Plain and simple, I liked it more than Buenos Aires. Many will dispute this opinion with me, but I have my reasons. It felt like a college town instead of a busy metropolis. It seemed laid back and down to earth in comparison to Buenos Aires. The landscape reminded me of both Granada and Sarajevo in the sense that it was a mountain town with a river that dissects its flank. It could have been the fact that we stayed in a hostel (which always have better locations than hotels) or that the ratio of colleges to muggers is far richer than its Argentine counterpart. One thing is for sure, there is more to this city than the international community gives it credit for.
It is a stark downgrade in danger when you see only half of the population wearing their backpacks in the front (as opposed to Buenos Aires having 100% of the population wearing their backpacks in the front). You don’t feel that crime is eminent in Santiago. It feels about as likely as any other capital city (with the exception of Japan, Thailand, and Switzerland.)
The steaks here are unfortunately not up to the Argentine standard of excellence (but where else in the world is?) The people on the street are helpful, friendly, and for the most part slow down their speech to give you a chance to understand (a welcome change from their previous colonizers, Spain). I had as nice of a cab ride as I have ever had in my life here when the driver not only made conversation (helping me with my Spanish), but made special effort to give me further directions on how to get to my final destination by foot.
The infrastructure is much better here than in Buenos Aires and it shows in the subway as well as the sidewalks. The drivers follow the traffic laws and don’t even speed. The fruit here is almost free. I purchased 1 (2.2 pounds) kilo of strawberries for 2 dollars here and they were the highest quality I have had in ages. To translate, 2.2 pounds of high quality strawberries in America can easily run as high as 10 dollars. The fun fact of the day is that a high percentage of the produce that we enjoy in America is actually produced here in Chile. Even in a remote tourist impacted town (yet to be covered later) can you find 9 high quality apricots for the incredibly reasonable price of 1.5 dollars.
Many of the shopping centers that we went to looked as well planned as something dreamt up in the heart of Irvine (the most preplanned community in all of California). The only difference is that you will see several well marked security guards as every entrance. These are not gun carrying men, rater ear piece wearing men.
Santiago shares the lack of homogeneous people that Buenos Aires does, but as you get out of the major city, you begin to see a much more ingenious flavour (and it is welcomed). Perhaps it was because we were situated near colleges (in comparison to Buenos Aires), but the women in Santiago were much more attractive. In the week that I spent in Buenos Aires, I could sadly count the number of stuning women on one hand. In the first few hours of Santiago, I nearly passed this feeble goal.
But lets get back to the hostel, because this was a big part of why I found Santiago superior. We stayed at one of the highest rated hostels in South America and the staff was on the ball. They had any conceivable question answered almost before you could think it. Bud asked about going to Val Pariso with a tour (an artsy enclave just 2 hours outside of the town) and the woman answered with “No tours. If you go with a tour, you will see the city for 15 minutes. I’ll tell you exactly how to do it yourself.” She must have been reading my blog with that type of response. We were in a hostel after all, where the aim of the staff is not to pamper, but to ensure satisfaction.
We set off on a bus that would cost 5 dollars each way to Val Pariso and got to the bus station. As Bud walked in to the information center to get some bearings for us, he came back out and said that there was a nice Chilean man with an English accent who offered to take us around the town for a reasonable price. The man ended up having a Aussie accent (a mistake that I would have certainly made only ten short months ago, and is exceedingly common in non-common wealth nations.)
Though we had decided to wing it the day before, we were definitely heading in the right direction by not having purchased a day excursion. We wondered up and down the remarkably San Fransisco like streets with the help of our Aussie accented guide. I looked at my Mom and said “So we are paying him to help us wander?” Again, it was a step in the right direction. My Mom was enthusiastic to have a patented wonder of the city in Santiago, but kept on saying “Ok Alex, lead us in a wander/wonder.” I would laugh every time at the point that she was attempting to essentially purchase/plan/control an occasion whose only chance at existence was to be devoid of the three previous descriptions. She would quickly smile as she realized the proposition’s irony. It was the grown up version of the classroom appearing puzzled when their professor gives them a paper to write on their choice. So long have we been trained to follow directions, that we become lost when granted true freedom.
My Mom joked as she said “It’s great that I got to check off the experience of staying at a hostel, but no one needs to know that it was such a nice place.”
I said “See you later” to my parents with an awkward pause and then got a bit more specific “much later”. The fact that dawned on me was that I was just over the half way point in my journey and that it had the habit of growing in length. Who knew when I would actually return home. Who knew if I had actually even hit my half way point. This I was fine with, but pondered if it was becoming borderline abusive to those who missed me at home. I turned and quickly skipped down the stairs to the subway which would drop me at the train station. The 50 extra pounds of weight I carried in my backpacks had long ago been adapted for with my legs and back.
Dynamics had changed. This time with those who I love at home. This was a first taste of what was to come when I would eventually return. It reminds me of the old adage “This time it is personal.” I had been traveling with my parents for the last 2.5 weeks as an adult. Sure sharp and shocking changes had happened on my trip before, but they were always in a perceivably controlled environment, where the prospect of them sticking back home was always in question.
When leaving the city, an old man ended up walking me to the North Bus station (a truly Japanese gesture) which was on the roof level of a major shopping mall. This took the cake for the most confusing, unlikely, and well disguised bus station that I have been to in my 50 plus countries of travel (lifetime, not in this trip alone.)
I boarded the double decker that I would be living on for the next 24 hours with dread. My previous record for continuous bus travel was 14 hours from Sydney to Byron Bay. The Aussie Gray Hound was also the least comfortable long range ride of my life. It made me vow to never travel overnight by bus again. This Chilean ride of 24 hours was about to change that. So much in fact that I have elected to return the same way with excitement.
My next post will blow your fucking socks off, at least my experience was sock blowing. If I can convey it in cyberspace is another question.