Tres Mujeres
Mar. 9th, 2007 01:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947“You missed the turn!”
“What turn?”
“That one! The one that goes up the hill to the entrance of the winery”.
“What winery? I didn’t see an entrance!”
“Greg’s right, John”, I said from the back seat of the truck. “You passed it. The winery’s up there on the left. The road goes up the hill”.
“I wish you guys would tell me these things before I pass them”, John grumbled, as he re-gripped the steering wheel and started looking ahead for a place to turn.
“I thought you knew where you were going”, groused Greg, “we went by here before”.
“I’m just the grunt here”, explained John, as he slowed to make a U-turn. “My job is to drive; you’re supposed to be my co-pilot”.
“Wrong, mi capitan,” said Greg, saluting, “you are the pilot. I’m the visionary, remember? My job is to help you see and complete your mission”.
“Thank you, Superintendent”, I intruded from the back, “now, can you check to see if it’s clear for John to turn?”
“Clear on both sides”, Greg reported.
John made a 90 degree turn, and quickly returned to the flow of traffic on the Ruta Vinicola, the Winery Road. “Is that it?” he asked, pointing up at an adobe colored mansion that looked like a colonial hacienda.
“Yup”, Greg and I responded in tandem, looking up.
John slowed and turned right into a dirt roadway next to a green sign that read, Vinicola.
“I don’t think it’s going to be open”, John mumbled, pessimistically. “We’ve been up this road before”.
“Come on, John”, Greg encouraged, “don’t give up. I’m sure I saw one up the road here. What do we have to lose? We’ll never discover anything new if we’re afraid to fail or make mistakes! Come on, John!”
As we drove between the rows of vines, I, too, recalled that we had been up this road before, following the same signs, to find the winery gates closed.
“I think John’s right”, I said, “but, maybe they’re open today. I saw cars parked in front of the house this time”.
We snaked, expectantly, up the hill road, only to again find ourselves at the same locked gate, in front of the same beautiful looking hacienda style home in the middle of a vineyard. It looked every inch, the perfect boutique winery, but there was no way in.
“Now what?”, asked John, impatiently.
“Don’t give up John”, Greg repeated. “Look, there’s another sign up the road. Maybe this isn’t the winery that’s open. There’s one farther up the road”.
I sat back in my seat, and silently shook my head at Greg’s relentless optimism. Afraid to voice my own doubts, I waited for John to mutiny and put an end to this futile excursion. Instead, he gunned the motor, and continued following the bumpy, gravel road, even as it became narrower and steeper. As we came to the green sign that Greg had pointed out, with the word Vinicola written on it, we were forced to stop. It was a crossroad, of sorts. The one-way road turned sharply to the left, and there was a small white truck coming down the hill, right towards us. Both vehicles came to a stop for a moment, and John decided to retreat. He reversed his truck to allow sufficient room for the smaller vehicle to pass by. As the driver was passing with a wave to us, John called out, “vinicola?” The brown hued, wrinkle faced, driver gave him a puzzled look for a moment, and then with a gleaming smile of understanding, pointed up the hill and said, “Alla”, up there.
“My God,” I exclaimed. “There is a winery up there!”
“I told you” Greg sighed in relief.
John harrumphed to himself as he turned the steering wheel, and guided the diesel truck even farther up the hill.
As we crested the road, the barking of dogs greeted our arrival at a driveway that led to a low- slung, ramshackle house. John continued forward, stopping near two cars that were parked facing the brick colored house. There were no signs or posters to greet us, or identify this locale.
“Doesn’t look like a winery to me”, I said dubiously.
“Look”, said Greg, “there’s someone coming”.
A lean, attractive woman, in dark khaki pants and a violet sweater shirt, popped up from the walkway that ran alongside the house. Glided along the path, she bent down toward the two dogs, which immediately ceased their barking. Even as John was saying, “Tony, go ask her if this is a vinicola”, Greg was out of the truck, walking toward the curly haired woman. We watched, expectantly, as Greg walked up to the woman, and began speaking in animated Spanish. He dipped his head toward the smaller woman, put his left hand to his chest, and extended his right toward the truck. I could not hear him, but the woman was clearly intrigued. Suddenly she beamed an inviting, angelic smile, and nodded her head. Greg turned towards us, and started beckoning with his right arm.
“He wants us to park”, I said. John guided the truck to a spot alongside a Toyota truck and stopped the motor.
“Yes siree”, Greg said, as he came up to the driver side window. “This is the place. She said we are welcome to come in”.
“Oh my God”, I said in amazement, “what have we gotten ourselves into, now?”
Our band of four high school friends (Jim, John, Greg, and I) had not managed a reunion since last November in Pioneertown (Sons of Pioneertown). We were feeling the need to reconnect and catch up on recent and future events. Utilizing email, Greg had proposed a President’s Weekend reunion in Ensenada, Mexico, which had everyone’s initial support. John worked out the plans, logistics and transportation, and I volunteered to record the adventure by camera. Everything was going fine, until a week before departure. As John was finalizing rendezvous and pickup points, Jim and another party dropped out of the expedition. Although this was a frustrating development, it did not deter us, the remaining three, from going ahead with the trip. It would be a reunion of Los Tres Amigos, “The Three Friends”. In many ways, we three had more in common with each other than with Jim, the sole bachelor in the band. John and Greg had served as my entourage at my Bachelor Party in Ensenada, 32 years ago. We had shared an apartment in Santa Monica when single, gotten married during the same period of time, raised children and a family, and pursued public service careers. We were also more flexible in our relationships, needs, and expectations.
