But leave we must, and we eventually do, early on a morning that is pleasantly grey and cool. Spared of the tropical heat for a morning, perfect travelling conditions, we bid goodbye to Gi and the house of Paradise, and Oliven drives us to the pier. Then begins an Odyssey the likes of which we have never experienced before, and do not pln to do again soon. We discover how huge Brazil really is.
We take a two hour ferry across the bay to the biggest town in the local area. Camamu is still too small to offer many bus services, so we take a "short" ride north to Salvador, the capital of Bahia. Short turns out to mean 5 hours and when we arrive, we are not in the city but across another bay. So we board a ferry that takes us across to the city as the sun sets. Now it is dark and we are in a strange city and are nowhere near the bus terminal. An evil cap driver takes us there, and we find a bus down to Rio. BUt it is not until 7am, which means a 12 hour wait at the terminal (no point slogging across the city to a hostel and back). Delirious after so long with no sleep, and a strange eerie night in the almost vacant (save for cockroaches) terminal, we finally board our bus. 26 hours brings us to Rio. A long time, made worse by lack of communication (Portuguese is soo difficult) and lack of food. But we sleep long hours and eventually arrive, or so we think, in Rio. We ask the driver, he confirms, we get off. But it is not Rio. So back on another bus and finally after 4 more hours we arrie in RIO DE JANEIRO. We take a city bus across town and find a brilliant hostel and, 60 hours after setting out from the house in Bahia, we have arrived. The afternoon sours slightly when Casey´s credit card is stolen by an ATM at a vacant bank (sunday) and then a suspicious guy tries to get his pin number. So we are down to one credit card between us.

But the day improves finally as we sip Ciapirinhas and Brahmas at a cafe on Praia Cobacabana (the most sensuous beach in the universe) watching impressive soccer and volleyball games, and gorgeous people strutting along the sand. We eat bolinhos de bacalau (fried cod) and whitebait, and luxuriate in a truly amazing city. The hostel is brilliant, full of fun (english speaking, it has been a while...) people wo tell brilliant stories. We make friends, but collapse eventually, worn out by travel.

And strangely, one morning, a week after Easter, the house was empty. The various Grahams were drawn away, either by work or school or Gap Year plans, and we were left alone. After such an odyssey north, they refused to let us leave. So we enjoyed a second week, equally luxurious but utterly different from the first. Gone were the loud rambunctious meals and games of charades, late nights and group expeditions. Except for Oliven (the incredibly friendly guy who manages the place) and Gi, who works with him, the staff and chef were gone as well, and the house was essentially shut down, save for a few rooms for us. We still ate delectable meals and swam and lounged and read, but now we truly were on our own schedule. We stayed up late watching movies, playing cards, writing songs, listening to music, reading (I never knew I could read so much in a week, and I read a lot). It is quiet, but blissfully so, and after all the long nights and big cities, loud noises and dusty streets, bus rides and plane rides and days without food and uncomfortable beds, we do not miss a moment of this splendor. We capture every moment, savor every swim and meal and sun drenched nap. Our skin turns from deathly pale to tinted brown to a lustrous golden (hate to be vain but it is hard not to notice when you spend 12 hrs a day in the sun). We go for long walks along the beach, stroll into town, ride the quad around. We get to know Oliven and Gi (they even invite us to go to a party with them, despite the language barrier). We have long intellectual discussions Tolkeins Silmarillion and the epic Watchmen and other than that, mostly just stare off across the rolling atlantic, visible through the vivid palms. One night we watch the Rolling Stones Shine A Light Movie (absolutely mandatory, one of the best band movies EVER) and end up dancing, singing Sympathy for the Devil at the top of our lungs, having air guitar solos and air drum solos and finally, at the epic ending, leaping into the pool in the dead of night with whoops of Rolling Stones mania. May sound like a quiet night in to some, but it was a blast.

The day before we leave (an event we dread), we go out to the cabana on the beach and play classical music at maximum volume on the speakers and lay back,  drinking beer and enjoying the heat of the afternoon and the gradual descent into twilight. The tide is at an all time high and is perfect for boogieboarding, so we leap into the wives and ride them up and down as music rolls through the air and warm tropical rain begins to fall. When we get out of the water, the rain intensifies and the clouds over the ocean are suddenly illuminated by a magnificent double rainbow, a complete arc, and utterly vivid. Franz Ferdinand blares from the speakers as we soak up a moment that doesn´t seem like it could be more idyllic.

