so it goes.

Condor Valley: A Small, Independent World

When I told winemaker Duncan Meyer that I would be working a harvest in Patagonia, he recommended I make my way up to Salta’s Condor Valley and kindly put me in touch with owner, Hank Bannister. Hank and I grabbed a glass of wine at San Francisco’s Terroir to discuss the details of my trip back in February. I left the meeting with a better idea of what to expect but as it turned out, I had no idea what I was in for. CV was the first side trip I planned before I headed down to South America and the last place I ended up visiting before returning to the States. Travel-wise, this was the way it panned out and in retrospect I wouldn’t have planned it any differently. It was the perfect end to my time in South America and undoubtedly one of the best adventures I have had to date.

I arrived in Salta with my friend Joanna via a twenty-two hour bus excursion from BA that was supposed to take eighteen- a less than ideal mode of transportation but as broke backpackers, we made do. Despite our tardiness, Martin met us at the bus terminal as promised. Already four hours behind schedule, he insisted on giving us a quick tour of Salta before heading out of town. Aptly recognized as the fifth most beautiful city in South America, Salta is charmed by pristine Colonial architecture, rich history and amiable weather. 80% of the province’s inhabitants are natives resulting in a powerful cultural identity, opposite from the cosmopolitan Buenos Aires where I had just spent nearly two weeks. Don’t misunderstand, I enjoyed the metropolitan capital but am so grateful that my last few days were spent in such an innate habitat. It was here that I began to grasp how diverse Argentina is, abound with native cultures, various dialects and contrasting landscapes. After the brief tour we drove an hour south to Chicoana where we stopped by Martin’s home, a former Inn on the main square where he and his family reside on the weekends. We picked up his wife Silvana and daughter Mora and loaded up the truck with all the necessary goods we needed for the next four days, a weekly routine for the Pekareks.  It wasn’t until then that I began to conceptualize just how remote La Bodega actually is. We took off into the night and continued heading south to Condor Valley.

Despite the pitch black backdrop, Martin described our surroundings in detail and reassured us that we would be able to see everything on our return drive. We turned off the paved road when we reached the Valley entrance and although we couldn’t see much, the night sky provided just enough luminosity for us to make out the enormous Mt. Creston that welcomed us onto the property. Jo and I looked at each other in disbelief as we suddenly recognized the scope of what was in store. We were greeted at the house by Martin’s two sons, Bruno and Dario, and had a glass of wine in our hands within minutes. Silvana prepared a delicious meal of tamales and fresh avocado salad. After two hours of eating, drinking and chatting Jo and I retired to our candle-lit room, opened the big glass windows and fell asleep to the cool mountain breeze.

We woke up when the morning light began to spill into the room, revealing a breathtakingly colorful sunrise and after fading in and out of sleep for a couple hours, finally started the day at 9am. We had a light breakfast of toast and freshly brewed coffee before heading down to the farm. It was round-up season- a two month process whereby the cows are corralled, vaccinated and assessed for sale by traditional gauchos. While two months might seem generous, it is actually a modest time frame considering there are 420 cows that roam freely on the 64,000 acre property. The work of a gaucho is brutal; not only is it time consuming, it can be scary. Finding the cattle is a feat in and of itself but herding the wild livestock for miles at a time is a dangerous undertaking.

Wanting to experience every facet of farm life, Jo and I didn’t think twice about helping the boys with their daily work. We jumped in the fodder-filled trailer and within minutes were pitchforking breakfast into the cow corral. One hour and 100+ happy ruminants later, we headed back up to the house for some Milanese, one of my favorite Argentine dishes, and I picked Martin’s brain on the history of Argentina. We discussed the infiltration of the Incan Empire, the triumph of the Conquistadors and current-day government policies. He explained the cultural evolution noting that there are eight distinct communities in Salta alone, each of which speak a different indigenous language. Having a background in anthropology and tourism, Martin is a wealth of information and has a knack for storytelling.

I could have talked to him for hours but following lunch came the afternoon workload. We headed into the corn fields because even though the harvest was over, the work was not. We scoured the fields for the stalks’ remaining husks and selected the best ears for seed that would be used to plant next year’s crop. Joanna, Dario and I worked for nearly two hours when Bruno rolled up on a chopper and began cutting down the crops that had already been through this selection process. This machine levels the crops for the following harvest and the chopped corn remnants, known as silage, becomes animal feed for cud-chewing livestock. Farming 101: it all comes full circle. We piled our burlap bags of corn onto the tractor and headed back up to the house where we prepared for our evening fishing excursion.

The four of us took off and arrived at the lake at dusk. Joanna and Dario caught bait while Bruno and I made a fire. We paid our respects to Pachamama, the Incan mythology equivalent of Mother Earth, drank cold beer next to the hot fire and got our fish on. Three hours and six liters of beer later we decided to keep the party going. I was on vacation, after all. We made a quick pit stop at the local river rafting company, picked up six more bottles and headed to the creek where we made another fire, played jacks with stones and told stories until wee hours of the morning. 

We awoke the next morning and embarked on a seven hour horseback ride. I’m not sure what I was expecting but given the rusticity of La Bodega I should have known we were in for an adventure. Let’s just say it was not a trail for beginners. However, having ridden a horse only a handful of times in my life, I was thrilled by the perilous outing. Martin is a pro when it comes to taking risks but certainly encourages everyone to stick within their comfort zone. Luckily our group was an open-minded and athletic bunch that welcomed such uncertainty. The first hour of the ride was mellow, walking with the occasional trot, and it wasn’t until we reached a thicket of dried brush that complication ensued. Certain parts of the trail were completely overgrown with scrappy bushes, making it difficult to navigate. Bruno’s machete remedied most of these obstacles but at times we dismounted and crawled through the underbrush. This might not appeal to some but I had fun being off the beaten path, even if I did get a little scratched up.

 

We finally made our way out of the sticks and into a creek that led us to a stunning canyon where we stopped for lunch. We munched on homemade frittatas and stared into the sky as a succession of condors soared above us. Fifty condors inhabit the Valley, which is truly incredible given that this bird is endangered. Reaching up to ten feet in wingspan, Andean Condors are the second largest flying birds on the planet. They are monogamous, laying one egg annually, and can live over fifty years! The fact that they are protected here in Condor Valley is commendable, as these birds are truly fascinating.

We eventually made our way back to La Bodega, eager to enjoy a sheep asado.  The group sat around the large barbeque drinking local wines of Cafayate while Bruno manned the grill with precision. Asados are a fundamental part of Argentine culture and are one of the things I have found I miss most since returning to the States. The meal was honestly one of the most delicious dinners of my travels in addition to being one of the most memorable. We wound down the night in front of the fireplace, rehashing the adventurous day, drinking more wine and listening to Martin wail on the guitar. It was the perfect end to our trip.

I spent the next morning hanging on the front lawn while Jo and the boys went to feed the cattle. I was returning to the States three days later and wanted to relax and reflect on the four months I had spent in South America that was sadly coming to an end. Of my time there I can genuinely say that the time I spent in Condor Valley was one of the best experiences of my entire trip, hands down. Words simply cannot capture the Valley’s immensity, the landscape’s raw beauty and the authenticity of the Pekarek family. They went above and beyond to show us the best time possible and they succeeded; of my South American travels, this is the one place I will certainly return.

