The snow made everything but my footsteps quiet.

Who needs a story when you have sheep?

In high definition, no less.

It was a lazy afternoon in Cordoba.

I ate ice cream, walked around, and drank wine-- in that order. I met a bartender who is a writer, was a professional footballer, and hopes to be an architect. Either he is impressive for the scope of his accomplishments or the breadth of his lies.

I arrived in San Luis last night. I am here visiting a friend of my mother's. I had not realized she is a relatively well known public figure until her chauffeur picked me up from the bus station to drive me to her estancia. I told him I was not accustomed to traveling in such class. That said, I can certainly adjust.

This is the perfect place to finish out my travels. Pauola, the help, makes what might be the best cup of coffee I've ever had. There is a dried and cured pig leg in some pig-leg-holding-device on the counter, hoof and all. You slice some meat off and you have wonderfully salty raw ham. It is almost as good as the coffee.

The grounds are about 4,000 acres. They remind me of the woods behind my first home where I used to explore and get lost everyday after school. They seemed as huge and magical as this place really is. I went for a hike today up a small mountain to see what sort of view it offered. On the way up I managed to scare a sort of giant jack-rabbit that was about as big as my dog. Later, I also spooked a very average sized fox. I think the rabbit would take him in a fight.

On top of the mountain the wind was so strong it was hard to stand. I think if I had held out my arms and leaned over the edge the gusts would have held me up. I found a large U-shaped channel in the rock that had been cut by millions of years of running water. It was inclined enough that I was still able to see the fields below me when I lay down in it to escape the wind. The gusts sounded like breaths blown over a bottle but lying in the channel they couldn't touch me at all. If I raised my hand even a foot above my face they blew so hard it was hard to hold my arm steady. I was warm and comfortable and I watched a mare and her colt gallop over to the deep bend in a river for a drink. From where I was the water seemed impossibly blue.

I got lost returning to the house but I was in no hurry. When I found it, it was nice to get in from the cold.

I’m writing this with a sick fuck two seats away from me on a public bus.

I am furious and my stomach is twisted into a knot. I am staring at the back of his head. He is fat and has greasy ear length black hair and dark skin. His teeth seem pointy. I viscerally hate him.

Let me start from the beginning.

I got back from a long hike late yesterday evening. There was nobody at my hostel so I let myself in the side door and went into my room. I sat on my bed, the lower of two bunks, and surfed the web. After a while a man walked a step or two into my room. He was fat and had greasy ear length black hair and dark skin. His teeth seemed pointy. I did not yet hate him. He looked around as though he had walked into the wrong room. I said hello like it was a question. He apologized, went away, and I returned my attention to my laptop. Ten minutes later he came back. He leaned against the doorframe. I’m Diego, he said.

I said nice to meet you and he walked into the room. He seemed like he was trying to make friends. He asked where I was from. I answered. He said he had just moved into the room next door. I nodded. He stepped closer to my bed. He asked if I was traveling alone. I said I was not. He was more socially awkward than creepy. He told me he was in the Facultad de Medicina in Buenos Aires. I told him my grandfather, aunt, and cousin went to school there. He smiled with those teeth.

He told me I spoke well. I said thanks. He said I was tall. I did not answer. He said it again. I said not really. When he asked if it was just me and my friend in the room I didn’t like the way he looked around at our things. I picked up a book and pretended to start to read; I wanted him to leave. He rested a hand against the top bunk and leaned down so that we were face to face. He asked for my name again. I told him and he held out his hand. When I shook it he pulled himself into me and tried to kiss me. I nearly fell over leaning out of the way and he adjusted himself and kissed me on the cheek in a normal Argentine greeting. I couldn’t tell if I had imagined that he tried to kiss me on the lips. My adrenaline was pumping. I sized him up. He was a couple inches shorter than me but weighed at least fifty or sixty pounds more. I wondered if he had a weapon. I wondered if somebody would hear me if I yelled. The room was silent. Then he reached out and started rubbing my cheek. I jumped up, checked into him as hard as I could with my shoulder to get past him, and ran out of the room. He stayed inside by my bed. He looked at me and said, I was right, you are tall. I told him to get out of my room. He walked out casually and asked where the bathrooms were. I backed far away from him and pointed. He walked off towards them and I sprinted out of the hostel barefoot, unwilling to go back into my room for my shoes.