The tone of the trip was set when John and I finally arrived at Greg’s condominium in San Diego, on Saturday afternoon. Instead of hurrying off toward the border, after a torturously long and time-consuming drive on the 405 Freeway, we decided to slow down, relax, and saunter over to a local BBQ place for sandwiches and beers. We languidly sipped our beer and toasted our reunion, while sitting in the sunny, outdoor patio, overlooked by towering resort hotels and high rises. As beach-clad walkers passed by, we began to verbalize impromptu hopes for the weekend. John was curious about the Carnival/Mardi Gras festivities in Ensenada. Greg was interested in investigating rental homes in Rosarito, for the Bicycle Ride in April. We all wished to re-visit the wine country in the Guadalupe Valley. All of these ideas were popular, but the question was, could we fit everything within the time we had remaining? We only had this afternoon, the evening, and all day Sunday? After a second round of beer, we concluded that it was worth a try. We had nothing to lose, and much to gain, if everything worked out. At the conclusion of lunch, we hopped into John’s diesel truck and headed to the border. From this point on, all of our activities followed a pattern. Our plans would come to a point of crisis and disaster, and then, magically, come together.
As soon as we crossed the border, we were gridlocked on the single, winding road from Tijuana to Rosarito, for (what seemed) hours. In frustration, I suggested that we forsake stopping at Rosarito and head straight for Ensenada, getting there before dark. “Don’t give up yet”, Greg reassured me. “Things might loosen up”. And they did. The bottleneck was caused by a strangling, military checkpoint, manned by 10 beardless boys, in camouflage uniforms, hefting huge automatic weapons. The sight was chilling. Children with guns would unsettle any driver forced to stop. Once past this bottleneck, however, we sped into Rosarito, where good luck followed us. We located an owner/realtor with whom we had rented last year. She showed us three homes that were available for the weekend we wanted, and in less than an hour, we were back on the road to Ensenada. We left deposits for the rental of two beach area homes that would accommodate our party of 10 cyclists.
We arrived at Ensenada before sunset, and immediately found the Bahia Hotel, on Main Street. As we checked in, I listened to Greg’s Spanish increase in confidence and fluency, as he spoke to the ladies at the reception desk. I was amazed by how much Spanish he still remembered and used from his original immersion into the language, culture, and people of Mexico. Speaking little Spanish, Greg had accompanied me on a trip to Mexico City in 1974, to enroll for summer classes at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. He lived with a Mexican family, attended morning classes at the university, and spent most of his free time with me, and my family in Mexico, for two months. In many ways Greg went “native” during that trip. He felt comfortable in Mexico, and among Mexicans, and they, in turn, found him muy simpatico, very charming. The experience became the cornerstone of Greg’s subsequent certification as a “bi-lingual and bi-cultural” instructor, administrator, principal, and superintendent. He was at ease in Mexico, as though he was returning home.
We unpacked, settled into our suite, and went to a Seafood Restaurant for dinner. John and Greg remembered it from another visit, and raved about its mariscos and beer. After dinner, we strolled up Main Street to Hussong’s Bar, for a nightcap of tequila and beer. The street was full of tourists and young locals making their way to music stages that were set up at the northern end of the street. Most of the action was located in front of Hussong’s, a classic dive bar, circa 1940. John wanted me to photograph him in the bar, so he maneuvered himself into various poses and locations. With the mariachis playing and people singing, no one seemed to notice him. He fit right into the background and scenery, despite his American appearance. John is at ease in Mexico, but in a different way than Greg. John approached Mexico from an expatriate perspective. He is non-judgmental and accepting of all cultural and ethnic differences. As a soldier who served three tours of duty in Vietnam, he spent considerable time in foreign cities and countries, and learned how to enjoy himself in all of them. Mexico was always a favorite port of call.
On leaving Hussong’s, we collided into the last gasps of Carnival. Spanish hip-hop bands, on two outdoor stages, were guiding the thrusting movements of hundreds of dancers who meshed against one another. Couples, threesomes, and groups of strangers pressed against one another, locked in throbbing gyrations, following the beat. Thirty-five years ago, we might have been tempted to join in, but now it was oppressive and uncomfortable, and we looked for an escape. Greg spied a seam in the crowd and guided us to an open spot in the street. In that brief moment of tranquility, I heard the polka rhythms of a good norteno band playing musica ranchera , the rural music of Northern Mexico. I beckoned them to follow me into a side street filled with older Mexicans listening to this typical music. There was no pressing throng, and no throbbing beat, in that fenced-off side street, just a scattering of Mexican families swaying to their music. This was Mexico. We finished our beer in that peaceful setting, and at the next music break went back to the hotel.
The first nights of our reunions are endless. What begins as a travel day ends up an all night talk-a-thon in our room. We uncork the wine, break out the glasses, and settle in for a night of conversation and laughter. This is where we fill in the gaps of our on-going lives. All questions are allowed, and truthful answers are required. The topics may be mundane, exciting, or sorrowful, but our response to any news must always be supportive and humorous. As we arranged ourselves around the coffee table with our glasses of wine, John gave the first update on his family and himself.
Now in his second year of retirement, John was regaining some of the bounce and vigor that he had as younger man. He had lost thirty pounds by dieting and exercise, and looked fitter and healthier, than he had in years. John is the soldier of the group. He guides, guards and cares for us on all our travels. His experiences as an infantryman, ambulance driver, paramedic and fire fighter, all prepared him for this role. On many occasions, he has also been our nursemaid, worrying about our health, finances, and bad habits. This evening, he was particularly animated on the subject of heath and fitness because of his new diet and exercise regimen.
