Luckily, it is still January. I live in a city without seasons.

To sleep or dream: these are my options.

In the heart of a Mediterranean winter, it is hot enough to bear my arms.

Again, tested by my passions, we plotted our path across a continent.

On maps, a pen streak, a host of unnameables. Later in Vale do Capao, it would be summer.  I would learn the scientific names for certain plants. Melissa Officinalis, otherwise known as Lemon Balm, was abundant on the edges of the yard. From this, we would make pots of tea, steaming under setting sun.

Afternoons would be spent planting an herb garden next to a red dirt road and a row of banana trees. Out would spring a bouquet of places that we would eventually pronounce. Yet, we never arrived.

In Tierra del Fuego, our ambitions included a fever, stolen towels, and a suitcase on wheels. I fantasized about asking the driver with fluency, with grace, Take me as far south as we can go. The bus ride was long.  I amused myself by taking photographs of our feet.

We climbed a glacier until my bones ached and I buried my remains in a muddy forest. The other Norte Americanos were well equipped, with silver poles and moisture wicking fabrics. Our gym shoes were soaked.

The night before, I had boiled black beans and rice in an aluminum pot. Seated on moss and mold, we ate our rice and beans under the rain, having already tasted the glacier. The ice escaped me. I could not imagine a body that can both shrink and grow, at the same time.

That night, I wrapped myself in a threadbare sheet. My lips were blue. I wished to forget the cold by welcoming it.

In Ushuaia, the last outpost, we ate over-priced fish and dreamt aloud about Antarctica. Yet, there was another totem floating out at sea, another missed target. The landmark lighthouse was closed to visitors.

Remember that film by Wong Kar Wai? A quiet consolation. Folded in someone else’s memory, drifting, dimming. The angled light, leading ghosts to shore.