Chile & Argentina on Wineclubbie

Hey, just a quick note to let folks know I've posted about my weeks in Chile and Argentina on my Wineclubbie blog -- hope you check it out. More to come about Argentina later. ¡Salud!

Vive Colombia -- Part 2

After hearing mixed reviewed of Tayrona National Park, we decided to see it for ourselves and took the hour-long bus ride from Santa Marta to the park, where we paid the steep admission fee then embarked on a sweaty 1.5-hour long hike through the jungle then along a wide coastline to the main backpacker spot, Cabo San Juan de la Guia. We were disappointed to see the place, operated by the national park, looked like a big summer camp, with lots of people, tents of various hues speckling the big emerald lawn and several covered huts with rows of strung-up hammocks. We opted for hammocks, and one of the workers helped us attach the mosquito nets we purchased in the Santa Marta market -- excellent foresight on our parts, as people were complaining all night about getting bit. While the area was picturesque -- a sandy arm complete with a hut housing hammocks atop a hill stretched out into the sea dividing two bays -- the water was too choppy for serious swimming. After quick swims and laying out in the dwindling light until the mozzies started snacking on us, we hung out with an American guy who had traveled from motorbike from L.A. through Central America and two Aussie girls, drinking many beers. Combined with the magic little blue pill I slept great in my hammock, although everyone else I talked to had a rough night.

One night was enough for us at Tayrona, so we hiked back out the next day and made our way back to Aluna for the night. The next day we moved over to Taganga, the fishing village turned backpacker party spot, where we stayed for a couple days. That was about all we could handle, although we did have fun and met some interesting people, including Rafael, a chivalrous Frenchman who had been living in Colombia for the last 4 years supporting himself quite well off of real estate (although, I think there might have been more to that story…). During our days there we hiked around the point to beaches (that were prettier than Taganga’s main bay) with decent snorkeling and drank plenty mojitos and Águila beer, the Colombian version of the ubiquitous light ale all over the developing world (nothing remarkable, but very thirst quenching). We ended up staying at a hostel that had a pool and was the “official” afterparty spot for a reggae party happening at the village’s most popular bar so we got pretty much sucked into the festivities our first night there. Fortuitous or bad luck? You decide because it’s a toss up in my book. ;-)

After melting and burning ourselves out in other ways in Taganga we got on the overnight bus to Colombia’s capital, Bogotá. Before we left two policeman boarded the bus to review documents. As the Colombians passed their I.D. cards forward we handed over our passports, which the two young men carefully inspected -- especially mine. The one closest to me claimed he couldn’t find a certain entry stamp, but I told him that I came in on the same flight as my friend Niki, and the sough-after stamp was eventually found, likely much to their dismay (no mordita - bribe - for them). With our supplies of chips, arepas (fried corn patties), and Águila, we were ready for the 16-hour trip.

It took some scouting around La Candelaria, the 450-year-old section of Bogotá, before we found an available double room at Hostal Fátima, a hidden gem in the traveler’s neighborhood that had a great atmosphere and fun, party-ready people (the place had its own bar). We collapsed the first night, but after some shopping around the mural-and-graffiti-laden neighborhood the second day, Niki wasn’t ready to leave and changed her fight back to Lima for the following morning instead of that afternoon. We witnessed Día de las Velitas on Dec. 7, when la gente come into the streets to light candles (and watch an impressive fireworks show over Bogotá) of all sorts to honor the Virgin Mary and mark the unofficial start of Christmas celebration. After having a few drinks out in our 'hood we headed back to the hostel to find a party in full swing, which we joined until Niki had to head out to the airport at 3:30 a.m. for her flight. Well, I lasted a little longer, I must admit, since we had randomly run into a friend of ours, Alexandra from L.A., who we had met in Cusco months earlier.

Although I felt ready to leave Bogotá -- and South America in general -- after Niki left, I went to Villa de Leyva, a small town in the Colombian highlands that has been getting major press in the travel pages lately. While quaint, I didn’t see the big deal with the place (OK, I admit, jaded traveler mindset is taking its toll at this point), but I did arrive after Día de las Velitas, which is one of the town’s biggest holidays, so maybe that had something to do with the lacklusterness I felt. I went for a good hike in light showers, reaching a point above the village with a spectacular view the camera just couldn’t do justice -- although it did capture the clouds nicely. After two restful days there I returned to Bogotá and Fátima, still antsy to move on.

