Hot Heir

A funny thing happened on the way to Cafayate: Benji decided he'd had enough. Enough of the driving, the hotels, the altitude changes and the temperature swings.  An angel on the relatively easy - if rustic-  highway between Tafi and Cafayate, Benji let it be known that the place we just left would be our last adult-oriented vacation destination until 2017.

Cafayate could not be more charming. Imagine Sonoma in 1962. Winemakers and vacationers have discovered it but given it's relatively remote location you are spared the worst of Los Angeles and continental Europe.  Our last visit three years ago had us drooling for empty buildings surrounding the verdant main square being practically given away; this year things were bustling and renovating.  Malbec is a hit.

Especially with us, as Benji careened from one tantrum to the next.  Between salving my icy-needle sunburn nerve damage and taking - dragging - him away screaming through the square while Juan tried to quickly finish his dinner, we had plenty of opportunities to taste at least our first bottle of what Cafayate has become rightly famous for. Subsequent tastes had perhaps a more medicinal intent.

I guess that since we're both a little anxiety-prone and generally sensitive people, Benji's sudden personality shift hit us pretty hard.  We got angry at his aggression.  Everything we tried to help him through it, including giving him exactly what he asked for, was met with even stronger resistance. "Time out" is not effective when you're in a public park with horsey rides and home is a hotel you checked into mere hours ago. In the middle of his terror,  there is no fixing him.

If I am honest with myself I'll admit the problem was not his to fix.  We had brought our 2 year old 7,000 miles from home on a trip with at least 8 changes of venue. From numerous airplanes to Buenos Aires to Tucuman, Tafi, Cafayate - it was way too much for him to process. We needed to stop and smell the hotel pool for a day. Which is exactly how the rest of our trip played out.

Passed by were the subsequent plans for the museums, the dinners out, the sailing trip around Buenos Aires and the horseback ride to the rural school for traditional BBQ.  Instead, we spent our last week in Argentina planning how little we could do given our flight and hotel reservations.

Our last day in Cafayate was spent entirely by the hotel pool, baking in the heat and staring along with the other guests at the freakish rainbow that ran in a straight line from horizon to horizon.  Buenos Aires, two days later, was an exercise in loafishness that few have attempted: 97 degrees and we dedicated the entire day to being outside in parks playing ball and sleeping under palm trees.

In the end I think it was a wonderful trip, both an adventure and a bunch of days doing nothing.  There are worse things in life than a siesta in a park in Palermo, Buenos Aires with lazy dogs curled nearby and a quiet boy watching, absorbing, and giving us the vacation we all needed.