tell me all of your secrets
The subject of travel is brought up again with Bruce Chatwin's In Patagonia, the account of his journey through that wonderful region of South America. The book is teeming with penguins and misplaced Europeans and talk of the Wild Bunch and dinosaurs, written in an evocative style that can make many hear the call to throw off the yoke of quotidian existence and see what's out there.
Also, I think this is required reading for pretty much anyone who uses Moleskines.
An Indian eyed the mountaineers and came over to pick a quarrel. He was very drunk. I sat back and watched the history of South America in miniature. The boy from Buenos Aires took his insults for half an hour, then he stood up, exploded and pointed the Indian back to his seat.
The Indian bowed his head and said: 'Si, Señor. Si, Señor.'
In the morning I had a tremendous row about the bill.
'How much was the room?'
'Nothing. If you hadn't slept in it, nobody else would.'
'How much was dinner?'
'Nothing. How could we know you were coming? We cooked for ourselves.'
'Then how much was the wine?'
'We always give wine to visitors.'
'What about the maté?'
'Nobody pays for maté.'
'What can I pay for then? There's only bread and coffee left.'
'I can't charge you for bread, but café au lait is a gringo drink and I shall make you pay.'
They gave me a straw mattress, and I curled up on the floor and tried to sleep. The men threw craps and their conversation turned to knives. They unsheathed their own blades and compared their qualities, drumming the tips on the table. The light came from a single hurricane lamp and the shadowy blades twitched on the white wall above my head. A Chilean shearer made comic suggestions about what his knife could do to a gringo. He was very drunk.
Another man said: 'I'd better let the gringo sleep in my room.'
Also, I think this is required reading for pretty much anyone who uses Moleskines.
An Indian eyed the mountaineers and came over to pick a quarrel. He was very drunk. I sat back and watched the history of South America in miniature. The boy from Buenos Aires took his insults for half an hour, then he stood up, exploded and pointed the Indian back to his seat.
The Indian bowed his head and said: 'Si, Señor. Si, Señor.'
In the morning I had a tremendous row about the bill.
'How much was the room?'
'Nothing. If you hadn't slept in it, nobody else would.'
'How much was dinner?'
'Nothing. How could we know you were coming? We cooked for ourselves.'
'Then how much was the wine?'
'We always give wine to visitors.'
'What about the maté?'
'Nobody pays for maté.'
'What can I pay for then? There's only bread and coffee left.'
'I can't charge you for bread, but café au lait is a gringo drink and I shall make you pay.'
They gave me a straw mattress, and I curled up on the floor and tried to sleep. The men threw craps and their conversation turned to knives. They unsheathed their own blades and compared their qualities, drumming the tips on the table. The light came from a single hurricane lamp and the shadowy blades twitched on the white wall above my head. A Chilean shearer made comic suggestions about what his knife could do to a gringo. He was very drunk.
Another man said: 'I'd better let the gringo sleep in my room.'