I couldn’t get a flight out to Lima (where I needed to go before leaving the continent) until after the weekend, which turned out to be a good thing. The next morning I went to the park up the road and did yoga in the grass amid drug baggies and plenty of dog crap next to a power substation. Gritty, yes, but at least I was safe, near 4 cops who were more interested in comparing cell phone ring tones that anything else. But I was beneath a beautiful blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds; a gorgeous day that saw me tour churches and other sites in the center of town, taking me through military checkpoints where soldiers inspected by bag in order for me to go down certain blocks near government offices. While Colombia is pretty safe now, the police presence was higher than in any other country I went to -- a testament to the civil war that still plagues the country. I took the tram up to Cerro de Monserrate for sunset, which was photo frame after photo frame of gorgeous views with spectacular clouds, a golden sun, and the twinkling lights of Bogotá emerging as dusk turned to night. When I arrived at the top of the hill, a wedding in the church atop the hill was just ending, the triumphant bride & groom exiting with the wedding party as the Christmas lights were just turning on as if they, too, were celebrating the union between the happy couple.

That night I ended up partying with the people in my hostel, which included a few Colombians, including José, a budding restaurateur, who I hung out with until Monday afternoon when I got on a plane for Lima. There I had an awesome day hanging out with my Peruvian friend Alex from Cusco and finally saw Lima with beautiful sunshine (it’s notoriously gray for 9 months out of the year); went to the beach; walked around the parks of the downtown district, Miraflores; went to the markets of Barranco; cooked grubbin’ food at the apartment of his friend, Tito; then went out on the town until the wee hours to celebrate our friend Alberto’s birthday. The next day I got my stuff together at my hostel then went to Miraflores to meet my friend Diego for coffee and get the 9 bottles of wine and random clothing items I had left with him for the past 2 months. After hurriedly arranging my stuff into my ginormous backpack and various other bags, I got in a cab and was off to the airport where I did some very hurried duty-free shopping before getting on the plane that took me (via El Salvador and a sweet-talk session to get the pisco I bought in the Lima airport through the connection security) back home. Le extraño muchísimo suramérica -- voy a volver pronto, por supuesto, por seguro.

Vive Colombia -- Part 1

After realizing it would take 37 hours and at least 3 days to get to the Colombian coast from Ecuador, we decided to fly to Cartagena. Upon landing and exiting the plane we were struck by a whopping dose of humidity that at first felt good considering the amount of time we had spend in cool mountain climates. But the steaminess of the city soon took its toll and left us constantly sweaty -- the kind of humidity where you take a shower and then immediately are damp with sweat again. Not sure how I dealt with nearly 5 months of that weather in South East Asia years ago.

We stayed in the travelers’ area of Cartagena, Getsemaní, which reminded me a lot of Havana in terms of colonial architecture in disrepair, the African descent of the majority of the population, and the way the people lived in the streets or in screened-off porches due to the heat. The main tourist attraction of Cartagena is the old walled part of the city, inside of which there are charming narrow streets with immaculately restored, pastel-colored buildings; cute cafés and shops; and beautiful plazas with fountains and an abundance of trees. The walled part of the city felt pretty touristy, however, and it was expensive. Colombia in general is more expensive than the other countries I’ve visited in South America -- guess it’s the influence of all the narco-trafficking money that makes traveling here more pricey.

We stayed couple days in Cartagena in a hostel room that we (semi-) affectionately referred to as the “sweat box“ because, although it had a fan, if you were not in direct line of it you were perspiring. The hostel was also without water for the majority of a day, due to a water shortage that affected the whole barrio, which meant that, despite the fact we were dying for a cold shower before we went to bed, we had to wait until morning. (There’s no way we -- or anyone else -- wanted agua caliente in that climate, unlike when we longed for it in Cuzco during chilly days). Seems like you always want what you can’t have, no?

We next headed to Playa Blanca, a beautiful stretch of remote beach on a peninsula. Despite a warning to take the fast boat, we booked the boat ride through our hostel and ended up on el barco de mierda, a big barge filled with rowdy Colombians that participated in dance contests and the like accompanied by ear-splittingly loud music throughout the three-hour journey. We tried to take refuge in the hold under the deck, but the music was no less fuerte there thanks to conveniently positioned speakers and so we put in our earplugs and tried to zone out. (We had planned to take the fast boat back, but underestimated the amount of money we would spend on the beach so we were forced to go back via our pre-paid return tickets on the shit boat -- although it was less painful since the ride excluded a stop that was made on the way there, cutting the torture time down to just over an hour).

