One more thing. A final thought. A short story, and then you can forever close this little blogbook, if you have had the tenacity to read this far. There will be no post about our actual return and arrival home. The adventures have ended, the final flight will be joyful, but simple. Returning is not the story itself, and wont be told here.

But for this one little story.

Last night, the night before our departure, we stood in line waiting to grab a pizza, and a big, weatherbeaten woman with a warm smile and glittering eyes sitting with her husband leaned over to us. Where are you from? She asked in Spanish. We told her, and shortly after explained the whole year and the endless travels and how they had come to such a glorious conclusion.
Oh, she murmured, Que linda. How lovely.
Yes, we replied, we know.
Did you go to the north? she asked and we affirmed. Did you feel the spirit of Pachamama (mother earth) in the land and the people there? I can feel it. I love it. I sometimes take a handful of sweet earth, the earth of my homeland, and rub it on my hands, and I feel the spirit of the earth within me.
Yes, we replied, we understand.
Do you love nature? She asked. Do you love travel? Do you sometimes stand in the night and look up at the moon, la bella luna, and revel in its sweet and simple beauty? Sometimes I look at the moon for hours and ask it questions and even though I get no real response I know and understand, and I have my answers. Do you know what I mean?
Yes, we replied, we do.
Don't you love the way nature clears your mind? And travel. When I travel, I feel healthy and whole. My mind is cleared and my soul is cleaned. Oh how lovely. I wish I were young enough to travel. I wish I could travel with you, even for a week, even for a day. It is wonderful to be young.
Yes, we wordlessly replied, we know.
Do you watch the sunrise? Always, always try to watch the sunrise. Try never to miss it. It is so beautiful, so pure, so clean and good. Never let it pass you by. Every day has a sunrise. Every day. Be there for it. Do you understand?
Yes, we replied, we do.
Do you know how lucky you are? How lovely it is? How lucky you are?
Yes, we replied, we know. We do.
What you are doing, what you have done, it is very beautiful.
And she embraced us and said good bye and we said Yes, we know.

The next day we rose late (having not slept until 6am) and after an unusually good breakfast (this hostel really is the best) and an exploration of the hostel (hard to describe but think clean, colorful, great beatles stones england art, che guevara stuff, cool lighting, narrow hallways, beautiful rooftop patio, movie room, everything!!), set off into the streets of Rosario. Our exploration, nearly devoid of energy, was not the best we have ever had, but we did enjoy some gorgeous architecture, the best we have seen in Latin America, a great duo of girls playing tango tunes on violin and bandoneon (Argentine version of the accordeon), and some pretty parks. We stopped for vast plates of chicken and potatoes which we ate in a crammed executive hole in the wall packed with suit wearing business people, budgeting like us, but presumably saving Their funds for their big break. The afternoon was enjoyable, and the city was nice, more relaxed than BA but not as picturesque as Cordoba. But eventually we had to say, in the words of Austin Powers "And I´m Spent" and return to the hostel for an afternoon of meeting new friends (from Peru, England, and Holland) and playing music with them (one of them was a decent guitarist and liked great music), watching a movie, and cooking a delicious meal of gnocchi and pizza cooked at home but freshly made at the market, and augmented by my finest work as a cook, an incredible tomato sauce (hold your applause please). Aware that our time on the road is slowly but surely drawing to a close, we relish every moment, meals and nights sleep and new friends and new songs, all in a kind of detached dream world.
The next morning we clean up and pack up and set off on a long hike across the city to the bus terminal, where we board a bus to a small town called San Antonio de Areco. We sit in the front seats, with the stunning upper level windows, and listen to Of Montreal as we stream down tree lined avenues in the Pampas (farmlands) of Argentina, from which comes all the beloved produce, especially beef, that makes Argentina so wonderful. It is also the home of the legendary Gaucho (think cowboys, but coooooooler). The town itself is comfortable and pretty, and we head across to the edge of town where we find a vast deserted campground. We build a roaring fire and make a meal of scrambled eggs and roasted vegetables and, huddling around the dying embers, we eventually return to the tent. For the last time. Certainly there will be plenty of camping this summer, and into the endless future, but the gravity of this, our last night in the wilds of argentina, does not desert us.
