Spending 10 days at the foot of the Andes covering the U.S. U-20s proved a delight for Senior Editor Scott French thanks to the friendly folks of Mendoza. By the time the Yanks left for Buenos Aires, the Mendocinas were sad to see them go. BY SCOTT FRENCH in Mendoza, Argentina It’s true, what they say: The world is Bora Milutinovic’s home; he has friends in every neighborhood. Bora and I are crossing Avenida Sarmiento in Ciudad de Mendoza. The new, gleaming-white Hyatt/Grand Casino shines behind us, and a string of parillas anxiously await our entrance. A passing car nearly slams into a row of parked cars, its driver jerking his head as Bora walks by. It has to be Bora: Nobody ever recognizes me. As we pass each parilla — Argentine for “barbecue,” I am told, although “steakhouse” is a truer translation — Bora is greeted with holas, one after another. We walk into La Florencia, the biggest and most popular of the restaurants on Sarmiento, and the staff scurries about to greet its esteemed visitor. When we depart an hour later, en route to Malvinas Argentinas for the second of three Group C doubleheaders, everyone wants his picture taken with the famed coach. He is holding court, as he used to at his favorite Italian restaurant in Laguna Niguel, in Orange County, where he lived — and still maintains a home — while serving as the U.S. national team coach. The other patrons at the restaurant, the name of which escapes me, could never place this middle-aged foreigner with the Beatles haircut and stumbling English, and they never understood the reception he received: The kitchen staff and waiters, most of them Mexican, always reacted as if Harrison Ford and Julia Roberts had stopped into dine. Bora, always gracious, would greet each like an old friend and step into the kitchen to say hello to the chefs. Lunch, no surprise, was always terrific. Back on Sarmiento, there are 10 minutes of photos, of talk “about the life,” as Bora would say, and then we’re in a taxi en route to the stadium. The cabbie, speaking to Bora like he’s an old friend, offers congratulations for the Argentina title San Lorenzo — one of the clubs Bora has coached — recently captured. “They still remember,” Bora says, “that in eight games at San Lorenzo, we were unbeaten. Four wins, four ties.” I ask him how many times he has been to Mendoza. “Never,” he replies. It just seems like home, and in the 10 days I’ll spend in this small city (pop. 120,000) at the foot of the Andes, that’s a feeling I will come to easily understand. The Mendocinas may not gawk as I, or other non-Bora visitors, pass by, but almost all of them will do everything in their power to make us know that their home is ours, too. It’s a beautiful city, clean small and walkable, with gorgeous plazas populated by all manner of trees (each labeled with its origin) and fountains. Plaza Independencia, four square blocks at the center of the downtown grid, is the focal point, containing a theater, museum, children’s play area, gazebo, myriad paths. The new Hyatt and Paseo Sarmiento, a walking street of shops and cafes, serve as bookends. Artists sell their wares on one of the paths, and lovers dawdle at the huge fountain near its center. Four smaller plazas, each with different character, circle Independencia. Plaza San Martin seems to be home to “gypsy” women: One insisted upon reading my palm, continually placing a cross on my hand and yammering in Spanish as I repeated, “No comprehendo” and “Yo Espanol muy poquito” to no avail. I gave her a peso; she took that as a sign to continue with the fortune-telling. Plaza de Italia, with Romanesque statuary, is peaceful; the beautifully tiled Plaza de Espana — a museum in itself — is the prettiest spot in town. “Wild” dogs roam the street, but “wild” requires quotemarks. A friend of mine, in the Peace Corps a few years ago, was stationed in a small Hungarian city not far from the Romanian border. Her town, too, had wild dogs, which ran in packs and frightened the villagers. The lead dog had red eyes and was called “Devil Dog.” Word was, my friend told me, it had killed a child, but I didn’t believe it. We came upon the dogs one night, and, yes, they were scary. Not Mendoza’s. They look healthy, they seem friendly, they don’t bite or snarl. I’d pass them as they slept on the sidewalks or on the grass at Plaza Independencia, saw them romp together — one happily joined a group of girls jogging through the streets one morning; the girls didn’t seem to mind. The foresty Parque San Martin, west of downtown, is Mendoza’s version of Central Park or Golden Gate Park. That was Bora’s assessment: “This is like America,” he told the cabbie as we rode through its winding roads to the stadium. There’s enough in Mendoza to entice tourists for a day or so, not much more, but it seems a most livable city. Its greatest resource is