We expected to get a very basic cuarto in Playa Blanca, but after seeing that the only one available didn’t have a mosquitero (mosquito net) we opted for a tent, but in retrospect Í don’t think that was the best option, either, since we got bit up pretty badly -- although I think just as much from the sand flies that we tracked in with all the arena in the tent. Despite the owners of the site being a bit creepy and trying to come on to us, we loved the beach, with its turquoise waters, white sand (true to the name), and mangroves (there were some non-native palms, but planted strategically where the boats with the day-trippers all landed). The heat would wake us up by 7:30 a.m. or so at the latest (which for me meant time for a long swim in tranquil seas before the boats came in for the day), and the lack of nightlife options meant we were in bed by midnight, although one night we did tie one on with a group of Irish and English travelers that eventually all came and stayed at our place.

We also met James (or “Jimmy” as the Colombians called him) there, a 40-year-old New Yorker who in exchange for touting for another camp/hostel site was getting a good deal on a tent. Jimmy, a stereotypically intense New Yorker (who had lived in San Francisco for 4 years), was there for 3 months to write his memoirs. He did have some good stories, but didn’t seem particularly motivated to get much writing done and seemed more interested in making friends to drink with. We were grateful to him for buying us a few beers during our time on the island since we literally had no money by the time we left there days later (and of course there were no ATMs on the beach). The only other time I’ve been that desperate for plata was the last day in Havana (a place where Americans cannot get any money out of ATMs since we’re not supposed to be there) but at least the severe cold I had there meant I didn’t have the energy to want to do or eat anything that I didn’t have the money for anyway. That wasn't the case at Playa Blanca, where all we wanted was as many Águila beers as we could drink, given the heat!

When we got back to Cartagena we had hoped to take the tourist bus to Santa Marta, which had door-to-door direct service between hostels, but we arrived to late and had to go to the bus station and go the local route. Which is usually fine, however, the bus needed a tire change before we could leave, which was a major ordeal with a grande tire that required 5 men for the job. All the would-be passengers were sitting on the curb watching the action and we finally left about an hour late. For some unknown reason, we got dumped off the bus half-asleep at 1 a.m. at some remote stop on the outskirts of Santa Marta -- not the bus terminal like we were expecting. A lone taxi driver loaded up our stuff and told us that we were “muy lejos” from Santa Marta, even though it was just 3 kilometers.

After awhile convincing the taxi driver that we really wanted to go to a new hostel named Aluna that had been highly recommended to us by the Irish and English travelers on Playa Blanca, we arrived there at nearly 2 a.m. just as the Irish owner Patrick and some friends were coming back from a night out. They helped us get the taxi driver’s fee down to only a nominal robbery versus the outrageous charge he first proffered and showed us to a comfortable room that was much appreciated after roughing it in Land of Mosquitoes and Sand Flies for the last few days. Santa Marta wasn’t much to write home about (apart from culturally specific Christmas decorations like Rudolph with maracas and an accordion) but we found Aluna so hospitable we stayed there for several nights, using it as a home base for our trips to Tayrona National Park and a finca (with an adorable puppy) in the nearby upcountry.

Ecuador -- Rolling Blackouts, Hiking in the Lagunas & Gothic Spires

After four days in Huancabamba, a pueblito in the remote eastern part of Peru’s Piura province where we spend a day and a half shopping for shamans before settling on one who seemed to be more of a drunk than a brujo, we killed the better part of a day in Piura city after arriving there at 1 p.m. to find out our bus to Ecuador didn’t leave until 9 p.m. We walked 10 or so blocks along the main road in the midday heat to the main plaza, where we sat in the shade of the central monument and drew a crowd due to Niki’s guitar playing. Several shoe-shine men and boys crowded around and Niki put two of the youngest to work by saying she needed percussion, leading them to play their shoe-shine boxes like the cajon, an Afro-Peruvian wooden, hollow box-type instrument that dates back from slave times when the slaves would turn a crate on its side and use it to bang out rhythms. Now she just needs to learn more songs in Spanish.

