you don’t know what the air is like in santiago until your skin is dark grey at the end of the afternoon. the conversation between smog and sweat begins at the alameda in late september — i climbed san cristóbal to have a conversation with the genie at the base of the andes, black and sprawling and threatening children’s photographs. there is nowhere for the air to go until it learns the practice of ascension. i asked heat which pisco sours it prefers. “egg whites are dry, of course.” ah, ya like bodies under the stadium, like cumbia that costs too much. guanacos in the intersection as rule and exception; i can taste thursday air even still. the andes have more names than i will on my finest day watching mud stream down from the canyon.