Just a little sip of Mendoza

I rolled uneasily into Mendoza. I am wary of cities, they tend to leach the life from me. The din of aggravated car horns; the subtle stench of urine tucked in every corner; the filth of concentrated population; the panhandling and pickpocket; all blind me to a city´s cultural value. With that said, I loved Mendoza.

Mendoza balanced its dense cityscape with several pristine parks. The park´s sweet air carried down wide pedestrian avenues where grids of umbrella topped tables sprouted from the street like beds of red pansies. The scene was all very European as if transported from Florence or Paris. Waiters stood neatly dressed, a menu tucked under one arm, trying to entice passing pedestrians to dine. Musicians glided from table to table, lingering at groups of tourists and other potential tippers. Local diners sipped cappuccino with one leg cast over the other, a cigarette burning lazily between their fingers.

The parks served as stages for Peruvian musicians who played in traditional indigenous garb. They ran a clever racket, drawing large semicircle crowds, pretending to blow into flutes while the music actually came from a stealthily stowed iPod. An American I watched the performance with doubted that they were even from Peru: ¨I swear those dudes are Puerto Rican.¨ The deep whistling of the flutes gave the park a continuous soundtrack.

The park was structured around three fountains that projected water into the sky through a number of spouts. I never really appreciated fountains. It seemed like an unnecessary waste of water and energy. But I guess I have yet to see one that has achieved its designed effect for me. The perimeter of the park was held together by artensan stands. Hippies sat along the walls of the nucleus fountain, selling their goods on blankets and towels.

Around midday, uniformed students spilled out into the streets. The youngsters wore blue and white lab coats indicative of their age. Teenagers romped through the park in boisterous gaggles. Occasionally, a couple would break off from the group and retreat to a shady tree where they became wrapped around one another in a braid of adolescent love.

Drifting clouds of cheap marijuana smoke met with the ambient scent of cut grass, giving the park a fresh aroma. If it were bottled as a cologne, you might title it tranquilo.

I checked into a hostel down the street from the park where I reunited with Chris and Megan- this time intentionally. For some reason, everyone in the hostel seemed unusually fascinated with me. I was not being overly sociable or funny. In fact, I felt rather introverted. None the less, groups of Argentines continually called me over to there table- giving up their seats, feeding me their food and beer. The groups ringleader, a small Argentine who functioned in a caffeinated trance from continual mate consumption, affectionately called me Kurt Cobain on account of my long blond hair. While I found the nickname morbid and not especially flattering, I did not protest. I even strummed an air guitar when he introduced me to others.

My arrival in Mendoza was schedualed around the city´s annual Harvest Festival. Primped to perfection, Mendoza was hosting an international crowd the ran the spectrum: wine enthusiasts, backpackers, partiers.

NEW UPDATE FOR MOM AND DAD: I am jumping on a bus tomorrow to go back to Buenos Aires. I will arrive in Buenos Aires the 16th. I am not staying there tho, from B.A. Im heading into Uruguay. Everything is good! Love you lots!