Greg, on the other hand, was clearly out of shape and still years away from retirement. He is the most enthusiastic and optimistic member of our group. He is a Visionary professionally, as a superintendent of schools, and Seer of endless possibilities whenever we traveled. Greg remembers more arcane and useless information than anyone I know. For example, he claimed to know the names of all the heavenly constellations, but I was never sure if he was reciting factual or fictional names. They all sounded real to me. On this evening, between news about his two sons, he told us the story of why pirates wear eye patches.
After describing the happenings of my wife and adult children, I quickly quizzed them about their reactions to my blog (internet log), which I had just made public the week before. To my disappointment, both Greg and John confessed that they hadn’t had a chance to read it. I tried to entice them into making the effort by telling them that I had written about them in my story on Pioneertown. I also refused to tell them how they were portrayed in this story. They would have to read it themselves. I warned them that I would be writing about this trip as well. I would be the official scribe on this adventure, recording with camera and blog.
After midnight, we halted our talk to go out looking for a street taco vendor for a snack. From there we made our way to the Bahia Sports Bar and Karaoke Emporium for a nightcap. In between Mexican songs and replays of national soccer games, we toasted our health, families, and our responsibilities as soldier, seer, and scribe. We were three amigos, getting older, and hopefully, wiser. We finally went to bed at about 2 0’clock.
On Sunday, we decided to take a return trip to Valle Guadalupe, the Guadalupe Valley. We passed the morning in Ensenada, having an outdoor breakfast, walking through the marina, and exploring artesanias, Mexican handicrafts, along the Main Street of town. The idea was to revisit the Ruta Vinicola, the Winery Road, that runs through the center of the Guadalupe Valley, about 15 miles inland from Ensenada. We had discovered this region on our visit last year. On that day in January of 2006, we spent an exciting day exploring the area trying to find wineries that offered wine for tasting and sale. On that occasion, we were only able to find two operating wineries with hospitality: Vina Liceaga, at the Western end of the Valley, and Vinicola L.A. (LA) Cetto, on the other. We spent a great deal of time making fruitless attempts at following signs and arrows that directed us to vinicolas and vinas that either didn’t exist, or were closed. The navigation of these dirt roads and narrow byways was tense, and sometimes, alarming, but it was always fun, and exciting. We joked, poked fun at each other and our fears, and kept our sense of wonder and astonishment. John’s military experience, Greg’s keen eyesight and intuition, and my confidence in their luck and ability, kept us safe and away from danger. We kept reminding ourselves that our goal was the discovery of new things, not reaching a particular destination, at any particular time. Overall, by the end of that day, we had traveled many miles, and explored many roads through the Valle Guadalupe, but only found two operating Wine Tasting establishments.
This year, our vintner goals were more realistic. We wanted to see if the area had developed economically, revisit the Liceaga and LA Cetto hospitality rooms, and be alert for new wineries. We entered from the valley, traveling east, and found the entrance of Vina Liceaga, a charming “pocket” winery at the beginning of Winery Road. We were happy to see that Liceaga was expanding, with more vineyards under cultivation, and new structures under construction. A friendly young woman, who explained the tasting procedure, and served us samples of the three wines and two aperitifs produced and bottled there, again, greeted us. After purchasing 2 bottles each, we proceeded to the eastern end of the valley. It was along the way that Greg thought he saw a winery on a hill, and suggested a visit. Not wanting to stop and explore, John promised that we would return on the way back.
LA Cetto is the Mexican version of California’s Gallo Wine Company. It is a huge, modern, commercial enterprise, which dominates the valley and Baja California. Its vineyards cover hectares and hectares of fertile land along the road and hillsides. However, what the winery lacks in Mexican charm and beauty, it makes up in American-style efficiency, production, and convenience. The Hospitality Room is spacious and orderly, and the, predominately male, serving staff is competent and quick. LA Cetto also offers the seductive amenity of permitting customers to buy and drink wine on the premises, and that made it a big hit with us. We purchases two chilled bottles of “adequate” Chenin Blanc, a loaf of crusty French bread, and ate lunch in a shady patio area by the side of the Hospitality Room. When finished, we had a smooth buzz going in our heads, and we were feeling fine. We started back along the Ruta de Vino, with Greg gazing steadily at the landscape and hillsides, searching for the chimerical winery he had spotted earlier. When he saw it, and yelled for John to turn, he set off a chain of events that would bemuse and astonish us for days and weeks. Greg’s ability to see what no one else could, guided our journey to Las Tres Mujeres, and La Cava Mosaica.
Greg led us back to the woman in khaki and violet. A neatly groomed man in jeans and work shirt had joined her. I could not figure it out. Where were the vines, the buildings, and the hospitality room?
“Senora”, I asked, “venden vino?”; Do you sell wine?
She flashed me a captivating and brilliant smile, and said, “Si, como no! Pase y ven conmigo”;
Of course we do! Come this way and I’ll show you.
We followed her along a path that ran alongside of the house, and then turned towards a door built into a mound or hill. At the entrance, we met a second woman, holding an empty Sparkletts water container. She wore spectacles, faded jeans, and a green turtleneck sweater. Shyly brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, she greeted us and bid us follow her. John led the way, disappearing into the cave, which appeared to be hewn into the hill. As we followed, I leaned toward Greg and said, “Doesn’t this seem a little strange?”
“Yah”, Greg replied, “don’t you love it!”
