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.