But a moment after ringing the buzzer, meeting my fellow wine tasters from Dallas and the founder and owner of Anuva Wines, Daniel Karlin, my mind is at ease. We enter one of those quintessential Argentine elevators with the manual-fold slide shut door and head up to Karlin’s apartment, office, and for the next hour or so, private wine bar. And it’s here where the dinner table is ready with our place settings for five wines and five food pairings ready to go.

Tonight it’s just the three of us plus our host, but an average tasting can have up to eight guests, though special events for 30-40 people can be arranged with anticipation. The entire experience costs U$40 per person, a great value. Any insecurities from the thought of it originally are quickly laid down as we chat and make ourselves comfortable–it’s clear from the get-go that this is a place for learning, differentiating, and most importantly, desgustación (tasting) of wine. Let the festivities begin.

Right away the presentation begins, but I really shouldn’t say presentation, because that doesn’t quite capture the essence of it. This is not a speech that has been rehearsed a thousand times or practiced in front of a mirror, but rather a conversation given from a man who clearly knows and loves his wine. For the next 90 or whatever minutes, we are not limited by a proprietor/client relationship, but rather it’s like a friend talking to old buddies who are visiting Argentina for the first time. Of course wine is the main topic of discussion, but at any moment the expat recommendation for a great restaurant or an explanation of politics is readily available.

The thing is, Daniel Karlin is an American who came here in 2004 with the intention to travel the world for two years, but somehow 36 hours into his trip met his wife and business partner Lourdes. Daniel fell in love and got married, but you see, it gets complicated from there with a little love triangle. That third party would include Malbec, the little grape that could from France which, like Daniel, found a new home in Argentina. And the rest, as they say, is history. Now, he opens his home to locals and visitors for an intimate and exclusive wine tasting in Buenos Aires as part of Anuva Wines, which is also a distributor to 32 states in the U.S., shipping wines that otherwise never would have seen the far north. This is the only service like this in Buenos Aires.

We start in on a sparkling wine, Hom, pronounced ohm like a Buddhist chant. This tart and fruity drink has strong reminiscence of green apple, which explodes on the scene in my mouth as I try the cream cheese and celery cracker pairing. We continue with information on the wine and its bottling, production, and taste. This is a boutique wine, and it seems as though hardly any is made at all. To taste it is to have a sneak peak into Argentine wine. Hom is produced by Cava La Carmela, and they’ve been producing sparkling wine since 2002.

Next is the Serrera Torrontes, another white wine with potential to bring up the taste of fruit and something sweet. They say it has aromas of orange blossom, jasmin and honeyed white peach, but since I’m not an oenophile, I just take Karlin’s word for it and enjoy the taste. Though it seems like it’s a dessert wine, it holds together on its own, and in fact this wine has been known to turn anti-white wine drinkers into Torrontes lovers. It’s just that good. And matched with a sorbet of two flavors, the berries and terroir are a part of it just as much as the history, originating in Spain.

Our third wine brings on the reds, and here we start in with the main character, the Malbec. Malbec got kind of a bad rep in France, but only because it never fit in until it found the Argentine terroir. Here it developed into what it is today, and those who know wine know that Argentina sits on a vast expanse of land in Mendoza, known as the Cuyo Region, which is maybe the best in the world for growing this grape. Thinskinned, Malbec requires the arid desert conditions to reach full maturity and grows into a stellar and supple wine with soft tannins.

Our first sample is the San Gimignano Malbec Roble, from the Mevi Boutique Winery. My first sensation is of butter, and breathing in air as I swallow and breath out of my nose, the bouquet opens up and a world of tastes pop in to my memory as if they’d been waiting to be tapped on. It hints of something special, but I just can’t put my finger on it. An assortment of cheeses and meats expand on this as we continue our conversation, and I really forget that I’m at a wine tasting. It seems like I’m just at a friend’s house, and he’s been kind enough to teach me about something he’s well versed on. There are no pretensions–this is very much so a house, and everything from the photos to the menorah on the bureau tell me that this is a family business, and not a faceless corporation. I’ve been to those large tastings where you, like a bottle in the assembly line, are pushed in and out so quickly that you don’t even have time to ask what you just drank. If that was odd, this is even. (HA!)

Mairena Bonarda is next, with an interesting history dating back to the dictatorship of the 80s, and for the first time tonight I taste a wine that belongs with steak, more steak, and potentially more steak after that. This wine speaks to me in terms of experience, with a full body and an after taste that doesn’t linger, but has the sense to know when it should slowly fade away. It’s a keeper alright. This one is paired with a delicious empanada stuffed not with just any old meat, but rump steak. That means it’s kind of like the Rolls-Royce of empanadas.

And last but not least we have Don Juan Reserve from Las Perdices, which matches with two kinds of chocolates, one from Ecuador and another from Cote D’Ivoire, which to me has a coffee taste to it, though it’s listed as having hints of vanilla, raspberry jam and tobacco as well. This is a sweeter wine and seems like a good choice for a night of light eating or munching. Once the five wines and foods are finished, we aren’t rushed out of the door. Instead, we casually converse and discuss options on joining the wine club and shipments of the wines, or whether or not even just one bottle is worth taking home in checked luggage. Because with Anuva, the idea is to bring quality wines to a market that is waiting for it. However, there is no sales pressure and no false pretense. If you didn’t like the wine, then no sweat.