We entered a mutedly lighted, rock-lined cavern that served as a wine cellar. Massive wooden beams, mounted with track lights, criss-crossed the ceiling. Steel-rimmed, oaken barrels lined the left side of the wall, and wooden beams, in various shapes, acted as wine racks on the other. Against the far wall, there was a mosaic art piece, depicting an abstract design of a lush vine branch, bearing clusters of differently colored grapes. In the corner of the cellar, between the mosaic and wine racks, another grey haired man and shorthaired woman, in a beige apron, bent over an upright wine barrel and a large plastic container. They appeared to be funneling dark fluid contents of one, into another bubbling vat of deep red wine. They were toiling away, mixing or separating the wine, when the smiling woman in violet pointed us out. As we shook hands, the curly-haired woman in violet finally asked, “Would you like to taste some wine?” The woman in the apron was laughing as she welcomed us, setting three glasses on the wine cask, which now served as a table. The shy woman in green handed a glass to each of us, and the woman in violet quickly filled them with dark, red wine. “Salud”, they said in unison, and we drank.
I was struck dumb by this magical scene. I was enchanted by the muted, glowing light, coming from the ceiling, the gleaming rock walls, the shining stacks of crystal bottles, the mosaic designs, and the presence of these three beguiling women. Unable to speak, I took out my camera and began taking photographs of Greg, John, and the trio of women. Although reluctant at first, they finally agreed to pose with us, after John and Greg beseeched them. Using a combination of English and Spanish, we eventually discovered that they were owners of this winery. Each of the three red wines, which we tasted, was named for the woman who made it. Eva was the amused, shorthaired woman in the apron. Evette was the smiling, curly-haired, woman in violet who we first met. Laura was the shy, bespectacled woman in jeans and turtleneck. As Evette poured from a new bottle, she would point to the woman who made it. “This is Eva’s, this is Laura’s, and this is mine”. Each offering imparted its own distinct taste and clarity to us. The wine also seemed to cloud my thinking, making it difficult to ask clear questions in Spanish. Instead, I pointed at a trio of bottles displayed on the rack behind Eva. They were set in a unique box made of gnarled cactus wood. If I could not talk, at least I could point. “Cuanto son?” asked Greg, How much are they?
I purchased the box set of three, and Greg a box of two bottles. However, it was fearless John who made the bold request that surprised and pleased the ladies. He wished to buy their favorite wines, with the provision that they each autograph their particular bottle. I watched in envy as each female vintner wrote a special message to John and signed it. Once the purchases were made, and the money exchanged, it struck us that our business here was over and we had to leave. Slowly and reluctantly, we shook hands and said goodbye to Laura, Eva and Evette. They accompanied us as far as the entrance of the cave, and then waved goodbye as we walked away.
We came out of the spell when the passenger doors slammed shut and we were again enclosed in the isolation of John’s truck. “Wow”, I said, “what was that about?”
“I don’t know”, said Greg, “but we need a beer”.
I caressed the wine case of gnarled, wormy wood that lay on the seat next to me, and unknotted the leather strap that bound the cover. Looking at the three bottles of wine, all of my unasked questions came flooding into my head: how long had they lived there, what inspired them to start a winery, how did they meet, and who were those men? Question, after question, after question buffeted me during the short ride out of the Guadalupe Valley. In what seemed a blink of an eye, we arrived at our destination, La Pasadita, a roadside beer and snack joint on the Old Road between Rosarito and Ensenada. It was at this favorite drinking spot that we began to de-brief our visit with these three women. Ordering a round of beers and some cacauates, peanuts, we attempted to make sense out of this encounter. An inspection of John’s bottles provided the most vital information. Looking at these artifacts, we learned that the mysterious winery was called, Vinicola Tres Mujeres, Winery of the Three Women. The fantastic wine cellar was called Cava Mosaica, Mosaic Cave, or Cavern. John and Greg also bemoaned the countless unasked questions, which were only now occurring to them. It was at this point that I made my most important contribution as scribe and recorder. I showed them the digital pictures I took. I had captured their images, and their lair. I had photos of La Cava Mosaica, the three women together, and one with the Three Amigos with Laughing Eva. My inspiration was to return to their vinicola at another time with a personal gift. I would make a duo photo frame of the photos I had taken of Las Tres Mujeres, and Los Tres Amigos. Bearing this gift, we three wise men, would again travel east on the Ruta Vinicola to La Cava Mosaica.
As John and Greg continued speculating on this future visit, I leaned back with my beer and had an epiphany. This encounter was the serendipitous or synchronistic event we had prayed for in that outdoor patio in San Diego. It was a sign that we exist in a spiritual and enchanted universe, filled with mysterious and fascinating people who can teach us things about ourselves. On this trip, the appearance, manner, and actions of the Tres Mujeres were especially magical. These women reminded me of other female trios in myth and legend: three Fates, three Sirens, three Furies, and the three witches who warned MacBeth. Three women found Jesus arisen from the cave on Easter Sunday. Three women aided Percival in his quest for the Holy Grail. Women also operated the cavern that housed the Oracle of Delphi. Greek heroes sought these females to discover their fate and fortune. Ironically, the best advice at Delphi was carved over the cavern itself: KNOW THYSELF. All of these women served as signs, symbols, or avatars of TRUTH. We were three old men, a soldier, a seer, and a scribe, seeking wisdom. Were we Three Wise Men? Perhaps that would be going too far. All of us contributed on this journey; John was unafraid to follow a road going nowhere, Greg saw what no one else could see, and I believed it all had meaning. We did not find the Holy Grail in the Cava Mosaica. Instead, we discovered three Sprites who made the experience magical, and reminded us that fabulous things happen when you believe they will.