The large group of people that inhabited the beach house for our first week included lots of Grahams, as well as their extended family and friends, gathered for a sublime tropical Semana Santa (Easter). We spent most of our time with Will (our age, on his gap year working in Spain and England and now traveling), his Italian friend Cosima (who is a pro skier who has been a much more impressive ski instructor than I, in italy. She also reads a lot and would get up at 8 with me to read at the beginning of the day), wills cousin Marco (half Brazilian half LA kid, loves glee and justin bieber), and Patrick (although younger than any of us, has much more impressive prospects, as he is training to be a professional tennis player and is already winning south American championships, as he now lives and trains in Brazil. Wow.). Though these are not all the characters, they are the ones we spent most of time with. Although the general day to day has already been described as simple luxury and relaxation, we also had several expeditions. One day brought a waterskiing trip, which was sublime, since I hadn't water-skied in ages, and the setting couldn't have been better. Gliding in sunshine on flat turquoise water 20 feet away from palm laden white beaches. It felt impossibly picturesque. My waterskiing was definitely improved by all that real Skiing in Austria. Casey had a blistering sun burn (as did I actually, inevitable after no exposure for a long european winter and Patagonian autumn) so he reclined in the gorgeous speedboat and watched Will, Marco, and I wipe out dramatically and often. Another day brought another boat trip, this time speeding across the glittering water up the estuary to a massive waterfall. The swimming, in the cold fresh water of the falls, was fantastic (despite warnings that anacondas are often swept down the falls), and Will, Patrick, Casey, and I climbed up the slippery slimey face of the roaring falls, plunging and leaping through the rushing water to reach a panoramic vista framed by dense, tropical (very tropical, this is the closest either of us have been to the equator) jungle, lush and dripping with vines. We look out over the meandering estuary and the distant bay, interspersed with desert islands and mangrove swamps. The speedboat, anchored at the foot of the falls and sprayed in a constant, delicate mist, seems tiny below us. After exploring the jungle above the falls, we descend and leap back into the boat and, as if on cue, a wild tropical rainstorm closes in. Now during our two weeks in Bahia rain storms were frequent and intense, but usually very short. But this was a different matter. Rain lashed down as the boat pounded over the growing swells and waves, driving into an ever darkening cloud. We were miles from the town, and the boat battled back towards the coast, spray and wind and rain lashing like shards of glass against our faces as we all sat, poised, wrapped in turban-like towels to protect our faces, bearing the brunt of the wild, almost unbelievable storm.

But not every day was filled with this genre of adventure. One day brought a trip into the local town of Barra Grande on the quadbike with Patrick (whose driving skills are, to say the least, still being developed) who sped confidently and haphazardly through muddy puddles and down sandy lanes into the little town. He brought us to a bar where a friend of his made passionfruit caipirinhas, and we lounged in the humid heat and sunshine, enjoying the simple life that many of the locals seem to live (from what I can tell, the hunched, wrinkled inhabitants of Barra Grande are in the same chairs, sipping the same caipirinhas, as they were when I visited three years ago). The town is tiny (villages seem to be the theme of this gap yah), but benefits from the exuberant lifestyle of such a gorgeous tropical beachfront. And Patrick, speaking fluent Portuguese, is a good guide (despite the fact that he drives worse than my brother. yes. worse. i know.).


Another day we all piled into the Land Rover Defender (definitely the gap year vehicle of choice) and speed over to another town to meet some friends off the boat. They never show up, so we spend the entire evening watching the tropical sunset across the bay, digging and playing in the sand, burying limbs and torsos in the deep sand, and enjoying a cozy little nook in the tangle of the coastline.


One night brings a party, but of exactly the kind that we prefer. No clubs or raves (we are, recall, in the middle of Nowhere, and that is coming from someone who has been to Thorpe and Ehrwald) but simply the five of us (Marco, Will, Cosima, Casey and I) out in the small cabana right on the beach, blasting music and dancing and running around on the sand and singing along at the top of our lungs, surrounded by people who somehow, suddenly, are great friends. It is fun, the most fun we have had with people our age since we left home. They are a great crew, and we all get along great, despite some small differences in musical taste (as I mentioned Marco is a fan of Bieber, among others...no comment. Hope emma doesnt read this).


The week is blissful in the kind of way that only well earned rest and relaxation, in the perfect spot, surrounded by wonderful people, can be.

