Mendoza, Argentina + a bizarre episode

After some mellow time in Argentina´s northwest it´s back cracking again in Mendoza.

On the night bus here, my vaguely prayer-like superstitious nagging to be seated next to a Brazilian supermodel was nearly answered when I awoke five hours into the trip, around 2am, to find an exotically stunning Argeninian girl hovering over me and declaring that she´d been assigned the same seat as me. My brain immediately snapped into action and came up with about 74 different ways we could go about sharing the luxurious semi-reclining window seat but just when I´d narrowed it down the the five most attractive ones she stormed off to find a conductor.

I suddenly became afraid that I´d missed my stop and was supposed to have vacated seat 33 several hours ago, so I asked the other folks in my row where we were. One of them responded that we were in seats 30-33. I then yawned, rubbed my eyes and said, "Yes, but in what city are we?" to which they responded with laughter and the answer, "Catamarca." I was safe, hadn´t missed my stop, and was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of warmth and goodness at having actually cracked what was apparently a joke for a handful of locals.

In the end, the situation was unfortunately sorted out and I spent the night alone in my seat.

Spent two nights in Mendoza hanging out with a pretty colorful array of characters from my hostel, including an ex-pat Canadien who´s been down here for three years, a German pharmacist, a 22-year old dreadlocked hippy from Amsterdam who´d just finished medical school and was on her way to a Rainbow Gathering in Uruguay, and most stunningly of all a 23-year-old blonde, vegetarian, deaf, Swedish girl who was travelling by herself through South America for two months and, by her own admission, doesn´t even like soccer.

Since no one else knew sign language, much less European sign language, we spent our time communicating by scribbing things on pieces of paper and passing them back and forth, eventually even resorting to this method between the people who weren´t deaf. At one point it occurred to me that this didn´t seem the least bit strange, which in turn *did* seem strange, until I realized that I´d been in training for that moment for some time due to the ridiculous explosion of cell phone text messaging I´d been caught up in over the past year.

The Swedish girl was devastatingly sweet and funny, firing off missives in perfect English like "You guys are such *dudes*" in response to an episode of scar-and-injury show-and-tell and, "It´s too dark to talk out there," when someone suggested stepping into the back yard for a cigarette.

I´m pretty sure I wasn´t the only one smitten.

(Incidentally, it would be irresponsible of me not to report that *every* woman in this city is a walking magazine cover.)

Hopped on a bus with some folks to go see the 6,900m Andean mountain Aconcagua, the highest peak outside of the Himalayas, and was treated to a furious lunchtime discussion between a Spanish family and their future Argentinian daugther-in-law about the lingering effects of regional rivalries in the two countries and whether those rivalries were subsiding in favor of intra-city political rivalries. A couple other guys jumped in on the Argentinian side and I busted my ass to try to keep up, occasionally being called on by Pepe´, the Spanish family´s chainsmoking, gravel-voiced patriarch to throw in relevant testimony from the U.S. perspective, which I was actually able to do with a little help from the others. All in all, it was the best 20-minute meal with a 2-hour argument I´ve ever been a party to.

That night at dinner I ordered a half of a steak that looked like three cows sewn together.

Today, spent the afternoon drinking coffee in a shady, sidewalk cafe and enjoyed one of those moments where an otherworldy sense of sublime peacefulness descends on you and everything from the size of your socks to the temperature of the air seems absolutely perfect. Flipped through a book of Pablo Neruda´s poems in preparation for a visit to his home in Valparaiso, Chile, tomorrow, and was delighted to find that in addition to being touristically relevant they were also profoundly absurd, hilarious, poignant, humane, and sharp, especially for a person who usually isn´t into poetry. Score 10 points.

The reason I add this last, rather melodramatic anecdote is because the other one I have is rife with profanity and I promised my mom I would try to stop using the F-word in this blog. Ask me later if you want to hear it.

Ginobli and the Spurs are apparently being joined by another Argentine superstar who will no doubt be causing my Pistons even bigger headaches this year.

Finally, and most absurdly, I have to write about this:

Two nights ago, the television was on in the background at the hostel when suddenly everyone became hushed, the volume went up, and the attention of all the Argentinians went straight to the tube. A small, stocky, dark-skinned man was speaking to a large studio audience in Spanish and I suddenly realized that he looked very familiar.

"Is that Maradona?" I asked. The entire roomed turned to me and fired deathlooks that made it quite obvious I was an absolute moron for having to ask. Over the next few minutes it became quite clear that Diego Maradona, the soccer star from the 1986 World Cup, is now an absolute God in Argentina despite numerous stints in drug rehab, the siring of dozens of illegitimate children whom he refuses to support, and a bizarre episode in which he ballooned up to well over 200 pounds and then lost it all by having his stomache stapled shut. He is now the host of the most successful television talkshow in South American history. A girl from Buenos Aires told me there is a church and religion dedicated to him in Cordoba.

But wait, there´s more...

After dropping a multitude of balloons and confetti in celebration of Maradona´s birthday, the show inexplicably turned to an introductory reel of scenes from the Cuban revolution, starring the main generals Raul and Che and, of course, Fidel himself. This was strange enough, but when the conclusion of the reel gave way to an image of Maradona embracing the olive-clad, bearded Cuban dictator on an interview set I just about messed myself.

"That´s Castro!¨ I shouted in Spanish, pointing my finger at the television.

More angry looks from the locals in the room.

"Of course it is," said one.

"They´ve been close friends for over ten years," said another.

"Fidel saved Maradona from the demon of his drug problem," said yet a third. "Fidel saved our Maradona´s life."

With that, all attention returned to the interview, which apparently was only a 20-minute clip of over five hours that was recorded. I was afloat in the world of the surreal and began writing things down, the way you do in the morning with a dream that you don´t want to forget.

The kicker (no pun intended) came at the end, when a producer tossed a soccer ball to Maradona, who in turn tossed it to Fidel, who caught it somewhat awkwardly and then tossed it back to Maradona. (Maradona, if you remember, is quite skilled at manipulating a soccer ball with his hands). Then Maradona tossed the ball back to Fidel.

I´m serious. This really happened.

Then, holding the ball, Castro instructed Maradona to stand up and make a hoop with his arms. Fidel stood up as well. He bent his knees, sized things up, and then proceeded to bank a three-foot jumpshot off Maradona´s chest and into the makeshift basket.

With that, the interview was concluded, the television was turned off, and a reverant silence pervaded the room for about five minutes.

Then one of the employees unlocked the hostel´s refrigerator and we drank all the beer that was in there.