The next morning, however, we are slightly less nostalgic and more bitter as it is, in fact, bitterly cold. The ground has frozen, the grass is heavily frosted, and the water that was left in the pots and pans is frozen over with a not insubstantial layer of ice. I stand by the still river, and watch the mist rise off the water and wind through the barren trees as the sun rises, thinking of mild California warmth, but also saying a farewell to the unparralleled beauty of this incredible natural country. I return to camp and whip up eggs, coffee and toast and drag the whimpering Casey out of the cold tent and into the colder morning. We wrap up in every item of clothing we have and pull out groaning intstruments that seem themselves homesick for warm, stable-temperature rooms, where it is not humid, freezing, hot, dusty, or raining. But groaning into tune we manage to play the sun up, and play the morning into full swing, and soon the sun is glowing gently down and everything is thawing and the leaves start to inexplicably pour down from the trees in torrents, making a wild, surreal seasonal moment. The poignancy of the moment, the music, changing seasons, beautiful forest, and imminent return, all colliding in one moment, is overwhelming. We set out as the day rolls on, wandering around the town and quickly stripping our far too many layers. The town is GauchoHQ, famous for silver and leather work, and indeed even our well seasoned eyes are impressed by what we see, though our quota for things to drag home has long been exceeded. We wander through the lovely plaza, visit a gorgeous chocolate shop utterly reminiscent of the movie Chocolat, and are given a piece of incredible restorative goodness. As the afternoon wears on, we get a delicious ice cream at a lovely terraced cafe, and then stretch out on the grass by the river, shirts and shoes thrown aside, in utter contrast with the freezing morning and, very content, we talk about the future. I think it might be that moment, looking back to yesterday, sitting with Casey in a funny little town in the middle of nowhere, by a lovely sunlit river, surrounded by laughing picnics and soccer games and friendly people and wild dogs, sitting there, comfortable, but excited, as always, by a new place, and talking languidly but seriously about a million possible and impossible, probable and imporbable, and above all difficult to imagine futures for boh and either of us. Where will we be, who, what, when? Asking those questions, anxious but not scared of the answers, in that bizarre and beautiful setting, will never be forgotten.

The train clattered through the surreal night, as we began to realize that we were as far off the tourist track as we had yet been. Everyone around us was a local, speeding across the country in the cheapest manner to work, family, or holiday. After splitting our dinner of pastry with the old gentleman sitting next to us, he became quite engaging, asking about where we had been and giving his opinion on Argentine girls. He was not the last, nor the first. We have had now many, many conversations with locals, all of whom without exception are exceedingly friendly. The guaranteed lines are: where are you from? Do you like mate? Do you like the girls here? (usually asked by gravelling v oiced old men) and Oh my dear how wonderful? (Usually asked by bubbly voiced old women). There were also the inevitable questions about the instrument. Are we a band? Do we play Jennifer Lopez songs? No? Guns and Roses? No? Metallica? No. Oh. But these conversations, conducted in rapid and barely comprehensible Spanish, are invariably entertaining and amusing, none more so than that which came at the end of the train ride. We had been clattering along, with not a wink of sleep due to noise and desperation not to miss our 4am stop, and no music due to a dead Ipod, and the only book an inscrutably dense Faulkner, and were waiting for our imminent stop. At one point our old gentleman disappeared and he was replaced by the most unsatisfactory person on the bus. The guy had been maching around since the beginning, giving orders like "everyone close your windows" which seemed to be purely for his enjoyment as he was not in anyway affiliated with the train company. He was massive in bulk and personality, and we had seen him three times approach a group of first musicians, then little children, then middle aged men, and break into spontaneous and emotional song, sung to the tune of his Ipod which, he seemed not to realize, no one else could hear. Amusing, you may be thinking. Indeed, for the first few minutes, or hours. Afterwards, not so much. But of course this vast sweaty singing mass chose to settle himself to sleep on our bench, and so we scrunched against the window, tried to sleep and awaited the dawn. I diverted conversation excellently with my best version of: Me No Hablow Eshpinowl seenor, so we were safe at least  from that. Or so we thought. Eventually he turned to us and, apparently unaware that we looked brutally tired and uncomfortable, started in by saying: you know, i talk a bit english? Ok, i said. You like music? Yeah. I very muhc do like verry much music, i think the human voice is very much beautiful. (he seemed to be gathering himself to burst into song so i