The locals were fond of calling the Tacuil, in the Calchaquí Valley of northwestern Argentina, Lugar de Descanso de Dios—the place where God rests. From the top of the ridge, it suddenly opened below us, an oasis in a wilderness of rock, a bowl of greenery enclosed by baked mountains.
Orderly rows of vines, full-leaved in the Argentine autumn, spread across the valley floor. Some sense of peaceful solitude seemed to pass through, like a breeze ruffling the willow trees. I don’t know where God was heading when he paused here, but it would have been strange if he had not been tempted to stay.
