Being mistaken for an Argentinian at Buenos Aires airport is possibly one of the most thrilling things that’s happened to me so far on this trip. I’m usually met with a sweeping glance, the unspoken thought “pasty faced chubster = English,” game over. But Argentina has the most diverse population anywhere in the world, as we saw up in Salta, where the 500 year old children’s facial features exactly match those of the people wandering the streets, and now in Mendoza where there is a strong Italian thread running through it’s veins; we met two of them in an Artisanal beer bar – Mendoza’s that kind of place – who define themselves by their Italian roots, despite their family being here for 140 years. They also seemed to be very dubious about the upcoming elections, telling us that as Milei decided to run for president after seeing a psychic who told him one of his dead dogs wants him to do it, they fear he may not be entirely sane.

Staying with airports, at Heathrow security they insisted on dismantling Clive’s drug flask as thoroughly as an AK47, sniffing suspiciously at the freezer block in particular. Here, the Argentinians obsession with mate, which puts our tea habit into the shade, has meant that Clive’s experience taking his drugs in a flask through security has been entirely stress free, as they assume it is a flask of boiling water for his mate, just like every single Argentinian in the queue with us. I honestly think this stuff must be way more addictive than coffee, and the airport staff would rather wrestle with a terrorist than deal with a stream of wild eyed Argentinians withdrawing from their mate habit.

Mendoza is the biggest supplier of Malbec in the world. We visited several vineyards and an olive oil farm, where they make the most divine and delicious balsamic vinegar. Never again will I buy the cheap and nasty stuff, now I understand how much tastier the pure stuff is; it’s made from the grape skin mush left over from wine -making, mixed with white wine vinegar, heated up, left for 3-7 days depending on how sweet you want it to be, and bobs your uncle, Balsamic so moreish I could slurp it straight from the bottle.

We also took a trip into the Andes, as although that’s the way we’ll go to Chile today, we aren’t sure how much the bus will stop so we can properly see the Andes, and take photos. Mendoza is basically a desert oasis, fed by the snow from these mountains. It hardly ever rains, which Gisella, Clive’s Spanish teacher, told us last night that she sometimes yearns for, “to feel the unique misery that rain brings.” Yeah, been there, done that, got the t-shirt G.

The Andes on the Argentinian side are bleak, beautiful , and blooming cold. Condors circle high above us, and our guide tells us that Condors mate for life. If the female dies, whatever age the male is, he kills himself rather than live without her. I wonder if, as he soars downwards in ever decreasing cirlces towards the ground and an untimely death, he feels regret at what might have been? The females on the other hand, shed their feathers and beak, grow new ones, and find a new male. Pretty pragmatic, and a baffling decision from a genetic point of view for the male. No time to research this today.

Last night Giselle took us out for tapas, but we got to see her flat first. Clive wanted to see it so much, having had the same truncated laptop view of it for the last 2 years. She is a Portenas, born and bred in Buenos Aires, but the rent she gets for her tiny flat in BA buys her rent for this lovely, airy, light apartment she shares with her 11 year old son, who on hearing we support Arsenal, ignores us in disgust for the rest of our visit.

Disaster occured on our return to the hotel last night. Having washed three of my remaining six pairs of pants, one of them had blown off the window sill. I can’t find it in the hotel outdoor space and am too embarassed to ask if they have them at hotel reception. 2 down, 5 to go.