 

Thank you so much for everything- Hank, Martin, Slivana, Bruno and Dario. Words cannot express my gratitude. 

less is more

We boarded our 8pm bus in Salar di Uyuni only to get wind that if we didn’t arrive in La Paz by 6am, we wouldn’t be able to enter the city due to a transit strike. Twelve hour bus ride, you do the math. Sure enough, come 6:05 our bus was parked on the side of a major road some 10km from the valley of La Paz. Having slept for maybe 3 hours I was dazed and confused but managed to pile out of the bus with everyone else, rucksack and all. Our driver’s effort to funnel us into taxis was a nice plan until it proved completely ineffective. Fifteen minutes of brainstorming resulted in us crossing to the other side of the street at which point fellow travelers just began jumping into cars that agreed to take them as close to the city as possible- taxi or not, didn’t matter. Some even reached such desperation that they started crawling into trunks- a level of assertion I simply did not possess at this early hour. 

Thirty minutes had passed and Vicky and I were officially the only foreigners left on the side of the road. We were at a total loss when we noticed our bus driver was a few meters away. We joined forces but when he couldn’t get us a lift either I began to lose all hope, fearing the two hour walk was indeed our fucked up fate. But we finally convinced a minibus driver to give us a ride, alongside eleven locals. The driver drove us as close to the barricades as possible, which was still not very close, but it was definitely better than nothing. From there we walked twenty minutes until we arrived at the toll station where you can normally enter the Valley, roughly 1,000M below El Alto where we were standing. We walked through the checkpoint and were essentially standing in the middle of a highway amongst hundreds of people with the same dilemma. There appeared to be two options. On one side of the road taxis were shuttling people down to La Paz, but the odds of catching one seemed slim. Or option two which happened to be right in front of us: a dilapidated 6 wheeler that seemed to be the more popular choice. I’m guessing this vehicle’s open trailer is normally used for construction or agriculture purposes but not today, friends. People were rushing this vehicle in an apocalyptic fashion. Men, women and children were climbing onto and into this thing at all angles- flinging themselves over the top, hanging off the sides, sitting on the roof. No joke, there had to be 100 Bolivians piled in this truck’s every crevice and frankly, if I didn’t have my cumbersome backpack, I would have made it my mission to get on that truck too for the experience alone. Even locals were taking pictures of the stampede. Being my first time in Third World territory, I found this situation fascinating but snapped back to reality when our bus driver, turned escape artist, yelled at me to catch up and run over to the taxis. We approached one on the driver’s side just as it was slowing down; people were flocking to this thing like seagulls. The poor passengers were trying to push their way out of the opposite side when our friend reached in the driver’s window, unlocked the back door and effectively shoved me into the cab so quickly that we managed to beat the people on the other side. Within seconds there were six of us in this cab and we were heading down to the city centre.

I couldn’t begin to wrap my head around what had just happened. All I knew was that I had never experienced anything like that in my entire life. Within 90 minutes I had gone from being fast asleep to experiencing feelings of delirium, worry, frustration, shock, hilarity, anxiety, excitement and ultimately relief. I was trapped in a glass case of emotion! It was awesome and made the inconvenience so worthwhile that I would actually re-live that morning if given the option. Bienvenidos a La Paz, bitches! This pretty much sums it up. 

Until that incident, which was my last day in La Paz, I had been procrastinating writing about Bolivia because I really didn’t know where to begin. For starters, the dichotomy between city life and the surrounding landscape is a trip. La Paz is what I had envisioned South America to be like- impoverished and deranged. The pollution is nauseating and the traffic is so chaotic it makes Manhattan appear tame. There are no bus stops. You wave down the driver when you want to get on, shout when you want to get off and are seriously blessed if the bus comes to a complete stop for these so-called transfers. I would not recommend going outside with a hangover. It’s rough. But cradling the madness is one of the most picturesque landscapes you have ever seen, notably the snow-capped Illimani that stretches over 6,000m. The juxtaposition of what feels like two very different worlds is both perplexing and alluring. It was pretty cool. 

I had fun exploring the bustling, cobblestone streets packed with peddlers. Merchants line the streets selling anything from freshly baked slateñas to toothpaste. It’s normal to see people selling food products and local souvenirs but I found it odd that many of these street vendors could be likened to various aisles of a super market. One person is selling toiletries while the surrounding stands are pushing hardware, school supplies and household products. You can walk down the street and buy just about anything. But my question remains, where the hell do they store all this stuff? Yikes. You have your industrial districts: fabric, lighting, paint, auto parts, etc. You also have your markets: the produce market, flower market, artisans’ market, and the black market if you just cant live without that bootlegged Polo. I spent a good chunk of time wandering around the Witches’ Market. This shit takes the term “hippy” to a whole new level. They have all sorts of trinkets that are said to impart good luck, of which I bought a handful. Bolivia is so cheap at an exchange rate of nearly 7:1, I felt I was essentially being paid to be there. Ok and I’m a compulsive shopper. However, I did manage to steer clear of the seemingly endless supply of holistic supplements, potions and dried llama fetuses. I actually saw one witchy woman slapping this guy’s back with a bundle of sage and decided that while this technique is arguably effective, I’ll just stick to the IBU profin. 

My favorite were the people pushing around carts roasting potatoes, slicing fresh pineapple, crafting small ice cream cones and best of all, squeezing juice. You would pass a tiny cart overflowing with oranges and grapefruits and the man or woman would hand squeeze a cup for you on the spot for 3 Bolivianos. Juice stands are to South America as coffee shops are to San Francisco but as mentioned in my last post, people take their time here. Locals will usually drink their juice alongside the cart until they are finished though if you are on the go, the vendor commonly pours your juice into a small plastic bag, throws a straw in it and ties it off with a knot- a technique I resisted at first but came to love.

A couple days later we hopped on a small plane in La Paz and flew 30 minutes north to Rurrenabaque, a tiny town in the Bolivian Amazon. We touched down on a small grass landing strip and made our way through the humid fog where we jumped in yet another minibus. Ten of us crammed into the back onto two parallel benches and embarked on our 4 hour drive into the jungle. With nothing to do but stare at the faces across from us, we played word games, told travel stories and managed to laugh a lot. Especially when we got stuck in the mud alongside 3 other trucks, a standard occurrence that never failed to amuse me. We arrived at our destination only to find that we were not done with the transportation portion of the program. All ten of us hopped in a leaky wooden motorboat and set out on the Amazon, en route to our campsite in the Pampas. Our guide would stop the boat every time there was wildlife to see- beautiful birds, monkeys, turtles, alligators, sloths and snakes. It was a bit scary at first to think that the only thing separating us from the murky Amazon and hungry predators was a janky motorboat, but I got over it and soaked up the sun and surrounding scenery. An hour later we arrived at our campsite or rather, cabins on stilts. We were essentially staying atop a swamp. Each cabin slept 10-15 people and every bed was equipped with a mosquito net which was heavenly. I knew I had gained perspective when I likened this net to a luxury. I threw my baggage down and immediately went outside to explore the interesting set up. I felt like a kid again. There was one wooden walkway that connected all the cabins and being that alligators roamed freely in the muddy waters below, I walked slower than normal. We were at an adult version of sleep away camp- sub cigarettes for smores.  

I was the first to spy a series of hammocks and instantly threw myself into one. Within twenty minutes the entire porch was filled with people- socializing, drinking, playing cards- doing what adult campers do. I swung there for over an hour overlooking the Amazon river, watching the monkeys watch me. It was humid as hell and the mosquitoes were buzzing with vengeance. Someone started playing guitar and I watched the sun slip slowly into the jungle, excreting shades of peach and lavender light. I remember this all so well because it was the first time in the Southern Hemisphere that I felt totally relaxed.  

