Back to Life, Back to Reality

Back from Easter Island, just landed in Santiago and looking forward to seeing the two girls from La Serena again, who will be flying back 3 days later. I am alone again for now, but my thoughts are with my sister, whom I will try to find for the second time. This time, she wasn't at the airport as usual. I already knew why, but I had hoped anyway, because hope always remains. Those who don't hope, give up. On the third day after my arrival in Santiago, I spent a whole day trying to locate her. I went to Independencia, Mapocho, Recoleta, went to Estación Central, went everywhere she could be. Without her, Santiago felt different, emptier and sadder, even bigger.

Just before my flight to Easter Island, I went back to where I suspected she was, and while asking around at a kiosk, I learned that the saleswoman had seen her.

I left my number there so she could pass it on to my sister. Actually, the kiosk lady called me 2 days before my departure to Easter Island and told me that my sister had been with her and she had passed on the number to her.

Welcome to reality! Welcome to the world!

The very different dimension of Easter Island bids farewell to the evening sky of Santiago as I drive into the city and get off at Providencia, the closest neighborhood at that time, although a few metro stations away from Independencia, my actual destination.

The hostel still has a single room with a double bed available, so I take it. It's not as nice as the Princessa Insolente in Barrio Brazil, but it's closer to my purpose. I'm glad to finally be able to take a shower and then go out to buy something to eat. It's Sunday, already half past nine, I forgot, and the only option nearby is an overpriced pizza delivery service a few blocks away from the hostel.

I eat the Hawaiian pizza in the kitchen downstairs, with one of the fat bulldogs guarding the place next to me. I don't take them out because they're worth their weight and appearance, and such treasures are immediately stolen, including the owner being moved out of the way, despite their volume of saliva.

In the kitchen, I meet a couple who live and work here. It feels good to have some company on this evening. We talk for a long time. The other guests consist of a variety of Peruvians and Colombians who live here, some for a longer period, some for a shorter period, depending on their circumstances. We drink tea together and then smoke in the small patio, which is cramped and filled with the smell of the bulldogs' feces.

Eventually, I go upstairs. I feel alone, very tired, and can sense that my sister is close to me. We can feel each other.

With thoughts of her and memories of Easter Island being gradually carried away by the local atmosphere, I eventually fall asleep.

Early the next morning, I go to the reception and extend my stay for another night, as I don't know if I will find my sister today and want to at least have my luggage safely stored. First, I get a tea next door at a café, then I go to the metro station 15 minutes away to go to Vitacura because, before searching for my sister, I want to change my flight.

Just as I arrived at the metro station and had my Bip card/Metro card recharged, my phone rings.

It's the kiosk lady, telling me that my sister was there again, but now she's gone, and that she wants to call me. While talking to her, I go up the stairs and stand outside the entrance again, lighting a cigarette and knowing that I will change my direction of travel.

As soon as I hung up, the phone rings again 15 seconds later. 'Where are you, can you come to the Cal y Canto Metro Station? ' 'Yes, see you soon, we'll meet at the Botilleria near the exit on the city side.'

Fifteen minutes later, I get off at Puente Cal y Canto and walk up the stairs to the designated meeting point with mixed feelings, mostly joy and longing.

As I light my second cigarette, I see her.

She's wearing a red T-shirt and is thinner than two years ago. The same serious expression that reveals her life on the streets and the ability to transform it into a youthful smile, which carries her body language, is my sister.

Beside her is Enrique, whom I only know from photos, short and thin, with black eyes that underline his facial features. Gaunt and marked by poverty, he radiates life.

When she sees me, she waves, smiles, and walks faster. I walk towards her, and we both run the last few meters. It's so beautiful to hug her after two years, it feels like an eternity - as always - face to face, looking at each other. I see tears running down her cheeks, tears of joy. I also feel my tears as I hold her face in my hands and say, 'Where were you, you didn't come. I've been here for a month.'

'I know, I couldn't.'

'I know,' I say and greet Enrique, who notices how much we resemble each other and immediately knew it was me when he saw me because he recognized me from the photos without having to think.

He is reserved, which makes him likable to me. 'Vamos,' says my sister, and we walk towards Puente/Brücke, in the midst of life, back to reality, where we were together two years ago, as if it were yesterday. We walk across the bridge, which is as usual full of vendors, mostly Peruvians, who loudly advertise their cheap goods in the prevailing tone. The name of the item for sale is called out loudly and quickly, then repeated and ends with the price.

On the way to lunch, which I have agreed to with Enrique's inquiries, I talk about my search, which led me to the Carabineros. My sister looks at me, laughs, and says, 'I don't believe it.'

'You can't hide from me, I always find you.'

When we arrive at Mapocho, Avenida La Paz, and enter the flower market, which is a drug exchange place at night, then go up the stairs to the lunch tables, I remember why I love this side of Santiago, despite it usually being crowded and stressful. This atmosphere is only found here. Only here are these smells, all the voices, the liveliness and energy that instantly opens up the closeness to my sister in me, which comes from survival and life.

There is chicken with rice and salad, along with water, not forgetting to add some bread.

The waiter greets us friendly, and even during the meal, we are observed by a man who eventually comes over to chat briefly. Enrique, who works here at the street market and sells his peaches there, knows everyone here.

After we finish eating, the three of us go out. The mercado/supermarket, which is our destination, is just around the corner, diagonally across from Halle Artesanos. The street is crowded with people, loud traffic, a cacophony of voices dominated by the calls of the vendors.

A woman sits behind the peaches on fruit crates, selling small bottles of Agua de Florida and all kinds of protective symbols, which are either sold individually or on leather cords as necklaces.

We squeeze in behind the peaches arranged on plastic crates, which are being sold for 500 pesos per kilo, two different varieties. Behind us is the cart that will be loaded with all the crates after work. My sister and I sit on one, covered with newspaper, and Enrique stands while promoting and selling his goods.

In between, we go into the market hall, where fish and meat, as well as everything else to eat, are sold.

My sister takes me by the hand, takes me from one stand to another, greets everyone and is greeted in return, introducing me to everyone.

By six in the evening, I at least know half the hall from the greetings, including our neighbors outside at the stand. I have also sold plenty by closing time.

Since I have already paid for another night in the hostel, we will stay there for this night as well. After telling a half-true story of two sisters who met here and that she has traveled with her 'fiancé', we get the room without an extra charge.

The next morning, Enrique is already at the market. We get ready, and an hour later, we sit outside a building with all my luggage and my sister's 3 large bags.

Where to? We can't think of anything...the morning has already begun.

We sit and smoke and drink from the bottle from the previous evening, accompanied by a bread that I quickly got from the negocio/business next door. As we light the third cigarette and about 40 minutes have passed, my sister remembers one last option, two acquaintances who live in Independencia.

We hail a collectivo, take our things, and get in.