Mendoza

I throw my bag across into the passenger seat and let myself drop behind the wheel, pulling the door shut right behind me to escape the wind. It’s not really any warmer inside the car. The cold seat sucks heat from me. I’m still trying to shake off the urge to run back inside and hibernate. I slip the key in the ignition. There’s never a moment this cold when I bike in -- never just sitting still letting the cold get into me. The car starts fine. Low on gas though, the warning light lets me know I’ll have to get back outside to fill up the tank. I shiver and look through my breath at fronds of frost covering the windshield. Cold air finds a way past my glove and up my sleeve when I reach over to click on the defroster. The initial blast of cold air reflecting back at me off the windshield makes me retract my neck into my coat and zip the collar all the way closed. I grip my toes in my shoes and flex my fingers, trying to encourage some warmth to flow in. While I wait for the frost to clear, I stare at the patterns spread across the glass, generating branch after branch, each generation multiplying and reiterating like the items on my to-do list: joinery for the window frame, bird feeder stands for mom, organize tax forms, car inspection (which’ll probably mean brake work), administrative paperwork backed up, preparing to move the office, ordering the new equipment, tuning my derailleurs, putting new tires on my road bike, returning those books to the library, those Netflix DVD’s that have been waiting for weeks, letters to write and send, ordering seeds, garden clean-up, refinish those doors, install dad’s water filter, take care of my hip if I’m gonna play in this weekend’s game, mail to sort out, pile of books I’ve wanted to get to, refurbishing that lectern into a bar at church, reply to those e-mails, no way I’m working on those shutters outside -- maybe take them into the workshop, build that workshop shelf to get that place organized, laundry to deal with (fold the clean stuff that’s out, wash that pile of dirty, put my summer stuff into storage so there’ll be room for the winter stuff, go through and donate some of the extra) out of coffee at work, need to get birthday presents for the Aquarians, register for that course in March, start getting organized for coaching in the spring, figure out what Caps game to take advantage of the free tickets at...
The defroster’s not working: the frost is spreading and thickening on the windows. A sheet of ice is forming and creeping out over the dashboard. Tinkly crackling sounds fill the air as the car is surrounded by ice, icicles forcing through the top edge of the door windows. Breath clouding around me. I can’t feel my foot. I flex my fingers inside of my gloves to try and generate some warmth. My gloves squeeze back, again they squeeze.
"I knew you’d fall asleep if I left you on the bench." The grey ice shatters and falls away as I open my eyes.
A quick breath in of hot, dry air takes me my surprise and catches in my throat, forcing a cough.
"You’d better not be sick -- you’re not allowed to get sick on your time off."
Sick? How could I get sick? The germs that end up with me soon get tired of trying to keep up with me and head off to find more hospitable hosts who have time for them.
"Make room for me." I give you a puzzled look, trying to gauge your intent.
"On the bench, make room for me on the bench." I sit up and scoot over, uncrossing my leg and shaking my sleeping foot on the grass. Ah, grass. And trees full and leafed out. So much green making it even look warm here under the,... elms?
"Yep, they’re elms."
So, you ready to go now?
"Just about. It just takes me a little longer to get going first thing in the morning, especially after a late night. How about you?"
I just need... some... cof... fee. Yee -- argh.
"Wasn’t that a big stretch -- I wasn’t sure your t-shirt was going to make it."
Something about lounging in the sun makes me want to stretch out like a big cat.
"Here then, I’ll scratch behind your ears."
Rrrr, rrrr, rrr.
"What was that supposed to be?"
Purring? Practicing rolling my R’s?
"You might want to stick to English until you’ve done a bit more practicing. So, what’s the plan?" Maybe just sit here all day, try to fully thaw out. Melt even. I don’t think I’ve been truly warm for months.
"Summer is definitely the place to be then."
I’m sure I could be warm in Spring.
"I thought you said we’d be going out? Or can I talk you into another night sitting on the patio with a pitcher of clérico?"
Tonight, tonight we’ll go to catch some music at Joe’s.
"Joe’s? Doubtful."
El Bar del José then (you were the one who suggested I stick to English) -- that place was rockin’ last night.
"So, a late night of drinks and music?"
I like the way you think -- you’ve talked me into it.
"Well, you better let me sleep in late tomorrow then -- and I’ll be more fun tonight if we can have a lazy day today."
That’s what I wanted to do too, do a little shopping for provisions, walk among the canals and fountains, head for someplace quiet.
"No cabalgatas or hikes in the mountains?" (I been through the desert on a horse with no name. "Will we remember our names?" Well, there won’t be anyone for to give us no pain...)
