of a cause higher than oneself. I’ll stop there.

So, for a national hero, I would have expected a large museum in Mendoza (his favorite city) and site for crossing the Andes. This proved over-presumptuous as the city’s museum to San Martín was small, no bigger than a one story house. There were relics, documents and paintings but nothing that really impressed me. Dissatisfied, we went to Plaza de la Independencia; a large park to relax and enjoy the day. The park was plentiful in places to lie down and do exactly that. The stray dogs were a bit too friendly for our liking and we had to leave in order to stop form being licked.

Plaza de la Independencia.

Our next stop was Cerro de la Gloria or Hill of Glory. Atop this large hill (practically a mountain) stands a monument dedicated to San Martín’s Army of the Andes. It was a very demanding hike! We got to the immense Parque de San Martín (the largest in South America) and could walk no longer. We are normally more ambitious, but the lack of sleep drowned out our ability to hike long uphill distances. We instead hailed a taxi, which took us through the park to the bottom of the cerro. From there we would have to walk. The dirt path at the bottom of the hill was very deceiving because it started out paved and then ten meters later changed to a rocky foot path. The dirt path was about 200 meters of complete uphill climb. Our current energy situation made the mere 200 meters seem much longer. Finally we made it to the top and got a great view of the city. Also the monument was spectacular. On two sides of the monument there were watch towers graced with condors. Standing atop the summit, I realized this was holy ground. This is the exact spot where San Martín decided to cross the Andes and thus liberate much of the continent.

Cerro de la Gloria.

Mendoza from afar.

We came back down the hill and walked a great distance through the rest of the park. It was an endless journey that we both wished we had avoided by taking a taxi again, but none were to be found. We reached the end of the park at dusk and continued on through town. It was long. I can not say this without risk of being redundant, but the combination of exhaustion and distance pained us both very much.

Long Walk Home.

We crossed through Plaza de Italia, which is dedicated to another large Italian community that the city boasts. It is for this reason that Mendoza is famed for being a hub for surrounding vineyards. This is something I take great pride in. Next was Plaza de España which made me feel like revisiting Andalusia, with its fountains and fantastic tiling. We rested there, got our bearings and moved to our hostel. The night concluded with Don Mario, a ritzy local restaurant where I had the best steak of my life. No exaggeration. The wine we were given was also out of this world. My brother—who is not a wine enthusiast by any means—could even admit he enjoyed the beverage. Though the meal was expensive, it was well worth it.

Tile painting from Plaza de España.

We took a taxi back to the hostel, got a beer and relaxed. We played some cards games into the early morning as we unwound from the day and shared our observations about the mendocinos (Mendozians) and their lifestyle. Again I would like to reiterate to the reader that this was the longest day of the trip. Tomorrow will be of a slower pace. We plan on horseback riding through the Andes Mountains, yet another way to relieve San Martín’s experience of Mendoza. Granted tomorrow we do not cross into Chile, it is still fascinating (to me anyway) to envision a similar experience.