I waited on the corner outside until I saw the owner come back. I told him what had happened and he said I did the right thing in leaving. I said I didn’t like that his room had an adjoining door to ours that I couldn’t lock. He said nothing was going to happen. I felt physically sick. The situation was so far from anything I have ever dealt with as a guy that I didn’t know how to respond to it. I still don’t. All of a sudden I understood infinitely more about one’s body as personal property: an assumption so basic that I had never had reason to question or even consider it before. All of a sudden I understood girls' fear about traveling alone. But more than anything, I felt violated, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before.

My friend came back and I told him what had happened. He thought it was funny. I tried to explain it to him as best I could and he laughed at how shaken up I was. He told me if the guy tried anything we’d just beat the shit out of him. I started to feel better, going so far as to think I may have somehow misconstrued the whole thing. We stood up to go to dinner and Diego walked by. I clenched my teeth and stared at him, but he wasn’t looking at me- he was looking at my friend.

And he winked at him as he walked by.

I hadn’t misconstrued anything. I couldn’t believe it. Did that actually just happen? Really, a wink? Who the hell was this guy? Was he just messing with us? My friend started laughing again.

We went to dinner, came back, and settled down in the common area to read. I still felt sick to my stomach. I was starting to worry about the night. Our room was separated from Diego’s by two doors that opened inwards to the other room. There was no lock, or door handles for that matter. Where the handles used to be there were now two holes. My bed was immediately inside the doors.

At one point, Diego walked into the common room and stood there. I felt another shot of adrenaline surge inside me. We looked up and he waved at us tentatively and then just walked out of the room. He didn’t say anything. Ten minutes later he came back into the room holding his phone up like he was texting. He peered at us over the top of it for a little while then left.

What the fuck, I asked my friend, am I imagining this stuff?

He’s messing with us, he said.

My friend went off to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The bathrooms were past Diego’s room. When he came back he told me Diego was lying naked on top of his bed with both blinds all the way up. It looked like he was beating off.

We were the only other people booked in the hostel for that night. My friend didn’t think the situation was as funny any more.

We walked into our room, found a big wooden board, and laid it against the doors as quietly as we could. If he opened them the board would fall and we would wake up. We went back out to the common area and read some more. At one or two in the morning the owner said he was closing up and going home so we had to go to our room. I told him I was moving to a bed further away from the door. He said that was fine. We walked into our room and checked if the board had moved—it hadn’t. Then we heard the moaning: loud, high-pitched, extremely gay moaning. We heard his bed banging against the wall. I walked out immediately and found the owner before he left. I can’t do this, I told him. He’s in the next room beating off at full volume. Seriously? The owner asked. He almost laughed but saw that I didn’t think it was funny. He walked into our room to listen but the sex noises had stopped. Listen you guys, he said, if I could move you I would but there are no other rooms. What can I say? You’re two guys. You’re pretty big. He’s not going to try anything. If he does, kick his ass. With that, he locked up and left.

We stood in our room and listened for anything. I wanted to throw up. It was all too ridiculous to seem real. My friend picked up a wooden two by four we found in the yard. We stood and listened. Then the board we had put against the doors fell. The fucker had tried to crack open the doors between our rooms.

What is this, Diego asked, picking the board up. Why do you put this against my door? Is it because you want to sleep in my bed?

Shut the fuck up and stay the fuck over there, I said.

He asked again, do you want to sleep in my bed? He was smiling.

My friend walked forward and slammed the doors shut on him. Then we packed our bags as fast as we could. The whole time we saw his eyes watching us through the holes in the doors. When we had to grab something near the doors we had one person with the wooden two by four stand ready to swing in case he tried to do something.

We phoned the owner from outside. He came back and saw us on the curb with our bags. We explained what had happened. The owner was pissed now. He said come with me. We walked to Diego’s room and the owner threw the door open without knocking and walked in. Diego flopped onto his stomach quickly, trying to act like he had been asleep.

What’s going on, Diego asked, rubbing his eyes.

Tell him what you told me, the owner said.

We did. Diego called us liars. We called him a sick fuck. He called us crazy. The owner explained we had been staying there for four days, had caused zero problems, and as such, he was inclined to believe our story. I wanted to add that we were also clearly not creepy, fat, and alone. The owner told Diego he had to leave but he didn’t move. The owner yelled that he would call the police if he didn’t get up that second, pack his things, and go. Then it became clear he wasn’t moving because he was naked under the blanket.

