The tree in the distance is an algorroba. To it San Martin tied his horse in 1816 on his westward march across the Andes to Chile
When I stepped out of the fine spick and span, five-year-old depot, I was in a dilemma regarding which hotel to go to. My guide book, which I never trust, and which I only look at when I desire to kill time, favored the Español; the landlord of the Marconi at Villa Mercedes recommended to O'Brien the Royal; the sleeping-car conductor on the train praised the Comercio; the cab driver extolled the Mitre, so thither I went. The German photographer, Streich, whom I met later in the day, boosted the Pringles, whose landlady is German.
The Mitre, which is owned by Perez and Iglesias, is leased to two brothers whose prenomens are Pedro and Juan; nobody seems to know their patronymics, although many persons seemed to be on intimate terms with them. I later found out that their surname is Negera. When the fat, loquacious cab driver stopped in front of their one-story hotel, he announced my arrival by bawling out "Pedro!" The person addressed came slouching out of the barroom, unkempt and unshaven, and despite the earliness of the morning fairly drunk. He reeked of alcohol. I thought he was the porter until differently informed. Several times in the course of the morning he came into my room out of curiosity, each time making an excuse. In the early afternoon he sobered up, shaved, and donned a tuxedo. Drunk or sober, Pedro was a worker. He waited on the table, tended bar, made the beds, swept the rooms, and assisted in the cooking, besides doing errands for the guests. I never saw a better hotel man. The rooms opened onto the patios and were kept scrupulously clean, excepting the privy, and even that was much cleaner than in most rural South American towns. The chickens had taken refuge in it to keep away from the lean cats, which eyed them voraciously. Several times I had to drive a yellow cat out of my bedroom. The food would hardly remind an epicure of the menu of Oscar of the Waldorf-Astoria, but as there were many people eating it in the long rectangular dining room with its twenty-five-feet-high ceiling, I imagine it was wholesome. Despite the coldness of the weather (the temperature was no more than 60° Fahrenheit, a drop of 40° from the temperature of Buenos Aires the day before) flies abounded in my bedroom and in the country were myriads of locusts.
Speaking of the yellow cat that persisted in occupying my bedroom, Argentine and Chilean animals have a penchant for human society. They seem to take delight in crawling under the beds and other furniture, and no matter how often they are driven out they persist in returning. A peculiar incident of this nature befell an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Osmond of Rosario. Mr. Osmond has lived many years in Argentina and his business frequently takes him into the Campo, as the flat, endless pampa is called. On one occasion he stopped at an inn no different from the general run of inns found in all the small towns of Argentina. A fat sow entered his room from the patio as he sat writing. He drove her out. Several times during the afternoon he had to repeat the performance as the sow was bound to occupy his room. As he lay asleep that night he was awakened by a rumpus beneath his bed, and lighting a candle to find out the cause of the nocturnal disturbance of his slumbers, discovered that the sow had crawled under his bed and had given birth to a litter of pigs.
Estancia near San Luis
The country in the immediate neighborhood of San Luis is extremely fertile, although sometimes it only rains once in a year. The Chorillos River, which rises in the Sierra de San Luis, is dammed, and the water is drawn off by conduits. The main dam is seven miles east of the city and I drove out there to see it. The road passes by the barracks and continues by fine fields of blue blossomed alfalfa in which fat cattle and horses are grazing knee-high. There is a primitive park on the left of the road in which is an artificial lake, on which swains enjoy taking their innamoratas for rowboat rides. A crude attempt at initiating a zoölogical garden is borne out by two pens, one of which contains a three-footed hen, the other one being the prison of two sabors, or Argentine lionesses from the Sierra de San Luis. A stranger is surprised at the number of fine-looking saddle horses met on the roads. Nearly everybody rides horseback, many with good grace and ease of movements. The gentry use English saddles; the poorer classes use those of Moorish type. The cab drivers as well as the horsemen gallop their animals through the streets at a mad pace.
The air of San Luis is healthy and invigorating. I was surprised to note the great number of old people to be seen in the city and its environs. In this respect it is exactly the reverse of Buenos Aires. The men and women are fine looking; the girls are beautiful with their laughing black eyes, their faces brown from the sun and wind, with a touch of rosiness to their cheeks; their figures are likewise good. Argentinos and Spaniards alike call the native-born criollos or criollas, according to sex, the word meaning Creoles. It is by no means a word of contempt. There is quite a strain of Indian blood among the inhabitants. Seeing some dark-skinned people by the roadside, I asked my driver if they were Indians. He laughed as he answered: "Son Criollos como yo. Son cristianos." ("They are natives like myself. They are Christians.") The word Indio, meaning Indian, is one of contempt and applies only to the members of the pagan and uncivilized tribes.
There is much natural wealth in the mountains of the province, gold, silver, and sulphur, but nobody cares to take the initiative about exploiting them. The unsettled country greatly resembles the unfertile parts of California, it being a wilderness of mesquite, chaparral, wild sage, and juniper. There is also much cactus, the varieties ranging from the prickly pear to the Spanish bayonet. Everywhere that water strikes the ground, wild flowers and vines spring up in rank confusion, the wild cucumber being common. One of the native bushes has pods on it like a bean, about the same size and shape, but rather oily. Of the fruit trees, the apricot is cultivated; grape vines grow to a large size, but their fruit is inferior to that of Mendoza.