parried with a halfhearted) What kind of music do you like. Oh oh Oooooh, do you know Oh oh OOOOOOh Alberto Francisco? No. Oh oh Oooooh Diego Monvedo? No. Oh oh Oooooh Juan De Lorche? No. (and so on until we reached) Ohohoh Jennifer Lopez. Um, yes. Oh I love her she is my lover she is my girlfriend Oh oh Oooooh I love her. Do you know pamela anderson. Um, yes. Oh I love her she is my girlfriend oh oh oh yes I very much. I love american Idol. Oh oh yes very much. Ok, I say, doing my best polite conversation terminator, which of course fails. Casey has a slightly different tactic and is simply glaring at this guy with a look that says (extremely clearly) It is 3 oclock in the morning and if you say another word about American Idol I will lay hands on you. I will choke you out. That is, it is extremely clear to me but apparently not to this Mr. OH! Finally, mercifully, the train begins to stop and we roll into the station, leaping eagerly from our seats before Mr. Oh can give us an anticipated farewell hug. Moments later we are marching through the intense darkness of Rosario, the sort of second city of Argentina. We hop in a cab (for the first time in Argentina, shameful, but permissible only because it is 4am in a strange city). We arrive at our hostel and fnd that it is beyond compare the coolest one we have yet seen, and wander around it in awe before retreating to our absurdly comfortable beds with thick warm comforters. In utter bliss, beyond exhaustion, we talk for what seems like hours before drifting sweetly into oblivion.

Our last day in Cafayate was as mild and delightful as those preceding it. Another morning spent eating pastry and drinking coffee with my book at a rickety wooden table made of recycled wine barrels as the bright morning sunshine filtered through the ancient grapevines. Casey rose eventually and we spent the morning hanging out with our friends. We packed up our things and then bought a picnic of epic proportions. Two dozen meat and onion filled empanadas, and several deliciously ripe avocados and tomatoes, as well as a cold bottle of crisp dry torrontes, consumed in the hot sun beneath the grapevines, left us fit only to stagger onto our bus and fall into blissful, full-bellied snoozes. 
We woke to stark scenery of rolling brown hills with copses of bare deciduous trees. Above us thin multicoloured clouds floated, impossibly bright shades of pink and green produced by some strange circumstance of sun and altitude. We coasted into a strange and tiny town in the mountains. Utterly deserted, and with none of the charm that we had grown used to in Tilcara and Cafayate, our new town of Tafi del Valle was still refreshing with it's wide vistas and clear mountain air. We wandered to a deserted campsite where absurdly high prices turned us away and then found another "campsite" which, more accurately, was the back yard of a big
friendly old man named Alejandro who charged almost nothing and called us "my boys" in Spanish, repeatedly checking to make sure we were comfortable. Clearing away a bit of rubbish, we found ourselves in a cozy hollow looking over rolling hills of berry bushes. Moments after, we were joined by an extremely friendly guy named Diego, who we spent a couple days with due to his easy going style, and classic argentine generosity, as well as standard argentine cooking skills. That evening we had a cooking experiment that met with mixed reviews. I made a soup of noodles, tomatoes, onions, and bell peppers, (our diet improved significantly after we learned that vegetables here cost almost nothing) and aji, a favorite spice in Argentina. Unfortunately my clumsy fingers let fall a fairly vast amount of spice into the soup and so we spent several panting, gasping minutes consuming something so spicy that it was almost impossible to consume. Despite this, it was a comfortable, campfire-warned night, and we slept well. The next morning we ate fresh bread and jam for breakfast, and realized that we had only two weeks remaining in our odyssey. This realization brought on a mix of excitement and anxiety, for though the pull of friends, family, and homely comforts is irresistible, those joys are marred slightly by the awareness that with the end of the travels came the end of a holiday from
responsibility and, in a sense, from the future. Setting aside these ponderings, however, we set off up a long winding road into the hills, until we found a simple statue of Christ the redeemer on a hillside looking down on the breathtaking valley, with distant lakes and mountain passes and rolling banks of fog gleaming serenely. Though the statue was not quite comparable to the more famous example in Rio, it was a decent hike, and we spent much of the afternoon eating a picnic and lying in the sun on a big rock above the statue that was a perfect vantage point. As evening fell we trekked back to town, and allowed Diego to order us around in the purchasing of another delectable asado. Having worked as a professional chef, Diego was quite skilled and innovative, and we ate several courses of roast vegetables and perfectly cooked chicken. By the time the long, luxurious meal was ended (with the final simple touch of a crisp apple) we were warm and smelling of campfire, and we retreated to a cozy warm tent. 