Anuva’s website is set up user-friendly and with the X Generation in mind, aka for those who didn’t grow up with a lap top in their, well, laps. A helpful blog gives information on the company and wines in Argentina, and there are also sections on Argentine culture and life. In short, it ensures that you don’t show up, try wine, and then get left at the doorstep. Rather, you are taken through the entire experience and even given directions to a great restaurant to boot. These wines aren’t mass produced, and are rarely found on shelves or even in the best restaurants in Buenos Aires, so unless you know someone special, Anuva is the place to go for high quality, yet virtually unknown wines. And once the tasting is complete, you can look over options and see whether or not you’d like to receive the wines you tasted at home, choosing how many bottles and when to be sent to you.

Daniel travels around the three wine growing regions of Argentina (Cuyo, Patagonia, and Salta) four or five times a year, tasting and looking for the best wines to distribute and demonstrate. The theory comes across in their name itself. Anuva is not a word you’ll find in any Spanish or English dictionary. It’s a combination of both languages, using “An” from English and “Uva” from Spanish, meaning grape. A new word: Anuva. And from what I can see, a new way to present wine in a country that’s already known for the product. That goes down smoothly with me.

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At the suggestion of a friend, I decided to sate my  craving for good Italian food at La Marchigiana. Upon first glance I hesitated a bit because it didn’t look that welcoming from the outside, but once inside I was impressed. For a large restaurant, the waiters were more than kind and helpful.

The best thing about the place is the food. The dishes are simple with fresh ingredients, just like classic Italian cuisine. The ensalada verde con crostones y parmesano was excellent. The crisp salad with homemade croutons and big, chunky pieces of parmesan proved to be absolutely delicious. The congrio marchigiana was just as tasty. A big piece of congrio fish, shrimp and boiled potatoes, accompanied by a wonderful tomato-curry sauce. The wine selection was just as good, as the owners turned the basement into a cellar.

Portions are hearty, but you’ll want to stuff yourself! The prices are fair and range from 20 to 40 pesos for a main dish. If I had more time in Mendoza I would have eaten there several more times- the menu reads like a flavorful book.

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Because of a cold rain, we decided to forgo the cross-town amble to the official tourism office, and opted for the much smaller desk next to the bus station. We were greeted by a man who apparently sits at that desk solely as avocation. He called in a guy from the back of the office who told us that we should follow a road around the town’s bordering Lake Lacar for 5 kilometers until we found a campsite called Playa Catritre. He also added that San Carlos de Bariloche was a mere 245 kilometers by foot, which should have been something of a red flag. Happy to have a sense of direction, we filled our packs with butane stove food and set off for the campground. By the time we entered Lanín National Park, night had fallen and a brisk wind whipped up from the lake below. We hiked along a curving footpath, hugging every overlook of the lake that lay some hundreds of feet below. The beams of our headlamps saturated with rain and swirling dirt, the views didn’t distract. Looking over our shoulders, the lights of San Martin receded farther back in to the night. After 4 kilometers of plodding, we turned at a road sign that read Playa Catritre 1, anticipating refuge around every obscured corner. There were a few complications, however: some Private Property signs, a closed gate, and a trail which led nowhere, the last one becoming somewhat of a motif. Rather than ford the closed gate and chance a greeting with an armed and sleep deprived Andean redneck, we decided to huff it back in to San Martin. We found a hostel, drank from a warming flask of Breeders Choice, and retired for the night.

The next morning, sipping a coffee and looking at a map displayed on a wall of the hostel’s breakfast area, it was immediately apparent that we had been led in the complete opposite direction from the little yellow tents that dotted the north side of Lake Lacar’s illustrated likeness. Later that morning we walked in to a tourism bureau, a different one – with a huge wooden sign – and elicited some very promising news.

Driving for an hour and a half on stone-covered roads, our driver pushing out against his windshield with each passing car to ensure that it stayed in one piece, we entered a wilderness as immense as I have ever seen. We were dropped at Puerto Canoa, whose designation as “port” is a little disingenuous. There were two people and boat – one person taking cover from the rain in the park ranger booth and one person preparing the port’s lone boat for a tourist-void tourist cruise of the lake. Low lying clouds obscured the majority of all surrounding mountains, declining us the chance to see the eminence of Volcano Lanín just 4 kilometers away and some 11,000 feet above sea level. A little forlorn in the cold greyness, we hiked along a trail through some misty woods, then down along the lake to a campground.

Coming down the gravel driveway of Camping Raquitue, we were greeted by a lumbering fellow in black rubber boots. He gave us a friendly tour of his land, which was dotted with fire pits and livestock and which ran all the way down to a rocky beach on the lake. We set up the tent and started a fire while listening to some anecdotes from our friend and host Gilberto. As it turns out, Gilberto is a Mapuche Indian who has lived with his wife and son for 4 years on this, the last campground before Lanín National Park. He is also equal part Time Out: Lake Huechulafquen. He told us to knock on one of his neighbor’s doors – a neighbor that happened to be separated by a distance of kilometers – and ask them to prepare us some dinner. We put in the order at about 5, and they told us to come back at 9 for our bife de chorizo and empanadas. We went back later that night to find ourselves alone in the dining area fit for 50 and ate the best meal that I had ever had in a stranger’s house converted to restaurant. The dining area was all windows, giving expansive views of the lake’s waterfront that lay below. Donning our headlights, we trekked back to camp, lit a fire and went to sleep.

