Slungshot Crosswise

MAR DEL PLATA, (Argentina) -- I´m here! I´m here! It´s been awhile, I know. Long, hard days have been logged (one day: 330 miles!) to see both the oceans. (Both?) Yup. Both: That, with the Atlantic in the background, was taken today. Here, I´ll explain. Going on the month without ´er, we had to see the ocean. It started becoming an all-consuming obsession, even almost moving Andy ¨I was born to be on the ocean¨ Lemberg into hysterics. Lo, he happened to have a college friend, Ide, pronounced (ee-DEE), working in Chile some ten hours south of Santiago. The only thing between us and the Pacific were the Andes with her scooting up the coast to intercept our expedition in pre-earthquake Santiago. We stashed the motorcycles in Argentina on the other side of the Andes. Maybe it was for a smoother border experience or not wanting to chance a slip from the mountain roof of this continent, but for the first time in weeks, we caught a bus. The Chilean border was nestled back in the thin, frigid air. From the onset, there was a dogged exasperation to Chileans. From the border agents on the way in, to anyone over forty along the way, right up until the same agents on the way out four days later. I think it had to do with living through a dictator. Pinochet or not, they let a new pair of jokers in. After the money exchange, we fancied ourselves filthy rich fat cats, hoity toiting around like monocled Monopoly men, just in time to rendezvous with Ide and realize no, 500 pesos per dollar is no wad to be brandished.

She fit right in. Or, I fit in with Andy and her, so to speak. The lewd brand of joking smoothly transitioned without skipping a beat. Heck, even having a woman around, one well-put-together and aware of her outward appearance, was good for a pair of weary bikers. We´re at least half as haggard now. Maybe a third. Plus we made it to the Pacific. Standing ankle-deep in the biting surf, I shouted, ¨Poseidon!¨ I´m still not sure why. Right then and there, a decision was made. We would autograph some vast tracts of roadway blistering our way across the continent into the waiting surf of . . . yet another ocean. Straight from the Chilean shore, we pulled taut like two humans in an immense sligshot and cut the guide wire to be hurled east. An overnight bus threaded back over the Andes. We were dropped off back on the Argentinian side of the mountains very early. We walked back into the garage at the top of the clock, right when they opened. By now I thought it more a gravel stable that I paid to house my little metal pony for a few days. I even talked like it: ¨Hey there, darlin',¨ I said. ¨Ready?¨ Ho!--Four days later, we´re here, clear across the seventh-biggest country in the world. Items along the way included: - Flamingoes - A flock of green parrots - Andy getting his fishing pole, I getting my harmonica - and some tumbleweed. The middle of Argentina hasn´t been very eventful, meaning one more reason to rattle off a string of trying days to get here. It was just one Standard after the other. Next stop, Buenos Aires.

¨We´re slightly slightly salted, there´s tangles in our hair

We´re slightly slightly salted, you can taste it in the air.¨

--The Pounding Serfs