Patricio, a large man with long curly hair and a nose bent severely to his right, grabs my hand and introduces himself. After a few seconds, I fear that I might not get my hand back. He tells me he’s drunk. “Bacán,” I say and laugh nervously. He lets my hand go.
Syd and I have lunch at a little menú place. She has doncella, I have pollo asado. “What would you like for a starter?” the waitress asks. The menu only lists: sopa de pata de res. Is there another option, Syd asks. No, the waitress says. Two soups, it is.
Syd and I talk about 2666. And a trip to the Costa Brava that we have to make some day. But today, we have another pilgrimage.