Today on this Patagonian isle it stopped raining long enough for a hike in the stunning national park, ending on a wild beach with grassy dunes.
I also discovered a very hip bar with wi-fi, of all things, and I am there now. This enables me to write, over a fast connection, on the very same computer I use at home. It is a rather surreal displacement. I am drinking espresso, but I may drink wine and eat fish. I could drink a pisco sour.
All of these options, in addition to wi-fi, a wood stove, and several non-rainy hours in the middle of the day, add up to extreme luxury. And partaking of these luxuries is, of course, a form of singing. The music in this bar is: alternative.
A note on my ever-shifting identity: people here, although they see me face to face, have as much trouble figuring out what I am as some of my more curious readers. In central Chile I was taken for a French person, an American with Chilean parents, a Chilean from a region unknown to my interlocutor, and a Colombian. On the coast, two people thought I was from Spain, and here in Patagonia, it is generally assumed that I am from Santiago. Do you see? Even in person, one has many selves, and who you are depends in part upon where you are. Proust also said that.