That morning I was awoken at 6 AM to the sound of some frighteningly proximate grazing and snorting. As one of our horned neighbors was chomping breakfast literally feet from the tent, it was not lost on me that RJ was covered in a red sleeping bag, bringing to mind some gory bullfighting memories.

After a few hours of uneasy sleep and some dulce de leche sandwiches for breakfast, we set off to hike the trail to the base of Volcano Lanín. Advertised as an 8 hour round trip, we set off at about 11 on the volcanic ash that ran alongside a scenic river up to the volcano. It was a gorgeous day on the lake, and the summits of the surrounding mountains were visible, aside from the eminence of the volcano. With these good tidings, the hike was extremely agreeable; there were rocky streams to cross, and higher up on the trail we hit some steep inclines and finally snow near the base. The view from the volcano’s base was extraordinary; the lake reflecting the clearest blue of an unadulterated sky and beyond that about a dozen Andean peaks were visible on the horizon. Looking up the Volcano, however, there was absolutely no bearing to be gained, as it was entirely cloud covered starting about 100 meters up from us. After failing to sled down the volcano by backpack, we descended the way we came. That night we ate at a nearby lodge that was honestly more expensive than any restaurant that I have eaten at in the last 4 months in Buenos Aires, and it is noteworthy only for that reason. After the milanesa swindling, we headed back to camp content to have experienced a full day of incredible weather and to have set foot on the 11,000 foot giant that presided over the entire region.

The next day’s weather was even more pristine than the previous day’s, and we took Gilberto’s fly-rod and his neighbor’s bait caster down to the lake to try to come face to face with a brown trout. The wind had other plans though, as it sent our bait flying in undesired directions, and we resigned ourselves to bask in the sunshine for the remainder of the morning until being met by a van service early that afternoon. It took us back to Junín de los Andes along with half a dozen fully adorned and be-knifed gauchos. From there, we hopped on a gaucho-less bus scheduled to arrive in Buenos Aires some 20 hours later – notwithstandinging the 2 hours spent waiting for gas on the side of the highway. Traveling in this country is often very much about the journey, and when that journey takes you to a place as uncompromisingly beautiful as Lake Huechulafquen, the entire experience is illuminated by the moments of radiance spent in that exquisite retreat.

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Frost in Tierra del Fuego, All photos by Meike Schuring

Camping is the best way to explore the natural wonderland that is Argentina.  You can follow Che´s footsteps along Ruta 40, uncover the secrets of Patagonia, enjoy the Pampas, and even get lost in one of the many villages that speckle the roadside. However, before you pitch your tent in Argentinean soil, there are many things to consider and ways to prepare.

The Essentials

The first thing you need is a good tent.  Although Argentina is a relatively cheap country, camping gear is more expensive than it is in the United States, so buy before you get here. Ever had to pee in the dark? Most campgrounds don´t have electricity at night, so a head flashlight is a really useful way to both see and to have your hands free.  Also, never leave home without a wine bottle opener. How else will you sample the assortment of Argentine Malbecs? A Swiss Army knife can come in handy in the woods or just for spreading dulce de leche on your bread. A deck of cards and a book are necessities for enjoying some stormy nights. You’ll be surprised how many of your fellow campers know the same card games as you do!
The Wildlife

Don’t be scared when wild dogs and rabbits wake you up in the middle of the night. They live there too.   If you’re lucky, you might spot some beautiful guanaco´s or clever foxes wandering around the campgrounds.  You might even see a flock of flightless rhea in front of your tent early in the morning. With all those wild animals running around, it is a good idea to do your dishes as soon as possible. Otherwise you will find your pots and pans all scattered around the picnic table the next day.

The Food and Drink

Argentines love eating, especially beef. The average intake per person per year is around 70 kg! They mostly do this during the Sunday-family asado (barbecue), where they make an art of grilling meat. There are also asados at every campground in Argentina, where you can practice being the asador yourself. As a starter you can eat one of the excellent empanadas, sold at most campgrounds for approximately $2 pesos, followed by meat of your own choice (my advice: cuadril:2 pieces $7 pesos, half a chicken: $5 pesos and chorizo sausages: $5 pesos in La Anonima supermarket). All of this should of course be accompanied by one or more bottles of good Argentinean wine. A nice, cheap bottle will cost you $6 to $8 pesos.  And that’s more than a camping feast! If you are not sure how to make your own asado properly, you can always peek at your neighbors. Say hi, maybe you’ll be invited to join theirs.

The Weather

Always check if there is a refugio (shelter) at your campground, especially in the southern part of Argentina. In Argentina it can rain, and then I mean really rain.  If there is no refugio, always store enough bread, cheese, chorizo and wine to enjoy a rainy evening in your tent. When there is a refugio, you and all the other campers can cook there when the weather is bad. Usually this is a great opportunity for a party!