So what is utter luxury? It is waking up whenever you so desire, with absolutely no demands on your time. For me this means 8oclock, so I can read for an hour in the morning sun before anyone else is up. For Casey it's more like 10 or 11. Utter luxury is steaming cups of incomparable Brazilian coffee and a vast spread of homemade pastries (created by the professional chef and served by the friendly, fun Brazilian staff) and tropical fruits and jams and tapioca and eggs and fresh bread for the baker in town. Luxury is sunshine so hot that by the time breakfast is finished a swim is obligatory. Luxury is swimming first in the ocean, rolling waves of warm (really warm) equatorial water crashing joyfully onto a white sandy beach that stretches for miles in either direction, edged by absurdly leaning coconut palms that disappear into a distant haze as the beach curves away into the distance. Utter luxury is going from the ocean to an icy fresh shower in the palm grove and then plunging into the crystalline pool. Then you can go back to the ocean and start over again. Luxury is deciding whether you want to relax on a pool chair, in a hammock, on bean bags or rocking chairs or floating pool chairs or window seats or just keep moving around from spot to spot and sun to shade and back again. Luxury is swimming whenever you even begin to overheat and drying off in the tropical sun. Luxury is the cool Breeze combatting the humid heat. Its an icy caipirinha (the Brazilian drink of choice,  the local sugar cane rum cachaca mixed with excessive amounts of sugar and lime). It's a huge lunch that leaves you desperately in need of a nap, although you have done nothing of sufficient exertion to deserve one. It's having a freshly baked cake constantly present on the counter to snack on throughout the afternoon. It's fresh squeezed fruit juices (mango, guava, passionfruit, pineapple, caja) and cold coconut water. 
It's having a churrasco (Brazilian version of the asado). It's passionfruit everything (candy, juice, pudding, cake). It's long exhausting boogie boarding sessions and then sunbathing to recover. Its playing heated card games with will and lilly. Its watching everyone patrol Jedi style hunting flies with electric fly swatters. Its poring through dozens of books in the long lazy days. Its Casey taking charge of the big boSe speakers to blast all manner of good music through the afternoon and evening. It's the tropical sunset over the ocean and a cold Brahma (Brazilian beer) before dinner. It's a vast feast of a dinner, followed by an elegantly presented glass of good scotch (no no, he insists) from Charlie. It's a wild, after dinner game of charades that threatens to collapse into all out warfare. It's a late night swim in the warm and eerily lot pool beneath the palm trees. It's going hunting for fireflies in the garden with Will and Patrick, worrying about stepping on anacondas in the garden, in the dark after everyone has gone to bed and the lights are out. It's catching the bright fireflies and then letting them escape. It's finally drifting off to bed, in a cool dark room between crisp sheets. It's dreaming vividly all night long (something about this place). Its being excited to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

We spent one night in Buenos Aires, at Giramondo, the hostel that gas begun to feel very much like home. With a whirl of new friends and packing for the next day, the afternoon passed quickly, and we only grabbed a few hours of sleep before a 3am start (actually Casey didn't sleep at all). We set off from the hostel with lightened bags and hopped into a taxi with a driver who shored steadily all the way to the airport, although he didn't seem to he asleep. Traveling is, of course, extremely exhausting at 4 in the morning, but it is the sort of thing we have gotten fairly used to, and before we knew it we found ourselves disembarking in the sticky humid air of Sao Paulo, Brazil.

