Argentine mountains are like brake lights. They are bright red and it's a good idea to stop when you see them. Uh, lest you drive off a cliff. Sorta. Nevermind. Unfortunately, the bus into Cafayate kept moving, so my pictures got all blurry. I noticed an Australian fellow a few rows behind me (of course, I wouldn't find out he was Australian, nor would I know that his name was Trevor, until he would later tell me that stuff) trying to take pictures out the window. Trevor was having difficulty getting shots from his aisle seat. He was further hindered when the old woman in the window seat next to him woke up and recoiled at the camera in her face. She appeared very very dismayed and very very elderly indeed, and Trevor fumbled awkwardly with
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