So let's talk about these beautiful women down here. They know how to dress in a striking way. Black-eyed, black-haired with smooth swarthy complexions. Some are as sinuous and graceful as all get out. But my observation is that the majority are from trifling bulky to good and bulky. But you must bear in mind that I do not see much of the younger set. It is the older women I get to see most. . . I do not understand Spanish. That is a terrible handicap. But if they talk as intelligently as they do animatedly and rapidly, they're honeys.
Nevertheless and notwithstanding, I think I know where the prettiest women on earth are to be found in the greatest numbers, and I'll tell you where to see them. Go sit on the Boulder in East College campus when classes let out and you'll see them. You'll see more per square inch there than you'll see here per square rod. If you are too self-conscious or too dignified now to go sit on the Boulder, then I'll tell you, . . . if we had brought Miss Bess Robbins and Miss Sedelia Starr down here some time ago they would have won 99 out of 100 of all the beauty contests hereabouts. I'll add my sister, Mrs. Margaret D. Bridges. I thought she was the prettiest girl I ever saw.
OVER THE ANDES BY AIR
On a certain bright morning at 11:15 we started my biggest trial by fire or whatever the poets call it—going over the Andes in a flying machine. To me the plane didn't look any too new, or the paint any too fresh, or the pilot and crew any too much like I thought high-flying Andes pilots ought to look. The passengers looked pretty heavy, and there was a world of baggage.
The takeoff was the usual one. We got higher and higher. The literature on the back of the seat just in front of me was none too assuring. It said, "If you feel yourself getting sick just use the strong paper bags in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of you. Don't feel ashamed. Others before you have used them," or words to that effect.
We climbed and climbed. From time to time I thought I heard the engine sputter. We would hit bad going occasionally, the wings would dip up and down, and my seat would sort of try to get fully out from under me.
The best way I know to describe the scene is . . . rectangular straight sided patches of land of varying sizes and colors as far as one could see: green, purple, dirt color, straw color. Sometimes I thought there were streams of water. Houses or barns were mere ballot-sized squares, evidently surrounded with trees in full leaf. . . Inevitably each town had a plaza with spokes running out like those of a wagon wheel.
At the foot of the Andes the ground was closer and looked like the crinkled hide of an elephant. Then came the Andes. Soon there was plenty of snow. Eventually we passed to one side of Mt. Aconcagua, the highest peak in South America, 23,000 and some feet. We must have been 21,000 feet up. Then we saw its glacier, blue-green and cold. Up there we saw lots of blue-green ice.
In short order we circled over Santiago and landed. Gosh-a- mighty! Was I glad! We landed at 1:15 p.m., one hour change of time. It had been a three hour trip. And right there at the airport was a representative of one of those Heaven-sent U.S. corporations I've been talking about, ready and willing to take us and our one remaining jug of St. Thomas rum through the customs and to the Carrera Hotel.
And now we are going on our big adventure into and among the unknown. Daughter Joan and her husband, Bill, met a couple in Paris, France, last whenever it was who are from Nehuentue, in southern Chile, near the lakes and volcano region. Sight unseen they have asked us down over Christmas, and sight unseen we are going. They are of French extraction. Speak Spanish fluently, but no English. Sugar Foot speaks and understands considerable Spanish. But what am I to do? How am I to learn where the bathroom is even—if there is any.