Pushing Southward

J____ is back in Paris and I’m in Sardinia.

I came into Golfu Aranci and a man. The nicest man in the history of nice people. Brought me in a taxi. For 80 kilometers. And changed me half of what he should have. On a Sunday.

And pointed out towns and rock formations that vaulted out of the ground in odd shapes.

They used to film westerns here, he said. Because it looks like… name me some places.

Colorado. Arizona.

Exactly, he said.

And it does look like that, like Colorado on steroids. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid on the moon. On some other baked, orange planet.

But, he said. They stopped filming them here when they paved the road.

As a good friend of mine would say, pay that forward. I’m going to try.

I’m staying in something called a tukul on a beach, which is like a tent with hard sides and a little orange roof. I arrived all exhausted in heavy clothes and I thought, what do I do first.

Swim, was the initial thought.

There’s no WiFi in this town. At all. So no photos. No artypants essays. Until I get back to the mainland.

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