I have Santiago Lung. I can feel it every time I breathe, every time I swallow, every time I clear my throat--and I think of exactly what FILTH I am clearing my throat of. Bof. (Pardon my French.)
I've been told that I can go to the farmacy (I don't care. I'm combining interlinguistic spelling rules from now on.) and tell them that my throat hurts because of Santiago and they will knowingly pass me some magic pink pills that will solve all my problems. ... I'd rather go to Pucón.
Pucón is in the mountains. It's far far away. And I'm going to fly there (on a bus) tomorrow. I. Can't. Wait. Give me clean air or give me death-via-Santiago-Lung. B.O.F.
Well. So I'm either going to Pucón, or I'm going to sit in my apartment and paint a lot and read Julio Cortázar and go for long walks. I haven't quite decided. But ... let's hope for Pucón.
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