[CHAPTER XVI]
MENDOZA
If I were called upon to make my personal choice in which part of the Republic I would like to live, I would choose Mendoza—or at any rate some part of Mendoza province. It lies far west, within the shadow of the snow-crowned Andes. The glacier-fed rivers from the mountains are making it one of the biggest vineyards in the world. The city is several thousand feet above sea level, and the air is clear and invigorating. Like most Spanish-Argentine towns, it has a long history, but its tale of abounding progress does not stretch beyond the last seven or eight years. There are over a quarter of a million people in the province, and the capital numbers nearly 70,000 of them.
It is the old story of "Go west, my son." Whenever I fell into praise about places in the east, or in the middle parts of the country, there was generally somebody at my elbow to whisper, "Ah, but wait till you get to Mendoza."
Hardened traveller though I am, I admit a little thrill of anticipation when, after a hot and rather dusty day in the railway cars, I first caught a glimpse of the gleaming Cordillera, and then ran long miles through flourishing vineyards. So right into the heart of the town of luxuriant avenues, through the main street it seemed, with tall poplar trees on either side, and beyond the cool road rows of picturesque but modest houses, white washed, blue washed, pink washed, and even with a touch of quaintness about the houses that seemed to be neglected. Thus I made acquaintance with a city of broad boulevards and fine squares, an extensive park, and announcing its prosperity to all who pass that way and have eyes to see.
But whilst there is much to be enthusiastic about, it is well not to let enthusiasm run away with one. There was nothing of the raw west about the people. The ladies were as well dressed as those you will see in the Rue de la Paix. Then I was reminded that every woman out here dresses as well as she knows how, even though she and her family live sparsely at home. People judge their fellows by appearance, by show, and everyone feels it a duty to be ostentatious. Next I was impressed with the extraordinary number of motor-cars. "Yes," remarked my Mendoza-English friend, "but I think there is only half the number now that there were a couple of years ago. You had to own a motor-car, or you were not considered worth knowing. We had nearly three hundred motor-cars, the best the United States or France could supply, and their value ran into millions of dollars. People had them with little prospect of paying for them. But then, everybody is optimistic, expecting a pot of money to be coming along soon. There is lots of money, but some folks did not get what they expected, and so a great many of the cars have been seized for debt."
| THE ENTRANCE TO THE PARK AT MENDOZA. |