Also, bring duct tape. You never know when the Patagonian winds will attempt to demolish your tent. When the weather’s good, you should always wear sunscreen. Although it may not seem necessary, the sun can be ruthless to your skin.

The Places

When you have prepared yourself properly, there is no better way to experience the real Argentina than with your own tent. Most campgrounds are surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. Some great spots are Camping Lago Roca in Parque National los Glaciares and Camping Hain in Tolhuin, Tierra del Fuego. Both are located beside gorgeous lakes and have all the facilities you could need. If you are camping in cities, the campgrounds are usually located just outside of the center. This means that you have all the activities of a town, but you can still enjoy some peace and quiet.  A little walk will do everybody good after a hearty meal at the local parrilla (steakhouse).

Moreover, camping is much cheaper than sleeping in hostels. Where a double room in a hostel will cost you at least $60 pesos, a sitio on a campground will cost you approximately $30 pesos for two people. Most camping grounds in Argentina are excellent. All sitios have their own picnic table, garbage bin, asado, lights and electricity. The bathrooms usually have hot water and separate places to do your laundry and your dishes. The better campgrounds also have refugios, a minimarket, a bar and a restaurant. There are also free campgrounds in Argentina, generally in National Parks.  You can even spend the night for free at a YPF gas station when you are in need.

The People

At campgrounds you meet the best local people. Argentines are known as amicable and engaging. They and the camping staff are the best possible guides because they know the country. Many campgrounds rent mountain bikes and/or fishing equipment and they can arrange activities like horseback riding and glacier hikes. This is usually a lot cheaper than booking a tour in town.

Camping is a delightful way to enjoy Argentina. You will feel free, enjoy nature, save money, meet local people, eat delicious meals and drink superb wines.

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I must admit: I have never been much of a hiker. My usual trek entails 40 minutes of prep time (both mental and logistical), 45 minutes of walking, and then a strong desire (often expressed verbally) to descend to base camp and seek out the nearest place to get a foot massage and a cider. So, I actually surprised myself when I agreed to go to Bariloche, the land of mountains and hiking, with my sister in mid-May. Little did we know that the fall weather would produce rain for an entire week, and all my mental and logistical preparations would be rendered unnecessary. Ultimately, we were able to discover plenty of enjoyable activities for hikers and non-hikers alike in Patagonia’s Lake District.

You should not avoid Bariloche in the autumn. Although the weather is unpredictable, the brilliance of the foliage and the drama of the Patagonia’s peaks put Vermont to shame. At this time of year, the weather is crisp; neither too cold nor marked by repressive heat associated with the summer months. Prices are lower (falling between the summer trekking and winter skiing high seasons), and there are more locals in the towns.

While we were eager to appreciate the benefits of autumn, we were not willing to suffer outside in the incessant downpour (surprising, given that we are Oregonians and accustomed to the rain). The first thing we decided to do was rent a car. There are great car rental deals in Bariloche, especially in the low season. We bargained VW Polo down from well over ARG$500 to $380 for three days (driving a maximum of 800 km). Our success could be attributed to the fact that we are girls, that we spoke Spanish, and that we did our research ahead of time, but I think that taking advantage of at least one of these criteria should reduce the rental price.

We rented from Correntoso car rental (just off of Avenida Mitre), but Liz Rent-A-Car and A-One (both located in the center of town) also had competitive deals. You must be 21 years old to drive, have a valid driver’s license, passport, and credit card. Prices include full insurance costs and taxes.

We decided to follow the famous Ruta de Siete Lagos (“seven lakes route”) from Bariloche to San Martín de los Andes. The drive is spectacular (although clouds on our first day obscured our view), and we completed the full drive to San Martín in a matter of hours. In the rain, be aware of the 50km stretch of unpaved road; we had to weave through stones, ford mini-rivers, and avoid mud-hydroplaning. Don’t be discouraged: the road was not dangerous, just slow-moving.

We chose to stay the night in San Martín; which, although it is beautifully situated on Lago Lácar, is somewhat disappointing in weather not suited for outdoor activity. In low season much of the town seems to shut down- restaurants were closed, hotels out of season, and craft markets non-existent. Moreover, driving in San Martín is surprisingly frustrating. I would stop in town for lunch but avoid longer stays in the rainy season.

One activity we could justify due to the rain was a spa session in Villa Angostura. The lakeside town has been deemed an expensive luxury destination, and is therefore often snubbed by backpackers (although our hostel, the Hostel Angostura, gave us a private room with heated floors for just 40 pesos). Surprisingly, given the town’s reputation, we were able to easily locate economical services for our day of pampering. We first toured the breathtaking Hotel Sol Arrayán (http://www.solarrayan.com), a subtle seven story luxury resort overlooking the lake which was just inaugurated in January. Spa treatments were similar in cost to US prices, and housed in a state-of-the-art facility. We were unable to get appointments without a 24 hour advanced booking, but we settled on Hostería Las Nieves (http://www.lasnieves.com), a cozy bed and breakfast with amiable hosts that offered massages for ARG$60 per hour.