We left in the middle of the next day, spending several hours at bus stations and on buses, including a drive through surreal, mist covered, mystical looking forest, before arriving at dawn the next morning in Cordoba, the geographical heart and energetic nexus of Argentina. We trekked across town in the predawn darkness to a huge labyrinthine hostel, where we were warmly welcomed and filled with coffee before we headed back out onto the streets, now lit with sunshine and full of people. We spent the day exploring various corners of the city. Like a smaller, more cheerful, and easily walkable version of Buenos Aires.
We found a luthier, and old argentine man who lived on the outskirts of town, to repair my violin, which had been broken since Brazil. His house was full of cigar smoke and the skeletons of half built guitars and violins, and he handled my crippled violin with expert care, so we left well comforted that he would have it healed in no time. We also bought our tickets for our return (by train, on the ancient train line that still operates haphazardly across the country) for the following week, and explored a vast park reminiscent of Helen Putnam, a winding aqueduct that cut through the city, a bustling produce market where we haggled over succulent pears, a plaza wear we ate a picnic amidst crowds of students and lusty soccer games, an series of old buildings built by the Jesuits, including a gorgeous church that almost approached European splendor, an old jesuit crypt under the city that was only recently uncovered by a telephone company laying wires and was eerie and mythical, and a lovely and lively main plaza, that bustled with people and trees and artisans and argentine flags. Our long wander ended in a walk up a beautiful, trellis covered pedestrianized street full of stores and food and art, which led us meanderingly back to our hostel. By the time we returned the hour was late, so we whipped up some pasta and lounged on the patio with an upbeat crowd of travelers and students drinking Quilmes Stout (the national favorite). Multi-lingual, confusingly-accented conversation wound on until at last, well satisfied with what we had begun to know of Cordoba, we slipped away to warm bed. 

After a late start and a good breakfast with some of the best coffee yet found in Argentina, we set off with light packs to head north for a couple days. The usual, routine procedure of finding the right bus and riding it slowly north while reading, listening to music, and taking in stunning countryside, brought us eventually to a new town called La Cumbre in the early afternoon. We set up camp in a quiet, isolated creekside campground underneath tree dappled sunlight, and set off to explore the town. We found an incredible dusty old bookshop that had a few ideal books in English but looked like no one had entered it for years (the price on my dusty book read "two shillings"). We settled on a terrace for a beer and watched the sunset, before returning to camp for a hearty meal over a roaring fire and a sleep frequently broken by ferociously barking dogs. I rose early after the sleepless night and walked up a winding path to another statue of Jesus that stood over the town. From the chilly lookout I watched the sunrise, then struck into town for some necessaries. By the time Casey woke I had showered, done laundry in the camps concrete basin, and laid out a breakfast of fresh pastry and orange juice (a drink which inevitably makes us both think of mornings at the tatums house). The day was spent languidly unthreatening brilliant sunshine, hanging around the lovely campsite reading and talking and stretching out in the sun, exceedingly conscious that this luxury of truly doing nothing for a day would not last long, and would be eliminated when we returned home. After a vast and delicious lunch of milanesa at a cafe in town, we hopped on a bus back to Cordoba, conscious of having "accomplished" nothing in La Cumbre, but well pleased with it all the same. On our return, after swinging by the hostel (and changing into our pathetic excuse for nice clean clothes) we struck out to the Teatro del Libertador, a grand but somewhat uninspiring concert hall, where we watched a performance of the local Chamber orchestra and an incredible 26 year old violinist. The performance was delightful, with highlights in a soul-stirring rendition of Barbers adagio, and solo pieces including an elegant Bach Concerto, a violin version of the arias from Bizet's Carmen, and several other incredible pieces. Though the calibre of performance was not the highest we had seen, the spirit and passion and sheer skill of the soloist was shocking, and he was dragged back after long