Which is what we were doing in Cuenca, Ecuador, last week when we went into Azucar, a Cuban bar by the river that cuts the colonial town of 400,000+ in half. The power was out thanks to the perpetual rolling blackouts that take place in southern Ecuador due to the country’s worst drought in decades which has led to a lack of hydroelectric resources. We didn’t mind, though, the Cuban staff brought us candles and enjoyed hearing Niki practice “El Cuarto de Tula,” a traditional son song from the Buena Vista Social Club that she sang in Cuzco. I shined my flashlight on the disco ball for extra atmosphere and scoped out the little pictures of Cuban landmarks, like the mountains around Viñales in the western part of the country and the young waiter came and sang with us. After awhile the power came back on and we moved outside so the music would draw in more customers, with the waiter rigging up a stand for the mike on a chair with electrical tape. “I’m Cuban, we’re used to doing things like this,” he told me in Spanish, with me saying I knew since I visited his country last year. Not many people stopped by considering it was a Monday night, but our friends we met in Cuzco months ago, Juan Manuel from Colombia and Eva from France, came by and helped us drink the two jarras of cuba libres that the staff gave to us gratis. None of us really remember much after that, but we definitely had resacas when it was time to get up early the next day.

The four of us plus another two friends from Argentina (that we also met in Cuzco), Lisandro and Valerio, left early the next to go to Cajas National Park, a wide swath of páramo, or moor land, with more than 200 lagunitas at an altitude of about 12,000 feet. We hiked five hours the first day, with Juan and Eva serving as our guides, consulting our grande mapa at every cross roads and some points in between. I was lucky to not be carrying a big backpack like some of our group, as we were carrying food for 4 meals since we were camping that night. At about 3 p.m. the majority of us were tired enough to camp just where we ended up, but Juan and Lisandro weren’t satisfied with our stopping place and branched off in two directions to scout out other locations. Juan came back with news of a good spot just a bit further on with a panoramic view, so we rallied for the final leg of our journey to a beautiful spot where we pitched our tents. After sharing the bottle of wine and rón we brought with some cheese and crackers, there wasn’t much to do once it got dark except for watch moths on kamikaze missions fly into our candles and cringe as Lisandro tortured them with drips of hot wax. Went to bed at 8 p.m. once it started raining and woke up to wet feet and damp backpacks. My book is still drying five days later! We woke up early and hiked pretty much straight uphill for 2 hours until reaching the road and a bus back to Cuenca.

The power outages at first were a novelty, but soon became trying -- for example when the lights went out on us one night when we were trying to get ready after showering and then the next morning when we wandered the streets of Cuenca for nearly an hour trying to find somewhere serving café during a city-wide blackout. After that we were ready to get out of the city, as beautiful as it was, so we picked up my fixed camera (a casualty of the Máncora Halloween fiesta) and caught an afternoon bus to Quito. We thought we had boarded the party bus, as the driver and the attendant blasted reggae for the first hour or so, then switched to Spanish-language ballads, then we got a period of quiet before rumbling into Quito with the final set of the cheesiest ‘70s and ‘80s American music (“Abracadabra,” “Eye of the Tiger,” and “Queen of Hearts” just to name a few). Lucky us, we were right by the speaker…

After hearing from countless travelers how they got robbed in Quito we were a little nervous to arrive at 12:30 a.m., but we got our backpacks, found a cab and got to a hostel without any problems. The city definitely has some charm, with plenty of plazas with colonial buildings and churches to explore (but interestingly enough, in Old Town ALL stores have the same ugly metal lettering -- poor choice of zoning regulations!!!), but can be quite a bit dodgy after as early as 7 or 8 p.m. we had been told. We’ve been more cautious than usual, taking taxis more often, but had no problems going out to two different neighborhoods on a Saturday night nor walking home after dark tonight.

The highlight of our few days in the Ecuadorian capital was the Basilica del Voto Nacional, a Gothic church where visitors can climb high up into the towers on treacherous ladders and walk on gaping wire mesh -- conditions that would never fly in the U.S. of A Niki and I both couldn’t help but wonder how many people had committed suicide by flinging themselves off the dramatic spires; seems like a deliciously dramatic way to die. The views over Quito were amazing and worth the scary climb (made worse by my choice of footwear -- flip flops) -- it was a far better use of our time than the touristy El Panecillo hill, where you can only climb a third of the way up inside the angel statue.

