Salta, Argentina

Lean wrists dangled from noon on loose steering wheels that sloppily maneuvered forgotten models of European origin. Passengers hung halfway out windows with bare feet perched on the dashes next to piles of useful gadgets yet to be used for their intended purpose. Velocities never reached more than a pedestrian´s pace, leaving one to wonder why vehicles were used in the first place. It was Sunday, after all. Rest was of the utmost order.

The imperceptibly declining slope on which I coasted allowed me to engage in the slow-motion spectacles with like lethargy. Sitting semi-side-saddle on the toptube, I felt no compulsion to pedal. Moment elongation, atmospheric preservation.

Creatures that don´t normally fly found traction on the abnormally chewy air, gaining additional leverage from the charcoal smoke wafting from barbeques on the verge of readiness. Grasshoppers surfed on the strummed bars of a thoughtless string session emerging from the shade of a woven canopy next to the condiments and beverages. Less than fifty percent of all skin present was covered in clothing, exposed portions glistening with effortless sweat.

People went about their Sunday way as if there was no war, no poverty, no concern - not arrogantly or ignorantly, but self-indulgently aware. Their response to my presence was equally characterized by an unexpected understanding, like I was supposed to be doing whatever it was I was or am doing. It came as a fresh sense of belonging after the alienating gawks of most folks further north.

Belonging amplified with the unseasonable warmth felt at the Casa de Ciclistas in Salta. Unannounced, ungroomed, and unaccompanied, I washed up on the curb like a beached whale out a sea of refuse. Hesitantly, I inquired about temporary lodg - when I was interrupted by the creaking gate and ushered into the embrace of the Marín family. There, I had the fleeting feeling of familiarity for the few days I spent. More than any jaw-dropping panorama, the kindness of people astounds me.