How Learned to Stop Being Homophobic Because of Movies...Particularly Ones with Nathan Lane

I use this blog to share insights through life experience more often than I use it to comment on my trade and artistic craft of writing.

As I mentioned in a couple of posts before, writing is my wife and film...well film is like the hot neighbor that I sometimes fantasize about. I write scripts, which I guess is like threesome...but I'm already rambling.

This blog is often my board for talking about my views of good scripts, good writing, film, etc, but also my life, my progress. It's called "Beneath the Wheel" after a pessimistic coming of age novel by Hermann Hesse. I figured I'd combine my two primary purposes for this blog into one and talk about how film led me to abandon homophobia.

Why talk about this?

It's topical yes, but a thought occurred to me. It was ten years ago that I stopped being homophobic. I can trace the incident to an exact year, 2003, when I was fourteen because that was when I first saw a movie that somehow managed to alter my views of homosexuality and being LBGT.

Let me start off with a little background.

First, I'm heterosexual.

...

Second, I grew up in a small rural Georgia community. I grew up in an area that had more religious places of worship than locally owned mom and pop restaurants. It wasn't uncommon to feel the pressure of this religious culture, particularly on someone like me. At the time I considered myself on the threshold of being religious, but I was confused in some ways. I grew up in a conservative family, where we were taught to vote Republican and in any mock election we had at school were insisted to vote Republican (at my elementary school I voted for Bob Dole in 1996 and in middle school I voted for George W. Bush in 2000). My father held views that were near the extreme of the Right and frankly was homophobic. The most liberal thought he could muster on homosexuality was "Freddy Mercury was a pretty good singer for a queer."

Consequently, I was a Republican, conservative, and most definitely a homophobic person. I concurred with my father about how homosexuality had no value in society because it would not contribute to procreation. Many people were leaning Right after 9/11 unfortunately. This was before the invasion of Iraq, Hurricane Katrina, etc.

Despite this conservatism, I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household. My mom was religious and extreme Republican and my sister found New Age Christianity. My father wasn't religious, however, and never took us to church. I would find out later that despite his conservatism my father rejected organized religion and avowed himself a Deist. This would play an important role in my ethical development because if I had went to church or grew up in a religious environment I think I would've been different ten years later ie now.

At the time, during middle school, I was having a hard time with religion. I felt I should be religious because I only knew Christianity, but I felt conflicted. Why? Music. I loved AC/DC. I loved Iron Maiden. To my assistant football coach this was "that satanic music"; no joke he said that about my music. If you've ever listened to Iron Maiden you know that while they have albums called "The Number of the Beast" Iron Maiden is less satanic and more nerdy. I felt conflicted in having to choose between music that acted as an appropriate catharsis to me going home to having my parents fight then going to school and being picked on.

There was something also off putting about how religious people at my school were. The most fervent religious individuals, the ones who went to church, listened to Christian rock and were in FCLA were the ones who would often pressure me into reconsidering my de facto secularism. They felt a superiority towards individuals like my eventual friends and myself for not being religious. It wasn't uncommon for me to get lectures by people who spent a fair bit of time picking on me on religion. It wasn't uncommon for people to write in our yearbooks "Jesus died for your sins." Sheesh. No "Have a good Summer?" Worst of all there seemed to be a relaxed attitude about the pressure from the teachers. I had a substitute teacher who asked the class if they went to church and everyone raise their hand...except for me. The substitute teach began staring at me...and soon everyone else stared at me...then he said "Well looks like everyone goes to church."

This background is important because I want you, my reader, to understand what I was like. I was conservative because that was the way we were supposed to be, but there were strains of conflict in my mind about what felt right. I was being given teen study bibles and DC Talk cds from my sister for my birthday, when really I wanted AC/DC and metal. I was being told to be religious and accept all religious principles including homophobia when I felt the people telling me were being hypocritical by picking on me all the time and being snooty, vain, etc.

Make no mistake that now I do not feel strongly opposed to Christianity, but I felt the organized religion my friends and neighbors were experiencing induced a culture of prejudice among people who were homosexual and who were different than them.

...

Most people had a poor middle school experience. That period in a person's life is wretched. Puberty? Screw puberty. My experience was no different, but this period is vital to a person's future, more vital than high school because it was when revelations start to appear.

So, how did I stop being conservative, homophobic, and so forth? Movies.

Movies are of course liberal propaganda.

When I was in 8th grade I discovered my love for cinema. I began to feverishly watch movies, taking down AFI's List of the 100 Greatest Movies, finding out what Oscars winners were what, renting movies at Clarkesville Video and marathoning AMC and TCM.

Movies were as important to me as reading because like reading it inspired me to think outside the shell I could've grown up in. I learned to question war and the necessity of war via "Dr. Strangelove." I grew inspired by the audacity of "2001: A Space Odyssey." As I grew older I started exploring world films, such as those by Akira Kurosawa and so forth. That's a whole different post, however.

Movies taught me to be ok with my secularism, with my questioning of what is right and wrong. Movies taught me to be to not be homophobic.

