I left my heart in Valparaiso

While I just got back from a weekend at adventurer's paradise Pucon I'll hold off on writing about it until I get the pictures up. And now that it's been a couple weeks, I figured now would be a good time to reflect on my favorite weekend excursion so far:

Imagine a city where rolling hills meet the glittering Pacific, where fishermen sell their wares from rusty boats docked on the wharf, a city where rows of houses of every color imaginable are crammed together so their sides are touching, where the Bohemian architecture marks a countercultural hotspot, all nearly destroyed by an earthquake in the early 1900s. Sound familiar?

No, not San Francisco. Turns out Chile has a gem of its own: Valparaiso.

Some Chileans will even call the comparisons with The City valid, recalling the sailors who dubbed it "Little San Francisco" during its golden age of shipping before the days of the Panama Canal. But there's a distinct Latin American twist to this coastal town, where aged mechanical elevators called ascensors take tourists up the hills for a nominal fee--not quite cable cars, but since when do SF residents put up signs in their windows protesting a hike in cable car fares?



In Valparaiso, the charm rests in the interchange between native culture and modernity, a microcosm of Chile's grappling with its repressive, authoriarian past and its recent capatilist reforms. Take the town jail, for example, which was converted into a public museum. We were the only ones perusing the dusty confines of the ex-carcel on that Sunday, and to say the experience was surreal would be an understatement. Stone busts of topless women, murals, grafitti, worn down soccer fields--all contributed to a truly haunting experiece, the ghosts of the former inmates ever so elusive as we peered into the cells and out into the courtyards.



Getting to the prison/musem from our hostel was an adventure in iteself. The city is arranged like a game of chutes and latters, with the ascensors, staircases, and even slides helping to navigate the hilly terrain. Several turns found us practically in residents' backyards, but such was an up-close, down-and-dirty view of Chile that we had not yet found in Santiago.



The hostel was also a rousing experience, which we shared with several of our Stanford counterparts, as well as a creepy dude from Connectucut and some more aloof Europeans. It was as magical as Valparaiso itself, every wall painted a different color, and the rooms are all situated around a central atrium, which we filled with songs and guitar playing deep into the night (thanks, Canadian dude whose name I cannot recall, for letting me borrow your axe). Of course, my broken finger is still paying the price for such musical indescrecioins, but it was well worth it. I found myself considering how amazing it would be to open up and operate a hostel in Chile, perhaps owning/managing a vineyard on the side? We'll see how journalism goes...



The other attraction of that weekend was Vina del Mar, a more touristy destination for the less-Bohemian inclined. It boasts cleaner streets, more polished architecture, and an actual beach. While it lacked the cultural vibrancy of Valpo, it was great to walk up and down the shore checking out the artisans' stalls, watching the Chilean kids fly their kites in the sea breeze, and just dig my toes into the sand. The ritzy hotel even had a casino on its main floor, but Zach and Patchez had already lost decent sums of money before I could place my bet, so I politely abstained. Finally, we were graced with one of the more magnificent sunsets I've seen, the vast expanse of the Pacific topped with cotton candy clouds.



Thanks to Zach for providing the photos, as my camera was down for that weekend. I got it back up and running, however, and once I get the pics online from Pucon, I will give this week's true update.

All Right Now

You may have heard about a 6.2 magnitude quake that rocked Chile last weekend. But, rest assured, I am fine and dandy as we spent the weekend in the north and the quake was centered in the remote south.

We spent the weekend in La Serena, a peaceful (yes, and serene) coastal town most famous for its antique lighthouse that doesn't work. We kept asking our tour guide why it doesn't work, but all she would say in response, with a wry smile was, "no funciona" (it doesn't work).



