Wine, Women, and Mendoza...

Our last leg returned us to Mendoza. With an urge to splurge on some world class luxury, we squeezed in a booking at Club Tapiz—a five star villa for vino virtuosos. Upon arrival we were absorbed by opulence: the meticulously remodeled property, the private pool and spa, the serene surroundings, the impeccable staff, the marvelous bar and restaurant, the glamorous rooms, the numerous nooks and niches to nestle withyour glass, and the nightly wine tasting with fresh cheeses, olives, and bread. Not long after arranging our next-day excursions—a mountain spring microbrewery, horseback in the Potrerillos hills, and a tour of the Tapiz winery—we decided another night’s stay was needed. Between these luxuries, we wandered the grounds, found a massage, lounged by the pool, and ate a gourmet montage—we even saw a bit of the Superbowl…

Bedraggled but blissful, our bus bulldozed us into bodega bedecked Mendoza. It took two taxis to track down Club Tapiz, veiled by vigorous viridescent vines within all of the olive trees. A gate awaited, decorated with a date from the late eighteen hundreds, and we trundled under. A tiered tower’s terrace and spiraling steps proffered the prospect of panoramic depths. The forsaken farmhouse, retaken, was imbued with a romance in quarters and courtyard renewed. Veranda aged grapes expanded and escaped to intertwine with a wet reflection. Pairs of propping chairs recline by the pool in a sunset direction. Infinite serenity and select amenities encircled in pinnacles and pampas; a posada called Club Tapiz…






After filling every second of time touring in a conniption—and using every possible rhyme in description—we wanted to tone it down and lounge around a winery in Mendoza. Club Tapiz was the wish we welcomed from all that wild wandering! The pool glowed like a sapphire surrounded by a jade forest of grape and olive—sometimes shrouded by warm electric storms or soaking in sunshine. Over the three days we often splayed by the pool with waiters whisking us wine or whatever we wanted…






Every evening, pastel pink and purply sunsets competing with lemon-lime parrot filled palms trees in a colorful cacophony was captured in cabernet memories. Voluptuous full white moons brooded beyond the blue hues of Mendoza's more modest midnight mountains. Dawn came on like a silent firework, demanding a midmorning fetch through the stretches of vines. As rabbits dashed for cover, the moon and sun would hover, holding, like lovers in the day’s best rays…






And the vines, in slightly diagonal lines designed to optimize the tides of juice inducing light, spread like ripples being fed by trickling drips. Every flavor, eventually savored by a drooling slew of connoisseurs, grew fruitful in our view--from the rows of pinots or the columns of merlots.

At night, their skins grew tight in the quickening dry cool of high altitude, thickening, exuding the influence of inner tannins. Walls of old olive trees breathe in another warm morning breeze. And the grapes, like royal emerald drapes over the lands of a vassal, seldom escape the king’s carafe in the castle,..






Soaking in oak in a dark barn wall vault, where vats and casks once cajoled the piquancy from their purple prisoners--an original traditional museum of merrymaking is preserved within a rustic warehouse. Through the adobe archway select wines for the day wait for fresh crops of consumers. Down the road a bit further, with a more modern fervor, the winery was working its wonders. After walking through vines, and talking of wines, we entered a cavernous candlelit stone-cooled room. The vintner class ended with our glasses suspended and a toast to our host in Mendoza. And, back at the club, a stellar subterranean cellar held the best eldest bottles--and a much younger model of beauty…








And, each meal was equally surreal. Breakfast buffets of chilled juices and coffee, rare fruits and bread, cereals and meats, or omelets made as you said. At lunch it was nice to lay under poolside umbrellas as waiters coddled us with Chardonnay bottles on ice and fresh focaccia sandwiches. At night, in the restaurant, as moonlight wafted through windows carved from the authentic mud brick walls and fragrant gourmet aromas floated about, the “best bouquet” award was shared by bottles of Malbec and the garden cut flowers. But things weren’t all that easy inside the restaurant of Club Tapiz—we had to decide what to order from the likes of these…






After noon on day two, we drove to the hills and a town, Potrerillos, where some spring water chills. Past the river we rafted, up a dirt spur we dodged, and up at the end stood a microbrew lodge—well, more like a hut and garage. The former served bratwurst and barbequed food; the latter where hops, malt and barley were brewed. With tub-fulls fermenting and bottles between, the empties were filled by a homemade machine. Back by the grill playing darts was Eduardo as we drank the “Blonde”, “Bitter”, “Red” and “Diablo”. The samples were ample to buzz our cabeza when we left from the home of Jerome Cerveza…







Twice more, we took treks via horseback and horsepower. Enabled by brews we cruised to a stable to saddle up and skedaddle up the scrubby sparse eastern slopes of the Andes. As dirt roads disappeared we veered up dusty rugged trails to peruse and gaze upon summits that hunker in a sky high haze, and hills where horses find sprigs of wild thyme to graze, as a distant clandestine river plummets into ancient canals absorbed by the plains. Afterward, visiting the Tapiz vineyard, we investigated vines, tested celebrated wines, and regressed elated to the horse drawn days of yore to explore the more remote corners of sweetening clusters…






With mountains surrounding us throughout our stay, we spent many moments just soaking in the scenery—sometimes the creeping greenery flew into blue, other days angry airborne grey garbled with dimmer earthbound darkness. More bewildering still were the building of spectacular spectrums, when shrouds of cloud and beams of light, as flashes and thunder would rumble and fight, spilled raindrops or rainbows before midday or night. Whether out in the open or merging as one, the fields and peaks, the storms and the sun, giggled like children having hide and seek fun. And, we were the parents, watching with wine, thankful for life and the chance to recline, wishing that we could press pause and rewind...






Some of the moments were caught with a click, forever in focus in a digital drive. Others were not, but are saved in our memory as long as we can keep them alive. So here’s a collection of the moments we trapped—to share with you, the ones we love and may never know. But far more important than the pictures we snapped, are impressions affecting how we will all grow…forever together, today, tomorrow. So, here is a toast that’s broader than most: to you and to me, to them and the others, to sisters and mothers, to fathers and brothers, to the day we arrive or die into dust, to living a good life…cheers! Here’s TO US!






Back on the bus to cross Argentina, a warm rumbling storm would darken the scene, but between us and thunder that crackled ahead a grape truck was struck by a rainbow instead—a wonderful image to dream before bed. We’d wake up to blah blah blah blah Buenos Aires, El Mirasol steak and then make for the ferries, depart from the port all aboard hydroplane, and three hours later we’d be back home again, then a taxi to Punta Carretas-Pocitos, and that’s where it ends…adios amigos!