What movie?

"The Birdcage."

That's right. Nathan Lane, Robin Williams, Gene Hackman...this film inspired me to accept homosexuals.

The film itself isn't too original; it was a remake of "La Cage Aux Folles" and as I look back it wasn't the greatest film I ever watched. It was on AMC and I decided to catch it because after seeing "The French Connection" I was on a Gene Hackman phase. Its treatment of homosexuality is a bit flamboyant, with over the top performances by Nathan Lane and Hank Azaria.

Yet I enjoyed the film. It's hard to not enjoy a Mike Nichols film. It was also the first time I really saw homosexuality treated seriously and cautiously on film before.

Most of what one hears in rural Georgia about homosexuality is stereotypes. This film went beyond the stereotypes and into a humanity that I felt was profound.

There were moments of "The Birdcage" that depicted a family with a love that I never had in my family. I knew that there was a difference between film and reality, but I felt through this film it was possible in the world for a homosexual couple to commit themselves to a loving and nurturing family. There was even a scene where the son, played by Dan Flutterman, said he was the only person in college who didn't come from a broken home.

It was the first time I ever thought the question "How is someone who is homosexual different from me?"

I mean as a heterosexual there are certainly differences, but how is someone different besides orientation? Are there not homosexuals who enjoy Iron Maiden? Are there not homosexuals who like "Annie Hall?"

I thought in my mind that homosexuals were seen as so corrupt, but I knew as many heterosexuals who were corrupt, who created broken homes, who were pushers and drug addicts. I was never picked on anyone who was homosexual. What did any homosexual do to me?

The answer was nothing. So why should I care about their orientation? "The Birdcage" was a film that led me to realize that humanity is less defined by one inherent characteristic such as sexual orientation and more by the sum of all parts.

"The Birdcage" played a vital role in my shedding my homophobia. Without it, I wouldn't have many of my closest and loyal friends that happen to be homosexual. I would've been dismissive of anything LGBT like Team Dresh or Against Me! which are two of my favorite bands. More importantly, I would be a narrow minded person, unable to see the reality that diversity exists around us.

So Nathan Lane...take a bow.

Why I Want to Be a Librarian

These past two weeks have been brimming with anxiety for me. Why? My job prospects are growing dim since I arrived back from my trip.

I still have a job; I'm still employed as a substitute teacher. Yet, it won't be until late August that substitute teaching gigs will start coming back up. In the meantime I've been desperately searching for full time job opportunities. I don't expect $30K but I'd like something that makes over $15,000. My next step is to get out of the house. I stayed with my mom during her breast cancer but now that my trip is over and now that she is fine it is time to head out.

It's also time to think about my career again.

Sometime around May I realized that the master's degree I wanted was the Master's of Library and Information Science. The stress I had, prior to the trip, about where to take my career goal was fairly substantial. I was denied by all the MFA's and that led me to reconsider if I was truly into the MFA. Would I do a MFA if I wasn't fully funded? Honestly, no. It's hard to get a job with a MFA. I applied and was accepted into the MA in English, but it was more literary and less rhetoric or writing focused. Right now those jobs are biting the dust and frankly...I didn't want to do that. I didn't want to be a scholar. I didn't want to be at that particular school in that particular city that I didn't particularly care for.

My goal when I graduated was to take two years to figure out what I wanted to do. I want to write. Great. What else? What to do about a job? MFA? Technical Writing? Then I thought about what I had done in the past year. I substitute taught; I liked it but I've grown distant with teaching for now. Yet, I like the idea of increasing literacy, of making a community impact that is tangible. I felt that working with the library. With a moment of clarity I realized that a Master's of Library and Information Science was my degree. I knew this was true because for the first time I thought about how I didn't care for paying for the degree. As a miser, I've turned away from the MAT because of expense, realized I didn't want to pay for the MFA, but for some reason--as if through instinct--I felt ok paying for the MLIS.

Hmm.

But why? Why be a librarian, archivist, etc? This is a question I've been trying to answer as I've applied to different jobs. So why?

Borges.

Jorge Luis Borges.

The prospect of being a librarian wasn't always there for me. As an aspiring writer I looked at what other writers worked at for their day jobs. Most were MFA professors, but honestly I didn't care for their writing. Some were great like the gloriously beautiful Natasha Trethewey or George Saunders or Fred Chappell. Some were not. There were technical writers, like Ted Chiang, one of my favorite science fiction writers. There were journalists like Orwell and David Simon. Then I came across Borges.

Borges was a librarian.

As I read Borges I discovered how much libraries informed his writing and really his life. To him, paradise was a library, a house of knowledge and books. He was an individual not only captivated by artistic writing but by data, information. There's a quote I've been using in my cover letters; when Borges was interviewed and asked about if he knew his fate in literature Borges said "Yes, I always knew...my fate...was a literary one."

That's exactly how I felt...well, feel.

Like Borges, I love artistic writing, poetry and narrative. I devour poetry and pay attention to films in order to break down how their story was told.