“What turn?”
“That one! The one that goes up the hill to the entrance of the winery”.
“What winery? I didn’t see an entrance!”
“Greg’s right, John”, I said from the back seat of the truck. “You passed it. The winery’s up there on the left. The road goes up the hill”.
“I wish you guys would tell me these things before I pass them”, John grumbled, as he re-gripped the steering wheel and started looking ahead for a place to turn.
“I thought you knew where you were going”, groused Greg, “we went by here before”.
“I’m just the grunt here”, explained John, as he slowed to make a U-turn. “My job is to drive; you’re supposed to be my co-pilot”.
“Wrong, mi capitan,” said Greg, saluting, “you are the pilot. I’m the visionary, remember? My job is to help you see and complete your mission”.
“Thank you, Superintendent”, I intruded from the back, “now, can you check to see if it’s clear for John to turn?”
“Clear on both sides”, Greg reported.
John made a 90 degree turn, and quickly returned to the flow of traffic on the Ruta Vinicola, the Winery Road. “Is that it?” he asked, pointing up at an adobe colored mansion that looked like a colonial hacienda.
“Yup”, Greg and I responded in tandem, looking up.
John slowed and turned right into a dirt roadway next to a green sign that read, Vinicola.
“I don’t think it’s going to be open”, John mumbled, pessimistically. “We’ve been up this road before”.
“Come on, John”, Greg encouraged, “don’t give up. I’m sure I saw one up the road here. What do we have to lose? We’ll never discover anything new if we’re afraid to fail or make mistakes! Come on, John!”
As we drove between the rows of vines, I, too, recalled that we had been up this road before, following the same signs, to find the winery gates closed.
“I think John’s right”, I said, “but, maybe they’re open today. I saw cars parked in front of the house this time”.
We snaked, expectantly, up the hill road, only to again find ourselves at the same locked gate, in front of the same beautiful looking hacienda style home in the middle of a vineyard. It looked every inch, the perfect boutique winery, but there was no way in.
“Now what?”, asked John, impatiently.
“Don’t give up John”, Greg repeated. “Look, there’s another sign up the road. Maybe this isn’t the winery that’s open. There’s one farther up the road”.
I sat back in my seat, and silently shook my head at Greg’s relentless optimism. Afraid to voice my own doubts, I waited for John to mutiny and put an end to this futile excursion. Instead, he gunned the motor, and continued following the bumpy, gravel road, even as it became narrower and steeper. As we came to the green sign that Greg had pointed out, with the word Vinicola written on it, we were forced to stop. It was a crossroad, of sorts. The one-way road turned sharply to the left, and there was a small white truck coming down the hill, right towards us. Both vehicles came to a stop for a moment, and John decided to retreat. He reversed his truck to allow sufficient room for the smaller vehicle to pass by. As the driver was passing with a wave to us, John called out, “vinicola?” The brown hued, wrinkle faced, driver gave him a puzzled look for a moment, and then with a gleaming smile of understanding, pointed up the hill and said, “Alla”, up there.
“My God,” I exclaimed. “There is a winery up there!”
“I told you” Greg sighed in relief.
John harrumphed to himself as he turned the steering wheel, and guided the diesel truck even farther up the hill.
As we crested the road, the barking of dogs greeted our arrival at a driveway that led to a low- slung, ramshackle house. John continued forward, stopping near two cars that were parked facing the brick colored house. There were no signs or posters to greet us, or identify this locale.
“Doesn’t look like a winery to me”, I said dubiously.
“Look”, said Greg, “there’s someone coming”.
A lean, attractive woman, in dark khaki pants and a violet sweater shirt, popped up from the walkway that ran alongside the house. Glided along the path, she bent down toward the two dogs, which immediately ceased their barking. Even as John was saying, “Tony, go ask her if this is a vinicola”, Greg was out of the truck, walking toward the curly haired woman. We watched, expectantly, as Greg walked up to the woman, and began speaking in animated Spanish. He dipped his head toward the smaller woman, put his left hand to his chest, and extended his right toward the truck. I could not hear him, but the woman was clearly intrigued. Suddenly she beamed an inviting, angelic smile, and nodded her head. Greg turned towards us, and started beckoning with his right arm.
“He wants us to park”, I said. John guided the truck to a spot alongside a Toyota truck and stopped the motor.
“Yes siree”, Greg said, as he came up to the driver side window. “This is the place. She said we are welcome to come in”.
“Oh my God”, I said in amazement, “what have we gotten ourselves into, now?”
Our band of four high school friends (Jim, John, Greg, and I) had not managed a reunion since last November in Pioneertown (Sons of Pioneertown). We were feeling the need to reconnect and catch up on recent and future events. Utilizing email, Greg had proposed a President’s Weekend reunion in Ensenada, Mexico, which had everyone’s initial support. John worked out the plans, logistics and transportation, and I volunteered to record the adventure by camera. Everything was going fine, until a week before departure. As John was finalizing rendezvous and pickup points, Jim and another party dropped out of the expedition. Although this was a frustrating development, it did not deter us, the remaining three, from going ahead with the trip. It would be a reunion of Los Tres Amigos, “The Three Friends”. In many ways, we three had more in common with each other than with Jim, the sole bachelor in the band. John and Greg had served as my entourage at my Bachelor Party in Ensenada, 32 years ago. We had shared an apartment in Santa Monica when single, gotten married during the same period of time, raised children and a family, and pursued public service careers. We were also more flexible in our relationships, needs, and expectations.
