In the winter of 2008 we take another major turn; finally we are able to live the life we envisioned before we left the States. Already many things fell into place over the three years we have lived here, but one important part was missing: travel. This winter we had the time and the opportunity.

Early in the season, immediately after our major crop is in, we travel to Chile, to meet up with friends in Santiago. We travel south-American style, by bus. Long distance travel by bus beats everything; the busses are comfortable, part of a trip is by night, so we can sleep, and we donot have to put up with bad traffic conditions. Argentina has a very high accident mortality rate, and although these are not all due to road accidents, they are certainly a major part. Bus travel is safe, fast and cheap.

Our trip to Chile takes us over the Andes, skirting the foot of the highest peak in the entire Americas, Aconcagua, where many mountain climbers come to try their luck; along extensive stretches of the now dilapidated wooden railway tunnels, once built by the Brits to protect the tracks from continuous built-up of snowdrift; and down the scariest, steepest, most numerous hair-pin turn descent I have ever witnessed! Simply sitting on the downward side of the bus, inexplicably attracted to stare down this unbelievable abyss makes me lightheaded. Over the mountains and along the sunny slopes on the Chilean side we enter wine country where to our surprise the vines still have red-tinted leaves and large bunches of fruits. Our vines back home have already been hit by a first frost which has turned the leaves in a brown crumbled mess and gives it a wintry look. The long switchback descent gets us to the plains just before Santiago, where we arrive when the sun sets.

Santiago takes us by surprise, a busy colonial city with wide boulevards and beautiful parks which allow for leisurely strolling; stately buildings alongside tree-lined avenues; a colorful vegetable market with a variety of dried and ground-up spices; a fish-market where fishmongers peddle their ware and where we eat a local dish of fish stew. We are shown around by our friends who arrived here a couple of days before we appear on the scene. After Santiago we head for the coast; four drivers to one rental car!

Travel never fails to amaze me; it is the combination of planning and chance that gives way to surprises one never dreamt of encountering, often the highlights of my trip. It is this serendipity that enchants me. Also this time it does not disappointment me; two unexpected gems on this trip. One is a small coastal village, nestled in a cove along a crescent of sandy beach, just south of two bustling tourist towns. It is a tranquil fishing village where life of yore still beats strong. Colorful fishing boats return with their catch as we arrive late in the afternoon and we eat fish fresh from the sea. We stay in a cabin ill-prepared for autumn guests, but we beat the cold of the evening wrapped in blankets, heated discussion and two pits on the stove lit. The other surprise is a walkway along the ocean carved out in rugged grey-black rock, rimmed on one side by beautiful gardens and on the other by rolling turquoise waves crashing in white foam on the unforgiving shore. On the swell of one wave I spot a sea-otter smaller than I have ever seen, rolling with the punches as it were. A small island just off the coast harbors Humboldt penguins and many ocean birds. To have been here just at this time is a true delight.

Our trip back to the farm is with obstacles. The first winter storm has covered the Andes mountain passes in snow, and this, combined with a national holiday which has many Chileans travel to much cheaper Argentina, strands us at the border for many hours. We arrive in the early morning in Mendoza, much later than planned and our hotel room has been taken by other travelers. Accommodations in the entire city appear to be booked; no room to be had; but the resourceful hotel manager finds us a place in a lovers nest', a hotel room that you pay by the hour, in this case by the half day. Checking in is an alienating experience; every effort is made to ensure privacy which means that guests are shielded from all prying eyes and possible recognition. Reservation details are made through an intercom; then a wooden stick appears through a hole in the wall, a cloth bag attached to its end, the taxi driver tells us it is for payment. I am aghast. Long curtains in front of each room's carport shield the view of a license plate; and to top it off, when I wander around the narrow grass strip outside the property the following morning I see each worker avert their eyes and turn their back on me. They have been instructed well!

Back home we return to the groove of each day with visitors who help with the winter chores. We see the farm through their eyes which is a pleasure. People love to stay and, unexpectedly, we find visitors who allow us a second trip. This time we head north to Salta and Jujuy, Argentinean provinces with a history and geography very similar to the American southwest. It’s a land of tall saguaros cactus; erratic rock formations; colorful canyons and misty cloud forests. Large indigenous populations have remained intact with a culture distinctly different from that of the Spaniards whom they, centuries ago, fiercely opposed. We visit the places described in the travel guides, worthwhile to see for sure, but it is again the unexpected turns we take that make the highlights. A detour in the desert following a sign that invites guests to come for a meal. We wind through dusty streets up a steep incline to an ordinary home, where a family welcomes us to enjoy their home cooked meal. We sit in the shade of a steeply terraced vineyard while goat is prepared, chatting with the man of the house who entertains his grandchild while the women do the cooking. We thoroughly enjoy their hospitality. That same evening we end up on a centuries old finca, tucked away at the end of a dirt road, where a couple of stone dwellings form a tiny hamlet. Beyond, the mountains with only a goat’s trail leading into the wild. We marvel at the night sky so bright that the name Milky Way makes sense; no light pollution for miles which leaves us an unencumbered view of a milky haze punctuated by millions of twinkling stars. In the morning I walk through a bone-dry creek bed and end up at a spring where water seeps from the desert floor. Women fill their buckets, birds come for a sip and plants drink their fill. It is the only spot where I see human and animal activity. The rest of the hamlet is quiet and tranquil.  Back in Salta we enjoy the city and its folkloric and musical scene for another couple of days before we return to our rural life.

It has taken us a full three years to get comfortable here, living the life we planned for ourselves. This winter’s travel has reassured us that it is all possible, just a pinch of extra work and a handful of organization and it works. We are grateful to the world travelers who enjoyed what we wanted to get away from for a bit. Wherever one goes and whatever life one chooses, something always beckons!

We are heading into spring with joy and trepidation; one never knows what the new harvest season will bring, but we are confident and happy. The same to you my reader, may your next season be happy.