Tomorrow we’re flying to Cartagena, Colombia where the highs are in the 90s and the lows in the 80s -- time to sizzle after months in the mountains…

Santiago -- “We’re not crazy…”

Sitting in the Santiago airport with more than 5 hours to kill but the tradeoff is a direct flight to Lima -- and the nice LAN folks said I could carry on my 10 bottles of vino. When I asked one of the counter reps if it was OK to carry on liquid of more than the standard 3 oz. size he scoffed and said (answering my question in English even though I asked him in Spanish), “This is Chile, we’re not crazy -- where are you from, the United States?” Bingo -- LOL. Sure enough, after I pass through the most relaxed (and least crowded) airport security detail I have ever seen, there is a huge wine shop, where I spy a couple of the bottles I purchased during my wine tasting trip to the Casablanca Valley -- oh well, I feel better knowing that those were the two that I drank and am not still hauling around. The prices are surprisingly good (about the same I paid at a winery and a wine shop) but I put my addiction in check when I realize the only Sauvignon Blanc they have from the Casablanca Valley (the best Chilean region for that varietal) is from 2007, which is not necessarily a bad thing but a 2008 or even 2009 would be a better choice -- especially since I was considering adding an 11th (or even 12th) to make it a full case) bottle to the carry-on collection. The gals from the Mendoza tour already thought I was crazy, but they didn’t know of my full-on addiction to wine and how I simply cannot resist buying when I visit wineries. By the end of the trip they knew, though, and would shoot my warning looks when it came time to buy.

I’ve plunked myself and all my crap (three carry-on bags -- the LAN reps assured me I’d have no problem getting them all on the plane, however I‘m thinking “a ver” -- we’ll see ) at a restaurant airport. I’m “using” the free wi-fi connection available in the airport but the connection speed is very slow although the level is very good. Gotta love that contradiction. At least I got off the email to the Lima hostel saying I would be on a different flight so I’m crossing my fingers that the driver will get the message. The restaurant is called La Sebastiana, which serves to remind that perhaps nothing in life is a coincidence, as that is the same name of Pablo Neruda’s house in Valparaiso that I toured and discovered a tremendous appreciation for the poet/politician/statesman; it’s doubly interesting since I visited another of his three houses, La Chascona, this morning before coming to the airport.

That one is the house he built for his mistress, not La Sebastiana (a correction to one of my previous blog entries!) -- that was for his second wife, a Spaniard that he never did end up leaving for his curly red-haired concubine. Unlike visiting La Sebastiana, where you can roam around as you please with a hand-held audio guide in various languages, you’re forced to take a guided tour of La Chascona (and I couldn’t wait until 1:30 p.m. for the English tour), which severely limits the time you get to spend gazing at Nerudas (and in this case Matilde’s) collection of things. Much like my wine compulsion, he was addicted to collecting any number of things like paintings, bottles, knick-knacks from his travels all over the world. In addition to not being able to ramble about on your own, my comprehension was a bit limited given the tour was all in Spanish, but I was able to understand about 80% I’d guess. The best part of his collection was the salt-and-pepper shakers, which are labeled “Marihuana” and “Morphine” due to his love of fun and playing games on his guests. The other stand-out piece for me of La Chascona, a name which means a tangle of curly hair, was the painting of Matilde by Diego Rivera, a friend of Neruda’s who didn’t like his mistress all that much. For that reason the painting, which contains the distinctive profile of Neruda within the riots of curls, shows two faces of the woman.

I’ve made many friends at La Sebastiana (the restaurant not the Neruda house), including the waiters (whenever I speak to one them he does a little curtsey!) and 2-year-old blond boy with blue eyes that I’m speaking Spanish to. At first I wasn’t sure if he spoke Spanish, but yep, he does, despite looking like a kid from the States, Australia or Europe. He won’t (or can’t) tell me his name or where he’s going, but I think he came to me because I’m sitting under a decent-sized replica of a sailboat. We hung out for about 15 minutes until his mom (also blonde) and baby sibling came to collect him for their flight, which I find out is to Rome via Madrid. I’m eating guacamole with real (!) tortilla triangles -- a honest-to-God tortilla isn’t easy to find in South America; you come this far south and you can forget any delusions about finding authentic comida Mexicana -- and sushi. Can I get any more Californian than that? Ha. Washing it down with a light lager, Kunstmann schop -- schop being the general term for tap beer (sounds suspiciously like “schlop” to me, but I’m guessing it’s the appropriate German word given la influencia alemania in this part of the continent). Seafood here is delicious and hands-down the best part of Chilean gastronomy. Had a great lunch at the central Santiago seafood market yesterday, where touts vie voraciously for your business. And me being a single (obviously foreign to some) woman, I’m a prime target. Most were good natured, however, and the one who “hooked” me was a portly older guy who had directed me to the bathrooms (which one can use for a fee of about 50 cents) and after when I was still roaming around debating where to eat, reminded me of that fact, which sealed the deal to get me into his joint.