Of course that moment of serenity vanished when we climbed back into the boats that night to go perusing for alligators. We all wore our headlamps and could see the gators’ eyes sparkle when our lights ran across their half sunken faces. Our guide managed to catch a baby gator with his bare hands and passed it around for us all to pet. It was actually sort of cute until he jokingly brushed it against my arm when I wasn’t looking. Freaked me out. Apparently one shouldn’t attempt the stunt of capturing this baby reptile unless there is at least 3 meters of distance between it and its mother. We came to find out the next day that one of the guides in a neighboring camp nearly had his arm chomped off that same night, just upstream from where we were. But don’t worry- if you ever find yourself in a lock jaw situation such as this all you need to do is simply jam your free index and middle fingers into its eyes and it will release its hold. Gotta love them tricks of the trade.

The next day was, how do I say, interesting. After breakfast we threw on our Wellies and took a quick boat ride into the marshes. Yup, we gone huntin’ anacondas. We roll up and our guide just takes off into the wetlands. After twenty minutes my excitement began to fade and the only scary thing in sight was my bad attitude. It was fucking humid as hell, mosquitoes were seriously eating me alive and homeboy didn’t even give us any instructions like for example, what one should do in the event they step on a deathly, fifteen foot snake. Like, what the shit was this? My sass took hold and I was convinced this was a hoax. Q: What else are these tour guides going to do with loads of eager tourists in the middle of the Amazon? A: Send them on a pseudo snake hunt that will occupy them for hours. Obvio. 

Three hours, twenty seven bites, and one mud-soaked, pissed off Hayley Johnson later, we arrived back at the boats. But here’s the clincher. All these people back up front were jumping with joy, showing everyone their pictures of the massive yellow anaconda they had just been hanging out with for the past hour. I couldn’t believe my eyes but this served as a good little reminder that attitude it everything. Glass half full, I suppose my agitation replaced the utter fear that would have consumed me had I actually believed we were amidst monstrous snakes. But glass half empty, that was some serious bs. Luckily the activities to follow- fishing for piranhas and seeing pink dolphins, made up for this nonsense. Pink dolphins? Yes, its true. It’s also true that our guide encouraged us to swim with them. Hold up, I can barely swim in the ocean without freaking out much less the Amazon. This was just crazy. A professional nearly had his arm ripped off the night before and he was inside the boat! He assured us it was safe but I still wasn’t sold. At least not until I watched fellow traveler Sarah, the 60 year old British badass, take the lead with a swan dive no less. I knew at that moment I had no choice but to suck it up. Caaannonbaaaall!!! Swimming with pink dolphins in the Amazon? Check. Glad I can add that one to my bucket list only to cross it off. 

The next day we headed back to Rurrenabaque where we spent the night in a hostel that was less than ideal, although they did have running water which was always a plus. Being that our guide had likened our upcoming accommodation in the jungle to that of a “concentration camp”, I knew I had yet to see the bottom of the barrel. We arrived at our jungle campsite in time for lunch the following afternoon, after a three hour boat ride. It wasn’t that bad. Or at least not until they informed us that they were short on beds and that we all had to double up in twins. That was fun. Should have bought that sleeping bag after all. Hindsight is 20/20. We ate and again, in leaky Wellies, took off into the jungle for a five hour walk. It was a beautiful stroll, especially when pantheon beams of sunlight would cast through the leaves and ricochet off the forest floor. It made for brilliant photographs. We saw an array of wildlife and although we failed to spot any jaguars, the hunt was suspenseful and we all had a good time.

We returned to La Paz the following afternoon and our group, which had become smaller with each major destination, was now down to five. Keeping with the swing of things, rest was out of the question…although showering was not. We went out for a nice meal to compensate for the plethora of rice we had been consuming for nearly a week and got some sleep before waking up at 5am for a bike ride down Bolivia’s infamous Death Road. Built by prisoners between 1932-35, the Yungas road was constructed during the war with Paraguay and for many years was the only path that connected northern Bolivia to La Paz. The magnificent 38-mile ride descends nearly 12,000ft from the Andean mountains into the Amazon basin. Here come the disturbing facts. It is reported that an average 200 people have died annually on this road since its completion which ultimately led to the Inter-American Development Bank declaring it as the most dangerous road on earth in 1995. I wasn’t officially freaked out until they gave us motocross helmets at which point I wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing. I’m the only person in SF who doesn’t ride a bike but a deathly mountain bike trail in Bolivia? Sure, why not. My home girl Allygato Marquard insisted I do it and seeing as she’s still alive to have made the recommendation, I couldn’t say no, so down I went. It was nuts at first being that I had never mountain biked before but once I realized that the key to avoid eating shit is to simply relax, it wasn’t too bad. And then of course my competitive nature kicked in and I was hangin’ with the bestuvum. That being said, I think I’ll lay off the hard core biking for a while; the fact that I didn’t crash is a miracle surely not to be repeated. This was actually the first activity on the trip that legitimately frightened me. Honestly, I think we were all a bit weary. It’s hard to not feel anxious when you’re riding past a succession of shrines. But in the end it was totally worth the rush and it was a great last hurrah for the five of us who had been traveling together for the past month. Good times. 

The following day our group finally disintegrated. We had a traditional Bolivian lunch and went our separate ways. It’s odd because when I joined the group in Cusco it took me a minute to open up and start socializing. I guess two months of living remotely and speaking a different language will do that to you. But toward the end I started to consider all of my fellow travelers as friends and it was a bummer to say goodbye, especially being that I was the sole American of the bunch. Though not to worry- our English reunion is already underway. Lydie and Rachel stayed to explore La Paz, Shannon caught a flight back to Australia and Vicky and I headed south to Salar de Uyuni. I had originally planned to fly back to BA the following day but changed my ticket last minute so that I could hit the salt flats- a South American must-see. I justified this impulse because it is likely I’ll never return to this country; packin’ the kids up for a family trip to Bolivia is a bit of a stretch, even for me. Now or never mentality set in and it was worth every penny. The twelve hour bus ride, not so much as 3/4 of it was unpaved, but we got in at 8am the next morning and were ready to rock…salt. Yikes, had to say it. Our guides rolled up in a dated Land Cruiser, Uyuni’s iconic mode of exploration transportation, and it was just the four of us for the next 36 hours. 

We stopped first at an old train graveyard in the desert just outside of town. The dilapidated automotives were never properly disposed of, probably due to lack of monetary support, and as a result the ‘junkyard’ has become a common destination for visitors. Photographers especially appreciate this rustic pit stop. We hopped out to take photos as we did at a multitude of destinations along the tour. It sucks feeling like a tourist but when you’re dealing with locations as remote as this, avoiding tour companies is virtually inevitable unless you’re pulling some serious Bear Grylls shit. I learned to get over it and in turn, saw some of the most incredible sites this continent has to offer. And the people we met along the way weren’t bad either. That’s the shtick.

Half an hour later we were back in the truck cruisin’ toward the salt. We began to notice that the mountains ahead appeared to be floating and knew we were getting close. I got the chills as we pulled into the flats. Imagine a grip of old Land Cruisers all rolling into the world’s largest lithium deposit from different directions. The scope of this place was absolutely breathtaking- a gorgeous sea of sodium that stretches for miles and miles. We took fun pictures, as every true tourist does, but the best part was just sitting in the salt, the sun beating down on our backs, talking and eating lunch. I take that back, the best part was that for once I didn’t have to ask for salt. Ok it’s a tie. No but en serio, Vicky and I had a very memorable conversation. I guess it was more like her answering my ongoing list of personal questions but either way, it was an exchange that has stuck with me and it put the essence of our surroundings into perspective. I constantly remind myself how lucky I am to be here: in South America, on this earth, in this moment. It’s like a dream. 

The next day we saw an active volcano on the border of Chile, drove through canyons of natural rock formations and visited a flamingo-filled lagoon. Making our way back through the desert we saw wild ostriches, emus and llamas that were tagged with beautiful bright yarn like you see on all the postcards. The car ride was hot with no A/C but given the season, it felt good. A bit dusty, but good. The 48 hour round trip journey was short but savory and before we knew it, we were boarding our overnight bus back to LA Paz, unaware of the morning madness that would ensue.  