The tone of the trip was set when John and I finally arrived at Greg’s condominium in San Diego, on Saturday afternoon. Instead of hurrying off toward the border, after a torturously long and time-consuming drive on the 405 Freeway, we decided to slow down, relax, and saunter over to a local BBQ place for sandwiches and beers. We languidly sipped our beer and toasted our reunion, while sitting in the sunny, outdoor patio, overlooked by towering resort hotels and high rises. As beach-clad walkers passed by, we began to verbalize impromptu hopes for the weekend. John was curious about the Carnival/Mardi Gras festivities in Ensenada. Greg was interested in investigating rental homes in Rosarito, for the Bicycle Ride in April. We all wished to re-visit the wine country in the Guadalupe Valley. All of these ideas were popular, but the question was, could we fit everything within the time we had remaining? We only had this afternoon, the evening, and all day Sunday? After a second round of beer, we concluded that it was worth a try. We had nothing to lose, and much to gain, if everything worked out. At the conclusion of lunch, we hopped into John’s diesel truck and headed to the border. From this point on, all of our activities followed a pattern. Our plans would come to a point of crisis and disaster, and then, magically, come together.
As soon as we crossed the border, we were gridlocked on the single, winding road from Tijuana to Rosarito, for (what seemed) hours. In frustration, I suggested that we forsake stopping at Rosarito and head straight for Ensenada, getting there before dark. “Don’t give up yet”, Greg reassured me. “Things might loosen up”. And they did. The bottleneck was caused by a strangling, military checkpoint, manned by 10 beardless boys, in camouflage uniforms, hefting huge automatic weapons. The sight was chilling. Children with guns would unsettle any driver forced to stop. Once past this bottleneck, however, we sped into Rosarito, where good luck followed us. We located an owner/realtor with whom we had rented last year. She showed us three homes that were available for the weekend we wanted, and in less than an hour, we were back on the road to Ensenada. We left deposits for the rental of two beach area homes that would accommodate our party of 10 cyclists.
We arrived at Ensenada before sunset, and immediately found the Bahia Hotel, on Main Street. As we checked in, I listened to Greg’s Spanish increase in confidence and fluency, as he spoke to the ladies at the reception desk. I was amazed by how much Spanish he still remembered and used from his original immersion into the language, culture, and people of Mexico. Speaking little Spanish, Greg had accompanied me on a trip to Mexico City in 1974, to enroll for summer classes at the National Autonomous University of Mexico. He lived with a Mexican family, attended morning classes at the university, and spent most of his free time with me, and my family in Mexico, for two months. In many ways Greg went “native” during that trip. He felt comfortable in Mexico, and among Mexicans, and they, in turn, found him muy simpatico, very charming. The experience became the cornerstone of Greg’s subsequent certification as a “bi-lingual and bi-cultural” instructor, administrator, principal, and superintendent. He was at ease in Mexico, as though he was returning home.
We unpacked, settled into our suite, and went to a Seafood Restaurant for dinner. John and Greg remembered it from another visit, and raved about its mariscos and beer. After dinner, we strolled up Main Street to Hussong’s Bar, for a nightcap of tequila and beer. The street was full of tourists and young locals making their way to music stages that were set up at the northern end of the street. Most of the action was located in front of Hussong’s, a classic dive bar, circa 1940. John wanted me to photograph him in the bar, so he maneuvered himself into various poses and locations. With the mariachis playing and people singing, no one seemed to notice him. He fit right into the background and scenery, despite his American appearance. John is at ease in Mexico, but in a different way than Greg. John approached Mexico from an expatriate perspective. He is non-judgmental and accepting of all cultural and ethnic differences. As a soldier who served three tours of duty in Vietnam, he spent considerable time in foreign cities and countries, and learned how to enjoy himself in all of them. Mexico was always a favorite port of call.
On leaving Hussong’s, we collided into the last gasps of Carnival. Spanish hip-hop bands, on two outdoor stages, were guiding the thrusting movements of hundreds of dancers who meshed against one another. Couples, threesomes, and groups of strangers pressed against one another, locked in throbbing gyrations, following the beat. Thirty-five years ago, we might have been tempted to join in, but now it was oppressive and uncomfortable, and we looked for an escape. Greg spied a seam in the crowd and guided us to an open spot in the street. In that brief moment of tranquility, I heard the polka rhythms of a good norteno band playing musica ranchera , the rural music of Northern Mexico. I beckoned them to follow me into a side street filled with older Mexicans listening to this typical music. There was no pressing throng, and no throbbing beat, in that fenced-off side street, just a scattering of Mexican families swaying to their music. This was Mexico. We finished our beer in that peaceful setting, and at the next music break went back to the hotel.
The first nights of our reunions are endless. What begins as a travel day ends up an all night talk-a-thon in our room. We uncork the wine, break out the glasses, and settle in for a night of conversation and laughter. This is where we fill in the gaps of our on-going lives. All questions are allowed, and truthful answers are required. The topics may be mundane, exciting, or sorrowful, but our response to any news must always be supportive and humorous. As we arranged ourselves around the coffee table with our glasses of wine, John gave the first update on his family and himself.
Now in his second year of retirement, John was regaining some of the bounce and vigor that he had as younger man. He had lost thirty pounds by dieting and exercise, and looked fitter and healthier, than he had in years. John is the soldier of the group. He guides, guards and cares for us on all our travels. His experiences as an infantryman, ambulance driver, paramedic and fire fighter, all prepared him for this role. On many occasions, he has also been our nursemaid, worrying about our health, finances, and bad habits. This evening, he was particularly animated on the subject of heath and fitness because of his new diet and exercise regimen.