its people, who during our week and a half there treated us like family. Wolfgang Suhnholz, whose U.S. squad was stationed in Mendoza for the first stage of the World Youth Championship, will tell you the same thing. The Americans enjoyed a marvelous reception from the Mendocinas, but he wasn’t shedding any tears when the Yanks’ second-place finish in their group meant they had to leave. It had nothing to do with the draw — second place in Group C was the place to be, matched with the weakest of the 16 teams to advance from group play (Egypt) and given a relatively simple path to the semifinals — although that didn’t hurt, either. It’s easy to become comfortable in Mendoza, perhaps too comfortable. “As much as we like it here and everything, after awhile everything can become old,” Suhnholz admitted midway through the first round. “Especially for us, for the American kid. I think it would be for us very motivating to go to a different place. I think we would pick up from that, because I can sense — even here, as good as everything is — eventually you need a change. It becomes too old, too routine.” No danger of that anymore. The Americans and those following them relocated to Buenos Aires on Monday. In a few days, as long as the expected victory over the Egyptians is achieved, it’s off to Rosario to face Angola or the Netherlands. Then to Cordoba for a semifinal, likely against Brazil or Ghana. Then back to Buenos Aires. That’s the schedule if everything goes according to plan. My preference would have been to remain in Mendoza. I’m told Cordoba is beautiful, and D.J. Countess and Landon Donovan have sworn that I’ll find Buenos Aires — a city I know only from the 40-minute bus ride from the international airport to the domestic airport — one of the world’s great cities. Could be, but Mendoza had become a home away from home. The key to that was food. The city is filled with marvelous restaurants, parillas and Italian and Spanish. The only subpar meals I had were from McDonald’s. I learned my lesson about Argentine dining my first night in town. Starving, I headed to Trevi, an Italian place on Las Heras — one of two primary shopping streets — at about 8:30 p.m. When I walked in, the staff was incredulous. Yes, they were open and only too happy to feed me, but 8:30? What could I have been thinking? Nobody in Argentina, I quickly learn, is even thinking dinner before, oh, 10 o’clock. Every restaurant, or nearly every restaurant, is open until 2 a.m., some later. Nightlife begins about 2:30, and some people are getting home sometime around 8 a.m. When do they sleep? I sampled a lot of Mendoza’s cuisine, Lonely Planet guiding my choices, and the best of the lot was a Spanish restaurant in an old building on Montevideo, just a few steps from Plaza de Espana. I stumbled into El Meson Espanol the night before the U.S. opener. Since my Spanish is not good, the proprietor sent a short, round man to my table as soon as I was seated. “Whatever you need, let me know,” he tells me, his nearly perfect English only slightly accented. “I do not work here — I am only a patron. But I am here five, six nights a week, going on 22 years.” His name is Arrigo Zanessi, he is 74 years old, and he and his wife live across Montevideo, where he runs a recording studio. He steers me toward a Spanish version of bouillabaisse, recommends a Cabernet-Malbec blend — Mendoza is the chief city in the Cuyo region, Argentina’s wine country — and returns to my table several times to talk about California, where he does business, about the futbol that has brought me to his town, or about the other patrons in the restaurant, whom I quickly learn are like family. There is a blind pianist who sings in Spanish, Italian and English, tangos and pop songs, old Argentine folk songs, Sinatra, even “Tie A Yellow Ribbon.” He has marvelous technique, and everyone in the restaurant sings along. Some, Arrigo included, step up to the piano to sing — “This is the only place you must pay to sing,” he tells me — and another diner pulls out his guitar and joins in. One of the waiters — among the few present who is not old enough to be my grandparent — sits in with a 12-string instrument, something akin to a mandolin, when he has the time. When the pianist takes a break, an elderly woman, 92 years old, I am told, plays a beautiful melody. The owner, a pleasant, graying man a few years too old to be Arrigo’s son, pours to me from his bottle of wine, and I am beckoned to the table he shares with the Zanessis and another man, who turns out to be the mandolin-playing waiter’s father. Soon, scotch is being poured, more songs are being sung, and I am being introduced to everyone. A woman, near 80, tells me I am so handsome and that she is in love with me. Arrigo was born in Italy, in Venice, but moved to Mendoza as a child. “Two-thirds of the people