Punta Arenas, Chile was 110,000 people, a proper town with a proper town park just across the street, which was the home to the statue of Magellan and its smooth, often-rubbed toe (conveniently located for rubbing), which was mandatory according to the local lore. 2200 kilometers south of Santiago, you take what you get.
One passenger ship was calling just now. Across the strait, looking just about west to east, low hills rose around Bahia Porvenir, Tierra Del Fuego, home of a village of the same name, though I couldn’t make it out.
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Having rubbed the toe we spent the rest of the day driving to Hosteria Lago Gray. And weren’t we the city folk, speeding our petite white Nissan Saloon across 430 kilometers of utter wilderness as if we were in a hurry.
A wire screen over the windshield was to avoid a crack due to gravel, the rental car man made me understand. But no one else had one, so I gathered this really must have been the last car for rent in town.
We looked silly, I thought, motoring off toward the hills. A 1/4 inch mesh of expanded metal, anchored to the window all around extended far enough out for the wipers to operate underneath.