I’m wrapping up this entry en route from La Paz to Buenos Aires. I had to leave the hotel at 5am to assure I’d make it out of the city before the strike recommenced at 6am. After checking in, I sat down in a cafe being that I had nearly three hours to spare. Thirty minutes before my flight was scheduled to depart I walked up to the monitor only to find “cerrado” flashing next to my gate although I didn’t enter a state of panic until I walked up to find the entrance was barricaded. Bolivians love barricading shit. I routinely come within 10 minutes of missing my flight every single time I enter an airport so this was nothing out of the ordinary, but I had never been informed that the gate was simply not accessible. I was certainly fucked this time, I thought. The Taca agent informed me that the immigration counter closed at 6:50 and it was now 8:10. How could this have happened? I then glanced at the glaring red stamp on my boarding pass that read 6:50. What can I say? I’m the kid that never read directions- some things never change. Although in my defense they stamp everything they can get their hands on down here and this was the first thing that included some cryptic message. This guy must have seen the look on my face because he told me to hold on a minute and whipped out his walky talky, also known as a gift from heaven. Three agents suddenly appeared out of nowhere and sure enough, I was admitted into the terminal. Within minutes I had received yet another stamp at the immigration counter, had my belongings searched by security for who knows what- cocaine probably, and was on the plane only to find I had been upgraded to first class. Ha. Ain’t life funny? Perhaps it was good karma’s way of apologizing for the iPhone incident.

I can’t wait to spend some time in Buenos Aires with one of my oldest and best friends, Miss McGarey. God only knows what kind of trouble awaits… 

…and i could see for miles, miles, miles…

I don’t know if I’m on a bus from Cusco to Puno or in the middle of a Peruvian haboob. All exaggerations aside, I just plucked my leggings to unleash a cloud of soot and while everyone in my cabin is inhaling it, my cracked window is the direct source and I seem to be the only one covered in dust. I find this obnoxious for two reasons: 1) It’s disgusting and 2) I just washed the ten articles of clothing that fit in my rucksack and three of them are now fraught with filth. In my last post I mentioned that at times, traveling abroad is frustrating. This is one of those times.

My first day in Cusco was also ‘one of those times’. I was trying to find my way back to the main square and took a right onto a blatantly shady alley. I even thought to myself,  ”I should get off of this blatantly shady alley”. Following this thought was another thought, “I should stop listening to music and put my phone away”. But when you’re as in control as I am, you dismiss such intuition. I stopped to take a photo and thirty seconds later, when I realized my music was no longer playing, knew that I myself had just been played. I was somewhere between a state of shock and panic when, “Touché” was all that came to mind. Shame on me and props to that pathetic thief. I was about to depart on a four day trek up one of the most epic mountains in the world- a dream I’ve managed to keep tabs on for nearly eight years. Lost phone? Fuck it. Lost city? Hit it.

Tuesday morning came quickly. We had to be ready to roll at 4:00am and not an ounce of me felt even slightly sheepish. Our guide Frank swooped Nicky, the other traveler, and myself in the black of night in a huge 4wd van and we were off. Winding up the small one way cobblestone streets, we shortly made our way out of Cusco’s twinkled valley walls and were rural-bound. Cusco City rests at 3200m so it wasn’t long before we hit 3500m in the town of Anta. Our driver, Victor, slowed down to a roll when Frank leaned out the window, greeted an elderly Peruvian woman and exchanged 5 soles ($2) for four huge loaves of freshly baked sweet bread. With eleven varieties of corn and over 3,000 varieties of potatoes (forty-five in Cusco, alone!), we continued our drive amidst some of Peru’s high altitude agriculture. The morning sun began to backlight the white mist that floated below us, bouncing between the steep walls of the Andes, though as we began our descent into the rainforest our van was instantly enveloped by fog. How Victor didn’t run us off the edge of that downhill switchback remains a mystery to me. We soon hit the valley floor only to begin another ascent up a neighboring mountain, where we stopped in Mollepata for breakfast. It was our final chance to buy last minute goods so I picked up a walking stick, a poncho and some mittens, all of which turned out to be essential.

We hopped back in the van and within twenty minutes were stuck in a mudslide. I think Victor must have been busy singing along to Salt n Pepper’s “Let’s Talk About Sex” that started bumping halfway through his traditional Peruvian mix CD. All music preferences aside, we were back on the incline in no time and arrived at our departure point within the hour. Our porter José was awaiting our arrival in the company of three horses and while he and Amilcar, our cook, fastened all of our belongings to the beautiful steeds, Frank, Nicky and myself took off on our three day, 53km trek up Mt. Salkantay- a neighboring mountain in the Vilcabamba.

I was informed back in January that there were no more passes available for the classic Inca Trail and was devastated. Only 500 people are allowed to begin the trek per day and of this seemingly large number, more than half of the occupancy is allotted for guides, cooks and porters. So when given the choice of two alternative treks, I obviously opted for the most difficult of the three; the Salkantay Trek is six miles longer and 1800 feet higher in elevation. In the end, as things often work out for the best, I wouldn’t have done it any differently. For the first thirty-six hours we didn’t see anyone on our trail apart from the occasional horseman making his return- a serene experience quite opposite from hiking amongst a heard of tourists. Although I would have loved to finish my hike at the Sun Gate, I am glad we took the low-key route.  

We reached the climax of our hike at 4800m on our first day, deeming it the toughest leg of the trek. After everything I’d heard re: altitude sickness, I did surprisingly well. According to Frank, I’m quite good at this whole hiking thing. I was on a roll until I hit 12,000 feet at which point the elevation started to hit me. I became severely short of breath but chilled out for a few minutes and kept on. 200m later, we stopped for lunch. I was so starving that when we arrived at the tent it took me a minute to acknowledge the sublimity of my surroundings. Precipitous peaks reaching 6200m formed a jagged perimeter around our picnic and within minutes of arriving I witnessed an avalanche unlike any I’d ever seen, or heard for that matter. It was outrageous. Amilcar prepared a hot lunch, which energized us for the second half of our hike: sopa de mais, followed by pollo, papas, and verduras mistas. Ah and let’s not forget the endless supply of coca leaf tea. Certainly didn’t hurt. We kept on and within ninety minutes had reached the pinnacle of our hike. We took in the scenery, or what was visible through the layers of fog, and soon began a two hour descent to the campsite. Within fifteen minutes of arriving, it was pitch black and ice cold. We had Lomo Saltado for dinner, a Peruvian staple as recognizable as ceviche or a pisco sour, and were in our tents by 9pm. I was so freezing I wasn’t sure I would make it through the night, but insulated my sleeping bag with all of my belongings and was out.

I staggered out of the tent at quarter past five the next morning to the brilliant site of the snow-capped Salkantay. I walked down to the creek to wash my face, a seemingly routine task that has remained one of my most vivid memories. Something about splashing the cool, run off water from the Andes onto my face really made my soul smile and put my surroundings into perspective. Such a simple act of purity can make you feel so alive and connected to nature. A breakfast of porridge and a small omelet prepared us for the eight hour hike that laid ahead. The scenery and climate took a 180° as we transitioned from sprawling countryside and entered the rainforest. I quickly went from wearing 5 layers to one. Contrary to the day prior, I held up the caboose by taking a million photos, and as a result we got a little off track. Woops. Whatever. Going downhill sucks, hence the infamous phrase. Especially when you’re ankle deep in mud. 

