Lydia has stayed at this house before, and navigates easily. Alex and I must almost trot to keep up. The bags and the various luggage we carry or pull along grow heavier.
Lydia likes a city—and this is not. But it's closer than anywhere we usually live. Punta Arenas has pavement and plazas. Lydia is as hard as ice, but she likes her creature comforts as much as any of us—as much as I do.
Now, she chirps as she hurries to Casa Fuentes, all the things we'll be able to do and see—and eat and drink—while we're stuck here.
The word stuck is mine. And this is my first time stuck in Punta Arenas.