Carlos Páez Vilaró
When I was a child, I visited Casapueblo a few times. I didn’t quite understand that somewhat magical place — all white, full of strange sculptures made with gears and metal scraps. Around the same time, during one summer, a mysterious fog appeared when my parents mentioned that the son would be opening a restaurant. I didn’t fully grasp why. I sensed it had something to do with the book about the plane crash in the snow, but it was all part of stories that grown-ups didn’t tell children. Pretending to be distracted while wandering through Casapueblo, I managed to secretly read the back cover at some point. ...