Could have made a far worse decision as another guy (also older and a bit portly) who worked inside approached me and asked want I wanted -- this was before I spied the menu on the wall, but we established that I wanted mariscos (as opposed to a fish filet) that weren’t fried. What I got was seafood soup of a sort, with lots of parsley, clams, octopus, some kind of white fish, etc., accompanied by a basket of bread and a salsa picante (and I didn’t even have to ask for the salsa -- ¡que suerte!) that was huge, delicious and cost less than $5. I couldn’t finish it all but after chatting with my waiter about where I was from, my travel plans, etc., he brought me the Chilean version of a digestif -- a type of golden liquor made from chamomile (the word is manzanilla down here), which was a bit sweet but better than the glass of white wine I drank with the seafood soup. When I left Mr. Bathroom Directions thanked me with a half-hug and kiss on the cheek, then another younger tout who had been flirting with me led me out the market door, telling me to be careful with the three low steps at the exit.

Santiagan men have been the most forward by far -- que sopresa considering that the Lonely Planet guide says that Chilean men are probably the most shy of los hombres suramericanos and least likely to harass single women travelers. That’s not the first discrepancy I’ve noticed in LP’s Chile guide (some of their books are far better than others), but in the mere 1.5 days I’ve walked around Santiago I wish I had una luca (1,000-peso note) for every cat call or remark of “que linda” or “preciosa” that I’ve gotten on the streets. Weird, this didn’t happen at all in Valparaiso or Viña del Mar, where I walked around for 4 days by myself… Strange considering that there’s even a word for Peruvian men that are on the prowl for a foreign girlfriend so they can get the hell outta their country -- brichero; although to be fair, there are bricheras (the female equivalent) as well. It’s weird, too, because I don’t look all that different from many chilenas -- many have light skin and features that could be considered nearly Anglo and some are even blonde, but something about me sticks out. But my gringo-ness is far more pronounced in Peru (well not quite as much in Lima), since in the capital city you’ll see a fair share of gente rubia, even some blond hair and blue eyes.

As the guidebook says regarding Santiago -- "Paris it isn't." I only spent a day and a half there but felt that was enough; saw the main sights (which in reality weren't all that interesting compared to other cities). Was impressed by the number of public green spaces, though, for a city of 5.2 million -- many parks in the medians of the main drags that border a river. I hung out in Barrio Bellavista, the bohemian hood where I found some cool street art, although nothing close to las murales de Valparaiso. Not sure any city can compete with Valpo in that department.

Valpo Part 2 -- Musings on music, food & Neruda

While exploring the market I was amused to hear Bob Marley - Redemption Song playing, a song I heard just hours later while eating an once (which literally means 11 but here refers to a late-afternoon tea (in the British sense, meaning tea or coffee with snacks). In fact, I’ve been amazed at the near-ubiquitous presence of English-language (usually American) music here in South America. In Cuzco the wandering minstrels we befriended played a lot of American rock -- and classic stuff at that: Beatles, James Brown, Stevie Wonder, Chuck Berry, etc.

In fact two of our Peruvian friends met while playing in a Beatles cover band in Lima. (Strangely enough the one who can speak fairly decent English can’t seem to pronounce English lyrics while singing, while the one who speaks almost no English nails the pronunciation of the lyrics.) In my travels to Asia and Europe I never heard as many songs that were familiar to me, so it has been a real surprise. Not to say the artist Manu Chao (who actually was born in France to Spanish parents but strongly identifies with South America and most often sings in Spanish) isn’t ridiculously popular here -- and deservingly so, I have come to adore his songs; but he’s also very popular in the States with Latinos. During our time in Cuzco we also heard many of our friends play well-known Argentine songs (the musicos from that country seem to have an amazing amount of talent) but I remain extremely surprised at the popularity of American tunes.

Despite reading that Chilean food doesn’t have a distinct identity, I’ve sure had some tasty treats. My once completa today consisted of un café (which wasn’t instant -- a real rarity for this country), sopaipillas (batter-and-squash fried concoctions), chicken-and-palta (avocado) and jamon y queso sandwiches, and a piece of chocolate cake, all for about $6.50. Chile is the most expensive country in South America, though, so while that was a good deal for here, it would be pricey elsewhere on the continent. Not like Niki and I didn’t treat ourselves to good meals in Cuzco, though -- at least at first before we became semi-permanent residents!