Greg, on the other hand, was clearly out of shape and still years away from retirement. He is the most enthusiastic and optimistic member of our group. He is a Visionary professionally, as a superintendent of schools, and Seer of endless possibilities whenever we traveled. Greg remembers more arcane and useless information than anyone I know. For example, he claimed to know the names of all the heavenly constellations, but I was never sure if he was reciting factual or fictional names. They all sounded real to me. On this evening, between news about his two sons, he told us the story of why pirates wear eye patches.
After describing the happenings of my wife and adult children, I quickly quizzed them about their reactions to my blog (internet log), which I had just made public the week before. To my disappointment, both Greg and John confessed that they hadn’t had a chance to read it. I tried to entice them into making the effort by telling them that I had written about them in my story on Pioneertown. I also refused to tell them how they were portrayed in this story. They would have to read it themselves. I warned them that I would be writing about this trip as well. I would be the official scribe on this adventure, recording with camera and blog.
After midnight, we halted our talk to go out looking for a street taco vendor for a snack. From there we made our way to the Bahia Sports Bar and Karaoke Emporium for a nightcap. In between Mexican songs and replays of national soccer games, we toasted our health, families, and our responsibilities as soldier, seer, and scribe. We were three amigos, getting older, and hopefully, wiser. We finally went to bed at about 2 0’clock.
On Sunday, we decided to take a return trip to Valle Guadalupe, the Guadalupe Valley. We passed the morning in Ensenada, having an outdoor breakfast, walking through the marina, and exploring artesanias, Mexican handicrafts, along the Main Street of town. The idea was to revisit the Ruta Vinicola, the Winery Road, that runs through the center of the Guadalupe Valley, about 15 miles inland from Ensenada. We had discovered this region on our visit last year. On that day in January of 2006, we spent an exciting day exploring the area trying to find wineries that offered wine for tasting and sale. On that occasion, we were only able to find two operating wineries with hospitality: Vina Liceaga, at the Western end of the Valley, and Vinicola L.A. (LA) Cetto, on the other. We spent a great deal of time making fruitless attempts at following signs and arrows that directed us to vinicolas and vinas that either didn’t exist, or were closed. The navigation of these dirt roads and narrow byways was tense, and sometimes, alarming, but it was always fun, and exciting. We joked, poked fun at each other and our fears, and kept our sense of wonder and astonishment. John’s military experience, Greg’s keen eyesight and intuition, and my confidence in their luck and ability, kept us safe and away from danger. We kept reminding ourselves that our goal was the discovery of new things, not reaching a particular destination, at any particular time. Overall, by the end of that day, we had traveled many miles, and explored many roads through the Valle Guadalupe, but only found two operating Wine Tasting establishments.
This year, our vintner goals were more realistic. We wanted to see if the area had developed economically, revisit the Liceaga and LA Cetto hospitality rooms, and be alert for new wineries. We entered from the valley, traveling east, and found the entrance of Vina Liceaga, a charming “pocket” winery at the beginning of Winery Road. We were happy to see that Liceaga was expanding, with more vineyards under cultivation, and new structures under construction. A friendly young woman, who explained the tasting procedure, and served us samples of the three wines and two aperitifs produced and bottled there, again, greeted us. After purchasing 2 bottles each, we proceeded to the eastern end of the valley. It was along the way that Greg thought he saw a winery on a hill, and suggested a visit. Not wanting to stop and explore, John promised that we would return on the way back.
LA Cetto is the Mexican version of California’s Gallo Wine Company. It is a huge, modern, commercial enterprise, which dominates the valley and Baja California. Its vineyards cover hectares and hectares of fertile land along the road and hillsides. However, what the winery lacks in Mexican charm and beauty, it makes up in American-style efficiency, production, and convenience. The Hospitality Room is spacious and orderly, and the, predominately male, serving staff is competent and quick. LA Cetto also offers the seductive amenity of permitting customers to buy and drink wine on the premises, and that made it a big hit with us. We purchases two chilled bottles of “adequate” Chenin Blanc, a loaf of crusty French bread, and ate lunch in a shady patio area by the side of the Hospitality Room. When finished, we had a smooth buzz going in our heads, and we were feeling fine. We started back along the Ruta de Vino, with Greg gazing steadily at the landscape and hillsides, searching for the chimerical winery he had spotted earlier. When he saw it, and yelled for John to turn, he set off a chain of events that would bemuse and astonish us for days and weeks. Greg’s ability to see what no one else could, guided our journey to Las Tres Mujeres, and La Cava Mosaica.
Greg led us back to the woman in khaki and violet. A neatly groomed man in jeans and work shirt had joined her. I could not figure it out. Where were the vines, the buildings, and the hospitality room?
“Senora”, I asked, “venden vino?”; Do you sell wine?
She flashed me a captivating and brilliant smile, and said, “Si, como no! Pase y ven conmigo”;
Of course we do! Come this way and I’ll show you.
We followed her along a path that ran alongside of the house, and then turned towards a door built into a mound or hill. At the entrance, we met a second woman, holding an empty Sparkletts water container. She wore spectacles, faded jeans, and a green turtleneck sweater. Shyly brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, she greeted us and bid us follow her. John led the way, disappearing into the cave, which appeared to be hewn into the hill. As we followed, I leaned toward Greg and said, “Doesn’t this seem a little strange?”
“Yah”, Greg replied, “don’t you love it!”