Like Borges, I love information. I started off as a science major and didn't continue because of my love of books, but I still have an affection for science. I firmly believe in technology, accessibility of information and science as a mechanism of upward mobility in accordance with transhumanism.

This in part was due to my love of reading. Not just reading stories and books but encyclopedias and textbooks. Like poetry to me now, I would devour books like "The American Pageant" and my grandmother's old set of 1964 World Book Encyclopedias. At age 4 I was reading about Lincoln in my house in the encyclopedia. When I discovered Wikipedia...oh God...did my life erupt into seeking knowledge. So many blue links...so little time.

That's why I enjoy archives, libraries, etc. The work with data, the work with books; libraries, archives, etc--they are houses of information. They are my places of worship almost. I could kill time if I needed by going into a library.

At my graduation our speaker talked about how we need to find a place of musing. As the director of the High Museum of Art, his place was any art museum. I thought about where my place of musing was, my place of tranquility. There's nature but that's too obvious. As a film lover there's the movie cinema, but as a writer why wasn't it the bookstore? Because it is the library. The library is my temple; it has been since I was 3. If it wasn't for the library I wouldn't have gained the knowledge I did because our internet connection was always dial up, because we didn't have internet until I was 12, because we couldn't afford a ton of books. In high school, I would come in at least once every week and check out movies, books and educate myself. It was imperative as a writer to be immersed like this in the library.

I love knowledge, information, facts. I love working with them. I could work in health informatics and librarianship and be fine because of how it deals with data and information. Data is like my blanket.

Maybe that's a bit too much.

I knew the library was my place when I discovered it when I was 3. It is a special place for me. In South America I loved going into the libraries and archives. I relish this "literary life" like Borges. Paradise is a library to me. So I want to work in something similar.

Plus, no fines.

How I realized my degree was wrong for me

I majored in Theatre. 

Is there anything wrong with majoring in Theatre? Not inherently. I discussed this in length with my post "So You Want to Major in Theatre" (http://lookinghomewardandetc.blogspot.com/2013/06/so-you-want-to-major-in-drama.html) and I suppose this article is a sequel. Yet, I think it is applicable to anyone's major, because anyone can major in something and realize--too late--it wasn't right for them.

When a person says "I majored in Theatre" it's like saying to a person with a day job degree (education, business, engineering, etc) "I do crack." So automatically with saying "I didn't major in the right degree" they think "Oh yeah he has job problems this is reinforcing my intelligence and my superiority complex" but that's not quite case. My program was a great program. For a long time it has received enormous acclaim and it emboldened me with several soft skills like ambition and drive, follow through with projects and goals, the ability to troubleshoot, and the qualities of leadership or willingness to take on responsibility. Part of the reason I don't completely regret my major is that I feel majoring in theatre was responsible for this. As far as jobs are concerned, I had a job right after graduation and worked in Atlanta. The only reason I didn't sustain the job was because...I didn't want to.

So what's the problem? What led me to forgo my major was rekindling my love of writing. Instead of directing a play for my senior thesis as I had anticipated for my entire time as a theatre major, I decided to write a play, entitled "The Five Stages of Baldness." I realized through this process that it was writing I loved, that writing was my passion. I always wrote--for the school newspaper in high school, stories in elementary school--but now I understood how to be serious about writing creatively.

To borrow a metaphor from a date (that didn't work out in the end), writing is my wife. I have hobbies, like playing guitar, like electrics, like hiking, but writing is what I try to do everyday. As painful as it is, as wretched as my output might be in any given day, I have to write something. Even if it is a measly blog post. Writing is my wife.

Film is the hot girl next door that I often fantasize about and try to prod my wife into having a threesome with. Science is an ex-girlfriend that I'm on good terms with and still have a friendship with, my Elaine Benes.

And Theatre? Theatre is my ex-girlfriend that I had a bad breakup with but now we're marginally on talking terms and we often have chats in the midst of substantial lingering tension.

Realizing artistic writing was my calling or rather what I wanted to dedicate my open energies to was the first step in realizing my degree was wrong for me.

The second step was an interest in a quality life. I want to spend my twenties--before I have children, etc--travelling, doing interesting things, developing significant relationships. I'm a firm believer that any artist needs to live a life that is interesting to produce great work. It was even my thesis for my "American Voice" essay in 11th grade on Herman Melville. Melville had been a sailor who went around the world. Mark Twain did cool shit with Tesla. Ernest Hemingway hunted his way through Africa and covered the Spanish Civil War. It was in a rehearsal for a client's show that I realized if I wanted to produce good writing I needed to spend more time hiking Machu Picchu and less time stuck in a booth for 12-14 hours.

That's the key for anyone--regardless of any major--to realize that your degree wasn't suited for you. It's the moment of clarity you have upon the realization that your quality of life is being compromised. You come home and hate life EVERY DAY. The food you put in your mouth doesn't taste right. The vacations you take aren't as fun as they should be because you have too much anxiety from your job or degree. 