I did the same yesterday after walking for hours on just the bread-fruit-and-ham breakfast the hostel provides. I conveniently realized I was by Caruso, a seafood bistro by the well-known chef Tomas Olivera, so I stopped in about 3:30 p.m. for the empanada plate (which came with a mixture of fillings: cheese, ground beef & onion, and my favorite -- seafood) and chupe de mariscos, a seafood casserole cooked in a clay bowl with a gooey sauce of butter, cheese and spices topped with a breadcrumb crust. It was too much food, but I knew I was blowing my food budget for the entire day (and indeed, I never did get hungry the rest of the day) so I ate all of it. The strange thing was, though, that they didn’t offer any white wines by the glass -- only reds -- which I found quite odd for a restaurant that specializes in seafood. So the waiter recommended Tiger beer, which when it came I realized I had drank before and was from Singapore. Ha, so there I was washing down locally caught seafood with a beer imported from Asia.

Another strange beverage story was when I stopped into a café in El Plan, the flat part of Valpo, last night and asked for a particular Sauvignon Blanc from the nearby Casablanca Valley. The waitress had it, but not cold, so I drank it at warm temperature, which is actually what a lot of wine professionals prefer since chilling whites mask their flavor. It was good and makes me look forward to the wine tour I’m hitching a ride on manana. But both of these culinary experiences -- along with the wi-fi and water troubles -- serve as reminders that as much as Chile is modern, it’s still in the developing world, and as much as Valpo reminds me of the Bay Area, it doesn’t have our well-developed foodie culture.

The last stop of my last two days walking about Valpo was La Sebastiana, the home that native poet, diplomat, and Nobel-prize winner Pablo Neruda kept in this city. The five-level house (which was actually only four levels when Neruda and his mistress used it; the first floor is now the greeting/informational area) contains very small floors filled with oil paintings of famous European royalty and ships, glassware, maps, stained glass, tile mosaics and distinct furniture -- including custom-made wicker table and chairs patterned after a set Neruda saw in Asia and La Nube, the poet’s beloved armchair that he would sit in for hours and survey the bay. A pink-walled alcove contains a bar with a motley array of glassware (bottles, glasses, and goblets abound) as well as other knick-knacks. Neruda loved to spend New Year’s Eve in La Sebastiana and during those and other parties would personally serve as the bartender. His love of parties and entertaining his friends extended to him appearing in disguise -- often several in one night -- during the festivities.

But he wasn’t just a hedonist, he was also a politician and diplomat who helped anti-fascists take refuge in Chile during the Spanish Civil War and was elected to the senate as a member of the Communist Party. He was exiled when the president outlawed the party in 1946, growing a beard to disguise himself as he fled on horseback through the Andes to Argentina. He then spent time in Europe and Asia and eventually when the political climate changed he returned and was a presidential candidate in 1969 before pulling out to support Salvador Allende, who after he won appointed Neruda ambassador to France. Neruda also served as served as an ambassador to Burma and Spain. Just days after Pinochet’s 1973 coup during which Allende was killed, Neruda also died, technically of cancer but also often thought due to a broken heart over the fate of his country falling into the hands of what would become a brutal dictatorship.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm to see much of Santiago, I will definitely make Neruda’s house in the capital, La Chascona, one of my priorities. Unfortunately no photos were allowed in La Sebastiana, and upon trying to sneak a few I managed to turn off the function on my camera that shows the display and didn‘t figure out how to turn it back on until hours later. Karma is such a bitch…

Exit Cuzco for Vaparaiso, Chile, Part 1 -- Same Same but Different

(Note: I’m skipping over the details of my two-week trip to Bolivia last month since I’m feeling more inspired to write about where I’m now…)

After a full day of traveling I finally arrived in Valparaiso, Chile, a port city that reminds me in many ways of the Bay Area. Unlike in Cuzco, which is high in the Andes, it really feels like primavera (spring) in this city that has a Mediterranean climate (complete with fog, oh joy, my favorite!), with the same flowers scenting the air here as at home -- lilacs, wisteria, nasturtiums, calla lillies, bougainvillea and poppies. It’s a welcome change -- both of climate, scenery, and tempo -- from Cuzco, which I will always love; perhaps a bit too much.

