Arriving late afternoon on the Sunday after Christmas, in Tirúa, Chile, was not the wisest idea. Any signs of life in this small town were far and few. The strolling stray dogs were of course the exception. They were never far nor few. I had arrived with an appetite and although it seemed that everything was closed, I noticed a small restaurant and ventured inside. A thin weathered man, wearing jeans, silver belt, and cowboy boots sat stoically at a table and barely acknowledged me. My inquiry about lunch elicited an inaudible response. A woman then came out and perfunctorily took my order. I had previously been met with considerable friendliness in Chile and was surprised by their reticence. But, I had planned on staying in this town, at least a night, and was hoping they might have a few ideas.
When I finished my meal, I forged ahead and introduced myself. Their names were Rosita and Miguel. I presumed them to be husband and wife. After explaining my situation, Rosita’s manner changed. She warmed up and carefully considered all the lodging options. Miguel, showing markedly more signs of life, without being asked, stepped out to accompany me. But all the places she had suggested were closed for the holiday weekend. He took me to one more spot, apparently the last resort. The owner brought me to the back of his large store where he lived and had a spare room. The room was disheveled and the overall atmosphere gloomy. The man may have noticed my lack of enthusiasm and added that the sheets on the unmade bed would be changed. This windowless chamber was off the living room where his elderly mother, wrapped in a shawl, sat in a rocking chair watching TV. It was difficult to keep thoughts of the Bates Motel at bay. I graciously declined the offer. Miguel didn’t seem surprised.
I decided it was best if I continued on to the next town, only 10 kms away where there was certainly a greater number of accommodations. Miguel wasn’t sure if the buses were running so I thought I’d catch a ride, a common practice in Chile. With my bag at his side, he stopped the few cars driving by, not only to assess their destination but the occupants’ demeanor as well. For various reasons none were suitable. Miguel gestured that I stand and wait on the curb as he continued seeking my safe passage. To me, he barely uttered a word. Despite my assurances that I would be fine on my own, he stayed during an inevitable wait. Finally a bus did come and Miguel handled the loading of my bag. I thanked him profusely. He nodded, turned, and walked away.

While hiking up to an overnight “refugio”(hiker’s lodge) in Torres del Paine, Chile, anyone I encountered was equipped with trekking poles. (On at least one occasion, in a crowded boat, my proximity to these devices, irresponsibly packed-pointy end up and threatening the well being of my eyes, prompted me to suggest to the offending owner a safer way of stowing them in her pack-pointy end down. My suggestion was met with an icy glare.) I rued leaving my set at home.
Within a short time a man came striding toward me, a beautiful, natural, wooden walking stick in hand. Suddenly, I recalled the days before the metallic poles were ubiquitous. One would arrive at a trail, look for a suitable fallen branch to use as a walking stick, and if the stick had been of particular merit, perhaps leave it at the trailhead for another. Somehow all this had slipped my mind, but I immediately set out in hopes of finding one of my own. After a few trials I found it. The height, width and weight were perfect. The stick helped me navigate across streams, manage steep inclines, and maneuver on rocky paths. When I arrived at the lodge that evening I brought it in as a trusted friend. The following day it proved equally invaluable, giving me leverage against gale force winds.
Returning to base I left it for another, hoping it’s fine use would carry on.

While traveling in Chile, I was told of anti-American sentiments. I do not doubt that such feelings exist, but I never experienced it first-hand. When I was asked (this usually occurred immediately), where do I come from? I never lied.
I had been told that those who smile at me, are just pretending to be nice. Perhaps this is so. But with the endless kindnesses I have been shown, including people going out of their way to assist me and befriend me, I have faith in their sincerity. Any prejudice that may have been, during these one to one encounters, seemingly dissolved.

I left for Chile almost two months ago. Returning home means seeing loved ones and taking care of everyday things. Images of Chile fleet through my mind or I indulge in recalling places and moments with as many details as I can muster. It already seems far away but the conjuring of these images brings the past near.

It has been an extraordinary trip and adventure .

Perspective and time will undoubtedly alter my memories but I look forward to revisiting  and recounting  the  days spent beneath a different sky.

Jan3-5  DAYS 46-49
My return to Santiago after almost two months, was familiar and welcoming except for the excessive heat. I ate divine ceviche and drank perfectly paired wine. I wandered through one more of Pablo Neruda’s magical homes and met a photographer who had just shown in New York and drove me around her town. These were my last days in Chile before heading home. It was a time to pack up one last time. It was time to say farewell to a land with exquisite beauty and its people who welcomed me with an abundance of warmth and kindness.

