I remember those days in Patagonia, with maybe one or two cars passing by a day, and we wanted to make a good impression from the start to hitch a ride, me and Julia.

We were not migrants yet. Maybe I was, because I never felt I ever belonged anywhere. Maybe to a week in Chile, a night in Chiusa where I slept and woke renewed, I’d like to think the cabin of an aircraft, that strange place where I exist feeling the air rushing through my skin, outside.

And we meet on the eyes of the stranger who picks us up and take us to safety. Does our chanting turn into humming? Does the vibration turn into warmth? Who created borders for whom can walk?

You see, I am not a firm believer in borders. As a traveler and not a migrant, I experienced the drifting from one country to another without even noticing. After a while, the custom officers kind of know your type at the airport and even though you want to tell them all about your adventures, about why you are visiting their land, there is no use. Sometimes they won’t even lift their sight as they place another stamp. And then you turn to write.

Thank you for this piece. Thank whoever stopped for you and for me. And I speak for myself now, here standing at the side of the road, walking up the hill, dreaming of tall soft green grass caressing my hands and toes, listening to the creek running down the mountain, through which the water flows.

(Thank you, Trisha Traughber. Sometimes the response it is elicited is far from what we want. I swear I had something completely different in mind when I was thinking about what to comment on the next part of your story. Like always, thank you for taking me along and inviting us to be participants of this, your journey — would this make it then, our journey?)

Thank you always.

Pablo