We waited in the lobby for the rest of the episode, but eventually Diego left, protesting the entire way out the door. The owner moved us to another hostel he owned: he had been seriously creeped out by Diego while we were in the lobby and he didn’t know if he would try to come back in the night.

When it was all done I needed a drink. I didn’t sleep much either. I thought about how easy it is to forget how fucked up some people in this world are. I kept thinking about his eyes peeping through that hole in the door.

In the morning, none of it seemed real. It was simply too bizarre. When I thought of the guy touching my cheek I cringed. My friend and I went for an amazing trek with the owner of the hostel as our guide and after we got on the 6:00 bus to go fourteen hours south to Cordoba. At this point, the story is strange and disgusting but still believable. Just wait.

Two policemen got on the bus a couple stops outside of town. One sat behind my friend and I and one sat immediately to my right. A couple hours passed. Then guess who gets on, pointy teeth and all, and sits in the last empty seat directly in front of the cop to my right? Yep. Un-fucking-believeable, I know. As he got on we made eye contact and I think my heart stopped for a full beat before my brain registered who it was. He saw that I saw him and looked away quickly. I shook my friend to my left awake and he was as amazed as I was. The cop to my right watched us curiously. The fact that we picked him up that far outside of town meant he caught the 2:00 am bus the night before—immediately after he got kicked out.

We wrote a text message: Heads up—the guy that just got on the bus in front of you was kicked out of our hostel last night for sexually harassing us. Then I tapped the cop on the arm and handed him the phone.

He read it twice then raised his eyebrows at me. He handed the phone to the other cop who read it and handed it back to me. The one to my right took out his phone and wrote a message. He handed me the phone: he had to convince the driver to let him on. He has no money and claims he was stranded and needs to get home to Tafi del Valle.

Now I raised my eyebrows. Diego had told me he was from Buenos Aires.

This gets me to where I took out my laptop and started writing-- my admittedly vehement opening lines fueled by the sight of his lumpy body slouched into a bus seat close enough for me to kick. But it takes time to write, and in that time my bus reached Tafi, and in Tafi, Diego got off. He never made eye contact with us and we know because we never stopped staring at him. I wanted the eye contact: it was my turn to scare him now. He tried to look at us a couple of times out of the corner of his eyes but saw that we were watching and looked away quickly.

That was it. He got off the bus. I don’t know what else there is to write now. He’s gone.

On the other hand, my anger, and this feeling in my stomach are not.

It doesn't feel right to include pretty pictures with this post.

Today was a long day.

I have just returned home to a small, relaxed town called Cafayate. The shops are closed for siesta and the streets are empty. Before sitting down to write this I showered and wrung the water from my clothes. The bathroom floor is covered in mud and my knee is bleeding but it feels good to be clean and dry. This morning I heard of a hike called the Cascades. I was told I needed a local guide because the trail was unmarked, but I decided to try it without one in the interest of frivolity, masculinity, and adventure.

The trail starts eight kilometers from town so my friend and I tried to rent motorcycles to get there. We were told we needed motorcycle licenses.

No, we said, you don’t understand. There’s only one driver’s license in the U.S., this is it.

They weren’t convinced.

We did the next best thing, rented two bikes, and set off around lunch. Getting there was one long, extended climb. The seat on my bike was broken, but the road was too steep to sit down and pedal anyways. The altitude left my friend dizzy and disoriented, and after a series of increasingly long breaks he decided to cut his losses and turn back. I grabbed my book and a bottle of water from his backpack and he went off. I was on my own.

The rest of the climb was long and hard and the day was hot. The lack of oxygen didn't help. Several people on motorcycles passed me. They seemed like they were enjoying the hill-- smug bastards. Eventually I got to the river. I hid my bike in some reeds on the far shore and headed off on what seemed to be the path. It wound past some shanties and as I came around a corner I startled a donkey that was lying in the sun. He struggled to his feet when he saw me and neighed. I asked him if I was on the right path but he just swatted at a fly with his tail. I went on but I had to cross back and forth over the river often and the going was slow.

