I took Spanish for three years in high school. Based upon this trip, I might go as far as to say “three wasted years.” I received some of my highest regular marks in Spanish class and still barely possess enough acumen to get basic directions and/or order a cerveza. I think this is due to the fact that these classes make you master conjugations and vocabularly, but almost never require communication of any sort. I almost never find myself in emergency situations down here that require my filling in any blanks.
A view of both the old and new from Santiago's city center.
However, these classes require the taking on of “Spanish” names, different from your own. Some went with obvious choices like Jesus, while others chose “Albondigas.” I always liked the sound of “Santiago,” and went with that, never thinking I might some day visit the city.
Turns out, I wasn’t that into it. It reminded me of how I felt in Guayaquil (without the crime) or Sao Paulo (without the Portugueuse) — a pleasant enough city in every regard, but there wasn’t much I felt compelled to do there. While Buenos Aires had only just recently scooped me up and left me thoroughly entertained daily, both with and without my mother’s company, Santiago just sort of existed.
At one point, I asked the hostel for advice on daily activities in the city, only to discover I’d done every one that was listed off.
“Hm,” the girl said, perplexed. “I guess you’ve done everything.”
This was not true. I never made it to the seaside town of Valparaiso, which I’ve since been told was a mistake. I didn’t really explore the nightlife much, staying at a much calmer and more reserved hostel this time around. My time in Santiago was broken in half, staying first with my mother before an emotionally charged send-off of my mother to the airport (that the cab died seconds after pulling away from me — “don’t worry!” the driver says as he gets out and pushes — leaving my last image of my mother as one of her with wide, frightened, deer-in-the-headlights eyes, only added to the impact of the moment).
With my three new Brazilian friends at one of the clubs, along with some other dudes.
From there, I’d go on to Easter Island for a few, before one last weekend in Santiago. The original plan was to head north from there, eventually working my way into Bolivia and up through Peru. Buenos Aires changed all of this. I hadn’t gotten enough of the city. I hadn’t lived anywhere in so long. An hour-long stop at LAN airlines, and somehow I manage to change my entire schedule around for only fifty dollars.
I would return to Buenos Aires by plane just days after Easter Island, live there for a month or more, and then fly on to Lima, Peru. A chance conversation involving a concert ticket keys me in to the fact that I can make it round trip from Lima to New York City for $350. It sounds crazy, and almost insulting to the vast majority of the world that, like, works every day. But I desperately need a vacation at this point, and I jump on the discount tickets. A friend’s wedding happens to fall during the ten days I’ll be in home, and suddenly adds an air of legitimacy to my unplanned, short return.
As far as Santiago goes, both my pre- and post-Easter Island visits were pleasant enough, but not overwhelmingly enough for me to ever wish to return. During my second visit, I ran into a trio of awesome Brazilian girls, and we spent a day or more traveling around the town exploring together. All the Latin American standards are here — kitschy touristy markets, cheap food alternatives in the form of empanadas (good, but I liked the ones I had in Argentina more), and a hill overlooking the city with a prominently displayed statue of Jesus or the Virgin Mary, or perhaps a large cross. On top of that, it’s got one of the greatest subway systems I’ve ever ridden on (missing a train once, the next one picked us up in under a minute), and some of the most modern and interesting architecture in Latin America.
In fairness to the markets, they’re a step up from many of the ones I’ve seen elsewhere in South America, with some unique items that don’t seem like they’re carbon copied and sold en masse to every tourist that passes by. It’s here that my mother picks up the majority of her last minute souvenirs, and here that I spot a handmade brass container with an intricate bird on top made from brass and lapis lazuli (the two most popular artesenal materials down here in Santiago). It’s not my style, but it’s uniquely captivating and I keep returning until I buy it. One day, I’ll give this to someone important.
One last thing about Chileans, that I’d been warned about: Their Spanish is probably the hardest to understand in South America. There are three reasons for this.
- They talk very fast.
- They have a lot of localized slang.
- Near as I can tell, their dialect is the “Baltimore accent” of South American Spanish. In addition to talking fast, they have a habit of dropping entire syllables out of words, making understanding anything said by a Chilean like this nearly impossible to comprehend.
Colonial architecture deep in the heart of Santiago
Some locals greet me from below a bridge, giving the standard Chilean greeting.
With the Beatles. Both dressing as and playing music from the mid-60s Beatles era, these guys nailed almost every song. British accents and all, with just a hint of Chilean on top.
The biggest problem with seeing all these central plazas in South America, with their perfectly manicured gardens, fountains, statues and classic architecture is that one tends to get jaded. Just another nice plaza... (I think my mom still fully appreciated it, though)
Return of the Magical Gringo
I can’t even see why the huge crowd assembled in the midst of hte plaza are gathered there. By the time I do, it’s too late. Two men stand in the center, sans props, entertaining the crowd solely through a live improv performance done entirely in speedy Chilean Spanish. As my tall head comes within their field of vision, the performance stops and the more talkative one of the group (the Penn, as opposed to the Teller) locks in on me.
“Ohhoo, Gringo!!” He motions for me to cut through the crowd and come into the circle.
“Where are you from?” he says in perfect English. Most of his act from here on involves asking me questions in English, then responding in Spanish, earning raucous applause from the crowd.
I answer and the crowd doesn’t seem to like my answer.
“No no, Obama, si? We’re good again.”
“Sure, sure,” he nods, then follows something in Spanish that I basically translate as “same old shit.” The crowd agrees and laughs once again. From there, he uses me for a solid five minutes, testing my Spanish skill, teaching me the “official” Chilean handshake and, I think, making a lewd reference to my mother, who stands in the background taking pictures. I was the foil to his comedy, and stepped forward understanding I’d be the butt of every joke. What can you do but laugh along?
The two comedians and me
Learning the secret Chilean handshake. I can teach you if you really need to know.
Taking a bow at performance's end. The crowd seemed to appreciate me.
San Cristobal Hill
Same as every other big city in South America. Big hill. Religious statue. Tourist ride up to gorgeous vistas from the top. It´s nothing new, but always reliable for some good shots.
Mary at the top of the hill
A view from the top
