We had to get out of Buenos Aires.  So, I rented out my flat and away we went, taking the bus twelve hours northwest to Mendoza.  A “semi-cama,” we reclined in comfort as we ate the chocolates, almonds, and raisons we’d brought, chatting, sleeping, and awakening in the morning to a new adventure.

We knew we were somewhere else by the quality of the air. Buenos Aires had been hit with the fumes of hellacious fires burning strong and endlessly on the outskirts of town. Days and days of smoke blowing into the city made everyone sick and teary, causing accidents on the highways as eyes blurred to oncoming traffic. Here we could finally breathe, our lungs filling with clean, brisk, almost drinkable oxygen. And then, the mountains. 

After a day walking about the town and a night wondering at the shuttered city so early to bed, we took our first trip to the mountains. Driving up and up, winding the snaked coils of the three hundred and sixty pin turns, we arrived at the deserted hotel of Villavicencio, the namesake of a popular bottled Argentinean water.

Forested and rocky, the shale beneath our feet crunched as our legs felt their first challenge climbing up to a promontory.  Below were the golden alamos, fluttering like aspen trees and standing tall against the deep valleys and the green rises of the Andean Cordillero, with their snow-laden counterparts jutting behind.  A swooping bird, the sun, and silence.  We could feel the city pulse dissolve in our veins as we were absorbed, miniscule, in the vast scope of sky. 

Descending, we stopped to eat on the veranda of the chalet restaurant that blended into the ridge. The Mendozan wine was rich, all the more that we were drinking it in its proper environment.  Plates of sharp cheese, eggplant and tomato taponada, proscuitto, salad, and warm bread complimented the “tinto” in addition to our bundled and happy selves.

Our first meal in the city was a Greek salad, eaten at a sidewalk café on busy Aveneda Las Heras.  Though refreshing, it was the explosion of taste coming from the black olives combined with the delicious goat cheese that made us howl for more. And more we had, just to help us finish up our requisite bottle of soft Mendozan merlot. After a few days in the city, exploring the beautiful parks, a winery and an olive factory, dancing tango with the locals, and eating the local fare, we were ready for more natural climes.  And so we left, renting a cabin just above Potrerillos in a tiny village called Las Vegas. Here we could rest, think, hike, and cook.

And cook we did. We had brought a stash of herbs and spices with us from home: oregano, provencal (that lovely mixture of parsley and garlic), a can of smoked paprika, curry powder, cardamom seeds, cinnamon, and pepper corns along with sesame seeds, sunflower seeds, flax seeds, and shredded coconut for my favorite oatmeal breakfast dish. Our little cabin sat along the hillside road. We had a pot belly stove (or Salamandra, as it is called in Spanish) which we kept stoked both day and night, and a tiny kitchen with hardly any workspace, battered aluminum pots, and cutlery that would bend with the slightest pressure. The oven had exploded when the owner showed us how to turn it on, so any notions of baking had vanished in that puff of black smoke.

After our first day of glorious hiking and exploration we came back to make a simple meal of rice and salad, and let me say right here that every single meal we had except for breakfast was accompanied by a great bottle of red wine bought at the local store where we made our twice-a-day purchase of firewood.

The next morning was an early rise. Chris had stoked the fire after a freezing night where we each were shut tight in our bedrooms cloaked in hats, sweaters, double layers of pajamas, heavy socks, and three blankets each.  Downstairs was even colder, and as the fire warmed we drank green tea and I made my famous oatmeal with toasted sesame and sunflower seeds, soaked flax seeds, coconut flakes, cinnamon, bananas and honey: delicious fortification for the cold weather that had descended on a wind that shook the alamos and took everyone by surprise.

After breakfast we wandered into town and checked out the little café called Las Tres Lunas, where handmade clothes, jewelry, artwork, and canned goods were for sale and you could get a bite if you didn’t mind sitting outside in the cold.  We moved on to the Heladeria, a white castle-like house that blasted music out to the otherwise peaceful road.  

There we sat near the fire with another tea, trying to make conversation over the sounds of the ubiquitous television and the relentless salsa that could be heard far and wide. It was here we met our first dog. Hereafter, everyday we were adopted by yet another lovely, clean, polite canine who would accompany us on whatever outing we embarked on. After a short and curious roaming to get the lay of the land we headed back home for lunch. The mountain air kept us continuously hungry and thirsty and we were ready for something hardy.  I had soaked some lentils overnight and began the dish by sautéing onions with salt and pepper, adding the lentils to toast them slightly, and then water to make a thick soup. Carrots, garlic, the smoked paprika, and oregano came next and after a while we had a lovely, flavorful stew to enjoy over brown rice. Siesta time and then more exploring, to return as the night fell, accompanied by yet another dog, this time a beautiful white boy who slept outside the cabin until dawn. The following day we found ourselves on our first long excursion up, up, and beyond. Again we were adopted, this time by a frisky little brown muffin who accompanied us up hill and down dale as we wound our way parallel to the magnificent mountain ridges that undulated beneath the bluest of skies. 

The sun shone and layer by layer, our clothing was peeled off and packed around our waists. The air was sharp and light, our legs were feeling the work of climbing, and we were as happy as the freest vagabonds in the open and seemingly endless road. And then we got lost. With rain clouds looming in the distance, we managed to get a lift back as we had wandered far, far from our little village. Our dog had disappeared, excited by his own unknown, and I worried for his return, so far from home.  Eva, the lady who picked us up in her dented red car, assured me that he would find his way.  I was not convinced, but no amount of calling would bring him to us so on we went.

