Meeting Lefty

I knew he’d be trouble from the moment I saw him. He was a big guy, top-heavy, lumbering down the stairs from the jet. I stood off to the side, unnoticed, as he and the others—mostly Argentines—ambled toward the small stone building that, in 1985, served as the airport terminal for San Martín de los Andes. There was a stark disconnect between the tiny, tin-roofed hut with its small stone chimney and the large modern jet looming over it. The hand-pulled baggage cart, piled high, somehow bridged the gap.