I found four tiny goats on my path and realized it was much easier following them—- they chose better routes than I ever could-- but then they decided they didn’t like being followed and started to run. I jogged after them for a long time and made good progress but alas, I am no goat and eventually they lost me. An hour or so later I came across a guide with two serious looking German tourists. He said that yes, I was on the right path but I shouldn’t go much further because there was more climbing and the rocks were slippery and dangerous. As I went around a boulder and passed them he just shrugged his shoulders.

The river wound up into a canyon and there was a series of successive pools and cascades. If you climbed a cascade you got to the next pool. The rocks were wet and high but it was fun and exciting. For the most part, I was able to shimmy and climb along the edges of the pools or the cliffs around them but the second to last pool was huge and its smooth walls went straight up on all sides: there was nothing to do but swim. I took off my clothes and shoes and put a foot in the water. It was absolutely freezing-- there is not much sunlight that far back into the canyon. I stood on the shore for a while debating what to do. I told myself that I had to do it. I told myself I didn't want to do it. Then I jumped in and under.

The cold hit my nervous system like an electric shock. I couldn’t control my limbs and jerked my way to the far shore with a spastic sort of doggy paddle. It took me a long time to pull myself out of the water and onto a large flat rock-- I couldn't get my arms to do what I what wanted them to. I also couldn’t breathe. My chest strained for air and I lay back on the cool stone, unable to do anything but wheeze. Soon my gasps became breaths and from where I lay I looked upside down at the sixty foot waterfall crashing down beside me. The mist from it filled the air. I felt cold and very alive; it seemed like I must have been the only person to have ever been there before.

After a long time I swam back, dressed, and left.

Going down was horrible. The wet rocks were slick and you couldn’t see where you had to step. Skirting around the edge of one of the shallower pools my book fell out of my pocket and tumbled down the side of the rocks towards the water. For a moment it seemed like it would stop on a precipice right before the pool-- then it fell in. In the name of literature, and overpriced English books in this country, I jumped in after it and banged my knee on a rock that was hidden under the water. The book floated out of my reach and I had to wade downstream after it. So much for staying dry; Philip Roth, you owe me.

Book in hand, I took off my soaked shirt and wrapped it around my head. I went on a while more and came to a mud slick I didn’t remember from the way up. There was no other way down. I went slowly and tried to tiptoe through it carefully but my feet came out from under me and I landed on my back. I tried to stand up but only managed to twist over and flop onto my stomach. I slid down the rest of the way on my ass, got up, and went on. The mud dried and caked against my body. It felt awful. I was busy pitying myself when I stepped on a chunk of cactus and a spine went through my shoe and into my foot. I bent down to get it out and saw that my leg was covered in blood from where I had hit my knee in the water.

I missed my surefooted goat friends. I was also thirsty and out of water.

I went on as far as I could before I needed to rest. I got far enough out of the canyon to find sunlight and took off my shoes and lay down on a boulder. The water from my shirt ran down the hot rock onto my shoulders and felt good. I fell asleep quickly.

I woke to laughter. I put on my shoes, adjusted my turban, and walked another hundred feet downstream where I found two tall blond girls in their underwear splashing around in one of the pools. How long had I been asleep? Where were their clothes? Did they realize how good I looked covered in mud? I tried to speak to them but they had their backs turned and didn’t hear me over the cascade. I spoke louder and they startled. They covered their chests with crossed arms. I spoke again and waited for a response. I tried Spanish and English but they just stared at me. I realized that even though I was as close as I had even been to the grotto fantasy I hadn't even known I had, it just wasn't in the cards for the day. Dejected, I gave them a goodbye wave and walked the rest of the trail without event. I found my bike and pedaled home.

In retrospect, it's pretty clear they were mermaids.

Or French.

Hello there Salta, do you come here often?

I’m restless and I can’t figure out why.

I used my pocket-knife to clean out my toenails, turn my impossibly ripped jeans into impossibly tacky jorts, and sharpen this pencil. I can't think of anything else productive for me to do so I guess I’ll write. I arrived in Salta today and something about the bustle of the bigger city after the tiny villages further north seems to have gotten to me. I feel jittery. I’ve read and reread the Hemingway novel I brought and finally bought a new book today. It was expensive. Books in English here are nearly double what they should be. Thankfully though, everything else is cheap.

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.