When I was young we would spend our summers in a small village in the mountains of Córdoba, Argentina. Everyone knew everybody there. I must have been 12 when my mom asked the owner of the sole general store if I could work behind the counter as a summer job. Besides selling canned food, rope and other basics, it mostly functioned as a bar. The gauchos and workers would come in at the end of the day and have red wine served in a giant bottle called 'damajuana' and play cards while smoking cigarettes. The more they drank the louder they laughed. For a young kid, this whole scene was intimidating yet appealing. If a stranger  walked in, the room would go quiet and everyone would stop and turn around. The experience of being part of this place, if only for a summer, gave me a sense of belonging that I will never forget. If felt like I experienced a slice of life stripped to the bone.

Thirty something years later, I started seeking out the bars which seem to be the only authentic businesses left in the small towns. I still find that crowd, and it still feels the same: dangerous, a little scary, then accepting, warm and respectful.