Exhausted, invigorated, enlivened, and hungry, we were ready, as usual, to dine. We ate the lentils from the night before along with a platter of sharp cheese, homemade black bread that we had bought at Las Tres Lunas, black and green olives to die for, and cherry tomatoes soaked in olive oil and oregano. With a half bottle of wine, a siesta was due and we wrapped ourselves in blankets on the living room couches near the little Salamandra to digest and muse about the day’s adventures until we dozed off.

Later we went up to the local market to buy our dinner fare: a perfect light meal of char-grilled red peppers with goat cheese drizzled with olive oil and sautéed yellow string beans doused with oil and oregano.

We were now in the rhythm of life in the countryside.  With night settling in, we were ready to brave our cold bedrooms and hopefully fall into the deep remedial mountain sleep that our tired bodies required.
It was a brutal night, that one.  I couldn’t get warm, the stove fizzled out downstairs, and no amount of clothing or bedding could take the chill out of my poor shivering, suffering body.  My limbs became numbed with the cold, my nose as if frostbitten, my scalp quivering with goose bumps, and even my eyeballs felt icy behind my shuttered lids. Even my mind froze as I lay there waiting for a miracle thaw.

Warmth and fortification came the next morning after Chris so painstakingly stoked the fire and then prepared his scrambled eggs supreme. Sautéed onions, cherry tomatoes, and red peppers in olive oil, taken out of the pan to be replaced with eggs beaten with smoked paprika, salt, and pepper.  Then back went the onions and tomatoes along with shredded parmesan cheese.  Accompanied by a homemade white bread from Las Tres Lunas and a steaming tea, we were ready to take on the day.

And take on the day we did, with our usual gusto, climbing hills, dipping past brooks, and weaving on paths overgrown with Rosa Mosqueta. 

The sun was getting warmer, as it would over the next few days.  But the nights were still cold and would stay so.  That night we decided to make a huge social effort and take ourselves over to the Heladeria for that roaring fireplace and maybe some good local fortifying fare. An important futbol game was blaring on the television as a few guys from the town gathered to eat their peanuts, slosh down their beer, and ruminate over each player.  We sat, warming up and waiting for the special of the evening, which the owner, a sweet woman with a very interesting way of recreating her eyebrows, told us was a marinated lamb.  And so we ordered the special, along with a mixed salad and a wonderful, deep Mastroeni Malbec from Lujan de Cuyo.  Her husband broke away from the game to bring us a big bowl of juicy black olives, a basket of warm bread, and a juicy salad which we condimented with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, relishing all as we waited for our entrée.

And then it came.  There are very few words to describe the exquisite taste and aftertaste that made our nimble taste buds stand up and clamor for more. Marinated in lemon and herbs with a touch of vinegar and cooked to an inside-pink perfection, we were in such heaven that I could forget that this dish was formerly a lovely little wooly creature perhaps yearning for its mom just before the moment of truth. But please, forget I said that and stay with me for the existential moment where we sat in a room with absolutely no charm, soccer game blaring, drinking a sumptuous wine with one of the simplest and most fulfilling meals we’d had in a long, long time (outside of our own piece de resistances, of course.)  Ah, life!

Walking out into the night we were drunk from both food and wine. The blast of cold hung about us as we wove our way through the inkiness towards the “poodle” tree at the top of the slope that would take us back to our cabin.  (It really did look like a poodle, this lone tree standing where the road forked to find its way back to Mendoza.)  At once Chris let out a shocked cry… “look, the stars!” And there, up above, in the velvet mass of galactic mystery was every single star that one could ever hope to see. Constellations and planets poured down to the ground at twice their normal size, with a fuzzy patch that was the Milky Way washing across the scene.  We wove our way home, eyes uplifted, got out the lawn chairs and blankets, and sat consumed and penetrated by the astounding night. 

Back to reality, breakfast the next morning was another version of Chris’s scrambled masterpiece, this time with onions, cheese, and herbs and every bit as sumptuous as before. The day was warm enough to lay out on the lawn, slathered with sunscreen as if it were mid-summer vacation. We decided to return to the Heladeria to see what goodies they could offer us for lunch after such an inspiring dinner. Sitting outside in glory of a dazzling sun, we had chicken milanesas, salad, and a beautiful bottle of Cava Negra cabernet.
 
Dinner that night was a cubed chicken that had been marinating all day in lemon, honey, ginger, and olive oil.  Cooked with sautéed onion, carrots, garlic, and pepper and placed over crunchy brown rice, we topped the meal off with a brisk game of cards and a ghost story in the dark that scared me out of my wits: a very effective way to take oneself off to bed on a cold night with stars blazing into one’s room as the Salamandra smoked and sputtered, trying to keep us warm at least until dawn.

The next day started with pan casero (a delicious homemade flat, round bun) and café con leche at Las Tres Lunas.  We had gotten up early to get out of our chilly digs and into the sunlight.  It was our last full day and we intended to make the most of the great outdoors, which we did. 

Our lunch break was leftovers and dinner that night was pasta made with soaked sun dried tomatoes and Portobello mushrooms tenderizing in an oregano/tomato sauce accompanied by salad and the requisite tinto. 

The morning brought us yet another dog, a beautiful skinny girl whom I fed hardboiled eggs and crackers, which was the last of our fare.  She stayed the day with us on the lawn, resting in a pile of leaves.  So polite, so dear, it was heartbreaking to leave her.  But our time in the mountains was up and so we said goodbye when the cabin’s owner arrived in his car to take us back to Mendoza. We stayed in the city for a few days more, missing those meals we’d made in our pioneer spirit, sitting at the table in our smoky little cabin, musing about the stars, the mountains, the dogs, and the ever-present quest for inspiring sustenance.

Michele Kadison

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