Gentle Entry

Start - in a different way

A series of unpleasant events that all lead to the absence of my luggage did not manage to dampen my desire to travel. Fuck you IBERIA!

Instead, I have been wearing the same outfit for 3 days, using sinks and soap to combat sniffing smells and sticky effects, and now I also know that soap is not meant for washing hair.

At this point, I will not say more about it - you all know the life expectancy of hope, and mine is notoriously difficult to eliminate.

Besides, who wants to read about annoyances when at the same time you can feast your eyes on foreign cities, cultures, and impressions?

And my eyes can definitely do that with enthusiasm and joy. And whoever wants to can simply join.

Santiago. A perfect city to immerse yourself in an unknown country. Not one that I would travel halfway around the world for, although I have found some places that I would not want to miss due to their uniqueness. For example, the Museum of Pre-Columbian Art, where a mistake of my explorer soul led me.

In the basement, artifacts from different eras are mystically arranged in a room made of concrete, glass, and darkness, and they tell the best story in the world. The story of people. Cultures. Their beliefs and craftsmanship.

I found myself in awe in front of one of the most unique communication tools of humanity, a quipu. Incas, whose empire spread to Chile in the 15th century, encrypted their knowledge in a combination of ropes and knots and used variations of fibers and color codes. What a unique approach to storing knowledge. The material becomes the content, not just the guardian of the message. Braille meets encoding. Meets information. Meets my amazement and impresses me greatly!

The second object that captivated me with a smile was a painted drinking vessel. It sits there lazily, small stick-like arms hold a plump belly, and the contents of the jug seem to flow from the carrier's mouth. The ears droop down and its eyes also have something sad, almost teary. The little guy looks as if he owns every drop and warns every "thief" who empties his contents! If the glass were not between us, my little fingers could not have resisted fumbling and groping it.

Another find may also belong in a museum, and it led me to satisfy my desire for coffee. In the banking district of the city, where I can exchange my euros at a fair price, I come across a standing café.
The 70s have not only immortalized themselves here in pastel pink marble, chrome, and mirrors, but also in the birth year and style of the staff. A narrow counter winds its way through the entire establishment, passing by a total of 3 coffee machines and just as many baristas. Orders and payment are made at the entrance, then you go to one of the stations, hand the slip to a mini-skirted, bouffant-haired female waitress. She delivers the order by turning 45 degrees to the male barista behind her, places a saucer and a small glass of soda water in front of me, and starts foaming the milk. The barista brews steaming coffee and finally, the mixture of brown and foam is ceremoniously placed on the little plate, held in a celebratory hand gesture.
Before my coffee has cooled down enough to drink, I let my eyes wander around the room.
Regular customers are sometimes greeted with their favorite drink upon arrival at the counter, and a warm, almost lascivious flirtation characterizes the brief and entertaining encounter. There are no armchairs here, you order, laugh, receive, drink, and leave. Chileans seem to like it hot.

And that's how it has been for me since I arrived. Except at night. It cools down pleasantly then. The thermometer shows 30 degrees during the day, and from noon onwards, the Rio Grande flows along my spine. But in the morning, it is still pleasantly cool, and the parrots peck and mate in the trees.
The breakfast cafés are paradise-like and offer brightly decorated delicacies. In Café Wonderland, the waiters are also delicious. At least if you like men.

Miguel, with his perfectly trimmed beard and a captivating hip sway, welcomes me at the door, guides me into the courtyard covered with colorful tile, and seats me at the cast-iron table, promising to serve me. Unfortunately, he doesn't show up again, instead Jose Luis appears, and a small Union Jack on his sleeve indicates his proficiency in English. The neighboring tables are piled high with plates, and after everything is dutifully photographed, phones are exchanged for cutlery, and a melodious chatter accompanies the enjoyable feasting.

Jose Luis then fidgets a bit restlessly in front of me, and I interpret that as a "Your coffee is finished, we need the table, you probably want to leave now!" and I decide to ignore him, turn my attention to my water, dedicate myself to my keyboard, and add to the story you are reading.

Speaking of hot. That's what it was for me the day before yesterday. It was necessary to climb steep hills. Up and down and up again through a colorful and generously painted maze of streets in Chile's oldest port city. We are in Valparaiso.
The Pacific Ocean lazily lounges in a curved bay here. Only a narrow strip of the city runs along the harbor. Most houses cling to the hills, several cable cars punctuate this sea of houses, and tourists and locals alike climb the city in them.
The city as a gallery. Graffiti adorns the walls and stairs, shops offer art and culture. Cafés. Restaurants. Payment is made for the view. Roofs, facades. Port-banana. The Pacific sparkles blue. Cranes, cargo ships. A flock of birds circles over the sea.
The return journey is again by cable car. Metro. Bus. Past vineyards and palm trees. 2 hours later, I am back at the hotel. A successful day trip sends me to bed early and satisfied.

Back to Santiago de Chile. It is easy to find your way around here. Not that I get very far with my English, no, but the people are open, helpful.
The road network is well developed. The traffic is civilized. People respect traffic lights. Stay in your lane. The pedestrian crossing is also respected here. The signs on some streets may be smeared, but I can still find my way around well. There are few motorcycles on the road. I hardly saw any mopeds, and this has a positive effect, as does the breeze that constantly blows here, on the rather dry but very good air quality.

The prices are rather high, but if I were less demanding, it would certainly be much cheaper. To eat well, you have to dig deep into your pockets, but that's the case everywhere in the end.

What I particularly like about this city are the people and the atmosphere they create.
One of the carriers of this coziness seems to be music. Sung or played, not always for money, but because it comes from the heart.
A bus driver takes a break while standing in the doorway of his bus, with loud sounds coming from inside his vehicle.
A man sets up his market stand and sings a song, a woman next to me loudly bursts into a chorus, just like one of the two men carrying a package in the crowded subway.
With the music comes a carefreeness, lightness. The pulse of warm-hearted people who are open but not intrusive.
People consider each other, and in the crowded squares and streets where goods of all kinds narrow the pavement, they glide past each other without jostling. One should watch out for pickpockets, but I do not feel unsafe.

Oh yes, yesterday I finally got my backpack and I am already looking forward to my onward journey to the north, to the Atacama Desert. The hostel is already booked, as is the arrival, and I am curious to see what impressions I will be able to collect.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Petra