scraps of paper from dinner.

Cafayate. Eating a large steak. A big tenderloin. Tomato salad for balance. A bottle of vino tinto. Local fare.

8 tables stradle the sidewalk. Pedestrians, of which there are few, walk between us. A table of two men, side by each, sip their remaining beers. One smokes. He is large. Round belly. Red faced. A cropped mullet of slicked white hair. A handle bar stache, trimmed, with the edges touching his chin. He wheezes before his lighter can strike a spark.

An Argentine resembling a short Tom Selleck asks for change. His shirt, tucked in, but buttoned only at the lower half. Cowboy boots covered by tappered jeans. Salt and pepper hair combed back and covering the ears. A tightly groomed moustache accompanies his upper lip. He feels good about himself. He runs the hotel I stay at. I've only used the bathroom in the hotel three times and each time he was occupying the one man room. A one man show of him. Combing his hair with the door open. Shirt off. What the fuck!? Either get out or shut the door and lock it. Stop playing dress up in your own mind. They are no longer casting for Three Men and a Baby. You fail.

Boots clap the tiled sidewalk. A bombshell passes. All Argentine. Long, slender. All I see are legs. Her eyes are curious, but non-wandering. I stare. She wins.

Three modern cowboys sit to my left. Their motorbikes parked an arm's length away. A Honda CBR and two Yamaha R1s. Can only imagine their ride. Wide open well paved two lane desert roads. Scenery like the Mojave. Layered rocks of red. Rusting iron ore. Some copper green oxidizing in the mix. They sip water. I sip wine.

I cut off a thick slice of steak. Juicy. Salty. I refill my glass. I still have half a bottle left.

A puppy perched with patience in the passageway. Hoping his youthful eyes of desperation will draw the scraps of sympathy.

I want to say its a Mariachi band, but think that may be wrong. Is that only in Mexico? Still, it sounds similar. Guitar strums. Ranchero singer follows. Voice of deep Spanish pride. Telling stories from his Grandfather's eyes.

Salt & tomatoes a natural compliment. Tomatoes on grilled beef even better.

The puppy, ignored, moves on.

Chivalry courts the air.

A ponytailed girl, pink pants, rides her bike with one hand. The other sports a melting icecream cone. She follows blind her father's leading shadow.

A boy, no more than three, sits in the rear child's seat of his mother's bike. Arms stretched in celebration. He wears the jersey of a Boca Jr player. His Mom walks the bike home.

The band picks up tempo. Mr. Handbars pours more beer. His right hand stomps the tune in an off-beat fashion. Cuttlery bounces with a metalic clank. The man at the table behind him has his arms crossed. His upper hand taps the same beat.

I feed the puppy. He is veiled under my table's cloth. Starving, he accepts a dropped scrap. Gentle, but hungry for more. He waits. He looks up and licks his chops. His face is all eyes. I hold a 2nd piece in my fingers. He approaches and takes. Two bites to straighten his hold on the meat, then he swallows whole. No time to taste. I'm sure he'd like to, but he is most concerned with consumption rather than enjoyment. Eat to live. His hair is wirey. He can't weigh more than 10lbs. A puppy fending for himself. I feed him all my gristle, scrap by discarded scrap. He accepts it all. All consumed in two bites. I grin. He's likely to get sick from so much so soon. He'll figure that out himself. Part of fending for oneself.

The vocals pause. The band stops. The vocals speak. A joke is told. The wit caught and the crowd laughs. It spills onto the street.

Two young couples dance. They move so well. A courtship of twirls. They strike envy in the aged patrons. They must be hired help. He spins quickly to show her his moves. She is provacative and turns each time the man holds too tight a glance. He is the lead, but she is the tease.

A father passes, shouldering his daughter. Son walks by the side of his mother, holding her hand. A family, together. Heading home, together.

I order a cortado. Small espresso with milk. I'll put a cork in the wine - now only a quarter left - and move on.

*******
dinner does not always have to be a group affair. sitting solo in a foreign town is often entertainment enough. company is welcome, but in its absence a pen and paper will suffice.