Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two liter bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom's night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke bars or Boys- the best place in town. For the food. For the folk. For the service. For the cream de papaya. And for that late night dawn's whiskey coffee.

Route Number 11: Argentina