We spent three days in Sao Paulo, based at a comfortable hostel in a very nice part of town. The hostel was packed with friendly (but very bizarre) people, and several musicians, so we spent much of the three days jamming with an incredible argentine guitar player who also played a bizarre combination of a base and a guitar with no body or plucking. Our audience included a guy from Iran who claimed to be part of the most violent dangerous gang in Europe, an absurdly racist Chinese girl with a strong British accent who hated new York but proudly wore an I Heart NY tshirt, a flamboyantly gay guy who insisted on taking a dozen photos of anyone who took their shirt off for an instant in the heat, and a music-obsessed Frenchman not unlike a more worldly Jean-louise. There was also a massive Brazilian filmmaker who stumbled into me drunkenly demanding a rendition of Beethovens 9th which I was supposed to recognize from a slurred dumdumdumddum daaadaaadummdum. 
It was a very entertaining scene and the music was as always, beloved. Though we spent much of our time just hanging around the hostel, we also dud a few expeditions into Sao Paulo, which is a Massive, and not very touristy city. But we enjoyed wandering around the lovely parque ibirapuera (where we watched a spectacular water show in the fountains set in the parks main lake), and meandered up agenda Oscar friere, a street lined with the most elegant opulent row of designer shops we had every seen (outdoing London, new York, and any other competition). Shopping was not on the agenda, but we did find a good bookshop with an English section where we were able to stock up on reading material. While in the city, we ate vast, cheap meals of meat, rice, and beans at little street side eateries. We also discovered a totally incredible restaurant called casa jaya, a music bar and vegan restaurant. Where we listened to fantastic musicians serenading us as we feasted of mountains of salad, rice beans, and stew. The greenery was an incredible treat after such a long time of cheap food. And the setting was so beautiful, a shady little corner down the stairs from street level, the walls all painted lovely oranges and tropical plants and flowers thick in every direction. We stayed at this paradise for hours. We were loving the novelty of a new country, though it shares a border with Argentina they are utterly different in every way. The language barrier was frustrating after speaking Spanish for a month but not impossible. All in all we enjoyed our few days there and when they ended we had another dawn start, leaping onto a subway and cutting across the city to the domestic airport, where we boarded a flight north to Bahia (whenever we told people in Sao Paulo that we were going to Bahia they were extremely jealous). We landed at a tiny airport in the middle of nowhere, a fishing town called Ilheus, where we met Analida Graham, who I had stayed with in London and who would now be our host again. She is originally Brazilian and so the family (her, Charlie, and kids Alex, Will, Patrick, and Lilly) spends a lot of time in Brazil and had invited us (and several other friends, making for quite a full house) to their beach house for Easter. We rode with Analida north to the port of Camamu, where we were met by several other grahams in their speedboat, the Lillibelle, and shot out across leaping waves to a tiny town on the other side of the bay. Then we rode in a landrover down the narrow spit of land till we arrived at the isolated and luxurious beach house. We arrived as darkness settled, in time for a vast meal, with all 20 or so people gathered around the enormous dining table. We fell asleep early that night, after a very long day of traveling, but we were immensely excited about the two weeks of utter luxury that would begin the next morning. 

We leave the hostel Very early, with Jana. We part ways with her (sadly, she is really the best friend we have met on the road) and hop on a bus up to San Martin De Los Andes. The bus ride is spectacular, gliding in sunshine through incredible countryside, with views of dozens of surreally blue lakes and the distant Volcan Lanin, a picture perfect cone that stands along, magnificently covered in snow. We arrive in San Martin, which is a perfectly beautiful, quaint, lakeside town in the mountain forest, and go exploring. It is one of the loveliest places we have seen, and Casey in fact makes definite plans to retire here. I am more in favor of a remote estancia in the lake district from which I can access the impressive Bariloche and the charming San Martin. We have a lunch of chicken sandwiches and strawberry milkshakes down on the beach, in blazing sunlight but constant brisk wind. We wander through the sweet town, rent bikes for the next day, and return eventually to the hostel which is almost empty but where (surprise) we find (in our dorm room) our two French buddies from the ride up to Bolson. It's a small world when you are traveling around the end of the earth, we are beginning to find. We go out for pizza and choripan (argentine favorite, chorizo sandwich) and great artisanal beer, another local specialty. Wandering back through town we witness and eerie, extremely vicious dog-fight, but otherwise the town is silent, although there are occasional choruses of dogs barking all through the night. 