Another local tradition that is satisfying in any weather is the consumption of sinfully delicious local products- notably the Patagonian chocolate and beer. Mamushka chocolates are the local behemoth, and we went back three times to have their dark-chocolate covered orange peels. There is also a local chocolate museum that we failed to visit, but looked like a promising rainy-day activity. During our time, we took full advantage of the handful of local pubs and factories serving artisanal beers. We discovered two on the road to Bariloche’s local circuito chico and indulged in our recently discovered obsession for cerveza frambuesa (raspberry beer). Our favorite bar was Blest, which has a great selection of home-brewed beers, and invites you to immortalize your thoughts on beer coasters that line the walls.

Finally, we drove to have tea at the famous Llao Llao. The hotel resides on a peninsula with stunning views over the lake, and is one of the most prestigious hotels in Argentina. We dried off in front of the massive fireplace, and enjoyed a pot of Argentina’s fabulous Tealosophy tea. At ARG$16 for a small pot the drink is not cheap, but much more economical than the ARG$50 high tea served at 4PM.

While the weather on our trip was disappointing, we were pleased that we had carved out an alternate itinerary rather than escaping north to sunny Mendoza like many of our fellow travelers. It allowed us to appreciate the moments of sun and the fleeting vistas through the clouds much more than we might have otherwise. And who knows: maybe the frustration of not being able to hike will allow me to fully appreciate the activity next time I strap on my boots and head to the trail

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Living in the capital, it is sometimes easy to forget that Argentina is not only about the Buenos Aires night life, tango, Malbec, great meat and empanadas. Yes, you will say, I know it is about estancias, nature and gauchos too.

But did you know that it is also has over a hundred years of polo tradition? That it is home to the world’s best polo players? That you can learn to play polo even if you never have ridden a horse before?

When I arrived in Argentina two years ago, I didn’t really know anything about polo. I vaguely imagined that it was a typical sport for the rich, who would sit on horses, wearing Polo Ralph Lauren and wave sticks around. And anyway, I had never even sat on a horse since I saw my little brother at the tender age of six fall off a pony into a huge pile of horse manure. Neither my brother nor I ever wanted to come near a horse again for at least 30 years and I didn’t think that would ever change.

Then, about six months ago, my husband Dan was invited to a polo match. He came, he saw and was sold. “I would love to try it, one day,” he said more than once with his eyes going all dreamy. He scoured the internet for nearby polo ranches and he struck gold at once. And so, one beautiful Saturday morning we set off for La Manea, 40 kilometers from Buenos Aires.

Dan had his first polo lesson, and was instantly hooked. It is a fast game, and requires horsemanship as well as hand-to-eye coordination and team spirit. I looked on from the side, slightly worried and remembering my 30 year long fear of horses and other big beasts. Our instructor, Sebastian, seemed to sense my nervousness and got me a lovely tame little mare. She was very gentle and obedient and I quickly got rid of my nerves and started enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. As I had no previous riding experience, I spent the first two classes learning basic riding skills.

The next time, however, Sebastian assured with me with appealing gaucho logic that the best and most natural way to learn riding was through playing polo. I was handed a mallet and tried hitting the ball. The horse was so well trained it followed the ball on its own accord. And most amazingly, I actually started riding better when I was focusing on the “bocha” instead of my (lacking) riding skills. I found that Sebastian was a very good instructor who encourages, yet never pushes people beyond their abilities.

Polo lessons have now become an important part of our weekends. Dan has started to join in at the practice games and even the odd tournament, and I happily canter about swinging my mallet like a pro. Afterwards we hang around for a picnic or some mate and just enjoy being in the country.

Casper, 3, on his first polo pony.

Our children Rapha, 5, and Casper, 3, also have a lovely time, playing with other children there and enjoying greater freedom than they would ever have in hectic Buenos Aires.

Classes start at around $100 pesos per hour, which includes the horse and a private or semi-private (maximum 2 people) class. This is a lot cheaper than most of the big polo ranches, and a bargain if you consider the quality of the horses and classes. Classes are usually in Spanish, but Sebastian also speaks some English.

More information

Tel: 011.15.4036.1093
www.lamaneapolo.com

Get there:
Take 9 de Julio and follow the exit towards Ezeiza. At km 26 take the exit. Continue to km 41 (Tristan Suarez) and take a right hand turn when you get to the crossing onto the “Camino Real”. Once you are past the tiny police station, take a left hand turn and follow the road for about 2 more minutes until you reach La Manea.

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So there I was—a more-or-less intermediate level tango dancer, with all the bravura that a lifetime of other dance techniques has given me, which means the tendency to show off when I don’t know what I’m doing. I was in a very popular class of what is conveniently called “tango nuevo.” signifying that everyone is young and experimental and in this case, pretty good. We were learning some complicated steps and finding new possibilities with each different partner and I was trying to hold my own along with everybody else.

After the teachers demonstrated the next sequence, I looked around for my next partner. I felt someone standing next to me, waiting for me to turn and catch his eye. Dirty nails, fraying socks, greasy hair, and bad teeth—there he was, my next potential partner, shooting me a charming, inviting, cocky smile. With a confidence completely unfitting to his appearance, this scruffy mix of pirate and street urchin grabbed me and we took off. The less than satisfying olfactory experience was daunting. Was it a combination of motorcycle grease and meat empanadas, or some other exotic mixture that defied speculation? I figured it was just a dance or two and then I’d be on to someone more hygienic.

