November 4th-5th, 2015

Valaparaíso; what a dream. It is no wonder Neruda lived there. Just being there for two days filled me with the urge to write.

Valaparaíso is a city sprawling with murals and bohemian charm, secret ally ways that bring you to art splashed cafes, and slides and gondolas zipping you down from one elevation to the next. For those with child-like, playful spirits, you will never want to leave.

I arrived with my second hangover in a row. I was set on partying my way through Chile. Out of the 9 days I had in Chile, I was hungover for 7 of them. I got to the hostel by cab and took a nap, and talked to my friend Brian about upcoming visits. I got up after a couple of hours and took the the streets in search of an early supper. I walked for about an hour, exploring aimlessly, until I settled on a place because it felt right. I got fish, salad, and of course another glass of delectable Chilean wine.

As I was finishing my supper, three girls that I met in Sucre about two weeks before walked in. It is crazy to keep meeting people over and over again as we travel at our different paces along the gringo trail. Three law students from London, who are stylish without even trying, and so much fun. One girl stayed (hi Sherin!) and we each had two desserts (because you only live once, and you need as much chocolate mousse as possible), and two glasses of wine. The waitress judged us a little bit.

We eventually found our way to where the other two girls were eating, and enjoyed two pisco sours and listened to jazz while looking over the city lights and talking about traveling love affairs. The other two girls went home, but Sherin and I were swept up in the magic of the city (and in the magic of pisco sours) and took the slide down the street, where we saw a lot of people outside of a bar. The waiter, with a face decorated in an awesome beard hair, ushered us in through the crowd outside. We ordered a bottle of wine, and were all of the sudden part of an intimate audience of a Chilean Spanish improv show.

In true Chilean form, the Spanish was dashed with slang and heavily accented, and we couldn't understand anything. It was still thoroughly entertaining, as most of what is said is body language anyways. As we finished our bottle of wine, avoiding eye contact with the actors so they wouldn't call upon us, the improv show ended and out of the night appeared a 12 part band playing Arabian Gypsy music that got everyone dancing between cigarette breaks and more wine.

By the end of the night we were talking to locals, temporarily adopting the world's sweetest street dogs, and wandering through the hills watching late night street artists and trying not to get lost. We eventually made it home by 3 am, and of course, the next day, I woke up with my 3rd god damn hangover.

The next day I woke up slowly and had breakfast. I hate talking in the morning, which is difficult when sitting at a big communal hostel table. After being a grumpy cat, I got dressed, promised the hostel owner I'd be back to have a drink with him, and went out to find Pablo Neruda's home in the hills. I picked up an empanada on the way, stopped at a cafe for a hit of caffeine to fight off my new hangover, and walked the winding streets to Neruda's breezy home shooting too many photos of street art.

Pablo Neruda's house was eclectic and wondrous and elicited a craving to write. It was full of whimsical and alluring collections with a definite nautical feel. It cheered on my notion of owning an apartment full of art and artefacts from my travels, and of course art from my family and friends. Neruda was a nobel-prize winning poet, diplomat, napper, collector, and apparently the most splendid of hosts. He believed that eating alone was like eating in a tomb, and ate every meal with friends.

From Chilean friends, and from traveling around Chile, I've learned a lot about the Pinochet dictatorship which lasted 17 years (1973-1990). It was released in the news a couple of days ago that the Chilean Government admits that Pinhochet may have been behind Neruda's death in 1973. Neruda was good friends with the socialist leader of the government that Pinochet overthrew. The pain that Chile went through during the Pinochet government is astronomical. Being at Neruda's house, and traveling through Chile, meeting beautiful people and drinking beautiful wine, had inspired me to learn more about the not-often talked about sad story of the Pinochet dictatorship.

After Neruda's house, I got a little lost but nevertheless successfully ended up at a walking tour, which was lead by a charming Chilean-American boy. The city has such cool roots, as well as trunk and leaves for that matter. The old port city and its sprawling colonial architecture is built in the resemblance of ships to fit the hills. The facades are all protected and original, and the street art will blow your mind. I met two friends on the tour, and we went out for supper that night for delicious beer and jazz music. The next morning I woke up without a hangover. Thank goodness.