The eastern Patagonian desert of Argentina is a vast, windswept landscape, populated by scrub vegetation and sparse, polychromatic watering holes that stretches for more than a thousand longitudinal miles. One can drive from Rio Gallegos, near Tierra del Fuego, to Bahia Blanca, roughly 1500 miles north, and not encounter an appreciable change of scenery. My husband and I found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of this harsh environment, which was bearing the full brunt of the midsummer southern hemispheric desert sun, because we had scheduled a flight to Buenos Aires through the only commercial airport in the region.

The night before our flight, we languidly swilled Mendoza Malbec in our hothouse hotel room in Trelew, Argentina, with its only in the 1970s' puce-green carpet, upholstery, linens, and bath fixtures. We giggled inappropriately at violent scenes from a recent movie, as the television screen hiccupped with intermittently discernable, grainy images of wrestling and gunfire. As alcohol seeped into our bloodstreams, we gave no thought to the timing of our midday flight the following day. With giddy smiles, we faded out with the lights on, the olive-drab curtains billowing slightly in front of the light breeze kicked out by the wall-mounted air conditioner.

However, as punishingly bright streaks shot through our tiny window mere hours later, I batted my purse over to the bed with a flaccid hand to investigate what time we had to leave for the airport. As a lightning bolt of disapproving nerve impulses stormed across my brain, I slowly realized that we had missed the flight that had been going to deliver us to Buenos Aires with only twenty four hours to spare before our return flight to the States. The sickening realization that Trelew was separated from Buenos Aires by 1100 kilometers did nothing to soothe my mind.

No sooner had I waken my blissfully slumbering husband, than we were both stumbling over each other, our clothes, and miscellaneous puce-green jumbles of sheets. We soon thereafter bundled out the door, headed for who-knows-where to find any way out of Trelew. We arrived, breathless and sweaty, at the airline office on the city's main drag. "Your flight has gone, and no more flights today" murmured an employee. She flaccidly recommended that we try the bus companies.

We jogged towards the bus terminal until we found a taxi willing to whisk us over to our only oasis of hope for leaving Trelew that day. We breathlessly approached one company's kiosk, and were informed that they had no service to Buenos Aires, but advised us to try the adjacent kiosk. We exchanged daringly hopeful glances as we gingerly approached the desk. "Buenos Aires?" I whimpered, squinting at the smiling agent. "Yes. Departing 2PM, arrive Buenos Aires tomorrow morning." As we booked our cramped seats for the twenty hour bus ride, cool relief washed over us. Although we had temporarily secured our departure from the harsh Patagonian desert, its stark beauty beckons our return.

Learn more about this author, R.M. Azami.
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