We danced. His lead was unleashed, untamed, and exciting, which fit right in with my own wild nature. In minutes we created a force field that was dizzying. We didn’t separate until the end of the class. When I close my eyes it was everything I had always expected tango to be… feeling totally lost in an embrace, lost in the music, and resonating with the liberation and ecstasy that comes with the surrender to both.

At home that night, I kept wondering why my luck was such that I’d found a potential tango partner so unpolished, so raw, so funky. I wanted someone subtle, sexy, handsome, clean; someone who would make me feel like the act of the dance was the act of making love; someone tall, dark, with deep soulful eyes, beautiful strong hands to embrace me, a mouth for kissing, and the requisite unstained clothes. I was determined to find this someone with the chemistry I needed for my reality, and this was certainly not that guy.

Three classes later, Tino and I were still were dancing together. He’d wait to drive me home on his dented, rusty, half painted 1997 Honda while I took my time changing shoes and socializing with friends. I was testing him, hoping he’d get annoyed enough to change his mind so I could be free to find my dream match.

There was going to be a seminar that I couldn’t take alone. I knew Tino had no money and I said: if you want to dance, and if you want to dance with me, you’ll find a way. I was really trying to be a bitch so he’d ditch me and I’d have an excuse to find someone else. He found the money instead and we began to make a friendship, practicing after classes in a little studio downtown. I looked forward to being enveloped by him, this earthiness that added to the raw creativity we generated as we danced.

Then, one day Tino asked if I’d like to dance with him at a party way out in the suburbs, beyond where he lived. I could meet him at the train station in his home town with the unlikely name of Morón and he’d pick me up on his motorcycle. The seduction of an adventure called…how could I say no?

It was to be an outdoor party, so I dressed casually in jeans, a leather jacket, and my old black Spanish cracked-leather boots. I met him and we took off on his bike into the night, into the wind. There was no helmet, and I let the mascara run down my cheeks as my hair flew wild. On and on and on we drove, through the empty countryside, past open fields of pampas, small towns with golden lights burning in living rooms as couples drank a last glass of wine before bed, past a lonely kiosk out in the middle of nowhere, past towns with tiny markers: Ituzaingo, Merlo, Paso del Rey. I was way beyond my Buenos Aires circle of comfort, with a relative stranger on a sputtering motorcycle that with all its ferocity, could break down at any moment, stranding me on the edge of nowhere.

It was well after midnight when we spotted fires up ahead. We turned onto a small road in front of a church where the celebration was being held to commemorate the newly erected spire. There were glowing coals and jumping flames, barbecues with what seemed like hundreds of people eating, drinking, and dancing around them. And everyone, from four-year-olds to the grandmothers, was dancing the beautiful Argentine folk dances, “Chacarrera” and “Samba.”

We skidded onto a gravel path and parked the bike. The hugging and kissing that so marks Argentine culture commenced and my guy had about a million friends. All of them gave me equal treatment, which was gracious, open and loving. I stood there in wonder as families, couples, teenagers, communed in this starlit, moonlit, timeless night.

We strode over to help ourselves to choripans, succulent sausage grilled over the coals, dripping with fat and flavor that saturated a chunk of bread, making a mere sandwich into a feast. Tino was on a serious budget and treating our journey as a date, he splurged and bought us a carton of cheap red wine that tasted better than any vintage label. We sat on the ground devouring our midnight picnic as if it was manna from heaven.

The atmosphere was redolent with the smoking fires, sweat from dancing and drinking, and the crisp country air. I was in awe of the freedom and simplicity of this delicious setting as I sat with choripan juice dripping down my chin. I felt at home, welcomed and unafraid. There I was, the only blond in the crowd of country folk where no one seemed to notice or care that I might be from an entirely different place, let alone, perhaps another planet. We were all just human beings drinking in the sensuality of being together in this magical night where no judgments were made. Here was a setting that authenticated my existential philosophy of living in the moment. For me, it was a kind of liberation that comes with feeling anonymous in a world where the only important thing is living life to its fullest.

And then my former perfectionist, New York world knocked at the door of my momentary transport into bliss. “You are going on in 15 minutes,” a woman said…and at once I understand what my friend meant when he asked if I would dance with him at the party. He didn’t mean hang out and dance…he had actually arranged for us to perform! In one heinous reversion to my strict professional self, I recoiled into a place where flexibility became impossible. I was furious. “What are you thinking? We’ve only just begun to practice! We’re amateurs! I don’t know the music!” I went on and on.

Tino looked at me calmly and smiled and said, “I only wanted to give my friends a gift … they don’t expect much, but they know I’ve been taking classes. I thought it would be fun, but if you feel uncomfortable, its okay, we won’t dance.”

He was way too kind and understanding and open and calm and in the moment and this made me even angrier. I hadn’t worked all my life to become a professional dancer to have some pipsqueak from Morón remind me not to take myself so seriously!

