It's been a good weekend. I've sold 11 sweaters, and now I'm packing up what's left. I haven't seen Saverio again. Why was I expecting to, hoping to?

Lydia hands me an empanada.

"One of the last ones left." She loves coming here--for the cash and the crowds.

Why do we do this? Why do we stay in our little band on the outskirts of everything? It suits me, but Lydia would be happier here, or in Oslo. But it's hard to move with the seasons, hard to find a place and a living. I guess our little tribe is our place, and so we stay together and make it work the best we can.

The pastry is warm and crispy, all melty in the middle. It warms me in the evening damp.

Tomorrow morning, we'll take the boat back to Puerto Williams, and I'll leave whatever fantasies I had.

His name is Saverio. He looks through me when he tells me this--not past me, but into the inside of me.

He's a journalist from Santiago, working on a feature story about the resorts here, and the ecotourism trend. He begins to ask me questions, but the line is moving, and so he is moving.

I explain that I'm in Ushuaia only for the weekend, just for the market. I don't have much knowledge of the haunts and hangouts in town.

Lydia smiles--a little wickedly, and hands this gorgeous man an empanada.

"Then we'll take our country girl back to Nido Claro," she says. Saverio pays her and strolls off to find his answers.

I watch him until he disappears, and a young Brazilian woman asks me about a cardigan.

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.

While Lydia unpacks her fryer and sets up, I wander the aisles of the Ushuaia market. It's early, a pearled morning. Vendors are getting their wares ready, a flurry of food and blankets and wood carvings. I should be setting out my sweaters, but I'm looking for something—maybe presents for my nephews, some strange little toys from their strange aunt, gifts for my mother and sister. I need to feel like I belong to my family. This year, more than the others.

Then I see it—a beautiful hand-painted card on a table of cards. All of them are lovely and exact, but this one looks right at me. I know who it's for.

I'll have to wait until Monday to get a stamp.

That first summer, I lolled in the light. I bathed in it.

Then came the turning, and another culture immersion--Tierra del Fuego, Spanish, empanadas. I had my own little tin home, and I loved the solitude.

Quickly it was clear that I needed to make a living, even a tiny one. When Reynaldo came through Puerto Williams offering wares, he had knitting needles and enough wool to keep me busy for a while. I could knit, and I did.

By the next turning, Lydia and Benjamin were serious, ready to live together.

I found a new home in Kirkenes, and a store that needed a person to own it. How? Did I have the money? I don't know. It was a store front, and I trusted the Chief. I trusted how much I love books. And maps.

Anything to give me a sense of direction.

To Ushuaia

I'm packing sweaters into my largest bag. I've got a pot of beans simmering, with cumin and a pinch of cinnamon, because I'm feeling festive. Already, it's close to Christmas, and the days are gloriously long.

Lydia told me this morning that she's planning a trip to Ushuaia to work in the markets, selling to the holiday tourists who come down from Brazil. Sweaters make a good gift.

I haven't seen much of Alex, as he hops from one job to the next. When I do see him, he's often with Lydia. I called that wrong, although she hasn't said anything to me about it. Part of me feels sad, and part of me thinks Oh God, it's still like high school.

All these twenty- and thirty-something people thrown together, and then a few regular families thrown in—with kids. I wonder what it's like for them, moving every six months, living in the margins. Then I think about growing up. I'm hardly an expert on that.