March 5.

Today, I saw a lot. Silvia, Carola and I decided to climb a hill first. Narrow dirt roads and steep dusty sand paths lead us to a platform with a magnificent view. I have pictures. The scenery reminded me of Switzerland, but it was much wider and a little more impressive. The way down, walking underneath the tourist cable car, was even dustier. In big clouds of dust we ran down to the bike rental.
Because that was going to be our next activity. We picked up three nice all-terrain bikes and helmets and started the Circuito Chico. Chico means small in Argentina. The scenery was very impressive, the road sometimes a bit steep and the uphill parts were not so easy for us untrained cyclists, but we managed it in time. Again, the view was beautiful, especially the Punto Panoramico we mistakenly looked for at a lavender farm. You get the pattern? Moving around, view, moving around, view. Isn’t it interesting how easily such a story can turn a beautiful day trip into a boring, dull thing? The words seem to kill it. I must be sued. But I think it is a common thing, that’s why I mention it. If you ask the average traveler about his experience he’ll tell you about all the amazing kicks: about the killing he witnessed, the paragliding that went wrong, the bugs he had to eat alive. That’s labeled exciting, it makes other people go “wow” and envious. But man how poor it is! I must rescue the little experiences. Yesterday I saw a kitten and that changed my life. I saw a bunch of red grapes with a green spot on it and it changed entirely who I am.

We went out that night to a bar called the Cantina. I drank too much. Wine, beer, wodka, and danced to dubbed reggae not bad at all. Our host Ruben drank a lot more and did find the way home in a miraculous way, sleeping on the bus and getting out at exactly the right stop. We walked home on the dirt road. I stumbled about the grey tile floor and when felt a mattress underneath, I was knocked out straight away and slept until the sun stood high.

It would be a good idea to read something again. I think of a story that starts like this: “I live in the library for three months now. I haven’t read a single word.” A man or a woman dwells for months in that library without ever touching a book, until one day he or she opens one and the first sentence she reads makes him or her cry salty tears.

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