Fueled by cheap fine wine, the four of us paddled from vineyard to vineyard to vineyard under the wealthy Mendozan sun. The day was as green as it was warm and our sleeves were short and our worries less than a few. And then, some two thousand miles later, we were neck-deep in winter jackets, our eyes clinging to a glacier that knew all hues of all blues. Down there in Patagonia it was autumn in spring, Mt. Fitzroy all dressed up in kaleidoscopic foliage, and everything reigned by harsh winds. Along those endless highways, inching towards far horizons, we found our way just fine, ever south, through prairie lands and the smallest towns with the best empanadas. And when we reached the end of the world in Ushuaia, we turned around and made our way back up, upper and then some, until we reached Iguazu falls, where the water fell, fell, fell fantastically.
After traversing the country from top to bottom and left to right, we settled in Buenos Aires for a bit, living another one of these little short-term lives with the weeks dissolving fast. Our puny apartment in San Telmo had it all, except for windows, and right at its doorstep flea markets with tango, pizza with olives, and the Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur. We dipped out toes into the nightlife, percussion, jazz and parties, strolled among the dead at Recoleta cemetery and among the living along Avenida 9 de Julio and Avenida de Mayo and in a thousand flavorful side streets. It was one of the harder goodbyes this one, home-bound planes for three of us and a 48h bus ride to Rio for me.
linesAUTUMN IN SPRING| In my calendar it said spring, but down there the foliage read autumn and being mistaken had never been prettier.