We entered a mutedly lighted, rock-lined cavern that served as a wine cellar. Massive wooden beams, mounted with track lights, criss-crossed the ceiling. Steel-rimmed, oaken barrels lined the left side of the wall, and wooden beams, in various shapes, acted as wine racks on the other. Against the far wall, there was a mosaic art piece, depicting an abstract design of a lush vine branch, bearing clusters of differently colored grapes. In the corner of the cellar, between the mosaic and wine racks, another grey haired man and shorthaired woman, in a beige apron, bent over an upright wine barrel and a large plastic container. They appeared to be funneling dark fluid contents of one, into another bubbling vat of deep red wine. They were toiling away, mixing or separating the wine, when the smiling woman in violet pointed us out. As we shook hands, the curly-haired woman in violet finally asked, “Would you like to taste some wine?” The woman in the apron was laughing as she welcomed us, setting three glasses on the wine cask, which now served as a table. The shy woman in green handed a glass to each of us, and the woman in violet quickly filled them with dark, red wine. “Salud”, they said in unison, and we drank.
I was struck dumb by this magical scene. I was enchanted by the muted, glowing light, coming from the ceiling, the gleaming rock walls, the shining stacks of crystal bottles, the mosaic designs, and the presence of these three beguiling women. Unable to speak, I took out my camera and began taking photographs of Greg, John, and the trio of women. Although reluctant at first, they finally agreed to pose with us, after John and Greg beseeched them. Using a combination of English and Spanish, we eventually discovered that they were owners of this winery. Each of the three red wines, which we tasted, was named for the woman who made it. Eva was the amused, shorthaired woman in the apron. Evette was the smiling, curly-haired, woman in violet who we first met. Laura was the shy, bespectacled woman in jeans and turtleneck. As Evette poured from a new bottle, she would point to the woman who made it. “This is Eva’s, this is Laura’s, and this is mine”. Each offering imparted its own distinct taste and clarity to us. The wine also seemed to cloud my thinking, making it difficult to ask clear questions in Spanish. Instead, I pointed at a trio of bottles displayed on the rack behind Eva. They were set in a unique box made of gnarled cactus wood. If I could not talk, at least I could point. “Cuanto son?” asked Greg, How much are they?
I purchased the box set of three, and Greg a box of two bottles. However, it was fearless John who made the bold request that surprised and pleased the ladies. He wished to buy their favorite wines, with the provision that they each autograph their particular bottle. I watched in envy as each female vintner wrote a special message to John and signed it. Once the purchases were made, and the money exchanged, it struck us that our business here was over and we had to leave. Slowly and reluctantly, we shook hands and said goodbye to Laura, Eva and Evette. They accompanied us as far as the entrance of the cave, and then waved goodbye as we walked away.
We came out of the spell when the passenger doors slammed shut and we were again enclosed in the isolation of John’s truck. “Wow”, I said, “what was that about?”
“I don’t know”, said Greg, “but we need a beer”.
I caressed the wine case of gnarled, wormy wood that lay on the seat next to me, and unknotted the leather strap that bound the cover. Looking at the three bottles of wine, all of my unasked questions came flooding into my head: how long had they lived there, what inspired them to start a winery, how did they meet, and who were those men? Question, after question, after question buffeted me during the short ride out of the Guadalupe Valley. In what seemed a blink of an eye, we arrived at our destination, La Pasadita, a roadside beer and snack joint on the Old Road between Rosarito and Ensenada. It was at this favorite drinking spot that we began to de-brief our visit with these three women. Ordering a round of beers and some cacauates, peanuts, we attempted to make sense out of this encounter. An inspection of John’s bottles provided the most vital information. Looking at these artifacts, we learned that the mysterious winery was called, Vinicola Tres Mujeres, Winery of the Three Women. The fantastic wine cellar was called Cava Mosaica, Mosaic Cave, or Cavern. John and Greg also bemoaned the countless unasked questions, which were only now occurring to them. It was at this point that I made my most important contribution as scribe and recorder. I showed them the digital pictures I took. I had captured their images, and their lair. I had photos of La Cava Mosaica, the three women together, and one with the Three Amigos with Laughing Eva. My inspiration was to return to their vinicola at another time with a personal gift. I would make a duo photo frame of the photos I had taken of Las Tres Mujeres, and Los Tres Amigos. Bearing this gift, we three wise men, would again travel east on the Ruta Vinicola to La Cava Mosaica.
As John and Greg continued speculating on this future visit, I leaned back with my beer and had an epiphany. This encounter was the serendipitous or synchronistic event we had prayed for in that outdoor patio in San Diego. It was a sign that we exist in a spiritual and enchanted universe, filled with mysterious and fascinating people who can teach us things about ourselves. On this trip, the appearance, manner, and actions of the Tres Mujeres were especially magical. These women reminded me of other female trios in myth and legend: three Fates, three Sirens, three Furies, and the three witches who warned MacBeth. Three women found Jesus arisen from the cave on Easter Sunday. Three women aided Percival in his quest for the Holy Grail. Women also operated the cavern that housed the Oracle of Delphi. Greek heroes sought these females to discover their fate and fortune. Ironically, the best advice at Delphi was carved over the cavern itself: KNOW THYSELF. All of these women served as signs, symbols, or avatars of TRUTH. We were three old men, a soldier, a seer, and a scribe, seeking wisdom. Were we Three Wise Men? Perhaps that would be going too far. All of us contributed on this journey; John was unafraid to follow a road going nowhere, Greg saw what no one else could see, and I believed it all had meaning. We did not find the Holy Grail in the Cava Mosaica. Instead, we discovered three Sprites who made the experience magical, and reminded us that fabulous things happen when you believe they will.
