Tuesday, November 23, 2010

We walk up the hill to Nido Claro, our little nest of homes. I was worried about what to say, my ongoing struggle with small talk, but Saverio starts to ask questions--how many people, how long have I been here, how did all of this start. I realize I'm walking with a journalist.

I stop in the middle of the road.

"How did you find out about us?"

We try not to advertise. It's just a little stranger than most people want to know, a little too unrooted.

"You and your friend Lydia seemed extra quiet about who you were, where you were from."

We start to walk again.

"So I asked around in Ushuaia, talked with some of the vendors. Who are the ladies? And they tell me about the people who come around sometimes, and the man with the little wooden trains is from here, from Puerto Williams, and he talked about the nomads."

That's us.

"I convinced my editor that it might make an interesting travel story."

"A lot of travel."

"Yes. And I thought I might need a sweater." Saverio grins, and I'm being flirted with or played.

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