The road runs first from east to west and some fifty kilometres from the coast it descends, now southwest, until after an infinite series of twists it loses enough altitude to reach the coast with the evening sun blinding your sight, and then over the very coastline you take the broken southern way of this solitary road ⎯solitary even if you cross ways with an old, clunky car that loudly drags its fender without caring the slightest, which comes up only with its driver and three hours later overtakes you carrying two more companions and then one hour later it crosses your path again with someone who is not the two previous passengers and even with a different driver behind the wheel; solitary even when every twenty kilometres, more or less, in this deserted, scratched coast there is some small village where you can only see the houses and not the people, whom who knows what they live off⎯ where if you are naive you get to picture yourself as daring, though that is no more than a tender illusion out of vanity because, in fact, sooner or later, and no matter how slow you go, in the end, some village with a gas pump, public phone, bakery and even with traffic signs will remind you that no, there is not anymore any possible solitude outside the spaces marked in the map.