Food, Poetry, Wool, and Tragedy: 8 hours in 1000 words

By the time we made it to the Mercado Central, we were later into the afternoon, about 4 o’clock. Immediately, the perfect empanada became our quest. Not only did we find that, but so much more. Inside the market, there’s a lot of annoying touristy restaurants vying for your gringa attention, and stanky water with iced raw fish. Lots of glassy fisheyes and yucky fishermen staring at us, me worrying about fishgunk getting on my favorite flats, me searching for an escape route from the pits of tourist hell – all the usual problems. 

With raw meat shops on the outside, no major improvement was made upon escape, but fresh air did help. We crossed the street to some fruit stands. Noting we were foreign, a lady tried to way overprice 2 apples. Pissed off, I coolly reasoned with her that 2 apples should not cost three-fifths of 2 kilos if 2 kilos is 12 apples. Nice try. Sometimes, getting a fair price is a huge win for a tourist. And 12 Pink Ladies for $1.25 is a deal. Next, we found chocolate eggs filled with dulce de leche wafers, and then, an empanada. Not just any empanada, this one was like a warm, buttery croissant filled with melty, gooey cheese. And, it really paired well with the apple and the chocolate and the feeling of success.

Next, we walked two kilometers before finding a McDonald’s, our sixth attempt to get the widely-advertised and totally-unavailable Toblerone McFlurry. It had become somewhat of a challenge for us to find it. While we were not hungry, we could not miss the chance to get this ice cream, which costs roughly as much as 12 apples, an empanada, and 2 chocolate eggs. Maybe not the healthiest day, but a delicious one.  We enjoyed our McFlurry and wifi access before heading to La Chascona, Neruda’s Santiago house.

When we arrived, La Chascona was closing in a half-hour and we were informed that student discounts would only be given with Spanish tours. Since we’d already visited another Neruda house, we figured we would be able to decipher whatever the tour guide said. We lucked out on a 4-person tour with a bilingual guide, a nice guy with handlebar moustache and wicked sideburns who had grown up in Hell’s Kitchen.

We saw where Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca had coffee and viewed a painting of Neruda’s wife, a gift to the poet from Picasso. I took another prohibited picture and looked at some old photographs of the Nobel Laureate with his friends, including a collaged birthday card with all of their faces together. Neruda was a jolly man, a party animal – his house had more bars than bedrooms. An eccentric fellow, too, one of his most famous poems is an Ode to a Bicycle and another, to a tomato. His house is modeled after a ship – obsessed with the sea, he was afraid to swim, and declared himself a captain of land.    

When the tour ended, we were escorted out the backdoor because the museum was closed and they wanted to go home. Kate was dismayed that she could not buy the postcard with the bicycle poem. On the way home, we saw a garbage truck hit a parked car. Then, we went to a lot of craftsmen shops and tried to find sibling gifts. Boys are so hard to buy gifts for – if they already have a wallet, a belt, and a foreign shot glass, do you just buy them another one?  We ended up lucking out at a wool stand, purchasing sweaters, mittens, and hats for assorted friends and relatives. If you have gift requests for me, please submit them ASAP – I’ve got 10 more days here!

Because Santiago is suddenly freezing, Kate and I each wore a wool set home. We walked into the house and a group of Hannah’s friends laughed at how ridiculously trendy we looked in our mishmash knits. We were warm, so we didn’t care – we’re just those silly gringas no matter what we do.

Starving, we were graciously taken out by my Chilean friend Max in Vitacura, the upscale 20somethings hangout neighborhood. Kate and I each did our weird gringa thing by eating veggie quesadillas with Irish coffees – we needed something filling and a drink pick-me-up after a long and draining day. We talked about Chilean politics, our quirky experiences here, Max’s business trip to San Pedro de Atacama, our trip there this Thursday, Hari Krishna music and dance, and the evils of the mining industry.  

Our late-night outing was really fun until something horrible happened. Across the street from the restaurant, a hit-and-run occurred and someone died. And when we left the restaurant, we saw the black-sheeted form on the road and we all fell solemn and somewhat defeated. Small talk made, hearts heavy, we got in the car to go home. Crossing the street seemed daunting – just continuing on was like breathing in foggy, thick air – a pervasive overwhelming pressure of the abruptness of what happened choked me. We could’ve had the best day ever or the worst day ever or just an average day kind of day, but seeing that black shrouded form on the ground was harrowing and heart-stopping – a heavy reminder of how lucky we are every moment to be living, and that we should be living each one to the most that we can. 

Even on the days that start with allergic reactions, lead to museums about torture and end with a hit-and-run, I’m maybe more grateful than ever to have the opportunity to do what I’m doing, including the physical and emotional challenges that these experiences present.

I wish I could just skip this part, but it happened, and I don’t want to forget it or that innocent man. Even at 1000 words, I’m already missing so many things – like the fact I slept through the shakes of a Richter-Scale 5 tremor somehow, or that Kate and I made cupcakes this morning for Debi’s boyfriend for their anniversary. So much can happen in a day, and every single one is the start to one hundred adventures.

Here’s to one hundred more tomorrow.