Many people take upon theatre and struggle. There's a feeling in every artist that their efforts will go nowhere. Yet someone who majored in theatre will continue on because this is part of the game. It is a challenge and the fight is worth it. An acting major will continue to struggle until fulfilling roles start to come in but that struggle will feel worth it. That individual's quality of life is defined by his or her life in art, which includes that struggle. 

In all honesty, I can live with that struggle in writing. I have; the struggle of trying to get published, the struggle of being denied by MFA programs, etc. Yet, I persevere because I find a quality of life in that.I also find a quality in life through my day job as a substitute teacher because the students influence my writing and because I find hope in the students. I find a quality of life in being a librarian because I spent my days helping out people and working with data and media. It was the best combination of my interests and I've decided to pursue a MLIS in order to have a day job that impacts my art in a positive way. It is a part of my quality of life.

The problem, or the challenge of realizing your degree was wrong is the consequences. The "Now What?" moment. It's a moment with anyone that has this moment of clarity--regardless of major. I knew people in medical school who left in the middle of their program in order to go back to...Law School. I knew people who started off as engineering majors, got their degrees, then went into nursing or teaching math. The consequences come with not being able to find jobs that will afford the opportunity to work in something else. The consequences come as you find a day job that allows you a quality of life that is positive but also requires an advanced degree. After majoring in engineering, someone may want to teach math. Great, but that requires certification. You might be able to get experience via substitute teaching or being a paraprofessional but you'll have to get certification with a Master of Arts in Teaching. There's no scholarships for that. 

How can you realize your degree isn't right before it's too late?

Honestly there is no way. I mean it would be beneficial to be a shadow to someone in a job you're interested in while in high school or have an internship as early as possible in university. Get a vocational degree as a backup while in high school or minor or double major if that's feasible. 

Mainly, keep your twenties open. Don't have kids until you're settled. Don't marry unless you know a special person is your reason for existence. Travel a lot because it helps with perspective.

That's the best I can do for a measly blog post, but understand that if you're struggling with your degree choice or career choice it is always possible to find your way. Just because Justin Bieber is way younger than you and has a fortune doesn't mean a damn thing.

Mostly. 

Starting a new script about giant robots

I'm writing a script.

Hell yeah!

The good news is that I have a draft already, from something I wrote previously before my South America trip.

The bad news is that I completely want to rework it. 

What initially inspired this script was the AMC and Austin Film Festival's pilot script competition. Because I didn't know about it or was aware about it until one week before I discovered it I knew I wasn't going to submit. Yet, I decided to finish a draft by its deadline because I have no pilot scripts or television scripts under my arsenal. I decided to write a spec script. 

The story is science fiction. In a nutshell, it's about a post-war US that involves the losers having to chase giant robots they created. I aim to create a narrative that would introduce a world where technology is heavily regulated to the point of being near banned except for the elite--a proletariat dark age (that sounds pretentious but screw it). I feel that science fiction often has a tendency to seek the destructive elements of technology and science and its involvement with society. There's a term, "transhumanism," that expresses the optimism that science can bring a better future. I think now there's more transhumanists in the wake of individual rock star tech pioneers a la Elon Musk and science intellectuals such as Neil deGrasse Tyson. 

I aim to explore transhumanism but also themes of loneliness and isolation, the nature of being defeated, and the nature of uncontrolled militarism in democracy. 

Essentially the pilot would introduce the major character, a giant robot hunter and former soldier of a war between conflicting US regions after a major military coup. My travels to Chile and understanding its history have led me to mimic how the coup went down in that nation in 1973. The major character is given a new partner to train. I figure that this will give some structure and validity to introducing the universe. 

The problem is that the initial draft...is totally not like that. The idea for this came from a one page story I wrote involving two men dragging a robot's head after killing the people who killed the robot first. The story took place in Russia after the Czars took over again. Consequently, I wrote the script like this. It didn't feel right. I think some elements I intend to keep--the idea of the US being a democracy a la Russia with a sort of mafia rule appeals to me. 

Yet, I want to make this American. I want to begin something that would introduce a huge narrative. This leads into another problem with the first draft; how intricate things are going to have to be in order to sustain a narrative where everything has a proper motivation. I also want to work on a script that isn't completely linear. With this last script I finished, about a boy's dream and nightmare, I dabbled in nonlinear storytelling, but I think there will be some interesting challenges. 

How do I intend to deal with it?

For one, I intend to create some fake newspaper articles. Right now this pilot feels like a monologue taken from a "101 Best Monologues for Young Actors" books. When I was a theatre major we were advised to not choose monologues from those books but to choose monologues from plays we read because we need to fully understand a character and not just read a monologue. I want this script to feel like it is part of something larger. Therefore I want to flesh out the universe. Hence, fake newspaper articles. I want to write articles that detail various characters, various phases of the war, explicated diplomatic relations, etc. 

