A weekend in the mountains

Last weekend, we went to the mountains to see a friend drumming with her band.

At a feria, very much oriented towards local produce, you could find everything from handmade household products such as washing powder or dishwashing liquid, to satin sleeping masks, honey, yoghurt and homemade cakes. And of course, local beer made by one of the locals.

During this feria, I hear French being spoken, and I say to myself "ah super des français". I'm immediately rebuffed and reminded that not all French speakers are French. In this case, a Swiss and a Belgian woman, it happens. We chat, and I discover that she's opened a yoga center in the mountains. Which fits in perfectly with our marketing target.

We end up having lunch at 3pm in the teacher's dance room, I'm surrounded by 16 girls and I'm the only boy, the worst in Spanish ahah.

But the atmosphere is very friendly, and I manage to exchange a few small conversations. I've even managed to crack a joke. But it takes all my energy and concentration, and that's not easy.

We finish up and head back up the mountain before heading to the party.

I give a "Trame" to our host for the evening. And it's the first time I've met someone who can feel exactly what I'm doing. She describes the colors I've used, the things we've worked on. It's the first time someone has told me about the trame I did. It was fascinating, and reassuring.

Short nap.

Off we go for the evening, where I'll discover a village fete unlike any I've ever experienced.

There's a queue, I get a ticket, and I get a stamp.

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Which reminds me of an anecdote.

During the last presidential elections, when it was time to vote in the second round. We did it as a family. We each take our turn, except that my sister went out the day before and is quite tired.

Just as the gentleman asks my sister for her voting card, showing her the stamp in his hand. Charlotte kindly hands him her handle.

I think she wanted to be able to get into the polling station if she needed to.

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So I enter the village hall, and our host says hello to literally everyone.

We discover music groups singing right in front of us. Other artists are in the room sharing a moment with the others. Others are outside smoking with the rest of the crowd.

The music is incredibly good, and I'm discovering that it really is part of Argentine culture.

Everyone plays an instrument or sings. Those who don't play, draw, make mosaics or any other kind of art. Some manage to make a living from it, others not at all.

Seeing the level of music (yes, I do think I'm a judge on The Voice) at the village fête, I can understand how hard it is to break through in Argentina.

We buy a bottle of wine and share it while dancing.

I'm discovering a local dance for the first time. And I don't have the slightest understanding of how it's danced. But it's amazing, everyone's in sync. It's a sort of synchronized, graceful "duck dance" that seems to work to certain types of music.

The evening progresses, the type of dance changes, animals and children wander between the people, the music groups alternate.

As for me, I'm enjoying the evening, discovering that if I dance the way I want, people will let me have my place.

I came to this party with a bag to put under my sweater, but after an hour I realize I'm just being silly. This is not at all the place where there's the slightest risk.

Everyone leaves their belongings on the chairs.

I feel like I'm at a party with the soccer veterans, where the whole village has been invited.

As the evening progresses, I begin to tire. I can't understand a word of Spanish. It's now 3 a.m.

I walk a little further away, and discover that the families' children are still playing soccer outside. Many memories of my youth come back, and at that moment I didn't feel like talking anymore. I wish I'd gone and played soccer with them.

6am, people are happy, one person a little less so. He's on the floor, trying to throw up. He's in really bad shape.

6.40 am we return with our host.

At 6:50 we stop and get out of the car. Except we realize we're not at our host's house, but in front of another one.

My colleague and I discovered that the gentleman who was in bad shape had travelled with us in the boot of the pickup. And we drop him off.

We go back to bed.

With the next day already well under way, we get up around 1pm. We enjoy a quiet "morning", then set off with the dogs for a walk by the river.

5pm: we head back to Cordoba.

We finish at the restaurant to prepare for the week ahead.

The weekend is over, and we're rejuvenated by this contact with nature and these luminous people who offer us magnificent moments.

Many thanks to them!