It was ugly … me, that is. I sat down while Tino went to tell the organizers we weren’t dancing. I took a breath and looked around. Here I was in this generous, loving place acting like the Diva I’m not. Why was I here in Argentina anyway? What exactly is my definition of adventure if not to grab the moment as it comes? And what is more beautiful than being in the moment, something I always preach and found myself absolutely not doing? What the hell is perfection and why is it so important? I took off my leather jacket and ran to tell Tino I’d changed my mind.

It turned out that we were the featured dancers of the night.

By now the crowd had grown to even greater dimensions. Stoked with good spirits, they were open, receptive, and expectant. There was total silence as our names, with great gravity, were announced. Slowly we walked to the dirt stage. The crowd sat on wooden bleachers slightly above us, and became silent as we made our entrance. In my mind I thought for a moment of my stiletto-sexy ‘Comme Il Faut’ super fashion tango shoes, my rack of gorgeous high-slit dresses hanging in my closet, my fishnet stockings and the drop earrings that sparkled just so beneath the low lights of the milongas.

All that shopping and here I was in tight, dirty jeans, a tank top, hair untamed, and Tino, worse, of course! But none of that stuff mattered, I realized, and in a way it was so much better… the way we looked gave our dancing an urgency and spontaneity. And besides, no one cared.

We took in the audience with gravity. We took in each other with the depth of clandestine lovers. The music began. It was a tango I’d never heard.

And so we danced. We danced in a dream where I was aware only of the universe we were creating, just us two… me whirling in a containing, protective embrace, the dust flying up from our boots. We danced as if we were making love for the first time, as lovers who knew no other reality, lovers who were only present for this moment. And in one split second flash, I suddenly realized that here I was, a New Yorker dancing in the middle of nowhere on the other side of the equator, in the deep romantic night, far away from home with a virtual stranger who, in this three minute dance, was my lover, deeper and more rarified than any I’d ever had in my life. And I realized that this, this, was tango and that all the adornment in the world would never make the dance more sacred or more valid.

The rotation of the earth stopped when the music ended. We made our bows with drama and flourish, and then turned to each other with a mutual blush that turned into an embrace that seemed to last forever. We walked off the dirt stage hand in hand, to thunderous applause. I was shaking from head to toe from ecstatic aftershock. At once I looked round for Tino, whose hand had slipped out of mine.

I found myself alone, blindly fielding congratulatory embraces and kisses from hopeful lovers to be. At once I heard the gunning of the bike. Tino handed me my jacket. I reached in my pocket to put on my long-forgotten sunglasses, jumped up behind my guy, and like cool lightening, we evaporated into the beckoning moonlight.

–Michele Kadison is a writer, Jazz Dance teacher, choreographer, and director living in Buenos Aires, Argentina. mkadison.blogspot.com

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“A white unlike any other” was how our chauffeur, in Spanish, described the brilliance of Aconcagua’s peak. Of course, “chauffeur” is a bit of a generous term for the couple we had hitched a ride with, the beginning of a series of misadventures that ultimately should have placed my traveling companion in a hospital. But for the moment we could only stare at the icy blue-white cap, and eagerly wait for the moment that we could disembark and begin a hike through the provincial park towards that ultimate destination

After six months of living in the congestion of Buenos Aires, my boyfriend, Preston, and I were craving the freshness and spontaneity of the wilderness and decided to embark on a mini camping trip. We set off for Mendoza and rented the appropriate gear (we found a great little cluster of outdoor equipment rental shops centered around 25 de Mayo on Avenue Las Heras in the center of Mendoza). With little research, we decided to take off on a two-night trek that would ultimately take us to Aconcagua Provincial Park, home of the sky-scraping Mount Aconcagua, which, at 9,962 meters, is the tallest mountain outside of the Himalayas.

We jumped on a bus to Upsallata, a small town two hours outside of the city of Mendoza, nestled in the foothills of the Andes. (The Upsallata Express is the only company that services the area; buses leave every few hours and cost less than US$10). The valley has a handful of hiking trails that offer decent views and a chance to acclimate to the rising altitude. However, we were on a quest to reach the famous Aconcagua, and neither acclimation time nor bus schedules (the next bus to travel into the Andes did not pass through for a few more hours) would keep us from our ascent. So we decided to viajar a dedo (hitch-hike; literally, to “travel by thumb”) and travel to the next point of interest, the Puente del Inca.

Hitch-hiking in Argentina is not as stigmatized as it is in the US or Europe, although the act obviously always carries a risk. A variety of friends (both American and Argentine, female and male) have praised the comfort and success of securing rides by traveling with truckers. Traveling as two people, we had no luck with truck drivers but were kindly picked up by a couple from Buenos Aires province. Because the traveler’s unofficial role is to provide interesting conversation, a good understanding of Spanish is a must. Our companions were extremely amiable and knowledgeable of the area, and delivered us to the Puente del Inca in record time.

The Puente del Inca has been routinely chronicled on this site, but any visitor to the area should definitely check it out. Beyond its unique aesthetic and historical interest it is an important location because hikers are strongly encouraged to spend the night here in order to acclimate, if they plan to head on to Aconcagua. Due to our poor planning, we were unaware of this fact, and we decided to immediately hike the five kilometer ascent to Aconcagua Provincial Park.