Another thing: journals. Most writers are recommended to keep a personal diary or journal. I don't do that but I do think that while working on a substantial work it is important to keep a journal. Journals keep one self-aware of what one is writing. It is a place to reflect on what one has written or to jot down ideas for a new purpose. So as I write these fake newspaper articles, I intend to use the journals to explore characterization. 

And last, a deadline: September 30, 2013. That's not for this draft, but for the whole script in a completed version that can be shopped or shot. 

Here we go!

Epilogue: What's Next?

I don't know how to summarize my experience.

Seriously, I get anxiety when someone says "Tell me about your trip." How can I fit it into words, into vocal intonations and speech patterns. Of course because I'm cool I usually respond "ask me questions."

It was the experience I've waited for since I was 12. It was definitely the experience I've waited for since I was 22. Except this wasn't an experience I waited for. Instead of waiting I made it happen.

It's a powerful accomplishment for me, as someone who before 2009 rarely put my foot forward toward any ideas I had. I rarely made movies I played through in my head. I rarely wrote down ideas for stories, for poems, etc that I had. I just sat or lied on my bed, speaking of everything in my head. I just watched movies on my small screen tv hoping to make those films but never stepping towards a camera. I would remain in my head dreaming of working and saving up and going out of the country. I always dreamed.

Now, I have the frame of mind that I can do anything. I set a goal to go to Machu Picchu, to visit South America and see the continent of Borges and Neruda, and I did it. Holy shit you can do stuff you dream about.

My life has been a struggle of timidity, of having no confidence, or leaving myself behind while others got in front. I feel like this trip was a battle against my timidity and I won.

I had to abandon timidity. I traveled solo so I had to ask people to hang out with me or join their company and strike up conversations. I had to take showers where the doors didn't close. I had to try to speak Spanish with locals even though I've only had a dedicated study of the language since January. I had to climb mountains and not give in to my thigh's urges for a Fat Elvis burger. Timidity wasn't allowed in South America.

This is the point of travelling to me. There's a reason my 30 List has a high emphasis on travel. Travelling lends itself to transcendent moments, to moments of clarity. I realized this on my journey through Chicago in 2011. That journey helped me realize I need to stick to writing, even if scripts, even if just poetry. That journey helped me realize that I had a shell I was living in and I needed to step out for a proper life. I seek to put myself in circumstances that embolden my awareness of the world and how lovely life is. My first post of this series dealt with how I felt my life was hitting a wall prior to departure. I lost my grandfather, my mother suffered breast cancer, I got denied from 7 graduate schools I applied for, I had so many relationship and dating misfires and so much more stress. This trip whittled down those problems. They were smaller and smaller as I made my way across the continent. This trip helped give me strength by showing me a world that moves on as I should. So I shall move on.

I mentioned a good deal of what I learned in my first post, and extended them throughout the posts. But what now? What should I do now?

Get a job. That's priority number one.

Priority number two. Graduate school. I've pushed it back for awhile but I realize now that if I want to continue my art, to continue working on scripts and poetry, I need to get a substantial day job. I had a day job but now I want to have the opportunity to advance in that day job, to have more opportunities in general. I obtained an artistic degree but now I need to have a practical, day job degree. As I've enjoyed my time working in the library more than my time in schools I think it's time for a Master's of Library and Information Science. It'll expand opportunities for me and give me skills in informatics and archival work.

I don't need a degree to continue writing necessarily, or to work in film. I need to meet people and more importantly put my work out there. Currently I'm working on a short film with some people and we're moving out of pre-production. I also intend to work on a spec pilot script and to work on two more short film scripts. I want to start getting short films shown at festivals.

I also intend to continue working on poetry, and getting published.

This is getting sentimental about my career goals. Right now travelling isn't fitting in seemingly but it will. No doubt I have aspirations for travelling. I've been bitten by the travelling bug.

Like I've said throughout my posts I have a 30 List. Here is the travel portion of the list:

"Grand Canyon (easily accomplished)

See Mt. Fuji and Cherry blossoms (in Japan)

See the Mediterranean Sea (preferably through Spain)

Visit Machu Picchu (DONE as of July 2013)

See the Pyramids of Giza (typical no.2)

Touch Stonehenge

Also visit Canada and Mexico, since they are our neighbors."

Of those I have one done. I think my next priority should be simple given my precarious situation, ie I should go to the Grand Canyon. I would very much like to see the West, to go to California, to see Yosemite, Sequoia, San Francisco, and the Grand Canyon. 

Yet I also feel I could do another one of those within the year if I save. I feel like I could go to Egypt and see the pyramids and the Mediterranean Sea if I saved up, but given their political scenario I'm not sure how likely that is within the year. I have Canada and Mexico down, so I could see one or the other. I could go to Vancouver, then to Banff and Jasper National Parks and hike. I could go to Mexico and see Colqa Canyon, the cenotes of the Yucatan and do a Maya Jungle trek. 