Dec 29-Jan3
DAYS 40-46
Valparaiso is justifiably a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The multi-colored dwellings perched on steep hills, the century old funiculars, maze-like streets, passageways and parks with magnificent overlooks, fine dining, abundant art and graffiti covered walls all add to its charm. People flock to the town by the thousands to see the dazzling display of fireworks which begin, annually, at the new year. Accommodations rise to exorbitant prices, the locals mostly leave to more peaceful environs, and the riff-raff come out in droves to prey on the tourists. The town was an exciting place to bring in 2015 although I will opt for a different season the next time around.

For my dearest family, friends, and readers, I wish you a year of health, fulfilled dreams, peace, inspiration and joy.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

As my last days in Chile come to a near, I’ll be taking a break from my writing until I return to New York. Thank you for sharing your time with me. I look forward to posting again in the new year.

Until then…

Dec 26-29  DAYS 37-40
I enjoyed walking around the streets of the small towns, some lie along the shore, chatting with the locals and absorbing daily life. People were invariably open to discussion and despite my lack of fluency in Spanish, made every effort to understand what I was saying. My inquiries were sometimes rewarded with entirely new experiences. Once, my curiosity yielded a tasty sea creature picked from a black barbarous casing by the very hands who plucked the red mollusk out of the sea. (I was told eating it with lemon would be better-I agree.) Overall,fresh seafood was abundant and the primary means for creating a meal.
This part of Chile is the home to the Mapuche. The Mapuches are an indigenous people of Chile representing the vast majority of original dwellers living today. Their reputation as fierce defenders of their lands has not abated. Although many have adopted modern ways, I was hoping to meet those who still retained some of their traditions.
While visiting the Mapuche Museum of Cañete, I caught a video of an old woman weaving, coloring, preparing wool for her looms. Her techniques and tools were the same as her ancestors and I was enthralled. I hurried to the information desk inquiring as to her whereabouts. A phone call, bus ride, walk and a short hop on a motorcycle brought me to her home about 20kms away. Senora Amalia, 83, lives on her people’s land and still uses a ruka, a thatched dwelling for ceremonies and festivities.

For the next two hours she graciously shared tales with me of her life. Raising eight children with barely enough to feed them was painfully tough, but she and her family survived. Her life today seems comfortable and she showed off her great grandchildren with pride.

Dec 22-25  DAYS 34-37
While waiting for the bus in Temuco for the seaside town of Puerto Saavedra, a woman, Judith, and I began speaking. Learning I was from New York, she told me her brother had just returned from Harvard. They lived in Nuevo Imperial. It was en route to my destination, she invited me to her home, and I couldn’t refuse. Thus I met Diego, who spoke English flawlessly, an autodidact. Seven months prior he had written letters seeking an opportunity to study dentistry for a semester at the school of his dreams. His tenacity and gumption paid off. He had just passed his final exams, and was now a dentist-quite an accomplishment for someone only twenty-three. Judith failed to mention our encounter and my showing up in his living room was a surprise.

I spent the afternoon meeting the other family members and Diego gave me a guided walking tour of the town. Edith, the mother, demonstrated how to properly prepare my new gourd with mate tea and before I left, filled a jar with the leaves to take with me. They invited me to spend Christmas with them. It was a hard offer to decline.

I arrived in Puerto Saavedra at the pink hued hour before sunset.

The sleepy beach town with a few shops offering provisions, cabanas and a restaurant was all I needed for a memorable and delightful stay. I met Devora that first evening who ran the only dining option in the immediate area. When I inquired when it was open, she replied,”When I’m here.” Her’s was not the only business adhering to similar guidelines.

Days were spent reading, writing, strolling along the shore, and getting to know the residents. This included an extremely persistent cat seeking and finding affection.

Dec 21-22 DAYS 33-34

Temuco is known as a working class city with a somewhat gritty feel, but I enjoyed its thriving pulse and lack of tourists. The boisterous central market was a place to finally find a gourd for drinking mate tea with the requisite bombilla(drinking straw). The tea has a bitter, acquired taste, but there are those who find it pleasant-even addictive-to drink.  And many swear by the healthful properties the tea allegedly possesses. It is unlikely I will use the gourd often, it requires a seemingly endless supply of hot water for refilling, but I couldn’t resist.

Pastel de choclo(my lunch for the day), a baked dish of sweet corn meal chicken, meat and olives, seafood stew and other regional specialities were offered in the small market restaurants. I ate well.
As I strolled along, the streets were busy with holiday shoppers, and gift wrappers, vendors of cherries, strawberries and other local produce, lottery tickets, and a multitude of wares.

Stray dogs are a part of Chilean life and to see them strolling or more likely sleeping in the streets while often resting their heads on the curb was no different here. A Chilean friend told me,” Argentina has the tango, we have our dogs.”

I inquired about buses to Puerto Saavedra and was met with strange looks. It was in the opinion of at least one ticket seller, an ugly place with nothing to do, but I wasn’t convinced he had been there.