We stopped in Collpachaca for lunch and were back on track. That was, until a truck rolled up beside us a mile down the road. It was the first car I’d seen on the mountain and lo and behold, there was Amilcar grinning in the bed, stoked on the lift. Before I knew it, the three of us were jumping in the back of this Toyota, hitching a ride to our destination town of La Playa, five miles away. My sense of guilt was immediately replaced with a voice of reason: it’s entirely possible I’ll hike through the rainforest again, but hitchhiking through the rainforest, crammed in the back of a busted pickup with four Peruvians? I felt the urge to capitalize on this once in a lifetime, hilarious experience. And experience it was. The driver had no mercy. We were flying down the mountain holding on for dear life. We stopped twice along the way- first at a small stand to pick up some passion fruit and the second time we just stopped in the middle of the road. Wondering what was going on, our driver shouted down into the jungle to see if anyone was around to sell him some avocados. Sadly no one hollered back but it was pretty surreal, avocados or no avocados, and gave new meaning to the term ‘drive-thru’.

Fifteen minutes later we arrived in the town of La Playa but because we had gained so much time, we hopped in an old minibus, a common form of local transportation down here, and headed into the nearby town of Santa Theresa. The forty-five minute suspension-less drive was bumpy and beautiful. We drove beneath a continuous canopy of jungle life and passed through a succession of coffee and banana plantations. According to Frank, these two agricultural industries alone are so lucrative that this region of Cusco, La Convención, is the wealthiest Province in Peru, exceeding even Lima where nearly 1/4 of the country’s population resides at close to eight million people. Bananas, right?

Up until 10 years ago the town of Santa Theresa rested along the Urubamba river but after an awful flood that devastated the small village, the residents rebuilt the entire town in the cliffs above, keeping the temperamental river at a distance. We popped into our campsite long enough to set up shop and then immediately made our way down the mountain to the local hot springs- an unmissable site we surely would have, had we been faithful hikers. Tucked amidst the voluptuous mountains and overlooking the raging white river, the natural fresh water jacuzzis were stunning and so relaxing. They also served as a nice substitute for a shower, which we hadn’t seen in two days. The warm waters soon turned into a social sauna, as the springs began to fill up with other trekkers, and we managed to meet some cool people that turned from familiar faces to friends over the course of the next few days.

We turned in early for bed and set out early the next morning to hit up some zip lining before our final leg of the hike, which turned out to be a hike in itself. It was a set of six wires, each spanning 400+ meters, that began high in the mountains and zigzagged down to the forest floor. I had never done it before- it was an awesome way to start the day. Afterward, we embarked on our final leg of the hike into the town of Aguas Calientes. The path paralleled a set of train tracks through the forest and being that it was easily navigable, I broke off from the others and walked the three hours solo. This was my favorite part of the hike; I embraced my loner tendencies and jammed to favorite, Bon Iver. The light mist quickly turned into a steady downpour and although I had my poncho in tow, I felt like walking in the rain. Not to mention it was neon orange and felt very anticlimactic. It wasn’t long before I was dripping wet in scenery and spirit and all I could think about was how this dream was happening. I just remember being so pumped.

5:00 am couldn’t come soon enough. We hopped on a shuttle and began our ascent up the mountain, arriving just before sunrise. There were only a handful of people there when we arrived and all was still but the constant veil of mist floating through the peaks of the Vilcabamba. It was as if the mountain was still asleep. I approached the ever-classic perspective and felt the steady stream of fog float right through me, as I awaited a window of transparency. A few minutes felt like forever but when the clouds’ opacity momentarily dissolved, I could faintly make out the contours of the Incan ruins that were abandoned less than 500 years ago. It was a coy introduction, beautiful and truly immense. Machu Picchu. I made it.

Frank hung out for a good ninety minutes and gave Nicky and I an ideal tour- another perk, as most groups were 10+ people. We said our goodbyes and our trio scattered. Frank peaced out, Nicky went to climb Huana Picchu and I hiked up to the Sun Gate. Hardly anyone was up there when I reached the top, so I sat down and made myself comfortable. There was a blanket of fog that obstructed the view but I didn’t mind waiting. I kicked it for nearly an hour- I even meditated for a bit which was weird. I am normally too ancy for such tranquility. If the fog weren’t there I probably would have gotten up there, clicked some pics and headed back down. As granola as it sounds, I think the fog served a purpose. It reminded me to slow down. Once the skies cleared, the towering perspective was worth every minute spent.

I made my way down the mountain only to track down the iconic llamas, which took me a good hour. I love llamas and am making it my mission to own one some day. It’s true. They were grazing on the very front edge of the mountain- a spot I would have paid no mind if it weren’t for my furry friends. It felt like I was on the bow of a massive ship, overlooking the magnificent mountain range that somehow reminded me of a pulse graph. And true to my metaphor, this place couldn’t have been more alive. It boggles my mind to think that this city, arguably the most unique in the world, would have been demolished in a heart beat had the Conquistadors been able to find it. I believe, of the countless Incan offerings, that abandoning Machu Picchu without a trace was by far their biggest sacrifice.

The inventiveness and resourcefulness of the Quechuans, commonly referred to as the Incas, was astounding. They were proper engineers despite the fact they didn’t even possess a written form of communication. Instead, they relied on Quipus, knotted cords of various colors and spacing, to relay information- literally. Messengers would run for days to deliver these cords to ‘neighboring’ villages, often in the form of relay. Coca leaves considered, I believe that if these runners were around today, they could easily perform on an Olympic level and give these crazy Kenyans some actual competition. Any takers?

Machu Picchu alone, speaks for itself.  Everything was carried, carved and constructed in the absence of simple machines such as pulleys and wheels. I love that I just referenced these life changing inventions as simple but come on, they managed to build an entire city atop a massive mountain with their hands in thirty years. That’s impressive shit. As if the architecture wasn’t legitimate enough, they incorporated an earthquake resistant infrastructure, a water filtration system and a method of drainage that was not only flood resistant, but served as irrigation for their terraced crops. They created roads that stretched from Ecuador to Argentina and constructed extensive bridges and aqueducts. Their foresight and precision was monumental. In addition to being functionally adept, they domesticated culinary staples such as the potato and corn and founded medicinal herbs like quinine and coca leaves. And wouldn’t you know they were remarkable artists too, recognized for their hand crafted ceramics and intricate weavings. These people were on their game and were really something special.

I finally started to make my way back toward the entrance. I had seven hours to enjoy one of the (new) Seven Wonders of the World. Doesn’t seem proportionate. I got on the bus and was in somewhat of a funk for a couple of hours thereafter. I think I just needed time to process it all. It sure is an odd feeling when you finally live out a moment you’ve long imagined and then just like that, it comes to an end. But this was nothing new- I’d felt it before and I’ll feel it again. This is where memory comes into play and I reckon these memories are the silver linings to the passage of time.   

Upon returning from MP, I was so taken with the history of Peru that Frank offered to take me on an additional afternoon tour. We took a day trip out to the Sacred Valley where we first visited a wildlife preserve. Of the many rescues, I must note how remarkable the condors were. Oh and the Peruvian hairless dog, which was…unique? Afterward we strolled five minutes up the road to Awana Kancha, a live museum where Andean weavers from twelve surrounding communities exhibit their traditional techniques. “Community” isn’t synonymous with “tribe”, as they are all Quechuan, but each group is from a different village and wears distinct apparel to honor that. To my excitement they had six various types of camels on site, of which I lent ample attention. That was, until my innocent feeding session turned into a pack of aggressive llamas all vying for my hand full of weeds, at which point I had to get out of there. Post feeding frenzy, we walked over to a thatch cabana that demonstrated the process of how wool is transformed into yarn, starting from its natural state. Note: I apologize if this is of no interest to you. After the wool is collected it is washed and divided into various grades. Of the camel spectrum, Llama wool is the most affordable followed by Alpaca and lastly, Vicuña. Vicuña goods are rare and very costly because not only have they become an endangered species, they produce such little fur that it is only collected every other year. The wool is then hand-spun into yarn on a small wooden spindle, a fascinating technique that most women learn before the age of ten. Next, the yarn is steeped in boiling clay pots with natural findings be it flowers, leaves, seeds, etc., all of which impart their given colors until the string reaches its desired gradient. The touristic markets are cluttered with cheap, artificially colored souvenirs produced in the Peruvian equivalent of China, so it was beautiful to see the laborious process behind these authentic, and appropriately expensive, textiles.

