“That’s a new low when Chuy is plan A.”
Browsing: Looking for the Summer
It’s 3 a.m. right now.
We have no bus tickets, no plane tickets, and no hotel room.It’s 3 a.m. right now.
We have no bus tickets, no plane tickets, and no hotel room.
Maybe this is because it’s a country with fewer than 4 million citizen or maybe it’s because weed is legal, but I found Uruguayans very mellow.
Uruguay’s capital is the anti-North American suburb with cookie-cutter housing and suburban strip malls—no street, no building, no shop, no door, no pavement tile looks alike.
And here we are, in Uruguay. Check the map, it’s right there, bordering Argentina to its west and Brazil to its north and east.
The boat was at 9:40 a.m. and the terminal wasn’t too far from the hotel. In theory, we had plenty of time.
When you pay attention and look beneath the surface, Buenos Aires isn’t just tango, carne, wine and political discussions.
We didn’t go to a tango show, we didn’t exchange US dollars on the black market on Avenida Florida”, we didn’t buy leather goods, we didn’t hang out in La Boca and we didn’t eat in a parilla.
“Everybody is so rushed compared to Santiago! It’s like… it’s like I don’t speak fast enough, don’t have my money ready fast enough, don’t get it fast enough!”
I’m now in the land of facturas, European-inspired baked sweets.
It should make more sense tomorrow, after I sleep.
Also, fuck Air Canada.
Chileans are just decent people. I know, I haven’t been there long and I’m an outsider—maybe I’m just naïve. But I spent time observing people.
We had promised Mark a Teleférico de Santiago ride, the cable cart that goes all the way to the top of Cerro San Cristóbal.
Santiago is the perfect place to relax. We know our way around, the weather is reliably hot and dry, cost of living isn’t too high.
I can clearly see the cloud of marijuana smoke floating over the city, and I think I smell like alcohol even though I don’t drink.
For our first big walk in Valparaíso, we went downhill. We’re not masochist. Well, I am, but Feng isn’t.
You’d assume the dry desert air offers incomparable laundry-drying properties. Well, I tested it for you—it doesn’t.
Despite its size, Antofagasta had a small-town feel, much like Paraná in Argentina or Pelotas in Brazil.
There were cultural clues I couldn’t ignore—we were in a mining city.
Sidewalks were paved, I wasn’t walking in the sand. I found water. There was no procession of miners marching in full gear covered with freshly mined copper.
We’re taking a little detour in the Atacama Desert, the world’s driest desert.
At the corner of Mosqueto and Monjitas, in barrio Santa Lucia, there is a small business with no name.
I wanted Mark to realize that 1) pandas don’t master kung fu 2) penguins can’t tap dance 3) turtles aren’t particularly wise.