But all in all, life is pretty good right now. I have been eating and living well. Two nights ago my friend and I cooked an asado for some French girls we were traveling with. I don’t think they realized we had no idea what we were doing. It took us a long time to get a decent fire going with the sticks and kindling we found lying around and we were lucky the coals caught. While it cooked they laughed to themselves and it took me a long time to realize I had black soot all over my face. Still, all things considered, the asado turned out well.
My friend liked the girls more than I did. We left them this morning and I was happy to get away. They spoke no Spanish, less English, and walked very, very slowly. The other night we were at dinner with them and a French guy named Jeremy. Jeremy spoke perfect English but no Spanish. The girls were asking the waitress what an item on the menu was and hand motions were only getting them so far. The waitress asked me for my help. I translated what the waitress said to me into English for Jeremy and Jeremy translated what I said to French for the girls. After all that, it turned out they wanted something else.
Thankfully though, what the girls lacked in companionship we made up for with dogs. In all these tiny mountain towns stray dogs are everywhere. We found Alfred in Tilcara; he was squat, ugly, and ran with a pronounced limp in his back left leg. When his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth it looked like he was smiling. He followed us home one night and we gave him some food. In the morning he was still there, and still smiling. Everywhere we went after that, Alfred followed. When it came time to leave town, he curled up underneath our bench at the bus station and licked at our feet. The bus arrived and we asked the driver if we could take our dog. He said no, it was illegal. We asked if we could bribe him. He said normally yes, but there was a cop ten feet behind us. We watched Alfred limp-hop after the bus as we pulled away: it felt like a scene from Where the Red Fern Grows.
In the next town we found Buddy—a bigger, prettier, and altogether worse dog. He had a habit of picking up dried horse shit and dropping it at our feet to play fetch. He chased cars and bit at their wheels. When they stopped, he pissed on their fenders.
Alfred, if you are reading this, know that you are irreplaceable.
That night, after we managed to ditch Buddy, we returned to our hostel. It cost seven dollars a night. There was a group of middle aged Argentines grilling outside our room and they invited us over. They gave us a lot of good food and were very sweet. The moms kept showing us pictures of their daughters. They drank good wine and kept our cups full without us every having to ask.
Only in Argentina they said, only in Argentina do people invite strangers over for dinner. We are a very warm people.
Yes, I said. Yes, you are. They pounded me on the back and filled my glass again. Everybody’s face seemed happy and kind by the firelight. It was a lovely evening.
Later we went to a peña with those that were still awake. A peña is a sort of restaurant that plays traditional folk music. Dani, who rode a motorcycle and was my favorite of the group, was clearly a peña expert. Within five minutes of our arrival he had the whole restaurant up and dancing. Danny grabbed hands and danced with an absolutely blind-drunk indigenous woman named Rosita while I danced with his wife. At some point, Rosita decided she could do a better job than the drummer and took his sticks and started to play. She was surprisingly good.
When we woke in the morning, Buddy was waiting outside.
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