The excursion was our Bing Trip, the legendary weekened that each Stanford overseas student gets to spend with all expenses paid. We took a 45-minute flight to Santiago on Friday, and spent much of Saturday bussing around the Valle de Elki. While the Valle had magnificent sourroundings (pics will be uploaded soon), Gabriella Mistral's house and museum paled in comparison to Neruda's (I'm not cultured enough to make the same comparison about her poetry). And the grand finale of the day, a trip up to one of Chile's many observatories (the atmosphere is thinner here, I guess) was spoiled by cloudcover. But-lo and behold-the skies cleared up on our trip back to La Serena and we pulled our two buses over on the side of the highway and spent 15 minutes soaking in one of the most magestic starry skies I've seen.



The other highlight came the next day. BC and I decided to skip the all-day, $36, bus-riddled penguin excursion to stay in La Serena and chill out. We spent much of the late morning exploring the city and its markets, streets and Japanese Garden. But we hit pay dirt when we decided to check out a bar and watch soccer. The bar was packed, and everyone in attendance was decked out in full. For some reason they all were rooting for Santiago-based Universidad de Chile--La U, for short--and they sang and chanted the entire game. We bought pitchers of cheap beer (to fit in, of course) and tried to learn some of the chants. It was a blast. Next step: go to an actual game in Santiago. Wish me luck.

Gringo = asshole

I was walking down the street the other afternoon when I passed a group of scruffy-looking Santiagans. They were moving about towards the bus station when a disheveled-looking woman took a dive in front of me. But I rejected years of Cub Scout training and continued walking along, looking ahead as if nothing had happened. Why, you may ask?

I was told to. Because, who knows, her 10 year old kid could run up behind me while I was helping her up and steal my wallet, or something along those lines. Get it?

Such is the case when you're an American abroad. While I don't dress flashy or do much to attract attention (ok, I should probably get a haircut and the aviators may verge on ostentatious--but I bought them for $5 at Walgreens, really!) I still feel like Tupac sometimes, because all eyes are on me. Sure, I'd imagine it would be worse to be a blonde female or something crazy like that, but no matter what, if there's something about you that screams gringo, it gets picked up quickly.

And it's not just pickpockets or people trying to get your money; sometimes it's with the best intentions. The worst part was when I approached the airport counter, having recited the proper Spanish vocabulary 100 times in my head, only to be greeted by, "Hello, sir, how are you doing today?" I know they want to make us tourists feel comfortable, but damn!

At least my host family tells me they are impressed with my Spanish. And being that they've hosted several other students in years past, I'll gladly take the compliment. Hopefully that will translate over to my classes (all in Spanish). Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to don my red, white and blue jumpsuit and ignore the street vendors trying to hawk their wares at me.

Pablo Neruda stole my laptop and made this blog

Location, location, location. It's not just important for real estate. I remember hearing somewhere that the best way to understand the literary greats is to visit where they spent most of their time. OK, I now realize that this came from the movie Orange County--but it still makes sense. And even though Neruda had three houses in Chile, he alledegly sepnt the most at Isla Negra, where we took a day trip with the whole Stanford group.

And what did we find?

The house was, simply put, picturesque. Ironic, of course, given that my camera broke so I don't have any pictures. But I digress. Isla Negra is a beautiful, down to earth beach town that could fit right in along the Pacific Coast in Northern California or Oregon. The house is perched right over the sea, with every room set to offer breathtaking views of the waves crashing over the black rocks. Inside, historians have preserved much of Neruda's collection of art and artifacts. The first room we stepped into was martimep-themed, filled with compasses, statues, and ships in a bottle. The subsequent rooms boasted ancient globes, maps, and tribal masks. It was a fantastic collection, inspiring in a way, although not enough for me to spring any cash on the various trinkets the street vendors were selling outside.

We also spent sometime exploring the beach below. The craggly rocks are good for hosting tide pools, and luckily we had BC in tow--fresh out of Stanford's program in Monterrey--to explain our findings. The weather was fantastic, and it had been a while since I enjoyed a day at the beach. All in all, Isla Negra was impresive. I could almost say that if I spent most of my days there, I could write some award-winning poetry, too.

Almost.

There's no pictures yet, but once the rest of the crew shares theirs I can put a couple up. I'll also be posting some of my journal entries from Valpariso and Vina del Mar, our other destinations this past weekend, in the next day or two.

