Today, Villa Amengual
An old man slowly looks me up and down and tells me I’m in really good shape for an American. Um…

Tuesday, Villa Santa Lucia to La Junta
Going downhill over the ripio, I don’t see the series of holes in front of me until it’s too late. I bump over them at top speed and one of my panniers flies off my bike. The four French cyclists resting in the shade yell at me to stop. The one who speaks English tells me that when I took air, it was spectacular.

January 13, Puerto Montt to La Arena
I see the same bus that took me back to Puerto Montt two days earlier. The driver recognizes me and honks and waves. I wave back.

Wednesday, La Junta
Someone tells me that when I go back to Minnesota and start my next play, he hopes I remember them and this night that we sat outside and drank wine together.

I don’t know, I say. I think we’d have to fight. There needs to be conflict, some kind of problem or obstacle. Just hanging out and drinking wine and being happy — it’s good life, but not good theater.

He smiles in approval and pours more wine.