We spend a week in El Calafate, waiting for my eye to heal. I visit the doctor at the public hospital (a very different experience from the fancy private clinics in Buenos Aires and Comodoro Rivadavia) and he knows his trade and helps me improve, but it takes time and we stay ear the doctor to play it safe. If we have to be stuck somewhere for a week, Calafate is by no means a bad place. After another night at the cozy Hostel de Los Manos, where we meet and play music for a few new friends from Holland, France, and Germany, we leave the hostel in favor of a campground. We find a nice little spot by a gurgling river and, though not an absolute oasis, and a bit exposed to traffic, it is secluded and there is a great fire pit. We cook ourselves vast dinners there using our gas camping stove and the roaring fire. We make spagetti and sausages and cucumber and cream-cheese sandwiches and drink wine (not San Felicien on our budget, sadly) and play music (it is a good place for music actually, and actually write some quite good stuff while were camping, adding to our repertoire of original songs (most of which begin with some variation on the line I'm traveling around the world). We enjoy our feasts, and spend long hours at the campsite reading (Secret history for me, Silmarillion for Casey), playing cards, drinking Lots of Mate, lounging in the sun, and sleeping in our cozy tent under the trees. It is simple and relaxing and fulfilling, very much the gratifying indulgence that we had often visualized when thinking about Argentina. We go out once or twice a day. Our bigger expeditions include a wonderful windswept hike around the Lago Argentina, where we watch wild flamingos (another first) and take a shady nap in a paddock where nearby horses munch on grass. We also do an incredible hike up Cerro Calafate, a massive plateau that rises above the town. Abandoning paths, we cut through a deserted part of town where dozens of wild dogs roam. One is attracted to us, and follows meekly along, he attracts another, and another, until by the time we leave town and get into open scrubland at the foot of the mountain we have no less than 11 wild but very friendly stray dogs roaming around us in a disorganized pack. They range from big shaggy beasts to little, well groomed pets (there must be an owner somewhere) to really mangy creatures. We give them no reason to like us, but also no reason to dislike us, so they trail along happily as we trek to the Mountain. We pick a ravine and scramble up it, through rocky fields and dusty barren patches with small growths of scraggly weeds. It is steep and hard work, and the wind harasses us relentlessly until we reach the crest.  There we can finally look out, dogs panting all around us, at our ascent, which seems massive after about three hours of steady trekking, and at the view beyond. It does seem, as we sit on top of a difficult to scale, dog free boulder, eating our simple lunch, that we can see all of Patagonia from here. The view is spectacular. The town below us, then the huge multicolored lake shining radiantly in the noon sun, then the vast expanse of desert to the west and snowy mountain crags to the east. We breath it in, with big mouthfuls of sandwich, apples, and alfajores (another argentine specialty consisting of two cookies sandwiching a layer of dulche de leche, and the whole thing dipped in chocolate, I am Addicted) and big lungfuls of fresh, gusty mountain air. Utterly, totally, wow. It is here that we realize, really, where we are, and why. What we are doing here.

But for the week in Calafate, we spend more time meandering than we do on these ambitious expeditions. We occasionally get lunch (hamburgers!!) at a friendly terrace cafe with rock and roll posters and great music and staff who seem to like us. Sometimes we go for a milkshake in the afternoon or a beer in the evening and the incredible fun comfortable Librobar (which also has great music and is one of the best hang out spots either of us have come across ever). Every day we go for ice cream at a place called ovejitos (which translates as little sheeps or as I prefer, lambies). The ice-cream is unbeatable, from chocolate to walnut to passion fruit, blueberry, and calafate berry (of which, legend has it, a taste will guarantee your return to Patagonia). We linger over this ice-cream, which they serve is giant heaps almost impossible to consume. Almost, but not quite. We get amazing pizza and good wine for dinner one night at a fun place called Cambalache. There are only, in fact two bad thing to mar our otherwise total enjoyment of Calafate. One is a dreadful morning when I go at 7am to the eye doctor for an appointment. It's raining, the ATM only dispenses 10 peso bills and tries to eat my hand, the doctor won't see me till I register, the registration nurse is too busy chatting with her friend about last nights party to register anyone, let alone me, and the doctor won't see anyone until his two hour coffee break is over (even though my appointment is marked Urgent). Then the bad news about the eye not healing, more prescriptions, then at the pharmacy the lady in front of me has such a long chat with the pharmacist about local gossip that 7 people cue up behind me in the time it take her to finish her story. All this in fairly (well, very) excruciating pain. I was not a happy camper, and then to top it off a REALLY nasty mangy dog followed me home (and I have see some mangy ones so I'm serious here). So that was a
Lousy morning, but otherwise, all was well and two days later my eyes were healed, doctor gave the thumbs up, and we boarded a bus back to El Chalten. but first we had to say farewell to our dog (who we never named to avoid affectionate bonds). Here is the story of the dogs. We hiked the mountain with 11 strays in tow, and they hunted rabbits all the way down. We expected them to disperse when we passed back through their home neighborhood but 4 of them clung stubbornly to us. 4 big, disobedient dogs, who trailed us persistently. We couldn't return to our campsite as that offered no escape and we didn't want them becoming permanent fixtures. So we walked into the center of town. Imagine us, two teenage backpackers with 4 huge mangy dogs in tow, smiling apologetically and saying " not my dog" when the creatures would knock into old ladies and terrify small children, block the sidewalk and barge
into spotless tourist shops. It was impossible to disassociate ourselves from them, and people assumed we were the shamefully inadequate owners of these destructive beasts. We ducked into shops in attempts to lose them but they always found us. Having at first been very fond of our pack of loyal followers, we were starting to get supremely frustrated and embarrassed. Finally, we escaped upstairs to Librobar, lingered long enough for the dogs to wander off after ice cream carrying kids (hate to imagine how that turned out) and then slipped out Librobar's back door and ran, I kid you not, ran across the street and down a back alley where we slyly picked our way home to the campsite without ever being seen. We were fugitives. But we had to eventually get food, and when we did we had two very close calls with one of the persistent followers. We slipped past him (downwind so he wouldn't catch our scent) silent as wraiths and escaped him. But eventually this particular dog found us, led to us by the VMD (Very Mangy Dog) I mentioned earlier. Once this old feller (a black lab type thing) had found the campsite, he was ours for good, and he defended us from other strays an followed us faithfully for 3 days. When we left Calafate he looked very forlorn. And so, in a way, were we.