Driving and more driving, and more driving still. I’ve had lots of time to firm up my opinions on Patagonia, and they’re not as flattering as they might once have been. Flat. Windswept. Uninhabitable. Montana without the mountains. Wyoming without the skiing. La Cuarenta has left me with a rattling car and fraying nerves. In a fit of anger this morning I gave the car a stern kick, stoving in the front quarter panel and rendering the passenger door unusable.
2500 km down the road and still precious little to show for my troubles beyond a growing repair bill.
I’ve dreamed of coming to Peninsula Valdes for more than a decade. so here I am. Sitting in a crowded restaurant listening to Brits on package tour do a Sound of Music singalong. I try to take what comfort I can in that my countrymen are for once not the biggest assholes in the room.
