From the jungle of Iguasu, I flew into the cultured Salta, whereupon I trespass into a private artists gathering. My pants were stained with mud of the Macuco Trail (in Iguazu Fall), while others dressed in elegance. But they were too polite to kick me out or arrest me.
Everybody seemed to know someone else, and everyone was hugging and kissing someone else. There are artworks everywhere, some tacky woodcraft, some photos of shanty houses, and a whole wall of toilet paper, which I stared upon for minutes, trying to deduce the hidden philosophical meaning, but of no avail.