Frank and I made our way back into Cusco, ducked into the San Pedro market and immediately hit up the row of juice kiosks. The women were frantically waiving menus at us like bait. You can order off the menu or choose from the piles of fruit and vegetables what you’d like. I chose banana, mango and fresh aloe and Frank ordered a carrot-based juice. It’s common to blend these with water or milk, some even mix it with stout though I managed to bypass that exploration, as delightful as it sounded. The barista pours you a big glass and keeps the remainder in a small pitcher off to the side, refilling your cup as needed. I had nearly finished when I offered my glass for the refill but the woman kindly slowed my roll, refusing to pour until I was completely done. Word. What was the rush? The product was delicious but sitting, watching the bustling market and talking to the people around us enhanced it all. It was leisurely. It was a culture. We continued on through the market where Frank offered interesting tid bits of information and did his best to answer all my questions. Poor guy. 

Soon thereafter, Frank and I said our goodbyes and promised to keep in touch, especially in the event I make it back to Peru someday. Later that night our group went out for a nice dinner off the square and afterward, I dodged the tango lessons to meet up with some of the charming fellows I had met along the trail. We bounced through a couple hostel bars until we all piled into a roofless minivan and headed toward the clubs. Just when I thought I’d seen it all, another interesting mode of transportation made its debut. We were all standing up, singing and laughing into the night. We got to the club where the rest was history. I remember hearing Len’s “Steal my Sunshine”, followed by a slew of other outdated American one hit wonders, and dancing until 4am. The next morning was a bit rough but I rolled out of bed just in time to meet my friend Ryan for the local fútbol match. It was good to squeeze in some local love and get away from the backpacker scene, if only for a few hours. Following the game, we feasted on Alpaca and I returned to my hostel to finish packing for Lake Titicaca, where we spent the next 2 days.

It was neat to see the floating reed islands, they were absolutely stunning. And the lake itself is dazzling. It is the highest navigable lake in the world at 12,500 feet! But it’s difficult for me to write much more than this because the entire 24 hours we spent there felt very contrived and touristic. I don’t know how people on islands such as these are able to make a decent living in the absence of tourism, and I think it’s incredible that they have been able to create a mini-industry out of curious visitors. But I also gathered that not all inhabitants agree on this method of income and it seems to have created a bit of a divide between the traditional locals that solely rely on farming and those who have opted to market themselves. While I find this segregation to be sad, it’s the same ol’ story, perhaps just a bit more noticeable on a tiny and remote island. Nevertheless, these islanders welcomed us into their homes with open arms and were incredibly sweet and accommodating. It was a lovely time and I’m glad we went, even if it did put things in perspective.

Despite the aformentioned, I’ve thought a lot about Peru since being there and while I wasn’t in Lima, which I’ve heard is very different, I detected a sense of unity unlike anywhere I’ve ever traveled. We live in a society that defines “culture” as an amalgamation of global lifestyles. I reference the word in this context all the time, but it wasn’t until I arrived here that I gained some perspective into the true meaning of the word culture- singular. One culture. And it was seriously inspirational. Despite their blemished history, Peruvians rock their heritage so fiercely that I picked up on it immediately, even in the most touristic cities. Their sense of pride in both community and tradition is unshakable and you can really feel it. A country bound by natives, this is an indigenous culture through and through. It’s a remarkable place and I hope someday I’ll be back. Sound advice: check it out. 

Manic moves and drowsy dreams

March, 2012 . Drive from Roca —> Neuquen

So this is the end. I’m astonished at how quickly these past two months have flown by. Thursday marked my last day of work at the winery and I’m spent, both mentally and physically. As enchanting as things were in the beginning, reality managed to make itself at home fairly quickly. People often equate life abroad with some version of a fairy tail, and often times it is, but you can certainly argue both sides of the proverbial coin. With fascinations come frustrations and like anywhere, there are good days and bad days. But the one thing that remains unquestionable is that you learn more about yourself than you ever thought possible. This is why it’s always worth it in the end.

I committed to come here last summer. I remember the conversation I had with Piero like it was yesterday. I was wrapping up my summer travels in Norway, visiting friend and former roommate, Kjetil. I was in the sticks overlooking the Fjords outside of Bergen when I called P for our informal interview. And by interview, I mean he broke it down for me in laymen’s terms. ‘We work 12-15 hour days, seven days a week. It’s tough and our cellar master is even tougher. She’s been known to make boys cry. And everyone speaks Spanish. Do you speak Spanish? You honestly think you can handle this?”

March, 2012 . Neuquen

The minute I feel I have something to prove, it’s on. I don’t know why but I opt to put myself in difficult situations. It’s like my mouth beats my brain to the punch or something. My dad always told me to never give up and evidently it resonated somewhere deep within me. Theoretically this is sound advice but when paired with my stubbornness and slight case of OCD, it can make for one exhausting motto.

Fast forward to November of last year. For the first time since moving to the City, I was completely content. It’s possible it was because I had just returned from being gone for three months and barely had time to catch my breath before I was to do it all over again in February. Or perhaps it was because everything had fallen into place. In addition to my ideal living situation, I landed the job at Slanted Door and it was just as terrific as I had anticipated. It’s a feat to be down with your living arrangement in a place like SF, but to love your job too? It’s a rare existence. Of course I had second thoughts about taking another three-month-long hiatus. Hell, I had third thoughts. It might sound simple to jet set but I can assure you it’s much easier said than done, especially when your rent is through the roof. Though at the end of the day, I felt fortunate to be faced with what I believe was a beautiful dilemma. Ultimately my decision came down to one little word: regret. Something I knew I would face down the line if I didn’t pursue this challenge and honor my commitment. 

Turns out I made the right decision.

The Crew [from left]: Federico ‘Chiquito’, Marité, Luciano, Ricardo, Hj

This adventure’s peaks of fulfillment were balanced by certain vales of void. That’s the deal in the game of all or nothing. This pursuit was unforgettable and all things considered, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. I came here to further my knowledge re: wine and wine production and while doing so, managed to gain some invaluable life experience as well. Apparently there really isn’t a substitute for hard work. Go figure. Exercise your integrity. Take the initiative. Don’t take things personally. Keep going, because long after you think you can’t, you can. Slow down. Be accountable. Be dependable. And above all, be yourself.

I’m currently in Buenos Aires, sitting outside in a cafe in what is the equivalent of New York’s Soho. It’s shaded by beautiful trees and the breeze is calming. I depart in a few hours for six weeks of travel. Next stop: Peru. Nothing like winding down two months of back breaking labor, no pun intended, with a four day hike. I don’t even like to hike. Here goes nothing! Or everything.

My daily walk from my house to the winery

Ciao Chacra. It’s been real. xx

“Did you see there’s a parachute back there? Have you put it on? I would if I were you. You’re flying through South America with an Argentine and an Italian. These circumstances couldn’t be any bleaker.” -P. Incisa

i left my heart in the deutschland

“Will try to write once or twice a week…”. Perhaps you’ve caught on but “try” was the operative word there.  Two weeks later, here we are.  Yes, yours truly has incurred yet another injury and it set me back a notch. Say whaaa? Everyone keeps telling me it’s because I’m so tall, as if I need yet another reason to criticize my height. I suppose it’s quite simple: more length = more area for damage to manifest. And it appears in my case that the longer one is, the longer the recovery. 

