14 January 2008. Golden light on camphor trunks, stucco walls, parsing the east-west driveways... Mid-January, a taste of spring before the rains. Jack at 80, curvature of the earth, another horizon, the plane flying almost fast enough to keep pace with changing light.
One in the morning, SFO. Singapore Airlines for Hong Kong. A line of villagers from the Philippines--Cabanatuan, Tarlac, Dagupan--live chickens in slatted crates, bales of clothing, over-sized vinyl luggage bound with rope. A single Indian man in a white turban, his whispy trimmed beard, also white, and western coat, long scarf wrapped around the shoulders and lower face--pulled in, as it were, a portable world...
Los Gauchos Judíos, Alberto Gerchunoff... Between the rivers, Entre Ríos...
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