While the hike is not difficult and does not take very long, I would not suggest the route we took; we followed the highway and were forced to deal with passing trucks and buses speeding down the road. We saw some locals following an abandoned train track- if you are looking to hike the short distance, this may be a better option.

Entrance to the provincial park is free, and you are provided with a map upon arrival. There is a short two kilometer loop that affords visitors a spectacular view of Mount Aconcagua, or a longer trail that leads to a river. It is important to note that, unlike other parks in Argentina, camping is not allowed in Aconcagua Provincial Park, and violations can result in a fine of US$300. We were not aware of this fact upon our arrival, and after literally begging the ranger for an authorized place to rest, he directed us to a place where he temporarily turned a blind eye. There are longer, paid excursions up the mountain that allow camping, and, if you are feeling daring, we also came across a few clandestine camp sites.

As we were walking along the path to the river, it was apparent that we were at a much higher altitude: our breathing was heavier, our heart rates faster, and every so often we would feel like ache of pressure in our heads (I found sitting down and water to be a good cure-all). As we sat down for a rest after lunch, I decided to fill up our empty water bottles. Upon returning twenty minutes later, I found Preston shivering, with a fever; his lips and fingertips were grey and his head was pounding. Although I am a good seven inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, I experienced none of these symptoms. Unfortunately, the sun had just set and there was no viable alternative other than to hunker down in our sleeping bags, guzzle water, and try to go to sleep. Preston was breathing was shallow and sparse. Immediately the next morning, we jumped in a car with a couple we had met and returned to Mendoza.

Saddled with a headache for days, we learned the hard way the necessity of planning for a trip into the Andes. When heading to Aconcagua, a slow, steady pace is imperative, as is the need to listen to your body. I hope this will not discourage anyone from visiting this site, but to keep in mind that in this circumstance outdoor trekking and freewheeling spontaneity do not necessarily go hand-in-hand.

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With time, experimentation and lots of searching, I got to know my way around and am now a self proclaimed expert on these topics. However a few weeks ago a friend recommended me the new expat forum at www.baexpats.com. I signed up, which was quick and easy, and had a look around at the forums.

There is a wealth of information to be had there. The site is very much alive and kicking, and you can expect a quick reply to any questions you may have, and even to questions you did not know you had.

On the site you will find information about a wide range of topics, such as: where to get an immigration lawyer; which are the best areas to live in Buenos Aires; how to get a job teaching English; what is the cost of living in Argentina compared to the US and information on travel destinations.

And last but not least, I stumbled across a message from a German girl, asking where in Buenos Aires she might be able to find size 41 shoes. People had tried to be helpful and one cheeky poster suggested she find out where transvestites buy their shoes.

Creative thinking! Anyway, I was more than happy to put in my two cents and share my hard earned knowledge with the answer of the shoe shops Mishka, Bottana and Perrugia.

For those who are still wondering about baby food, the answer is in pharmacies, not supermarkets!

For more information go to:

www.baexpats.com

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The province of Mendoza bewitches her visitors in a number of ways. Some find peace in her tranquil beauty. Others are lured by the rafting, biking, and outdoor life. And many more still fall in love with Mendoza’s sun-drenched wine country, and then start daydreaming how they could stay.

That’s exactly what longtime friends Dave Garrett and Michael Evans did when they traveled to Mendoza together in 2005. The result, luckily for us, is the Vines of Mendoza. A wine-centric business, it gave them an excellent reason to stick around in a place that is becoming known in some circles as the “next Napa.” Not a bad gig.

Both former tech entrepreneurs, Evans and Garrett teamed up with Pablo Gimenez, of a local wine making family, to create the city’s first, upscale, tasting room that culls the finest bottles from the province’s some 650 bodegas in a beautifully refurbished Mendoza home. But the tasting room and the Vine’s boutique Acequia Wine Club, are only the run up to the jewel of the project—a destination wine resort and private vineyard estates on 1200+ acres in Mendoza’s Valle de Uco, an arid valley that boasts the region’s highest-altitude vineyards and stark views of the Andes.

“We wanted to build an asset that would be around forever,” Garrett said of the long range plans of the founders. This is something that “flies in the face of both of our experience” he said, explaining that as a tech entrepreneur he spent a lot of time on software only to see it become, eventually, obsolete.

Yet if the trends are to be believed, the region and the Vines will only continue to prosper. More people around the world are discovering the incredible taste and value of Argentina’s wines every day. The wine business in Mendoza is booming. Recently, wine critic Robert Parker of The Wine Advocate gave three of the Bodega Achaval-Ferrer’s wines 96 points or higher in his first in-depth coverage of Argentine wine.

With Mendoza’s excellent soil and room for growth, there is no where to go but up, Garrett said.

It seems so at least for the Vines of Mendoza. The wine club is shipping wine to fans of Argentina’s finest wines in the U.S. and in Europe. The Vines’ tasting room, located half a block from Mendoza’s Plaza Independencia, serves 150 visitors a day during high season and features over 90 wines from over 40 different wineries. To serve the many travelers looking to take a tour of the area’s many bodegas, the Vines also hosts an information center.

Like the making of a great wine, the creation of the Vines of Mendoza has been a steady process for the founders.

“We are doing this one step at a time,” Garrett said of the project. “And we are doing them exactly right.”

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