The next day we pack up our things and step out into bright sunshine with a spring in our step. It is still cold and windy, but the sun is brilliant. We pickup our bikes (which are barely worthy of the name mountain bike, tiny, with now handle bar grips, or suspension, or anything, but we're not complaining) and hit the trail. The day just happens to be the day of a huge local marathon, so the first mile or so up Very steep hills down which runners are speeding to the end of their race. It is a big event and very cool to witness, although peddling up endless hills takes most of our focus. We make our way up dirt roads to the top of a ridge above town, where rough paths guide us through flickering sunlight with the sounds of the town below (primarily dogs barking and the announcer telling the runners times). We are in beautiful national park Lanin, in ancient forest, and although the biking is hard work, it is well worth it. Eventually we make it to an incredible viewpoint at the too of a spit of land, and look out over the vast, magnificent Lago Lacar. It is one of the most stunning panoramas either of us has ever seen, and we spend a couple hours at the top, nestled out of the wind with our backs to a cozy, moss covered bank, drinking it all in. We read and relax in the sunshine, in another one of those perfect spots. Suddenly a small wisp of cloud covers the sun, and I look up to see a vast bank of clouds speeding across the lake towards us. Within ten minutes the mountain weather has changed utterly, from bright sunshine to the darkness of heavy clouds. As it begins to rain we retreat a little ways down the hill to a cottage that serves food. We sit in a beautiful little cabin of carved wood while a cheerful hostess makes us delicious and much needed burgers. The rain clears a bit and with energy restored, we attempt to speed back down to the town. But the trail we are following down becomes impossibly steep and narrow, as well as covered in slippery leaves, so we make our way fairly slowly. Finally we arrive at the town, were we make our way out along a road that wraps around the lake (amazingly smooth and paved after a morning of steep gravel and mud). But suddenly the weather comes crashing down for real and we find ourselves speeding along through a fierce rainstorm. We glide downhill back into town, with rain flying into eyes and face and chilling our hands
until they are fairly stuck to the handlebars. We drop the bikes at the shop and retreat into a fantastically
Cozy chocolate shop called Abuela Goye where we huddle at a wooden table by a crackling wood stove. The place is bathed in golden light and exudes cheerfulness and relaxation, especially with the rain outside. After a milkshake and a waffle (an incredible mountain of waffle, homemade raspberry jam, blackberries, raspberries, calafate berries, walnuts, almonds, fresh cream, chocolate flakes, chocolate sauce, and gourmet chocolate rope, we are lounging in decadent splendor. Eventually we reluctantly leave and board a bus back to Bariloche , where we nap heavily and wake to watch more lovely, albeit stormy, Lake District panoramas sweep by in shades of green and blue and turquoise. Back at our beloved hostel, we feast on a pile of empanadas and hang out with Pepe. The crowd is fairly obnoxious (unusual, but definitely possible, in a hostel) and so it is an early night, but we sleep splendidly. I rise for a brisk walk through gorgeous, sunny, cool, Bariloche. I run some errands (replenishing my vast but constantly disappearing supply of optical antibiotics) and then meet Casey at the hostel and we return to the station. Our bus this time heads back to Buenos Aires (20 hrs) and beyond that more adventure. For now, however, we are on the bus, luxuriating in 1st class (or coche super cama, sleeper class) with great food, champagne in plastic champagne flutes, great service, movies, and fully (seriously, Fully) reclining seats. And all for about 10 dollars more than normal class. We are treating ourselves as we roll onward through the splendid mountains, forests, plains, rock formations, and gorgeous lakes. 