There's also other places that I don't have on that list. I've been thinking about seeing the Yunnan province and its natural areas via Hong Kong. I always wanted to go to China and this was on my original list but I replaced it with Mt. Fuji, which would be the hardest one to accomplish because of cost. I've also thought about what I missed in South America. I would love to go to Bolivia and make my way to Atacama in Chile. I would love to go to Brazil and make my way from Rio through Iguazu into Buenos Aires. Perhaps those should be a part of my life list. 

I should make a life list. 

That's what I really learned. I have a lot of life left. I'm starting to get faint clues on how to live it. 

South America taught me that.

If you have something you want to do figure out to do it and do it like Ulysses S. Grant. As I said coming down Machu Picchu mountain, being on a mountain and getting views few people see is so much better than sitting on one's ass in the midst of a marathon.

And now I shall marathon "How I Met Your Mother." Ciao.

Last Call in Lima

If I had known how much I would love the highlands of Peru, I would've planned my trip better.

I'd give myself just a day in Lima because I had to fly back and allowed myself at least one full week in Lima, maybe. Places like Arequipa or Puno could have been destinations, places that many, many people recommend.

No one recommends Lima. Not me, either.

Lima is a wholly different animal from Cusco and I knew from my stay near the airport in Callao that I probably wasn't going to enjoy it. Compared to the epic trek I undertook Lima was going to be anticlimactic.

I would be saying goodbye to people I had bonded with for a substantial amount of time. They had figured out that I resembled Zach Galifinakis aka "Allen" from "The Hangover" so now they named themselves as "my naked wolfpack." As soon as I got back to the Loki hostel in Cusco from Aguas Calientes, where I had the intention of staying in a cheap dorm, the man at the front desk says "your naked wolfpack awaits you." I would join their dorm. They were a fun group and we had a very substantial last night in the hostel's bar dancing to "Empire State of Mind" and eating finger foods. It was bittersweet to leave them but I had to make my way to Lima.

In terms of leaving to get back to the US I was full. Just like eating so much food would leave you full I was full in terms of my trip. It was time to get back to the United States, to Atlanta, to Georgia, where I had the goal of literally eating a Fat Elvis Burger at The Vortex.

Lima was my dessert. The dessert that I had to eat while I was full and that would tip me over. The dessert that was only ok, not great, and perhaps a bit much.

...

Lima is a huge, sprawling city and it doesn't really have huge, sprawling city amenities. There isn't an extensive network of rapid transit; just taxis and combis. As I said in my Callao post, this was a city that in Winter was overcast all day. Compared to Cusco, which was sunny during the day, it was mortifying in its bleakness.

Originally I thought of doing nothing in Lima. I would just stay at the Callao hostel and sleep two nights then leave. My friends advised me to avoid this and seek out a good time. I figured they were wiser than me so I decided to find a hostel in Miraflores.

Miraflores is the district tourists usually flock to for residence while in Lima. There was a Loki hostel in Miraflores, but checking out their prices I was a bit turned off. I figured I'd check out other hostels in the area for similar amenities. I found one that had a spiffy website with such amenities as wifi, continental breakfast, and my magic words "hot water" and was 7 soles cheaper. I decided to go there.

Because of what had been told to me at the Loki Hostel I thought I could get to where I needed via combi. "Take the S combi." The "S Combi" would take one to Miraflores so I thought cool. Sounds good. I arrived in the airport and went to the information desk to ask about the combis. She wouldn't give me any information. They said they strongly advise tourists to not take the combis because of how dangerous they are. Ok. Is there no airport shuttle? No. You need to take a taxi, the Green Taxi. Really? I can't take a combi. I'm sorry sir.

With no information I went to the Green Taxi. I knew the price it should be, 35 soles. Their price: 45. I started walking away but then they were like "not US$45, 45 soles." I knew they meant soles at the get go, but a give a shit factor in me waned and I decided I'd give them my money and I'll get to Miraflores. It would mean that in order to stay where I needed to I would eventually go over my budget. I had two budget lines: an ideal budget (where I had $1000 left in my banking account) and an absolute maximum budget (where I wouldn't spend anymore money once I hit $500). I went below the ideal budget. Fair enough. Barely, but over budget ahoy!

The taxi took me to the hostel which didn't look as bright as the Loki. It was overcast so everything looked drab, however. Inside there weren't a lot of people, but I was ok with that because it meant I could chill with little interference. That night I would meet up with a friend at Parque Kennedy so I'd relax, take a shower, etc.

They had hot showers. The bathroom, however, had no doors that closed properly. There was the primary door to the whole bathroom complex which wasn't a door as much as it was a wooden curtain that wouldn't slide completely over. Ok. The shower doors at least had doors, but once I got inside the cramp shower cell I tried to close the door and it wouldn't close. I tried again and again and nothing. Then I noticed the door's size and the size of the outlet. I realized the door was larger than the outlet, which mean it couldn't close completely. I'm thinking now, I bet the shower was cold. It wasn't. It was hot...scalding hot. As soon as the water hit me I yelped. I had to stand away and put on some cold water to dilute the scalding hot temperature and eventually found a nice balance. The shower was quite nice. As I said before, I'll take a hot shower in the town square so long as it's hot.

