In Ushuaia, the world ends – or begins, depending on how you look at it.You sail to the Beagle lighthouse, the last one before Antarctica, where two oceans meet and the wind carries salt from both. Everything here is black and white and grey: penguins waddling across stone beaches, orcas cutting through frigid water, toninas riding the wake of your boat.The sea gives what it always has – king crabs pulled from the deep, mussels clinging to rocks, flavors so clean they taste like the cold itself. You trek along glacial lakes where the forest bends sideways from decades of wind, and you visit the old prison at the edge of the world, where men were sent to vanish and somehow, against all odds, survived.At night, in a shelter that feels like the last house on earth, you understand what finisterre means: the end of the land. But also the beginning of something else – the place where maps stop and imagination takes over, where the only direction left is inward.Here, at the bottom of everything, you are as far as you can go. And somehow, that feels like exactly where you need to be.