in Mendoza have Italian blood,” he tells me. He is a soccer fan but roots for no particular team, except when the World Cup or some other significant international tournament is held. When Argentina plays Italy, he cheers for both. He invites me to visit his recording studio in the next few days — it is an impressive place, and he presents me a CD of various music played by Mendocinas artists when I do stop by — and when I depart the restaurant, three and a half hours after entering, I am showered with hugs and kisses. It is truly a remarkable place. I return twice more, and the same people are there each time. By my third visit, bolstered by Mendoza wine, I join Arrigo and the pianist for “New York, New York.” I’m amazed I remember the words. Arrigo, it turns out, will be in San Francisco next month, and we make plans to meet. I am asked to return when I am back in Mendoza, an easy promise to keep. Who knows if I will ever be in Argentina again, but if I am, Mendoza will be my destination. My second night at El Meson Espanol is followed by a visit to the Hyatt piano bar, which has become a gathering place for some of the U.S. players’ parents and their offspring. Philip Salyer — the dad, not the defender — buys me a beer, and I meet his sons Shawn and Chad. Shawn has gotten to know the staff of the bar, Ana Laura, Valeria, Marcos, and says they are all going to a disco when the bar closes. The following day is a light day work-wise, so I tag along, and by 2:30 we are in the darkest, most crowded space imaginable. The music is loud, the beats insistent, and the DJ travels from techno to Argentine rock to the Doors, Clash and Offspring. The Argentine girls, some of them young enough to be my daughter — “I’ve been getting in here since I was 13,” one tells me — will dance with us, but most do not speak English. The Hyatt staff joins us about 90 minutes after we arrive, and most of them are fluent in our language; we also meet a Virginia girl, just 17, who has been studying in Mendoza for the past year. Shawn and I work up a major sweat dancing, and when we finally leave, a little before 6 a.m., the place is still raging. It is a weeknight. A good 95 percent of the volunteers at Malvinas Argentinas are women, most of them students at one of the city’s two major universities. Most of them speak English, and they are very taken with the Americans, especially D.J. Countess. I quickly make friends with Victoria (from accreditation), Ayelin (who does a bit of everything) and Edith (Mendoza tourism). Ayelin — pronounced similar to “Ashlyn” — is a wonderful guide to all things Argentine. She speaks with a slightly British accent — “Our teachers are British,” she says, “and we are taught that the Queen’s English is correct” — and explains that most Mendocinas hate Chileans (“We are so close, it is a big rivalry”), how her countrymen worship Diego Maradona (“It is God and then Diego, maybe Diego first”) and the provinces’ relationship with the people in Buenos Aires (“They think we live in huts”). The stadium itself is nothing special, aside from its location, in the center of Parque San Martin. Its capacity is 36,000, much of it standing room, and its seats aren’t the least bit luxurious. The fans cheer for the United States only when it plays hated Chile, and most of the songs they sing are meant to sting their western neighbors. One goes: “We don’t care/We don’t care/We don’t care/For Chilean sons of bitches.” Another, designed for when Chile’s fans are sitting in despair (something common in Chile’s losses to Ukraine and the Americans): “Everyone who is sitting/Is not going to Japan.” (Argentina will be one of the favorites at the 2002 World Cup; Chile’s qualification results have been horrendous.) The Argentine fans ogle the sisters of U.S. players, demanding that they dance for them — “One of them grabbed my ass,” reports Crista Countess, D.J.’s sister — but anti-American sentiment exists. They lead the Chinese followers into a “F*** you, USA!” chant, and shrilly whistle the Yanks when they take on the Ukrainians. It is the only time the Mendocinas exhibit any nastiness toward their visitors, and those doing so are a small minority. The townspeople, indeed, are quite impressed with the North Americans. “Everybody loves the Americans here,” Ayelin tells me one afternoon. “The players are so nice, not like the Ukraine players, and the Chinese aren’t allowed to talk to us. But the Americans talk to you and are friendly.” “I love to speak in English,” Edith says, “and all of the Americans are so nice to speak with me.” When the first stage ends, and it is Ukraine — not the Americans — who remain in town for the Round of 16, several of the volunteers tell me they are sad to see the team, and those of us following the team, leave. “We wish you could stay here,” Edith says. It’s a feeling I share.