March, 2012 . Study time! . Patagonia

I had just finished cleaning some tanks and while casually trotting down a flight of stairs I managed to slip and fall on my back. Gotta love those 90° angles. A few days later, after much stubbornness and three consecutive 14-hour work days, mi espalda straight up gave me the middle finger. It’s cool, I deserved it, but got benched for a week as a result. I managed to sleep- a lot. Without internet, cable, energy or self-motivation what else was I supposed to do? Ok, that’s not entirely true. I did manage to squeeze in 30 hours of studying [Italy], so perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. Here’s a sneak peak at what I learned: Italians be crazy/DOCs for days. After vacillating for the past year, I am finally pulling the trigger and am planning to sit for my Advanced, through the Court of Master Sommeliers, in October. I feel strongly that any sommelier working the floor of a restaurant should be able to test at this level. Having said that, it’s a very difficult exam. Studying for this thing in conjunction with working both a spring and fall vintage should be interesting, seeing as I’m already behind in my syllabus. Some would call this masochism. Terry Theise says, “immersion is key”. I say, let’s spice it up a bit. Feel free to remind me of this so-called optimism, or illusionism, when I am devastated that I didn’t pass. On second thought, spare me.

At a loss of what to write about, I feel I should begin by connecting the dots of my last two entries. In one I was stumbling down sommelier street and in the most recent, took a sudden left on to winemaker way.  Or maybe it was a right? Shit, now I can’t remember. But I do recall where this epiphany occurred- my darling Germany, but of course. Come to think of it, I was on a train from Berlin to Munich back in 2008 when the thought of moving to San Francisco materialized. I remember it vividly, down to the song that was playing on my iPod. And sure enough, within seven months of returning to the States, SF was where I officially began to call home. Evidently I have all sorts of epiphanies in the Deustchland. I think this is in part why it is truly one of the most special places in the world, for me; it speaks to my heart and so far, is two for two.

June 2008 . Berlin

So let’s talk about it. I figured there was no better way to immerse myself in the wine industry than to travel to my favorite wine regions and meet the producers, and their families, who make this passionate pursuit possible. Between my list of favorites and those I jotted down while doing a mock shift at The Slanted Door (hey, I could only observe the floor and throw back Müller-Catoir for so long), I quickly came up with a list of fifty producers I wanted to visit. One month and forty-five appointments later, I had successfully organized my first tasting trip. Come June of last year, I was Riesling-bound, with my first tasting just hours after stepping off my red-eye. Lesson learned. My eyes were heavy on the drive from Frankfurt to Rüdesheim but the moment I spotted the Rhein, I was like a kid in a candy store. You envision all of these natural landmarks when reading about various regions, attempting to understand their locations and affects, but it’s arguably impossible to fully grasp until you’re smack dab in the middle of it all. It’s like imagining what someone is like before meeting them and then the minute you do, you find you were way off. Next thing I knew I was standing in Berg Schlossberg with Eva Fricke, popping grapes into my mouth, discussing the quartzite and slate-based soils in the terraced vineyards and how they differ from the loess and loam-laden parcels below. And there was this pivotal moment where it all began to click. It’s this surreal and cerebral awakening because in an instant, something you’ve visualized for so long becomes a direct point of reference that is nearly impossible to forget. That is, if you blog about it of course. It is educational but moreover, it is a memory. Fortunately for you, I won’t recount but a few. I’m not shooting for a Pulitzer Prize here.

July, 2011 . Berg Schlossberg . Rheingau

My drive from the Rheingau to the Mosel presented a minor dilemma because although it was raining like crazy, I felt it obligatory to capitalize on the Autobahn’s lack of limits. Not to mention I was driving an AMG, which clearly left me with no choice. After an hour of both elation and outright fear I was going to have to explain to Josi Leitz why his car was totaled, I quite literally wound up in the Mosel. It was peacefully quiet. Still. As Frank Costanza would say, “serenity now!”. Everything was manicured. Precise. It was purely mesmerizing. 

Driving along the river’s edge, you snake through a series of quaint villages that are carefully tucked within the steep slopes. Looking around, all you can see is green. And while these massive inclines boast vigorous vines, they humbly produce some of the most elegant and ethereal wines in the world. I think a piece of the Mosel in particular remains close to my heart because I spent most of my time alone, apart from my appointments. In other regions I hung out with various winemakers and their families and friends, but here I was completely isolated and rather than feeling lonely, I felt free. That is, free of judgment when eating cordon bleu schnitzchel every day. It’s hard for me to pinpoint the moment I began leaning more toward the idea of wine production than working front of the house but I believe it to have begun here. The Mosel evokes an unparalleled sense of connection. For once, I felt totally present. I listened to these winemakers tell their stories, their histories, over flights of their most radiant rieslings of which they are so politely proud. Conversation would take its course and before I knew it, I was already ten minutes late for my next tasting. I was suspended in time and had not the slightest desire to be anywhere else in the world. I believe there’s truly something to be said for that. It was enchanting. 

August 2011 . Dompropst . Mosel 

August, 2011 . Dr. Loosen . Mosel

I won’t go through every region but I must also acknowledge the Nahe. After visiting Dönnhoff, favoritism was no longer a question. In addition to the wines being so.spot.on and undeniably delicious, I was very impressed with how efficient the winery was. If you can imagine one large assembly line, this is it. Everything flows and makes perfect sense. Remember the opening credits for that TV show ‘Get Smart’? I don’t know why but I reference this when I think of this Weingut. From the minute the grapes enter the building until the moment the palates hit the loading dock, the movement of production is one seamless succession. My favorite was the space utilized specifically for gravity flow- a concept very few people actually manage to incorporate into the design of their operation. And my admiration didn’t stop there; Cornelius Dönnhoff treated me to a lovely lunch at a small restaurant on the river and popped a bottle of his ’06 Weisburgunder. It was a beautiful end to my visit and I left this experience with replete reverence…and a slight buzz. I hopped in the car just in time to make my next appointment with Harald Hexamer.

August, 2011 . Dönnhoff . Nahe 

August, 2011 . Hexamer . Nahe

Nopa offered his ’09 Quartzit by the glass for a good two or three months and it’s entirely possible I single-handedly 86ed that btg pour. To call it quaffable would be an understatement. He had quite the lineup prepared and keeping with the theme of the day, I didn’t spit once. I actually think this was the most intoxicated I became in any tasting. However I quickly sobered up when we went trekking through his massive orchard after the vineyard tour. He began distilling these fruits eight years ago and has been sitting on them ever since; I believe he plans to release his first vintage of schnapps within the next year. It was such an unexpected treat, stomping through the sea of trees sampling figs, quince, plums, pears, peaches, apples. You name it, he had it and I ate it. Upon returning to the winery, Harald helped me secure my accommodation for the night at a friend’s inn and later treated me to a delightul dinner. To my felicity, he popped two bottles of Hexamer- an ‘87 and an ‘89- and while the first was sadly too oxidized to enjoy, the latter was simply charming. Three courses, two bottles and one night cap later, I hit the hay. But before dozing off I reflected on the genuine kindness and hospitality that both Cornelius and Harald had showed me that day and I drifted off to the realization that this is what life is all about.  

