How to say 'enema' in Spanish?
A long weekend in Mendoza, Argentina's high-altitude wine country.
March 31, 2023
One thing to get straight immediately is that I have a weak stomach due to chronic IBD which I treat with expensive drug infusions and enemas. I have to carry the enemas in my suitcase and am always stopped at security because, as I was told once by a blushing Danish policeman, “they look like ammunition.”
It’s true—they come in these long strips that look, under the X-ray machine, just like a bandolier of bullets.
As usual, I am stopped on the way from Buenos Aires to Mendoza, and my luggage is searched for weapons. The agent pulls out the strip of enemas, gives me a stern look, and says something in Spanish.
I say: “They’re enemas! Enemas,” and she looks confused, so I take out Google Translate and find, to my dismay, that the Spanish word for enemas is just enemas. So then I mime sticking the things up my ass, which is horrifying and doesn’t even work, because the agent just looks even more confused.
Eventually, she brings her friend over who examines the enemas, looks at me, and says: “Milk?”
I say “Sure!” and am allowed to pass.
***
There’s a vineyard right outside of the airport. I wonder if the wine is gross, and then I wonder if I’ve ever bought wine I thought was fancy but was actually doused in jet fuel.
On the drive into the valley I roll down a window and stick my head out like a dog. I immediately start coughing because the air is thick with smoke. This, it turns out, is because people are cooking spits of meat on giant open fires along the highway, which is some special Argentine barbeque method I couldn’t tell you a thing about.
About an hour in we reach a fork in the road. There’s a sign pointing right that says “Chile.” I am told that Chile is a 30-minute drive through the Andes, but you can get stuck at the border for up to six hours. I am advised, instead, to go on “an unofficial horseback tour,” which involves a five-day crossing of the Andes and illegal entry into Chile.
As we get deeper into the valley the smoke starts to clear. There are tons of stars—huge white clusters. I wonder why the moon is hanging so low, then realize it’s a giant, glowing Christ the Redeemer on the hillside.
April 01, 2023
Mendoza is a valley at the foothills of the Andes, which I am not prepared to see for the first time that morning. I knew they were the longest mountain range in the world but I wasn’t expecting the colors. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, and the Cascades are pretty but regular-looking blue and white mountains. The Andes are pink and lilac. There is also muddy brown at the bottom, moss green in the middle, black, violet, and baby blue towards the top. There is a bit of white at the peaks and that part sparkles because of the glaciers.
I spend the morning wandering through the vineyards. There are acres of apple trees, yellow rose bushes, and wine vines. Mendoza is a desert, and I’m told that the vineyards are irrigated using underground systems pioneered in the 1400s, at the height of the Incan empire.
It’s early and extremely quiet. I hear only birds and the swish of willow trees. Eventually, I encounter a magnificent wall of poplars. They’re planted in a perfect line, each of them 100 feet tall with round green leaves. I’m in love with the poplars, but they are full of bees, which sound crazy in the silent vineyard.
***
A driver comes around noon. We can barely communicate but we laugh when we’re stopped by a herd of passing cows, and then again by a giant cloud of yellow finches. We are also bonding because we keep almost dying—driving along certain roads kicks up so much dust you can’t see for a mile ahead of you, and you just have to trust you won’t be totaled.
We’re dropped at a potato farm and ranch about 2,000 feet above sea level. Mendoza is one of the highest-altitude wine regions in the world. I don’t know if that makes the wine better or worse, but while I’m at the ranch I drink four glasses. Each one is better than the last. Mendoza is most famous for Malbec, particularly a variety called Tinto Negro—black wine. It is rich, fruity, and plum-colored. It’s daytime so I drink white and then a pale pink Malbec. They are dry and floral and very good.
***
Around three o’clock I get on a horse for the first time in my life. I am pretty drunk so I hug and kiss him. His name is Colorado. He’s the color of pennies and I love him so much.
Jay hates horses and likes to eat them as tartare but he decides to ride too. As soon as he gets on his horse it farts for a full minute. The horse won’t listen to him and so the horse man has to coax him out of the pen with kissing noises. Then, when we’re out in open fields, his horse keeps stopping to pee and shit everywhere, holding up the whole group. Eventually, Jay becomes very itchy and congested which is how we discover he’s allergic to horses.
We ride into the field which is covered in this yellow sweet-smelling grass. We keep spooking the wildlife. There are Patagonian hares, which look like humongous squirrels with kangaroo legs, and circling above are Andean condors, which can stand up to four feet tall.
“They are the largest flying birds in the world,” says the horse man, solemnly.
He’s a handsome Argentine named Juan. He’s in his mid-thirties with a mustache and a whole wonderful outfit: riding boots and white breeches, which I decide all men should wear always. He also wears the Argentine version of the basque beret, called a boïna, which I am told serves no practical purpose.
He rides on a frisky black mare named Priscilla. She just had a baby and keeps freaking out, but he keeps her in hand with the kissing noises and whispered Spanish. It's very attractive, this horse whispering. It gets less hot when he explains that Priscilla is named after Priscilla Presley and that he, Juan, has the biggest collection of Elvis memorabilia in Argentina. He talks about Elvis for the rest of the ride.
Until next time,
S
Postscript
On luggage: All of the digging for bullets fucks up my luggage, but it is easy to repack because I have the world’s best toiletry kit (it’s worth the price, trust me, I’ve had it for six years.)
I also have an amazing suitcase, which I found in a pile of garbage on the Upper East Side. I don’t know if I would have paid $700 for it, but it rolls like oiled marbles, only weighs five pounds, and looks chic.
On lodging: In Mendoza, there’s a main sort of town situation with good hotels and restaurants, but I drove the 1.5 hours into the valley and stayed in a wine lodge, which is usually a handful of cabins located in a vineyard. I stayed at Lodge Atamisque.
On transportation: Mendoza is a 1.5 hour flight from Buenos Aires. I hired a driver because I’m totally useless and can’t drive, but I’d also recommend doing this as you may be drinking and some of the roads are fucked. The driver charged us $20 bucks for every trip, which is cheaper than an all-inclusive wine tour.
On food: Most wine lodges include breakfast and have a restaurant on the premises. We mostly ate at the lodge — it has a trout farm on the property so dinner was freshly murdered trout. You might be tempted to eat at celebrity chef Francis Mallmann’s Siete Fuegos, but I was told the meal is mid and overpriced. Instead, go to Riccitelli Wines, a bistro located in an excellent winery. It was recommended by Argentine restaurateur Lupe Garcia, founder of BA’s Casa Cavia, which is where you should eat as soon as you’re back in the city.
On activities: The horseback riding was at Estancia La Alejandra. They also do the Andes crossing into Chile.