Roadside Distractions, Argentina

Civil engineers designed Route 150 with a single pen-stroke and a t-square. A total absence of features in the landscape of La Rioja allowed them to complete the scheme one-handed in a matter of minutes. From there, the contractor piled rocks, packed asphalt, and painted lines. After it dried, cyclists came and grew bored.

In such absence, the sight of something anomalous is captivating, no matter the circumstance. So, when from underneath the shade of a low-slung tent an eagerly gesturing woman in a slinky skirt emerged bearing a sweating bottle of water, I swerved, braked, and circled back, failing to check for oncoming traffic. Thankfully, motorists stalled for the siesta, so my maneuver went unchecked. But underneath the luring shade lurked another disaster waiting to happen.

At once, I was seated on a cool, hide-stretched chair and served a glistening glass of water. Usual conversation commenced, harmlessly, until she asked for my hands. Then, as if on cue, a crippled midget and two more women, scantily clad, emerged from a tent within the tent. Minutes later, palms showing signs of luck and love, more women, gangs of them, each in brilliantly colored, sparkling, strapless tops, approached. I had been lured into the realm of gypsies, fooled by their seductive trickery and tanned cleavage.

Sorcerous rituals requiring pocket change and foreign money produced a Brazilian nut and a small clove of garlic, mysteriously inserted into my pocket. When she insisted that someone named Maria in my family demanded that I cross the miniature crusafix that graced my precious leather book, I got spooked and tried to wiggle out of their slippery grasp. The unfavorable ratio of feminine juices to celibate cyclist unsettled me. Forgetting my stealth, I awkwardly stood up and made my escape, shaking gropes like a greasy runningback, fleeing like a cowardous calvaryman. Next time, sweat beads, whether on waterbottles or painted eyebrows, will be a clear indication of trickery.