August, 2011 . Hexamer . Nahe

August, 2011 . Hexamer . Nahe

…to be cont’d.

this must be the place

Sunday morning marked my first day off since starting work at the winery just over three weeks ago. I woke up with ambition but the minute I sat down to begin studying I somehow ended up back in bed. Most days here don’t show up sans sunshine but after a midnight storm that carried into the early morning, the day was dreary and so was I. Angela, former Cellar Master here at Chacra and my pal as of late, swooped my tired ass around one and we drove into Roca for some asado.  Upon return we went to the winery and did some labeling. Work horses at heart. This week has been business per usual, processing and pressing a lot of fruit.

My hands are stained black, I have an unknown rash on both forearms, a caustic burn on my left calf and a pinched nerve in my lower back. Hello harvest 2012. And we’re only half way through…

There was no question as to where I wanted to work harvest in the Southern Hemisphere; I have wanted to come to South America more than anywhere on the planet for as long as I can remember. I can’t really put my finger on why other than I knew it would be vastly different than all the traveling I’d done up to this point. The only dilemma was that I wasn’t particularly interested in the typical varietals found in both Argentina and Chile. Around this time last year, dear friend and mentor, Raj Parr, graciously introduced me to his homie Piero Incisa, owner visionary behind Bodega Chacra in Rio Negro, Patagonia, and suggested I try to work a vintage down here. Old vine Pinot Noir? I was sold. Whether or not Piero was is a different story, but here we are:) He saw the potential in several abandoned Pinot vineyards, dating as far back as 1932, and successfully resuscitated them in 2004 when he began this journey. I call it a journey because he established a business in a place where nothing existed: the desert. There was no water, no sewage, no electricity- nothing but a few rusty ol’ vineyards. He started from scratch and built this operation from the ground up and he did so with the environment’s best interest at heart. From certified organic and biodynamic farming to a sustainable facility, Bodega Chacra gives the term ‘winery’ a new meaning. It reflects an energy and a soul that you only find in living organisms. You feel it in the cellar, you taste it in the wines and you see it in the people behind the scenes that make it all possible. This place is so very special. Words cannot express my gratitude. 

Having grown up in Arizona, the whole arid desert bit more than touches home and while it looks so similar, it feels so different. It’s all sky and the open landscape sprawls without interruption. Dusk brings electric sunsets and as for the stars, no words would do them justice. I wish I could properly depict the magnitude of beauty this place exudes. RN22 is the two lane ‘interstate’ that runs through the center of the Rio Negro Valley but once you turn off, it’s dirt roads for days. 620 miles south of Buenos Aires and 1240 miles north of Tierra del Fuego, Rio Negro is nearly equidistant between the Andes and the Atlantic Ocean. It is a 15.5 mile-wide by 310 mile-long glacial river bed that is 750 feet above sea level, hence the term ‘high desert’. Flanking the Valley are the blue plateaus referred to as the ‘bards’ and the valley floor is peppered with productive agriculture crops called ‘chacras’. There is a thriving fruit industry here in Rio Negro deeming it the largest producer and exporter of fruit seeds in the country. The most cultivated chacras are apple farms and it is this for which the Valley is recognized; some argue they are the best in the world. But like most desertic climates, minimal rainfall dictates the usage of canals for irrigation and thanks to the Ballester Damn that was constructed in the late 1920’s, this system is feasible and allowed for civil expansion. 

As for the grapes, you have your usual suspects: Malbec, Merlot and Cabernet but the secret in the sauce is the Pinot Noir. Unlike most other winemaking regions in the world, Phylloxera was a moot point due to the sandy soil composition and therefore, most vines have remained ungrafted- yet another reason this place is so special. And one more thing- poplar trees! People plant them like they’re going out of style because they grow so rapidly and when planted in rows, they help shield crops from the strong winds that roll in off the Andes. While fierce at times, this wind is actually an enormous asset to this region because it serves as a drying agent for moisture and helps keep humidity and rot to a minimum.

I studied Spanish for nearly 6 years but you would never know it. And the worst part is, I have no excuse! There was a healthy amount of hand gesturing in the beginning pero ahora, estoy empezando entenderlo. Days are long, the work doesn’t stop and the time flies. My aforementioned physical ailments are none that have resulted in me having to wear a plastic bag and a croc on my right foot for the entire harvest so toda esta bien, as far as I’m concerned. That’s a story for another time. Such a fucking rookie.

I am enjoying getting to know the 4 wines, three of which are Pinot, all of which are utterly unique from one another. Barda is the entry level wine, more (f)or less. Cincuenta y Cinco and Treinta y Dos are wines that are made from vines planted in 1955 and 1932, respectively. And there is one merlot, Mainqué, named for the neighboring village in which the winery is technically located. I have been given the opportunity to try these wines in verticals and because of this, I can really taste and appreciate their evolutions. It’s brilliant. However, I will say that I am most excited about the upcoming ’11 release. Like all preceding vintages the wines are pure and energetic but the 2011 vintage demands your attention. It sings.

Working at Chacra with four wines is very different than my last harvest in Sonoma where we processed 15+ varietals. I find both methods to be equally compelling but they make for entirely different experiences. As an aspiring winemaker, I find it is imperative to work with various producers in different parts of the world in order to gain as much experience as possible. Gotta get it while I can. How long this vagabond venture will last, no one knows, but one thing is for sure…there’s no turnin’ back.

winederlust

wine·der·lust noun \ˈwīn-dər-ˌləst\  Definition of WINEDERLUST: strong longing for or impulse toward wandering…and pursuing a career in wine. And drinking it. Frequently.

The past year and a half has been a beautiful whirlwind. After nearly 10 years of working in restaurants I reached my breaking point and had what I refer to as a “mental collapse”. Dramatic, ain’t it? Happens to the best of us. In my case, it was truly one of the best things that could have happened to me because it prompted change; I needed a break and moreover, a transformation. My days of waiting tables were over and dauntingly, so was my steady income. So naturally, I decided to go to Southeast Asia. I thought this would be the perfect remedy to clear my head. But as I began to plot my escape it occurred to me that I was simply running away from my current state of dejection and that upon my return, things wouldn’t be any different than when I had left, apart from my radiant tan and empty pockets. So I checked myself as I often do, and told myself, “self: it’s ok to make a run for it but the least you could do is run toward something.” Again, very dramatic. Lucky for me I knew exactly what it was that I wanted to do; I knew that I wanted nothing more than to be a sommelier at The Slanted Door in San Francisco. From their wine list to their company culture, it was where I wanted to be…I just needed to figure out how to get there. And just like that I redirected this crazy train from Thailand to Germany and Austria- home to some of my favorite winemaking regions in the world and the heart and soul of Slanted Door’s wine list. Although $1 Thai massages on the beach did sound like a good idea, drinking copious amounts of Riesling sounded better. And just like that I became hooked on wine and wanderlust hence, winederlust.  

on the record

To my good friend Cara: optimist, inspiration and blogger extraordinaire.

Never did I think I would succumb to writing a blog. In fact, hold the ‘b’ and let’s leave it at ‘log’. I’ve always chalked them up to be somewhat presumptuous and marginally narcissistic. But over the past three weeks of my being here in breathtaking Patagonia I have discovered the importance of keeping score, so to speak, because without notes, life’s precious details go off the record and run the risk of being forgotten.

As for me, I can’t remember the last journal I kept; this is probably because my mom read my high school diary and I am certain I have never recovered. Just kidding, mom. I was smoking way too much weed and rightfully deserved to be found out. Glad we can laugh about it now. Wait you’re laughing, right? But it’s true, I have no literature to show for the incredible things I have experienced in this life of mine and for this I can’t help but harbor a tinge of regret. So this collection of entries is really just a tool for me to extract these details that have been collecting dust in my attic of a brain over the course of the past year. If some people find this log enjoyable enough to read, well I would be flattered. If not, fuck off. Just messin’. And so it goes….