It is early July and winter has officially started. We have had a string of cloud-covered days and some rain. Rain makes life even more inconvenient than it already is: water seeps under the door and through the roof, muddy feet and muddy paws are everywhere, nothing remains clean for long and if one thinks that the windshield wipers work when one wishes, think again. We haul wood from the outside pile under cover of the shed and discover that the roof leaks like a sieve; the wood is thoroughly soaked and tending a fire becomes a struggle. We go through our butane gas tanks, used for a single gas heater, like crazy. Amidst this all Bianca comes into heat and attempts to escape at every opportunity. We watch her like a hawk, lock her up inside the barn and discover a better way of dealing with the dogs while gone. They like their new location.

We receive visitors with some regularity. The locals normally call late afternoon during their ‘media tarde’, which means mate with cookies. Overseas guests arrive at any time during the day and often stay for a meal. I have learnt to keep my pantry stocked and mostly I have soup ready for unexpected guests. Lately it seems that I cannot keep up. It is winter, less farm work, so more people make social calls. One in particular is memorable. Two older gentlemen, one of whom we have met on our very first day in town, come calling one evening.  Arn has just stepped inside with an overseas guest, exhausted and drained after a day of physical labor and stress. I arrived home earlier, set the dogs free, fed all animals, started a fire from wet wood, straightened out our morning mess and put a soup on the stove. Just as I think we can sit down for dinner we hear a car in the driveway followed by handclapping, the local doorbell. We are surprised to see two gentlemen, pastries in hand, an invitation to tea. They step inside and the house is immediately filled to its rafters. Several languages are spoken at once and in my haste I forget which one I am supposed to use, Dutch tumbles out of my mouth where Spanish would have been a better choice. A jumble of words, a cluster of coats, outstretched hands, introductions and lots of confusion. All of a sudden Arn recalls a phone call he received a day prior, which he thought was from the carpenter, now he realizes it must have been from these gentlemen arranging their visit. The timing corresponds to the carpenter’s appointment for six, which he did not keep. Apologies and laughter.

While I run around to get refreshments and the overseas guest crashes asleep on the kitchen floor, the stage for the evening is set. The two gentlemen are in their seventies and long-time friends, they worked many years in the same place in town; now they are both retired. They could not be more different; while one is distinguished, amiable with an old-world flair, inclined to in-depth conversation and personal talk, the other has a rapid-fire brain bursting at the seam with encyclopedic knowledge which spills out at any opportune moment. We travel around the world at lightning speed; from Leningrad to Moscow, from Rawalpindi to Islamabad, from Rotterdam to Scheveningen, from Mauritius to Argentina. The world map is spread out on the table and we all peer with far-sighted eyes. An amazing variety of topics is brushed upon: music and zoology, dance and politics, social systems and telephone codes; we haphazardly jump from one topic to the next country to the next topic etc. By the end of the evening my mind whirls with bebop and jazz, tango and waltz, Watergate and Iraq, prairie dogs and armadillos. Then the lights falter and we sit in a pitch-black house, not unusual on a rainy day, but, since it does not rain that often I am not prepared. Time for the visitors to go. As we say our good-byes to these seventy year old gentlemen I am exhausted while they can still party. I realize my mind travels in a much slower lane. The soup sits forgotten on the stove. We have dined on the dainty tearoom pastries they brought and cannot eat one bite more. We go to bed early.

The following day we are in town to pick up the first payment for our grapes; a miserable amount, twelve more to follow. Instead of selling our grapes for the abominable low price per kilo at time of harvest we opted to convert it to wine which then is sold on the international market in twelve equal monthly installments. It is a gamble, prices may go up or down as the market goes. Fortunately we only have to make the decision how to sell, the bodega does the rest. We would not have the know-how or the connections. The current market price for wine per liter converts to exactly the same grape price per kilo at time of harvest. No gain here. The grapegrowers are not happy and they make their feelings known by blocking the main road to Buenos Aires, which is the lifeline for fresh produce to the city. I understand their anger, the money for the amount of work is laughable, yet, I am not sure that the prices are set by politics and market manipulation as the Argentines seem to believe. I fear this low price might be all we can expect for the future, after all many vineyards are established all over the world, and in five years when the new stock is ready for production we might see a glut on the market. Some claim overproduction is already here. Rumor has it that France has a  wine-reserve that would cover a year’s consumption in the US. We just plug along, what else can we do? Our vines are pruned, some poles are replaced and the vineyard is being readied for next year’s production. We hope to beat the odds with a variety of crops; an additional 600 plum trees will be planted to replace the peaches which are nearing the end of their productive years.

The winter has not been cold enough according to the locals; we hear a steady stream of complaints and concerns. Trees that produce stone fruits, fruits with a centerpit, need a good winterchill for production, which has not happened yet. The risk is an early bloom followed by a late frost, a deadly combination for any fruitgrower. That the entire region must have had a warmer winter than usual becomes evident when out of the blue the re-opening of the irrigation canals is announced well before schedule. The snowmelt in the Andes has been early due to high temperatures; the large water reservoirs are filled to capacity. Many people in our area have been caught off-guard; not all the ditches are clean yet. Everyone drawing irrigation water is obligated to contribute communal labor for canal-cleaning and maintenance. The work is assigned proportionally to the amount of water drawn. Arn and our contratista have completed our obligation, but announce upon their return that many have not yet fulfilled theirs. It is no surprise, since usually the floodgates are opened by early August. We do not want our irrigation water yet since we need to keep the trees dormant till most risk of frost has passed. Water now will awaken the trees, a sunny, high-temperature day will do the rest: force the trees into bloom, which, if followed by frost will kill any chances for a harvest. We are in a quandary. A solution comes the day before our first water turn. Several neighbors are planting new plum trees early, an option we do not have since ours will be planted amidst the peach trees. With new plantings on fallow land water is more than welcome; several neighbors have vied for our allotment and we have dispensed our water rights for the next two scheduled turns. A lucky break.