Her brain works faster than her words that work faster than her fingers that work faster than the computer. As a consequence, she finds her attention wandering from the stories she wishes to tell. Sorry.
Suffice it to say
She and Amiga una are in the nicest little town yet, called Tinogasta: surrounded with mountains and grapes (and apparently a source of Uranium that an Australian company is trying to mine, a bare 8km from town (Ozzie Ozzie Oi Oi Oi)), muy ricas empanadas, gigantic glass bottles of sprite, a wonderfully kind and welcoming dutch/argentinian multilingual family who have been hosting them in a borrowed tent and a very-comfortable-at-the-start-of-the-night-slightly-flattened-by-the-morning-air-bed and taking them to the local high school to speak English to the teenagers (who are frighteningly similar to teenagers in Melbourne) and feeding them soup, dusty streets and adobe mud brick houses, many heladorias, slowly ridden motorbikes, escapist horses, sloow but very popular internet, one way streets and a plaza that both traffic and pedestrians stroll around and around for hours in the evening, usually clockwise.
We like it. We are going to stay. At least until we have gone horse riding into the Correos de Andes (?). (hopefully not near the uranium). Or until our backs refuse to let us onto that mattress again.