Nah, maybe tomorrow -- let’s stay in town today.
"Tomorrow? Are we going to stick around here? Are you training for the bike race?"
Bike race?
"On that poster, La Vuelta Ciclista de Mendoza."
We’ll do some biking later this year, but not racing -- something slower, touring.
"Okay then, where to today? Cachueta? Soak in the hot springs?"
Too far, I was kind of interested in seeing what a 63,000 liter wine barrel looks like.
"I like the way you’re thinking now. We should make a list of what we need to get first -- lend me your pen."
(Now, you’re not going to Shanghai us off to someplace else are you?
"I said I liked your idea, just chill."
Funny you should say that...)
Here you go -- still cold, from the car, I guess.
"And empty,... or,... looks like the ink is,... frozen?"
Let me try something. I take the pen back and dip it in the canal for a minute. When I take it out, a drop of water freezes on the tip. I guess we’ll just have to remember the list then, wait, here, I’ve also got some scratchy ballpoints in the backpack.
"While you’re in there, what else do we have in the bag?"
Some reading, notebooks, the newspaper, last Sunday’s Magazine, big thermos, water bottle,... there’s room for plenty else.
"Notebooks are not gonna be much use with a frozen pen."
I’m not worried about it, I’ll figure something out. Let’s get a thermos-full of coffee and some breakfast, fill the water bottle (the day's already pretty warm), everything else we’ll get as needed.

A wrought iron arch spans the gate in the stone wall. We turn in and head along a gravel road, walking past a few token rows of vines. At the end of each row, a rose bush is blooming. The grapes are still tiny on the vines. The road leads past a service building up to the main building. The service building is quiet, no production in process just now, it’s time to wait. It’s busy near the main building as the employees get set up for the day: sweeping the patio, setting out tables and chairs, unloading -- or trying to -- from a pick-up some steel barrels cut in half lengthwise. (That guy’s gonna hurt himself lifting it by himself like that. Hold the backpack a minute will you, I’ll be right back.
"Look at you -- I see a bead of sweat on your forehead..." You pull my cap off and wipe it away.
I’ve gotten unused to working in the heat lately.
"What were those things?"
They look like they might be barbecues.
"Hmm, I wonder what’s for lunch.")
It’s too busy and distracting up here -- let’s walk down from the main house off under the biggest tree there. We can move two of those concrete benches into the shade.
"You can have a bench. I’m going to stretch out -- I feel a mid-morning nap might be catching up with me here in the warmth."
Take the backpack again will you? I’ll need both hands to move the bench.
("Lift with your legs."
You don’t have to tell me. Besides, they only look heavy...
"Yeah, watching you strain like that does make them look heavy."
Cute. It’s just awkward -- it’d be easier with two people lifting.
"Maybe I’m hoping you’ll give up and have to also sit on the blanket."
Or maybe you just like watching me struggle.
"More like watching you work. Is it that heavy? Your ears are turning red."
No, that’s something else...)
Once I get the bench positioned so that it won’t rock, you spread the blanket out next to it and unpack breakfast. I start by pouring coffees from the thermos, straddle the bench and spread sandwich, pear, coffee, and water out in front of me, leaving room to work on the puzzle between my knees. You finish straightening out the blanket and sit leaning against my left leg next to the bench.
"Did you bring anything interesting to read that you could lend me? Got anything good in that backpack?"
Um, let’s see: The Sun, A Short History of Myth, an anthology, the rest of the paper, Dialogues,...
Down the slope bounds a little scrap of a dog. Despite his limp, his stride clearly says that he owns this place. He’s got a routine, checking each section of the grounds in turn. He pauses for a few moments where the bench was and pauses his panting to sniff the ground. He looks up at me and tilts his head expectantly with what sounds like some muttered command. Yeah buddy, I’ll put it back when I’m done. That seems to satisfy him and he lets his tongue hang back out and comes over to greet us. He’s got a few minutes to spare to sit by you and my foot to get petted, but then he’s back off on his rounds again.
The first puzzle is full of bad puns -- not difficult in an interesting way, just irritating. The Sunday Magazine one is better -- mostly challenging words. This middle grouping has got me stymied. Too many possible answers for the short ones, one of the long ones is a name, part three of the quotation goes through, the key seems to be 25 down, 7 letters, "Quiet best friend". Might start with a "B", might have a "J" as the second to last letter?
The little dude is back, sniffing at the puzzle, standing up with his front paws on the bench. He looks at me, gives a muffled chortle, and smiles at me. Yeah, you’re right little buddy, that is you. Thanks -- you deserve a reward for that. You want a bit of egg from my sandwich? No? Maybe a bit of cheese then? Ah, yeah, that’s the stuff. A bit more? Nope, off he goes again...