The big day begins far too early, but the excitement of what is in store pulls the four of us out of bed and we dress and descend in the silent hostel (as partying epicenters, hostels rarely have anyone rising before noon, unless they are off on an expedition, like us) and eat some breakfast and coffee. We are carrying bags full of layers of clothes, unsure of weather and whether we will get wet. There is slight tension stemming from the fact that Casey and I basically begged the charming Jana to come with us, forcing her to spend money, forfeit a bus ticket, and do something she has never done before. We are confident she will love it, but equally sure that our reputations are on the line. Finally the van arrives and we pile in. The four of us make quite a troop, and to our ranks is added the immediately amiable and charismatic Will, a quintessential Brit and resident of Clapham, the London neighborhood where I lived in december. We share stories, sign ominous liability release forms, listen to lectures from the cheerful and amusing river guides, and eat complimentary chocolates from one of the fancy chocolate stores in town. The weather is neither good nor bad, but simply grey, when we arrive at the riverside estancia that will serve as our base. We eat a second breakfast of medialunas and coffee and explore the little farm, with it's grungy kittens and chickens, as the boats are inflated.  Then we don various layers of gear, wet suits, life jackets, helmets, and paddles, and head down to the river. Our crew of 5 leaps into one boat while a larger but older group of Argentines amble into the other. Guides leap in and, after a short lecture on safety and rowing commands, we are swirling away down the frigid mountain river Manso, through National Park Nahuel Huapi, east towards Chile. Casey and I are sitting in the front of the boat, coordinating the rowing and taking the brunt of any incoming water. Surprisingly our experience (rivers in California and Washington with T Stubbs, Oregon and others with School) kicks in and we find ourselves exceedingly coordinated and effective. The coordination may have something to do with the fact that 7 months of near constant companionship has made us very nearly telepathic. Will is a powerhouse, sitting behind me, never breaking rhythm or
faltering. Jana squeals a bit too often with fright and cold, but is otherwise a decent team member. Pepe is a disaster of weak, out of time, and more than once casey delivers a viciously condescending, well-timed comment about Pepes ineffectiveness. Our guide is a brilliant comedy routine. He instigates a misplaced flirtation between Jana and another river guide, and calls Pepe Pepe Le Piu (a smelly Disney character, a bit horrific as a joke since Pepes feet really are abominable). We stroke admirably and in perfect time, and we stream down the river. We hit some
hard rapids, and the boat is all but overturned, with 4 of us floating rapidly away through the frigid ice melt. We pull each other back in and power onwards. We try to "surf" on a big hole in the waves, and after four traumatic attempts, give up, and continue down the river. The surfing requires nerves of steel, as Casey and I have to paddle ferociously until the final moment, and then keep paddling as water pours into the boat. Then we all have to leap to the left to avoid flipping. It was the nerves of steel that got me, as I always leapt a millisecond too early. We go swimming down the easier rapids, and the water is chilling but thrilling. The team work is fun, always the most unique aspect of a rafting trip. At one point we come around a corner and find a vast pile of rocks filling the entire river. The guide freaks out (Very convincingly) "oh my god, there's been a rockslide, we are gonna have to abandon the boats and swim. Everybody out!! Jana, go!!!" we are all in a panic until e reveals the joke, and we give him credit for the deadpan acting. We make it through various "rock and a hard place" moments, past jagged boulders and high imposing rock walls. Throughout it all, humor flies through the boat in various colors, absurd puns from Casey, dry British wit from Will, and morbid jokes from me. Other than the light humor, the whole thing is characteristically thrilling, albeit very exciting. Adrenaline keeps us warm as it  occasionally showers with cold rain, before returning to broken sunshine. And if the rafting itself is extraordinary, the scenery we pass through defies description. By the river banks of carved granite (forming strange shapes, forms, and tunnels of black smooth rock) the forest is lush and verdant and dense, almost jungle like. But higher up the forest seems to become alpine, with surreal snowy jagged peaks visible high above. When we come around corners to see glittering waterfalls pouring diamond drops of sun-refracted water into the river. Natural perfection. Mist rising over the trees evokes undiscovered jungle, and truly we are some of the only people to see this stretch of the river and the national park, which is only accessible by raft. Finally, with a solid heave, we paddle into a sheltered cove where the adventure ends. A grizzled gaucho (argentine cowboy) awaits on horseback, in incredible garb of furry animal-skin chaps and spurred boots. He is like something out of the history of Argentina. He deflates the boats and throws the big bundles on the horses spindly back. 
We climb up, sopping wet and freezing, through the steep dense forest. When we get to the top of the rise, we find that we are in Chile, that we have crossed the border while rafting. Though strangely similar to Argentina (which is only about ten feet away), it is funny that we have ended up here, since we spent the previous evening convincing Jana Not to go to Chile and instead to come rafting. We change into dry clothes and leap back in the van, still buzzing with adrenaline. We speed back to the estancia, everyone including the driver eager for asado. The feast that awaits us there is beyond compare. It is not our first asado, but we have probably never been so hungry for anything. We eat heaps of salad and potatoes gorgeous sourdough. But of course it is all about the meat, bife de lomo and chorizo, which come out in unstoppable waves from a seemingly endless supply in the kitchen. We feast, ravenous and exhausted and exhilarated, drinking good red wine and reminiscing about our recent adventure as if we were lifelong friends. When we literally cannot consume another bite of beef, out comes a gorgeous raspberry tart with fresh cream and delicious coffee (the best we have had in Argentina). Basking in the sublime nature of such a perfect day, and full to bursting with great food, we climb into the car, laughing, and fall into deep sleep. We arrive back in Bariloche and, not ye totally sated, Casey and Jana and I walk into town and go to the incredible chocolate shop Rapa Nui, where we order vast heaping piles of ice cream (three huge scoops of various flavors with incoherent names in a vast, bowl-like cone, slathered with chocolate sauce), too good to be true, and recline in a colorful little booth in the kids play area of the cafe. We eat until the ice cream is gone and our stomachs are, again full to bursting (what a day of indulgence) and then lounge in a near-comatose state, as Casey translates (or more accurately, repeats from memory) the words of Aladin, which has just begun to show on the kids area TV screen. We slowly meander home, collapsing into a relaxed stupor in our cozy hostel. For a while we read and catch up on admin, then Will shows up (he is staying in a hostel down the street but by now we are all inseparable) and we all gather round in the hang out room for a long, wonderful, utterly memorable evening of drinks, travel stories, plans for the future, favorite Argentina tales, and various other warm, joking "banter" as Will (a gap yah-like Londoner) would probably say. That night, as we pack our things to head out the next morning, leaving seems again like a horrible prospect, as it always seems to be.