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.