Bolivian bino
Just thought I´d surprise everyone with two posts in two days.
Despite the fact that both R and I are bro and sis of Rudolph the Raindeer (avec la red nose), we went for a wine (vino - pronunced ´bino´ in Spanish) tasting session this morning with a tour agency. Did you know that Bolivian wine is grown at an altitude of 2,100 metres? And that the altitude helps ripen the grapes and produce wine faster? Closer to the sun, apparently. On that note, we´ll probably age 2 days in 1 while we´re here.
Bolivian wine is all young and shy, though some is a little bitter about its youth and lack of status, so it bites your tongue like a vicious little panda. A man described a wine today (a bad wine) like a paw of a puma that reaches into your insides and rips them out. Wouldn´t wanna taste that one.
We went to this very old house in a village, where a gold-toothed lady produces sweet wine in oaky barrells, a business her father started when someone gave him two barrells as debt pay-off. He thought: ´What should I do with a pair a´barrells? Well, make some wine, of course.´So he got some campesinos (peasants, seljaci) to get their smelly socks off, get some wellies on and start stamping on their grapes, producing a slightly acidic sweet wine in three shades, sold to an eager village public. The old house is made of mud and hay and any kind of stuff that was hangin´ about on the floor and it´s a beautiful place that looks like you´re back in 1583, Andean pipe music and all. Little Bolivians walked past us carrying plates with a mountain of massive yellow corn and big pork ribs and we were dying to try some, but had to go.
Our driver later said that the gold-toothed lady, somewhere in her 50s, liked muchachos jovenes (young boys) since her husband wasn´t ´serving her no more´. I looked at Rafa and wondered if he was young enough. He said she´d given him a wink or two, but nothing more.
Afterwards, we went for a massive pork buffet in a garden restaurant and ate like porkies. Tomorrow, to Sucre, on a Bolivian military aircraft with some horny old geezers who were sighing deeply over young muchachas who walked past the office while we were getting our tickets. Should be an adventure. The bloody cold isn´t going away. Anyone got any remedies?
p.s. Helena, didn´t manage to sort out the wireless thing, my computer doesn´t have it, so I´ll have to get it installed. So backward, I am.
Mirna J, I am back in London on 13 August. Are you going to be around?
Lots of love to all.
Despite the fact that both R and I are bro and sis of Rudolph the Raindeer (avec la red nose), we went for a wine (vino - pronunced ´bino´ in Spanish) tasting session this morning with a tour agency. Did you know that Bolivian wine is grown at an altitude of 2,100 metres? And that the altitude helps ripen the grapes and produce wine faster? Closer to the sun, apparently. On that note, we´ll probably age 2 days in 1 while we´re here.
Bolivian wine is all young and shy, though some is a little bitter about its youth and lack of status, so it bites your tongue like a vicious little panda. A man described a wine today (a bad wine) like a paw of a puma that reaches into your insides and rips them out. Wouldn´t wanna taste that one.
We went to this very old house in a village, where a gold-toothed lady produces sweet wine in oaky barrells, a business her father started when someone gave him two barrells as debt pay-off. He thought: ´What should I do with a pair a´barrells? Well, make some wine, of course.´So he got some campesinos (peasants, seljaci) to get their smelly socks off, get some wellies on and start stamping on their grapes, producing a slightly acidic sweet wine in three shades, sold to an eager village public. The old house is made of mud and hay and any kind of stuff that was hangin´ about on the floor and it´s a beautiful place that looks like you´re back in 1583, Andean pipe music and all. Little Bolivians walked past us carrying plates with a mountain of massive yellow corn and big pork ribs and we were dying to try some, but had to go.
Our driver later said that the gold-toothed lady, somewhere in her 50s, liked muchachos jovenes (young boys) since her husband wasn´t ´serving her no more´. I looked at Rafa and wondered if he was young enough. He said she´d given him a wink or two, but nothing more.
Afterwards, we went for a massive pork buffet in a garden restaurant and ate like porkies. Tomorrow, to Sucre, on a Bolivian military aircraft with some horny old geezers who were sighing deeply over young muchachas who walked past the office while we were getting our tickets. Should be an adventure. The bloody cold isn´t going away. Anyone got any remedies?
p.s. Helena, didn´t manage to sort out the wireless thing, my computer doesn´t have it, so I´ll have to get it installed. So backward, I am.
Mirna J, I am back in London on 13 August. Are you going to be around?
Lots of love to all.
posted by Vesna at 3:18 PM
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