Mendoza. A Day in the Life of Mendoza

A couple of years ago, my husband and I were doing some research in Mendoza on Argentina’s wine industry. Although we had rented a car and logged thousands of kilometers, we only had encountered to that point the face that Argentina likes to show to foreigners and, indeed, to see in the mirror. Near to our departure, however, I caught a snippet of Argentina’s other face while having lunch one day. And while it tells me something about one of the most sophisticated countries in South America, it challenges me to reflect on whether our stories in North America regarding our indigenous people are really that different.

Situated in a desert at the foot of the Andes, the people of Mendoza know how to turn a catastrophe into an opportunity. After an earthquake all but destroyed the colonial town in the last century, it was rebuilt in a way that capitalized on its one abundant resource, water running off of the mountains.

Based on the idea developed by the Incas that the runoff could be channeled to irrigate the town, and later the vineyards, an Italian engineer helped Mendoza rebuild its city around open gutters of fast running water. What is now Mendoza’s central nervous system makes it possible for all of its inner streets to be lined with huge Plane trees throwing a shimmering green canopy over the city. Without these overarching branches, a car’s windshield wipers would melt onto the glass. Instead, Dan and I walk around this cool oasis on broad sidewalks onto which restaurants spill, and each block is staked out by patient, street dogs that the kitchens or clients keep well fed. Andes runoff takes care of their thirst. If it takes a village to raise a child, the same can be said of street dogs in small town Argentina.

Café life means people watching. We’re reminded that Mendoza is on the edge of that part of the country bordering Bolivia to the north and therefore you’re more likely to see indigenous people here than in Buenos Aires or the central sierras. Dan and I are taking lunch open air. A stylish young business man in a charcoal black suit and open white shirt sits down with his friend at the next table. I sit back with my espresso doble and watch a short history of colonial South America.

A middle aged Indian man holding a wooden box falls onto his knees and starts cleaning the businessman’s shoes. He applies a few fingers of polish to each shoe and rubs it in by hand, massaging the leather with swollen, tough fingers. The businessman carries on conversing with his companion while checking messages on his cell phone, an action that exposes gold rings on two fingers and a thick silver one on his thumb. On his wrist, he wears a gold watch with a heavy chinked band. He has long hair like Jesus, but jewelry like Pilot. The Indian, probably a Bolivian, pulls large brushes out of his box like a magician and buffs hard and long to conjure up his own face in the shoe.

When he was finished, the business man pulls out a roll of bills, and under the expectant eye of the Indian, carefully thumbs through the deck until he reaches the bottom, from which he teases out a two peso note. The Indian takes the bill, bows his head and backs away.

I turn my attention away at the press of a cold, wet nose on my leg and soulful eyes fixed on the scraps of my beef steak. I look down at the street dog but don't see him. I'm preoccupied, reflecting on what I've learned here, in one of the most sophisticated countries of South America. (by C. Moisse at http://www.maturetraveler.blogspot.com/)

Buenos Aires. A Night at the Opera

I’ve learned that I can lever my companionship on a jungle trek for a night at the opera. Dan knows that I dislike jungles. And since he registers neutral to warm on opera, it’s a bargain for him to ante up a pair of tickets to keep me happy. In exchange for two nights trekking in the Peruvian rain forest amongst spiders, howler monkeys, bullet ants, wild boar, and snakes, it costs him three hours of hand-wringing, soulful wailing, and a plot that may deliver one or two deaths.

After being on the road for three months in South America, I feel great about spending a whole week in one place. Our bags are unpacked and clothes folded in drawers. The room is messy with shopping bags. We’ve landed in Buenos Aires following our adventure in the Amazon and I’m spending my pesos on Calle Florida, ten blocks of a crowded pedestrian mall.

Today was a work day. I needed to have my wrinkle-resistant dress ironed, get my hair cut and coloured, find a pair of shoes to match my dress, learn how to walk again in heels, buy a small purse, and get a manicure. We’re going to the famous Teatro Colon to see Carmen!

Now we're at the opera house waiting. A half hour later, we’re still waiting. It’s past the time when the opera should begin.