Let's talk about Miraflores for a moment. Whereas most of the city of Lima was a bit ragged through substantial migration into the city from rural citizens and the subsequently inadequate infrastructure adapatation, Miraflores was a bit more modern. It wasn't modern in a good way, a la Santiago. It was tacky, touristy, Western, and it reminded me of Myrtle Beach or the other tacky beach towns I remember in the Southern US and in Florida. All the restaurants around Parque Kennedy and Larcomar were either upscale and needlessly expensive or United States chains. The only restaurant that looked good was La Lucha Sanduicheria, which would be my last stop.

I met up with my friend in front of the Cathedral in the area and we began to walk around, going all the way to the Pacific coast at night and coming back to where she introduced me to an inexpensive Peruvian food called Chifa, which is Peruvian-Chinese food. It was inexpensive, about 9 soles for a plate with soup, and it wasn't too bad.

Overall, however, I was missing Cusco pretty badly.

...

The next day I decided as I was devoid of an itinerary I would improvise. My friend was to meet me again that evening, but I started off the day by heading toward the coast. Once at the beach I started climbing around the rocks to get closer to the crashing waves. As I found a rock pier I started walking on it and the more I walked on it the more I saw litter and trash left by previous conquests. I got near and stood on top of a rock and got a view of the expanse of the Pacific. Then a big wave hit and got me wet. I realized I would get soaked if I stayed here so I began walking back and sure enough another big wave hit, overtaking the rocks and getting my back soaked. Lovely. No sarcasm; it was fun.

After grabbing some Chifa for lunch I looked up Miraflores to see what was around and discovered Huaca Pucllana, a pre-Incan site just sitting in Miraflores. I also looked up distance and found that it was 5 minutes walking distance so I immediately left and found the place. It was 12 soles for visitors but I got the student rate of 5 soles. Inside everyone had to get a tour, so I got the one in English. Huaca Pucllana was actually quite fascinating. A series of adobe ruins centered around an adobe pyramid, the place had been a worship center led by female priests. Translated from Quechua, its name means "a place for ritual games." It was initially started by the Lima peoples, around AD 500 and later adopted by the Wari people and modified in the 800s. The bricks of adobe for the structures were laid out like bookshelves which in its unique design helped absorb the earthquakes that would come in the area. Mostly it was a religious area so there were many sacrificial tombs unearthed, of women, children, animals, etc. I had never seen anything quite like this so I was growing on the city.

That evening, my friend and I got on a bus and went to Parque de la Reserva. Parque de la Reserva was an antique park modified about 4 years ago to have ornate and colorful fountains. There was one fountain that was essentially a tunnel one walked through. Walking around we saw people taking in the park for special celebrations such as weddings, fiestas de quince, etc. It wasn't a bad nightcap. Our bus travels had given me  a confidence with local transport to where I could travel to the Historic District and take a combi to the airport.

...

My last day in Lima; a city I had dread but I was slowly discovering some of its charms. I decided that as I was in Lima I couldn't leave until I visited the Historic District, the Central area built by Pizarro and his men 500 years ago. It was a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

I got off the bus right before Av. Arequipa became a new street and decided to walk through the Park of the Exposition. It was walking past I saw a homeless kid relieving himself in a grassy area and my moment of possibly caring about the city subsided.

The actual park was nice, particularly the Moorish pavilion. Walking toward the Historic District I started seeing ornate buildings, first the neoclassical buildings around Plaza San Martin until I came upon Plaza de mayor or Plaza de Armas. The plaza had commercial buildings painted in a vibrant yellow while the government palace was an old and ornate gray with guards everywhere clinging to their AK's. Seeing this plaza was seeing something of a wonder but I found myself comparing it to the adobe ruins of Huaca Pucllana and how ornamentation was a tool of the Spanish for submitting the Natives. Man, I'm a cynic. Still, I found the area undeniably interesting and worthy of my visit.

I hit back on a bus and grabbed lunch at La Lucha Sanduicheria, a chicken with cheese and pineapple sandwich that was exquisite.

Then I grabbed a combi. I told the hostel employee that I was taking a combi to the airport and he stopped me. He recommended I not take the combi, that it was too dangerous. I said I have one bag and no valuables but if he could find me a taxi for 35 soles I'll take a taxi. He said 40 soles and I said no. So for 3 soles I took a combi. That was a hell of an experience.

First I was the only white person on there, which isn't a huge deal to me. It was jam packed and full of people; even though combis are pretty much just a van the individual who collects the masses is willing to have standing room only like it's a MARTA bus. I got a seat but an old man didn't and he was complaining because a mother didn't put her kid in her lap and didn't want to. The man who collects the payments and people, the old man, and the mother began to get in a shouting match before the old man found a seat as someone left. Then another oblivious lady got on and took the child's seat and the child just went ballistic, screaming and crying and his mother was telling him in Spanish to shut up. Fun. Then we got into Callao and right as we got into Callao we heard about three gun shots outside the combi in the streets. I looked out and saw three youths running into an alley. More fun. Eventually we got to the airport and I knew I was home free and my next stop was Atlanta.