minutes of applause for two fantastic encores. When we fell into bed that night with our heads whirling with music, we were thrilled and moved. In the silent darkness of the empty dorm room, with music-filled dreams, we sped through the night. The next morning we explored a long avenue lined with music shops. Despite the improbability of dragging home various instruments or accouterment, we were able to judge and enjoy various guitars and other musical wonders. Then we struck across the city again to pick up a much improved violin and talk with the wise and eccentric old luthier, before returning or a lunch of savory tarts (sort of like quiche) in the hostel patio. After lunch i brought out my beloved, newly restored instrument, and played and impromptu, but much appreciated recital (inspired by, but not approaching in quality, what we had seen the night before). Then, once again, we set out, this time going south, and arrived, after a long winding road past stunning, sunset-illuminated lakes, in the town of Villa general Belgrano. The town, though tacky and over-touristy, is famous for being founded and inhabited by the survivors of a German battle ship that sunk off the coast of Buenos Aires. We camped in the yard of a beautiful hostel (reminiscent of elronds last homely house) more like a sophisticated lodge than anything, and made a meal that was a good cut above our usual standard, with sausages on fresh bread and a cast salad including delectable crunchy bell peppers. We were joined after dinner by a super friendly Chicago girl named Laura who was vacationing from her study abroad in BA. She was a lot of fun and we all stayed up late talking and singing. She was the First person to join in with us by improvising lyrics for an improvised song. She sang, with a gorgeous voice, a melancholy song about going home that brought us all almost to tears (as we are all returning before too long). after a good stretch of stargazing and weary good nights, we retreated into the tent. The hostel, run by a slightly suspicious, ultra-formal, and very intimidating German, served an incredible breakfast (unique in hostels, and in Argentina, where breakfast is very much under appreciated). The breakfast included homemade oatmeal, homemade yogurt, homemade bread, homemade jams, and great coffee. We ate for hours and, when we could consume no more, packed up camp an headed out of town (despite it's history the town is fairly kitchy and not very pleasant so it was time to move on. Our next town was much more agreeable, a tiny, completely pedestrianized village perched in the hills, and separated by a footbridge from the world of cars and fumes. We hiked a long path up and down steep hills to a pleasant campsite on the edge of the wild. We pitched camp ad wandered through the sweet, very Germanic (almost reminiscent of Ehrwald) village, meeting up again with Laura to share a locally brewed beer and a beautiful apfelstrudel. We wandered into the hills to a gorgeous green swimming hole, where we lounged briefly on the sunny rocks and then, buying some groceries, returned to town. We met some friendly argentines and chatted and played music, then gathered wood for a huge fire on which we roasted vegetables and burgers and ate a vast feast. We sat around the fire, warm and full, and stargazed at the spotless sky for hours until the coals slowly dissipated. Then we returned through the cold night to our tent, where we slept a sleep broken by the ominous sound of galloping horse hooves (in all honesty, our "campground" is really just someones horse pasture). The next morning broke bitterly cold and misty, so we lingered over breakfast and then struck into the hills (which looked more than anything like some wilderness in the Scottish highlands) for some exploring. After a good deal of trekking we climbed two tall pines and reclined comfortably in their wavering topmost boughs, reading the morning away. When we returned to camp it was to find that our resident horse (who was lovely but a bit belligerent) had eaten our little jar of honey, which we had bought at great expense to liven up our steady diet of apples and pears as sweet tooth satisfiers. When we came to terms with this tragedy we headed into town and, glum with the bitter weather, bought a huge hot meal of German egg noodles and ale at a cozy little restaurant (the bizarrely named Swiss house, set in a german town, in the Scottish highlands of Argentina, all very confusing and incongruous). After gorging ourselves on this meal, we contentedly strolled back to camp, lit up a fire, played some music and, before too long, retreated into the tent for a few hours of reading and music and, eventually, bed. 
