I was curious to walk this stretch though. What would it be like to cross a border on foot that most cross in a vehicle? What would the feeling of standing between borders be like? Will I be alone? Do I have anything better to do anyway?

The final answer was clear: if there was one resource I was flush with as a solo traveler, it was time. Albeit, having failed to account for delays due to an unnecessary distraction by a momma hen and her chiclets followed by a less agreeable encounter with a posse of stray dogs, I had relinquished even that luxury.

Another car whisks by me, vrooming out of the customs house and kicking up a cloud of desert dust in its wake. A shoulder would be nice on this road. All 35 liters of my backpack sit heavier with each step.

At their flat in the capital Santiago, we prepped four types of homemade mayonnaise and a fine array of pastries just in time to host an evening get-together with Marco and Sergio’s friends. Among the attendee list were the ambassadors to Chile from Austria, Malaysia, France, and Germany, a French opera singer who later performed acapella, and a Spanish communications officer who did well to reinforce his nation’s stereotype by smoking a pack by the hour.

The night climaxed when the Spanish officer’s artsy, young girlfriend began exhibiting her latest vaginal-inspired works to the clergy. Nothing is quite so entertaining as watching international bourgeoise react to interpretive, sculpted renditions of a woman’s genitals.