Who let the dogs out?

Here in Latin America, the elephant in the room seems to be the dogs in the street. And there are tons of them. Some estimate that there are almost 500 million stray dogs out there in the world, and from my informal estimates a decent portion of that is in South America. Even this weekend, spent in sunny Valpraiso, I couldn't walk the street for more than 100 feet without running into a stray dog or two. It was the same in the southern regions, such as chilly Puerto Natales, and in Santiago--to a smaller extent.

Paola, our cheery host at Nikko's II, informed us while speeding down the Puerto Natales streets in a van that the stray dogs were rampant throughout South America, not just Chile. Very few seem to be fixed, and they get by rummaging through trash or scraps dropped by friendly neighbors. Nobody seems to mind them, or want to do anything about them. They're as much part of the steet culture as renegade taxis and grafitti murals.

Even the dogs with owners aren't fully under control. I learned this walking the hilly streets of Valpo, as I looked up to find a small dog nearly fall out a second-story window, barking at the rogue cannines on the avenues below.

Free the Finger!

No, this isn't about my good buddy Taj.

But my left ring finger, which I had broken over a week ago at Torres del Paine, is now splint-free. But now that it's not being supported, it's starting to hurt, and typing is still a chore. So there still may not be regular blog entries for the week, and I'm still going to refer to the park in Patagoia as Torres del PAIN. In any case, I tried to play a guitar at the Santiago mall the other day, to no avail, so hopefully I can make progress there now that I'm liberated. We have weekly Thursday musical jam sessions, "jueves musicales" as they're being called here, so by next week I should be up to speed.

Speaking of health, the Chilean health care system is remarkably modern and efficient. They had me in and out of there in 10 minutes. And the doctor was cheery and even seemed to understand my broken Spanish. Hate to promulgate stereotypes here, but it's good for a Latin American country. Of course, the Chileans will be quick to point out that Chile's life expectancy is only nominally behind the US, 77.85 to 76.56, respectively. Not bad for a country that wants to put mayonnaise on everything...

Journal Excerpt 1 (3/25/07)

“The world just seems too big” – Less Than Jake

It’s supposed to be a hostel, but it’s so much more than that. The humble Nikko's II, where we’re spending the night before heading up to Torres del Paine, has everything one could ask for. We rented sleeping bags, tents, pads and the helpful owner/manager gave us tips on where to shop and eat.

We arrived today in the afternoon. A three-hour bus ride from Punta Arenas was uneventful, and I slipped in and out of sleep. The vast expanses of Patagonia, however, were captivating, and somehow Less Than Jake were singing a line that goes “the world just seems too big" on my iPod as I peered out at the largest sky I’ve ever seen.

The flights from San Francisco, through Santiago, were fine. I slept on and off while working on the assigned reading, a novel about Pinochet-era Chile called Nation of Enemies. BC was next to me most of the way, and Zach and Kelsey were on the first flight as well. Patchez caught up with us on the last leg. At the airport, we ran into two Stanford students who just completed their quarter in Santiago and are now going to spend a couple days in Torres del Paine as well. They didn’t have much to report, other than they had a good time. One is currently living with the family Zach will be living with in a week. She claims, “he has it made.” We’ll see if that beats BC and the 27-year-old host mom…

Welcome!

Hello readers! I've decided to create a new blog, instead of posting on my old one. I intend for this one to be more personal and informal, more of a travel journal than random political ranting. I've been keeping a paper journal--I know, I sound like a dinosaur--and will likely transcribe selected entries from Torres del Paine for you all to enjoy. Hopefully I'll keep this up regularly, but no guarantees.

Also, since I broke my left ring finger (it's not serious, and I should have the splint off Tuesday, so don't worry) typing is difficult. Thus, I may not be updating this as regularly as I'd like until later this week. Until then, enjoy what I can throw together here in my host family's Santiago apartment, where the empenadas are fresh and the internet connection is spotty.