A long, strange ride to a bodega

In the morning, I go in search for a ticket to the base of Aconcagua. I begrudgingly buy one that departs at 6am. At first I can’t understand the ticket salesman’s Spanish and he gets frustrated. He tries to drive home the point that the ticket costs 13 pesos long after I understood the fact. I’m exasperated by the time the exchange is complete, but I reason that its all part of the journey, the only way to cross the barrier, the only way for me to learn to deal with the human race such as it is.

Its getting late and I still haven’t found a bike to rent, so I cut to the chase and find a leaden mountain bike, that I wouldn’t trust on a gravel road, at my hostel. Both tires are flat and the brakes rub against the rims, but I’m willing to try anyway. The concierge and I take turns pumping the tires up with a tiny portable pump until the tires are semi-inflated and just about out of time and patience, I leave it at that. Negotiating the chaotic traffic of Mendoza proves to be interesting, but not as daunting as I feared. The cars, despite all appearances from the sidewalk, work with you. I reach the highway to Maipu, the town central to the bodegas.

Along the way, I pass a constant stream of garbage and a putrid smell, road kill. Dog carcasses in varied states of decomposition lay rotting on the side of the road , some partially wrapped in garbage bags, some not. I pass several bodega signs but continue several more fruitless kilometers on my plodding wheels. I turn around certain that I’ve gone wrong, then finally pick up the exit in question.

I make yet another wrong turn on the road towards the bodegas and add another 8km to my tour. I finally reach the sole bodega I will visit that day, La Rural. I take the tour along with an older American gentleman sporting a Virginia University hat and accompanying a young, shapely, Latina. She is either his interpreter, escort, guide, mistress, or adopted daughter. He affects awe at the most mundane operations of the wine factory and his companion takes pictures of every detail. To my untrained palate, the wine we try is excellent and with that I remount my bike to try to find my way back home, pedaling hard, but feeling like I’m going backwards. My knees are on the verge of exploding.

I sit in the gelato shop and savor an incredible banana split, my desert preceding my not so spectacular dinner that night of bland fettuccine and salmon in cream sauce. I look for an alarm clock to aid me in getting up the next morning at 5am. I think I finally locate one for the unlikely bargain of 7 pesos, with a radio to boot. The salesman records my information down to passport number. I take a stock number to the checkout, and the price he tells me comes as a shock, sesenta y nueve. I take another look at the price tag, and confirm that I looked at the wrong number. I should know to always look for the higher number hidden in the margins, especially after working retail. I have a good laugh and leave the store.