Down the Andes. Since leaving deep grooves and the plane over here from time to time enters the empty patches suck. Oblique wings to the side, so we can see the Aconcagua and just end up passing, there in front of the airport. No end to cross the lava, earth, green and snow, we are already descending on the slopes of Santiago. The ears, as always, make a sound tight and compressed as the head seems to support, to limit pressure to explode. F spoke with a Chilean who draws the first map and it points out the bus we have to take. Puerto Center. Transportation undervalued according to our pockets, for under four dollars. It's hot. A lot. And we're all on a highway that gets us, slowly, in the city.
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