After just 3 hours of sleep (after all, I had to have a proper despidida -- send off -- from that party town) I took a short flight from Cuzco to Lima, where I made my way from the domestic area of the airport to the international departure gates marveling at the feeing of being back in modern civilization. Guess bags, Esprit clothing, Chanel perfume -- all was there for the buying; however I didn’t have any energy, room in my 3 bags (including my huge backpack that now weighs close to 40 lbs after accumulating mucha ropa in Cuzco), or really the money to spend on overpriced airport schwag. Despite my exhaustion, on the way to my gate to connect to Santiago, Chile, I noticed the backs of Marlboro cigarette cartons lined up in the duty-free shop window. Evidentially the warnings on the cartons of cigarettes are mucho mas fuerte here -- some of them simply said “Smoking kills.” Good thing cigs (and of every brand imaginable) were being sold in the shop. The individual packs don’t have such strong warnings, though, only ones comparable to the U.S. Maybe they figure if you’re buying cartons you need to hear a stronger message…

Flew into Santiago, Chile’s capital that I haven’t heard much good about (although I will probably spend one or two days there after my wine-tasting trip to Mendoza, Argentina since I’m flying back to Lima from there), so I immediately took a taxi to the bus station to head for Valpo. The 1 ½-hour bus ride went through the Casablanca Valley wine region, where I’m off to tomorrow for a wine tour, where below a bright pink and red sunset I saw leafless vines nearing bud break Ah, to be back in wine country again! Yet another characteristic of this area that makes me think of the Bay Area.

Arrived at my hostel on Cerro Bellavista (one of the artsy hills -- Valpo has 42 cerros, meaning I’m definitely getting some much-needed exercise by sightseeing on foot all day) around 8 p.m. very tired and grubby (in the same clothes as the entire previous day). Grab a surprisingly tasty -- and huge -- tuna melt sandwich at a locals café down the hill and head back to the hostel where I can’t get my computer to work on the wi-fi connection nor the hot water to work in the shower. So much for my initial impressions of Chile as ultra-modern, with smooth highways, toilets that (mostly) can handle paper, and tap water that you can drink (a major revelation and the only incidence of that in any of the many developing countries I’ve traveled to).

My quaint hostel is housed in an very old, rickety wooden building that contains a handful of rooms, all named for famous Chilean artists. Mine is Ricardo Yrazzabal, a painter who was born in 1931 and whose main them is solitude, melancholy and isolation -- I suppose that’s a good choice for a single private room and also for how I’m feeling right now. That’s not just because I’m traveling alone (Niki is staying in Cuzco to continue to sing and play guitar with a group of peruanos that have gigs almost every night -- she’s supposed to meet me in Lima in a couple weeks) but also because I think that’s what I need a dose of right now. It's nice to be somewhere where I can be completely anonymous -- not only because it's much easier to blend in with the lighter-skinned and taller Chileans, but also because I don't walk down the street and see at least 2 if not 3 or 4 people I know like it Cuzco.

I’ve spent the last two days rambling around Valpo, which has definite beauty but also a grittiness that usually accompanies a port city. It seems to have a combination of many aspects of San Francisco and Oakland; in regards to the City it has those aforementioned hills, pastel- colored houses and very distinct neighborhoods; like the Town it’s got a bustling port that has a bevy of containers ships off- and on-loading, a semi-seedy central area and a ton of graffiti. Well, it really has is more than graffiti; there are at least stenciled graphics on nearly every block and extremely creative and well-executed murals on many. In fact, a former prison that closed in 1999 is now dedicated to this type of art -- the Ex-Carcel is a free park that is covered in murals and stenciled art. The grounds stretch for acres and the eye is rewarded with every turn into old cell blocks and exercise yards where brightly-colored creations await.

Valpo has some seriously steep hills, which make me glad I’m at sea level and not at the nearly 11,500 feet of Cuzco, although I’m sure my Andean hikes prepared me for my uphill treks better than most people. The city has a number of 15 ascensors (funiculars) built between 1883 and 1916 that will help you up the hills, but so far I’ve just hoofed it, even despite a weak left ankle that got crunched upon a descent down an Incan staircase on a Bolivian island in Lake Titicaca… The views are definitely vale de pena (worth the pain), though, with sweeping vistas of the bay and the Pacific stretching to the horizon.

The city also reminds me of Havana, Cuba in some ways as well, due to the pastel buildings and it’s location on the coast and as a major port, but especially due to the presence of some crumbling or burnt-out buildings that have evaded repair. I was struck by this feeling today while walking through one of the markets today in the Barrio Puerto, one of the seediest areas of town, which is located in a unkempt multi-story building that has the upper levels closed off due to extreme disrepair. On the way to the market area I passed a building that had been burnt out but left standing -- and naturally now covered with graffiti and murals.