Quilmes, Quilmes, oh lovely Quilmes ….

I did speak too soon.  The flight to Trelew was delayed for nearly two hours (for some reason that I never did fathom), so instead of spending the flight gawping at the landscape south of Buenos Aires in the now warm evening light, all I could make out were the lights of the city (although, to be fair, they were quite impressive), the dying glow of twilight far to the west, and the near darkness of the sparsely-populated Río Negro and Chubut Provinces.  Two hours later, I land at the small airport, go through another quarantine check point, and Hywel is waiting there.  At least I didn’t have to keep him waiting while my luggage was unloaded.  We only get lost once while making our way out of Trelew for the short drive to Gaiman, and even driving on an unfamiliar side of the road seems to present few issues, although random stray dogs do nearly introduce some drama.  We get to our lodgings, drink from cold bottles of Quilmes beer on our balcony, and listen to the wind rushing through the poplars on the banks of the Río Chubut, located just one block away.  It’s warm, pleasant, seemingly a million miles away from the arctic northern hemisphere, and I don’t feel at all tired.  I only go to bed at about 1.30 pm.  Perhaps it is the rush of adrenaline, released upon having finally made it to Patagonia.


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