Our line starts at a side entrance where others holding similar tickets are queued. I note that people with cheap seats are not even allowed through the front entrance. The side door opens onto the bottom of an airless stairwell. Even the experience of the grand lobby is only available to those with costlier seats.

But it’s not just the side-door theater goers who are prevented from entering. The diamond crowd around the front cannot enter as well. Word has it that some members of the government have been using the opera house for a function and it’s just breaking up now. The rumour is confirmed by one of a dozen armed men patrolling the alleyway. Their presence makes me uneasy and I wonder if the evening performance would be cancelled all together. Unsmiling and focused on controlling bomb-sniffing dogs on a leash, these men are dressed entirely in black: black trousers, cotton shirts, holsters, cell phones, shoes, and black dog leashes. I suppose that even a security force dresses for the opera.

The opera finally starts nearly an hour late. We find our plush velvet seats - fabulously situated in the first row of the second highest balcony - sit down and discover we also have a fabulous view of an eye-level brass railing and the upper valance of the velvet stage curtain. We can see the performance four stories below only if we stand up. But the people behind us would frown on that, even though their row starts a good four feet above ours.

The century-old Colon Theater holds 3000 people and that's a lot for an opera house of nineteenth-century European design. They squeeze them in by a kind of house-of-cards construction technique. The balconies are very nearly stacked vertically. I figure that in 1908, you would buy a cheap seat just to sit comfortably and listen to the opera and that would be special since there were few phonographs then. You bought a more expensive seat to actually see the opera.

Not to be discouraged, over the course of the first Act I try out a few positions. I kneel. That works for a while, but without a piece of refrigerator packing sponge under the knees, in time, it became too painful. I try raising the seat back and sitting on top of the four-inch metal frame. But since I kept projecting forward when the seat slipped, I opted for something safer. The best view ends up being one I got from sitting on the very front edge of the seat and pushing my head between the brass railing and the two-foot high wall on which it was mounted. I alternate this position with resting my head on my hands, draped over top of the railing, like a dog begging for good seats.

Dan was a good sport through all of this. I only brought up the memory of my mosquito bites once.

At intermission, the corridor fills up with people lighting cigarettes. In Spanish, Dan asks an attendant how they could allow smoking in such a historical building. Were they not concerned about fire? But the attendant shook his head saying "not here...because". He smiled knowingly and beckoned us around the corner and we somehow expected him to reveal a secret about the grand building's fire resistance. Instead, he proudly pointed to a brass ashtray, artfully built into the marble wainscoting. His proud gesture communicated, ‘people are not peasants here. It’s forbidden to put out a butt on the floor.’

Did I say the opera was fabulous? The production was strong and Carmen and Don Jose received standing ovations and cries of "bravo". I was so impressed with the lead singer that I stood up, put four fingers in my mouth, and let out my very best and loudest stadium whistle (one of my special talents) as I always do in such occasions at musicals and rock concerts in Toronto. Dan elbows me. “Bad move Carolann!” Cultural faux pas! And I somehow knew it instantly even before the whistle had stopped threatening the crystal teardrops of the great Edwardian chandelier. Dan informs me that according to the European custom (which is followed religiously by Argentines), I had just booed the lead singer! No worse, I had cat-called her. I could sense the blood rush to my head and my feeling of mortification made me lose all perspective. After all, since I could barely see the performance, how could anyone seated in three quarters of the rest of the theatre see me? Still the heat of what seemed like 3000 eyes made me briefly wonder if atonement lay just on the other side of the brass railing. I opted instead for a speedy exit down the six flights of stairs. Damn the new shoes!

It's a day later now. I'm over it. At least I think I’m over it until we find ourselves touring the inner city botanical gardens. As we discover, the walled oasis is a sanctuary for homeless cats. The colony thrives in the gentle outdoor climate and they are fed by locals. Yet although I love cats, I was more than a little spooked by coming face to face with so many of them the day after my accidental cat-call at the opera.

So besides learning that one should never let out a four-finger whistle at the opera, that one night in Buenos Aires taught me that in the future I should raise my fee. At the very least, a jungle excursion should get me orchestra seats, not just any seat in the house. (by C. Moisse at maturetraveler.blogspot.com)