Salta, How I Wish For Another Day With You

People sat at café tables in the sun, the warm rays precious in Salta's high altitude winter. The main plaza was enclosed by charming cobblestone streets and colonial buildings. A strawberry seller offered his wares, each unblemished berry a deep red that promised only sweetness. Julie and I extricated ourselves from a tiny cab; after four days and three nights of overland travel, we hardly belonged in such immaculate surroundings, and retreated to a budget hostel.

Hostal El Andaluz was run-down, patched up here and there with an attitude of "That'll do" or "Ah, it still kind of works". The water was unreliable, there were no ensuite bathrooms, the dorms were dim and cold, and the common area walls were graffitied with messages by former patrons. But it was my favourite hostel in the trip so far. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. The girl at the desk sang and danced to the radio, and when our door was open, fellow travellers stopped by to chat.

It was imperative that we experience a local barbeque before leaving Argentina. We shared a hearty meaty dinner with our friends from the hostel, Imram, Sarah, and Adam, with whom we had lightly explored Salta. A nightclub, café, museum, and the lookout provided a balanced visit to the town in our brief time. There were day trips offering rafting, horse riding, and other adventure sports, but the buses to Bolivia didn't run every day, and Argentina was relatively expensive to stay for long.

Before sunrise, we left tidy little Salta and were bound for the dust and salt of Bolivia.