Our bus stops at a turnout in the gravel road – a perfect view across a glacial tarn to the precipices and peaks of the Torres del Paine. A perfect spot, too, for a group picture. I’m slow getting out, so I let everybody else go first. There’s a small gray Chilean fox (Zorro, they call them; so that’s where the swordsman’s name comes from!) lying disconsolately at the foot of a sign that says, in Spanish, “Don’t feed the animals.” And – I can’t believe it! – Mother, who considers herself (not without justification) a dog whisperer, is advancing to engage the fox! She can’t hear me hollering, “Don’t! Don’t stick your finger down near his nose!” She bends; I can see her talking to him, not remembering that his language, if any, is Spanish. Then – whew! – she straightens up and walks in a circle around him. He pretends not to care, but after she’s been out of sight for a few seconds, raises his head and looks behind him nervously. She disengages; I get out.

I’d like to be able to report how amazed I was at flying over the Andes and seeing how they rise up out of the Pacific – still are rising, in fact – in that long, tortured ridge; but in order to squeeze in as many days as possible, we flew the length of South America in both directions at night. So we got only twilight peeks at the southernmost Andes as they descended toward the junction of three tectonic plates off Tierra del Fuego. They remain for another journal.

But Los Buenos Muchachos (The Good Guys) – that’s a different story. A cavernous, arch-roofed, often-added-to restaurant in a single room big enough for a hockey rink with stands on the sides and ends, it’s billed as a family place: where the locals take the wife and kids and Granma for supper and a good time. It’s true; families pass our seats every few minutes, headed for spots on the long tables – a lot like Durgin-Park in Boston. A large stage fills the middle of one side of the room, and as the waiters serve each of us a pisco sour (it’s got sugar in it; such drinks can kill) and begin to bring appetizers, the floor show begins. A stocky extrovert with a loud voice, dressed as a huaso, the Chilean cowboy, sings a few songs, works the crowd, and begins to introduce the evening’s performers: Chilean bands, torch singers, and dancers in “folk” costumes. I have a feeling that the folk costumes, which reveal more flesh in each succeeding act, would have gotten their wearers thrown into the calaboose in the old Roman Catholic days when the real folk were being decimated. (Of the thousands of natives who lived here when Europeans reached southern Chile, there are very few left. One tribe, the Yamani, has been extirpated.) The dancers, purporting to represent native costume and habits, are more and more nearly naked and suggestive, finally picking people out of the audience to bump and grind with. Is it my own projection, or do I sense a mild disquietude in my Vermont companions? Next day, George is down with the crud; the day after, I am; and a few others follow. It may be that the Good Guys weren’t quite as good as advertised. Anyway, we’re all over it now and ready to do battle.

Our guide in Punta Arenas remarked, as our bus dodged yet another small pack of canines, “Stray dogs are a real problem in Punta Arenas, but we live with them.” Oh, no! That was a clarion call to the Dog Whisperer. Armed with a pocketful of dog treats (and pushing my wheelchair), she strode the streets dispensing charity on all sides. Soon we had a large crowd of curs behind us, watching her every move and importuning her for more. When we dodged into a restaurant, they waited on the sidewalk till we came back out. It was almost tempting to think of taking home one or two of the cutest. Not a good idea; they were at heart wilder than March hares.

The bar on our ship dispenses free drinks for several hours every day. It’s up on the fourth deck, which has the best view, through deck-to-overhead windows, of the passing scenes. But it’s 42 steps above our cabin on the first deck, a challenge on crutches. And I never can have more than one drink up there because I’d be sure to kill myself on the way back down.

Calculating the value of money may be easy for some geniuses, but it’s beyond me. I should have brought a pocket currency converter. Like, a US dollar is worth about 630 Chilean pesos. So what’s the value in dollars of a 20,000-peso note? I finally figured out that 1000 pesos is worth $1.59 (right?), so I just multiply that by the number of multiples of 1000. Thus 20,000 pesos is worth about $32. (right?) And it changes when we get to Argentina! In any case, I’m sure the waiters on the ship – which cruises from Chile to Argentine, exchanges passengers, and heads back – count on generous tips from tourists who will have no use for their local currency when they debark in a different country. I gave Aureliano 20,000 pesos. He was worth every centavo.

This last evening in Buenos Aires (I’m writing on the flight to Kennedy), we visited a tango dance studio, followed by a great dinner in a darkened theater with tango dancers on a stage right beside us. It was hard to imagine how they could move so athletically and precisely, their feet flying, while maintaining a disdainful melancholy-cum-sexual attraction for each other. But for me the enduring image will be of a couple dozen Vermonters in sensible shoes (read good traction and almost impossible to dance in) following the good-natured directions of a black-clad instructor: “Remember that Tango is not in the feet; it is in the heart!”