You turn to look at the bench top. "Are you still doing puzzles? What’s wrong?"
What do you mean?
You take the paper and Magazine away from me and drop my notebook on the bench. "Write something."
Oh, sure, as soon as some story occurs to me.
("What’s wrong with this story?"
You might have something there, let’s see -- nope, pen’s still frozen. Maybe I’ll read for a while...)
This thing's still useless -- the ink’s still not running. I take it over into the sunlight and stick it in the ground with a grimace. Out little buddy reappears from around the tree. He comes over to check out the pen, sniffing at it and letting out a small whimper, looking up at me. I tousle his ears -- it’s okay little dude, it’ll be okay.
You gonna read the paperback?
"Not right now, I’m checking out The Sun."
You know, momma always told me not to look into the light of the sun.
"But, momma, that’s where the fun is, yeah. Lame, maybe it’s good you’re not writing."
("Wait, were you writing when I said that?"
Yeah.
"No fair, you make me take that back."
No, I know you meant it in fun -- look, I’m shaking my head and grinning.
"Well, as long as you took it the right way."
It’s cool, I deserved it. I shoulda known better’n to try and borrow from the Boss.
"Sounded good..."
Stop patronizing me and hand me the book...)
"This one? The title’s not very exciting."
It does seem that way, inaccessible, like, say, TheTrireme, but it’s got some good bits in it... Here, let’s see,... how about:

An experience of transcendence has always been part of the human experience. We seek out moments of ecstasy when we feel deeply touched within and lifted momentarily beyond ourselves. At such times, it seems we are living more intensely than usual, firing on all cylinders, and inhabiting the whole of out humanity.

"Well,... yeah,... maybe I will take a look at that later."
What’re you going to do now?
"Just close my eyes for a bit."
If you dream, I might show up and tag along, looking for some flame of inspiration to use on my pen.
"How will I recognize you?"
How do you ever?
"Hmm,... there’s something,... I’m not quite sure what..."
When you figure it out, let me know. I could use some way to always recognize myself. Preferably some positive characteristic, or at least neutral, that I could use. Maybe I should seek out a signature scent -- seaweed and saltwater? No? Hmm? But you’ve dozed off, so I go back to reading...

A breeze stirs the leaves and lets some sunlight through the leaves, passing back and forth across your eyelids, drawing you out of sleep. You shift and turn to lean your forearm on the bench next to the closed book and look over them at me. I turn from staring over the treetops at the mountains to look down back at you.
"Hey. What’re you thinking? Any luck with that?" You nod at the pen I’m rolling between my palms.
I’m having luck using it to keep cool -- it's still frozen. It’s starting to get warm even here in the shade of this... uh,... what is this one?
"Sycamore."
Thanks. I’ll make sure I include that if this ink ever gets running again.
You stretch out. "Oooo, I feel logy."
(Do you have to feel that? I’m not sure I know how to spell it.
"I can’t help it, I feel like that coming out of a nap."
Here, this might help...)
I sneak my hand around just as your stretching with your eyes closed and touch the pen to the back of your neck.
"Hey! Watch it! Give me that." I let you have the pen. "Let’s see how you like it," as you slip it under the tail of my shirt to the small of my back.
Yikes! That puts a shiver all the way up my spine. And we’re both laughing, relaxed enough in the warmth to laugh about our shivers. An idea occurs to me in the feeling, maybe a key, but it’s gone again before I can grasp it. Still, there was something there. I think it would’ve worked...
You hungry? The barbecue smells great.
"I’ll go up and take a look. I’m definitely ready to move around some."
How about we go in for a tasting first then, as an aperitif. Maybe pick something out to go with lunch?
"Okay."
We pack everything back into the backpack and head up, swinging around wide to toss the breakfast remnants in a trash can. When we get up to the main building, we split up for a few minutes to freshen up. The air conditioning makes it chilly inside, which is actually welcome after sitting out in the heat. I take an extra minute at the sink to take of my cap and glasses and wash my face. The splash of water on my face really is refreshing, and I take a few extra seconds to rub it in across bristly cheeks and tired eyes still adjusting to coming in out of the bright sunlight. I get to the bar first and save you a place next to me.
"So, what’re we gonna taste?"
Looks like there are some options from a couple different groupings. Let’s get the flight of six from any available.
"Okay, but which six?"