The next morning was again cold and drizzly but, nit disheartened, we made a vast vat of coffee and a hot brunch of pasta, and relaxed on the camps comfortable deck, in the shelter. We eventually set of exploring, and spent hours wandering the endless paths through the woods. The entire area, with dark mossy pine groves and tumbled rocky clearings and a low, clinging mist, was utterly mystical and mythical, and we could easily imagine, and almost envision nymphs, dryads, and gnomes emerging into sight around every bend. We stumbled upon a breathtaking old graveyard filled with Germans (fairly obvious names like  Helmut Anz, who were born in hamburg or Munich and died in this town La Cumbrecita. Then we wandered to an incredible lookout, and finally to a splendid waterfall that streamed down over jagged rocks into a deep clear green pool. We mustered our courage and, losing no time lest we should lose boldness, tore off our clothes off and leapt into the swimming hole. Brutally cold, but totally exhilarating, the water left us gasping and panting on the rocks, adrenaline pumping ferociously through our veins as Argentines laughed gleefully looking down on us from the viewpoint. Shuddering but happy, we returned to town and from thence to camp. We strolled up into the hills and, in the fading light, played music, writing songs in a nook in the mysterious rocks, with not a soul for miles. After dinner (completed with a bottle of torrontes from bodega Nanni, which we visited in Cafayate), we made friends with a French guy who was passing by and spent the evening chatting with him. After he left, we had an exuberant session of painting in our notebooks with Casey's watercolors as we listened to Chopin. Our energy slowly faded and, artistically and adventurously fulfilled, we slept on the sheltered platform, free of dogs and horses and rain, but surrounded by other mysterious night noises that brought dreams of monsters emerging from the mythical hills around us. The next morning was splendidly sunny, so we dried out our wet things and spent the morning getting organized and reenergized for our final week of travel. We felt light and good and clean after hot showers (had to dry in the sun, our new habit since various towels have been lost or stolen), and set off from our much loved campsite in high spirits. Lunch was a loaf of delicious bread and a bag of caramelized nuts purchased with our last 7 pesos (there is no ATM in this town, leaving us a but stranded), enjoyed by a bubbling brook on the edge of town, near the bus terminal. In the late afternoon we boarded a bus (not without some difficulty, we had ran out of cash and they didn't except cards so I had to bargain and beg and exchange my I'D until I got cash at our destination and paid our fares) and powered towards Cordoba, stopping in a Strange town called Alta Gracia for the night. It was a long hike to the empty, inhospitable hostel, but we found a store next door that sold handmade ravioli and handmade hamburgers, so we threw together a feast of a meal and collapsed into sweet repose. 
The next morning brought bight sunshine and a good breakfast. Then we struck out into the town, exploring first the gorgeous old Jesuit compound, which included a simple, lovely chapel, and various cloisters, rooms, and courtyards, all beautifully constructed with lovely architecture and a nicely laid out museum. Afterwards, we made our way to the house of the famous Che Guevara, also a lovely museum (all museums are free on Wednesday, lucky us) and wandered among the touching and revolutionary memorabilia and incredible photos of this argentine icon who transformed Cuba. Pictures of Castro and Chavez paying homage in the very rooms we were wandering were bizarre, and the museum as a whole was fascinating. We wandered back to the center of town, strolling around the reservoir and eating a picnic of delicious empanadas (some of the best we have had) by the lakeside. Then we read by the lakeside in the sunshine for a while, relishing the relief from the bitter weather that plagued us in Cumbrecita. And ice cream finished off a good afternoon, then we gathered our things and leapt on a bus that sped us on a bus to Cordoba, where we walked over to the train station and, even now, are waiting to depart and speed towards Rosario, where we will be only a short ways away from BA and our final departure. The train is crowded with laughing people, crying babies, and work-worn commuters. Not many tourists as this is not the luxury coach, but we are comfortable enough and will arrive in yet another new city in the early hours of the coming morn.