Ushuaia is a whirlwind. People coming down from Rio, Santiago, and Buenos Aires, people heading for Antarctica.

I speak with people who want sweaters, who admire the sweaters--the pattern and the warm wool, repelling the humid air. It's always damp here. I hand them my hours for a price.

A table away, Lydia fries up empanadas, and a steady stream of customers carry them away, waiting for the pastries to cool before they take their first bite.

We've set it up this way: While you wait in line for your snack, see--and feel--these fabulous hand-knit sweaters.

She doesn't need me. But she set up the system, and it gives potential customers a chance to look instead of glancing and walking on by.

I sit back and wait, try to sense when someone's ready to buy, or ready to ask a question. I knit while I wait.

Now I look up and see an extremely handsome man in the line. He does not look at the wool.