Well, maybe we’ll forget about everything in the Pinar Del Rio, we didn’t come all the way here to drink from the low end -- though, I do wonder what a Borgoña is. Maybe I’ll look it up later. I stretch down into the backpack to grab a notecard, and when I come back up, you’re talking to the pourer ("Is she the pourer? She was walking by and I started to ask her your question before I noticed she didn’t have an apron on. The she waved off that man with the apron and came over with his pad." I’m not sure, but she seems interested in our order. When we introduce ourselves, she asks that we call her Estela, and everyone else behind the bar seems deferential towards her...)
Okay, Estela, we’ll taste all five in from the Gascon label,... and let’s see, that’s four reds and one white,...
"And the sauvignon blanc from the Carcassone label."
She starts us with the whites. They’re both good, I think I like the Viognier better. ("I’m shocked, you always like the Viognier." What can I say? It makes me think of Summertime.) The reds come in what seems like their order of popularity: Cab Sav, then a Syrah. The Syrah is interesting, and begs for something. Wait a minute Estela, would you? She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, but is focused on our response. I go over to the display near the register and pick out a box of thin chocolates. "Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, I’ll bet that’d be especially good." Alright, we each take a chocolate as Estela watches. She reached under the bar to bring up another glass and pours herself a half-full glass of the Syrah. You hand her your chocolate and take out another for yourself. Three glasses touch together and we take a drink, following it up with a bite of chocolate, then another sip. "Wow, that does more than taste good, that feels good." Estela looks at the bottle in her hand and smiles before putting it up. Malbecs finish up the tasting, first a straight Malbec, then the Don Miguel blend. Both pretty good. Anything we want to try a second time? "The Syrah." Oh, yeah. She laughs and tells us we got the right answer, pours us each another glass of it, and starts to walk off with hers, turning right back around, and is about to ask when I just give her another chocolate. She thanks us and walks out the back of the bar. It’s getting busier for the pourers, a couple of tours have shown up. When we’re finally able to get the attention of a pourer to pay for our tasting we’re waived off -- it’s been taken care of.
You want to get something to take with us. "What do you think? We better get a bottle of that Syrah." Yeah, and we shouldn’t come back from here without a Malbec. I get those two and also a bottle of Viognier. ("So predictable." I just thought it’d be good to sit out on the patio and enjoy a cool bottle of wine. "Yeah, that’d be good, but that one’s not chilled." I grin, oh yeah, check this: I drop the pen inside the bag with the bottle. That should chill it before long, damn pen oughtta be good for something.)
A table and two chairs are open on the patio, so we drop our stuff and you sit. I’ll head over to the barbeque and pick up a selection for lunch. They’ve got everything going. Four of the six barbecues have what seems like a complete selection of every kind of way to cook beef outdoors. The last two are loaded with beans and vegetables. I get back with two plates full of a wide selection. "Napkins? Silverware?" Uh, no, I was going to go back for that. "I’ll go, I’ve got an idea." You take the Viognier out of it’s bag -- it’s cold and condensation starts to form on the bottle. You turn the bag over and drop the pen out in to your hand. Any luck? "Nope, still ice cold. I’ll be right back." You head over to the barbecues and fix it on the end of a skewer and stick the pen into the coals.
When you come back you toss the pen to me. "Here you go." It’s still frozen. "They told me not to worry, that they’d be able to get the coals relit no problem. I think they were a little put out themselves, but I turned on the charm and they forgave me."
Good thing it was you and not me then.
Lunch is terrific. Some other Americans are sitting nearby, they seem to be serious collectors. One of them is loudly lecturing about how one of the necessary components of an expensive wine is the predictability. That doesn’t seem to be quite right. I look at you -- you’ve heard it too ("How could I not? He’s trying to show off what he’s read."). We pass an understanding in a glance and raise out glasses to one another.
As we eat, the light clouds moving across the sky are getting chased by a darker front. Every once in a while a gust cuts across the table, threatening to take the napkins. We spend the midday under the patio, reading and emptying the bottle. I’m getting a little unfocussed and stop reading to watch the play of shadows across the clouds as they roll in. I spin the pen on the table, the frozen ink holding fast to the top of the clear barrel. You glance up at me.
"You getting an idea?"
Maybe, part of one anyway.
"A story idea?"
Probably too big for me to pull off in a single story. I’m not quite sure what it is yet, gotta let it work on me awhile. I might just be a little drunk.
A light rain starts to fall, and you put your book down, stand up and pull at my hand. "Come on."
But, it’s raining.
You roll your eyes, step off the porch and start walking backward into the rain, looking back at me.
As I stand up, I see the ink flow to the bottom of the barrel. I snatch the pen up and stick it in my pocket as I speed up to catch up with you.