For all we knew, in Santiago, the world was ending on March 11. The mysterious date kept on showing up over and over again.
“You know that moment when you’re home and you don’t feel inspired, or you’re bored, or a bit down and you go out and suddenly, lost in the crowd, you forget all your problems and just enjoy the city?”
Buying street food might feel like a leap of faith—I draw the line at raw fish—but vendors take their role seriously and after all, you have no idea how clean restaurant kitchens are.
I’ve never been good at that “living the moment and no worrying about the future” thing. But it’s not just me—the smell of transition is in the air in Santiago too.
“I’ll get you new glasses in Santiago!” I promised, half because I knew exactly where to go, and half because I really didn’t want to see a Brazilian optometrist with my limited proficiency in Portuguese.
Have you ever seen choclo, aka Peruvian corn? A kernel is the size of a garlic clove.
As we discovered, the “Día Internacional de la Mujer” is widely observed in Chile, even though it’s not a public holiday.
I hear the familiar sound of French in the street but I don’t understand a thing—it’s Haitian créole. I buy bread at the Colombian bakery and empanadas with traditional Peruvian fillings.
I’m an observer and an outsider. Occasionally, I stumble upon weird and entertaining groups of humans.
I’m happiest when I travel, but if I have to settle somewhere for a little while, I like that somewhere to be Santiago.
Driving distance between Mendoza, Argentina, and Santiago, Chile? Only 370 kilometres. Travel time? Between seven…
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.