08-02-08

Don’t ever have a hangover it a hostel. It’s much worse when you’re in a bunk bed and sharing a bathroom with 20 others. Last night, the volunteer program threw us a little fiesta, and then we went out with one of the coordinators at a place a few blocks away. Though I was still feeling the piscos this morning, today was one of the most beautiful days we’ve had in Santiago—clear and blue and sunny. We took the metro to Cerro Santa Lucia, a big hill in the center of town. The bottom of the hill is where Pedro de Valdivia founded the city of Santiago in 1541. In the 1870s, an effort was made to transform Santiago into a more cosmopolitan and European place, so beautiful terraces, fountains, and walkways, even a chapel, have been built into the hillside. Cerro Santa Lucia is a beautiful place to stroll and get a good look at Santiago. The Andes were still covered in clouds, our smog, but you could still see the foothills, coastal cordillera, and lots of sprawl and condos.

After coming down, I walked to el Mercado Central, near the river. The market also dates back from the 1870s and is an active, bustling, place, made only slightly seedy by the inquisitive, whistling men lining the aisles. I walked through the seafood stalls, where men in white coats and hats were weighing octopi and filling bins full of mussels. The men also were also constantly hosing down the conctrete floor, which only made t market more steamy and the sea smell stronger.

I tried an empanada de queso and camarones. It was by far t best empanada I’ve had so far. The restaurant/marisqueria where I sat, like most eateries in the market, looked like a greasy spoon. In fact, the dark green tablecloth was stained with greasy circles—but the fish was fresh and delicious, and there were halves of lemons sitting on white saucers on each table. Los camarones were rich and filling, especially in combination with the cheese sauce inside the crumbly pastry. The place was called Tio Willy—and my server, Ronal, was friendly and chatty, dressed in a bright red sweater. He said he knew the Chicago Bulls. Ronal asked me how my empanada was—muy sabrosa, I said. Then I heard him laughing with the other waitresses. Is sabrosa the correct word? I asked in Spanish. Yes, he replied, but you must say Ronal is muy sabroso—that’s how I learned his name. After I paid, he asked where I was going. When I told him back to Barrio Brasil, he took my hand and walked me through the wet floors of the market to the street to point me in the right direction. Chilean people are amazing.

Later that night, a group of us went to La Piojera, a famous, rather underground (although yes, it’s in Lonely Planet) bar near el Mercado Central. We all had a terremoto—which is a glob of ice cream in a big plastic cup of cheap white wine. It was actually really good, even in spite of the day’s early promises to swear off drink. We sat in a tiny, smoke-filled room—the walls were covered in graffiti and the wobbly seats and tables were sticky with alcohol. In the corner, a group of young, long-haired Chileans were playing guitar, singing, and clapping together little white saucers for percussion.

The best part of going to the bar was this lovely family of five seated next to us. A couple in their 50s, Magnolia and Juan, their two sons, and their oldest son’s wife. The conversation started when one Chilean remarked that Richard, from New Zealand, looked like Quentin Tarantino. We talked for quite some time—the Chileans had questions about the use of the n-word in rap songs they had heard. Is it OK to say? They wanted to know. Nicole tried to explain.

The songs coming from the corner of the bar were written by Victor Jara, who often played at La Piojara. Pointing their fingers to their heads, our Chilean friends explained that Victor Jara was shot in the Estadio de Santiago during the Pinochet regime. (The stadium has now been renamed in honor of Jara, we learned.) The oldest son, who was wearing a plaid, western-style shirt, said that if we studied the music of Victor Jara, Violeta Para, and a few others, we would understand everything there was to know about Chile. He drew us a map of his country on the back of my placement, noting all of our placements in the various regions.

La Piojara was definitely authentic Santiago, and our family had been visiting so far back they had often seen Jara play there in his lifetime. Near the end of our chat, Magnoila signed her name on the wall with a pen. She explained to us that La Piojara has always been a place where all types of people—rich, poor, Peruvian, Argentine, even gring—get together under one techo.

Keep your placemat, Magnolia advised me. I already have it, I said, pulling out a rumpled up sheet of brown paper from my bag. The woman always knows—she said back—the man thinks about it, but the woman does it.