I was ready. My friends would pick me up, we would go to The Vortex and get a Fat Elvis burger (well I would). There's a point in every vacation, every trip, trek, etc. when the traveler becomes full or complete. When that happens it's time to go home. I think after 4 weeks I was complete.

...

To give an ending to my entire trip requires a separate post, an epilogue, but for Lima it was an interesting experience. Through my friend I saw a different, progressive perspective of Lima. Lima had its beauty, its charms, particularly through its people and its history. Lima was less of an anti-climax as I had expected subsequent to Machu Picchu, but more of a denouement. It was a place to create normality again, a place to get used to the fact that life isn't always like Machu Picchu. If you, the reader, even choose a South American adventure I'd spend no less than a day in Lima, but understand that Lima isn't the worst city ever.

Toccoa, in the state of Georgia in the United States, is worse. Always.

The Inca Jungle Trek to Machu Picchu

It was always about Machu Picchu.

My trip was centered around Machu Picchu. Any schedule I did, any itinerary I conceived, it all revolved around Machu Picchu. Iguazu Falls? Nope, not enough time before Machu Picchu. Atacama? Ditto.

This trip was conceived because I wanted to see Machu Picchu. Now, I could've just went to Peru for two weeks, no worries, so it wasn't exclusively because of Machu Picchu. Yet Machu Picchu was the axis of my trip. It was a year ago (maybe more) I wrote a list of items I wanted to do before I was 30. There were 7 destinations ranging from touching Stonehenge to just visiting Canada and Mexico. Machu Picchu was on there. I could already tell that it possessed something mystical, something spiritual.

How I got to Machu Picchu wasn't planned, however. I gave myself between Friday June 28th to July 4th to find my way to Machu Picchu. Initially I thought of making my way via the tourist route, of taking the bus to Poroy or Ollytambo, taking the train to Agua Calientes, and hiking up Machu Picchu. It would've taken two days, three tops.

A piece of advice about travelling for long periods of time that I learned is to keep an open itinerary. As one travels such as myself, the more information is given via backpackers and locals. I mentioned in the previous post how I learned about the Inca Jungle Trek from a New Zealander couple I met in Mendoza. I had been disappointed in myself for how little I trekked so I was hellbent to get some good trekking in. Four days trekking in the mountains and the jungle sounded quite fine to me. Travelling requires decisions that in hindsight may be wise or not so wise. This was the best decision I ever made on my trip.

...

This trek was four days with itineraries set for each day. The first day involved for everyone a bike ride down the mountains into Santa Maria. For some, the first day also involved rafting the Urubamba River if one paid for the extra feature. I paid.

We were all given bikes by our badass guides, Hugo and Guido, as well as knee pads, an undergarment of pads, and helmets. Looking down we had a series of curvy roads that on bike would take about 3 hours to go down, 1000+ meters. The roads weren't hopelessly downhill; they were pretty level and we made it down in one piece.

Then we made our way to Santa Maria where we grabbed lunch and afterward split into two groups. Those who chose to not pay for the rafting experience stayed behind and made their way to our accommodations. Those like me, who had balls of steel, were given instructions about rafting.

Now with this rafting experience I learned two more nuggets of wisom: it doesn't pay to be without shoes and it doesn't pay to be manly.

I learned the second nugget first. For the most part the highlands of Peru weren't especially cold. Yet we were hitting 4 in the afternoon and the sun was fading. Asked about whether or not the river was cold, the guides said a little. I took that as a t-shirt will be fine; I'd rather be a little cold than warm. The rest of my group took on rafting jackets. I should've taken their lead.

The raft guides weren't wearing especially thick clothing but unfortunately they put me up front on the raft. In rafting being up front is the worst position because the brunt of the crashing waves will hit you and soak you. The water was cold and bitter; becoming soaked I realized my brush with manliness via not wearing a jacket was stupid.

When we were briefed about the trip the question of shoes while rafting came up. "You won't need shoes in the raft" we were told. We could bring flip flops and wear them in the raft, or be barefoot, no problem. So because I didn't want to fork out money for flip flops I didn't get any and intended to be barefoot. This meant having the raft company hold on to the shoes. Holy shit was that a mistake. Once we finished we had to make our way to a road via a beachfront covered in rocks. No trail of sand, nothing; just sharp, large rocks that I had to walk over in my bare feet. Miserable. Wear some kind of footwear while rafting. Always.

The actual raft experience was pretty nice, however. I mean we were rafting down the Urubamba River for 1 hour, 1 hour 30 minutes. The river passes through a stunning assortment of mountains and not snow covered peaks a la Argentina and Aconcagua, but green mountains that were being lit by the fading sun. It was near perfect now that I remember.

Getting back and getting my shoes back on we were to hike a steep hill in order to get to our hostel. Night fell and our hike would take 1 hour with breaks every 5 minutes. Learning from Aconcagua I had my bread and water as we trailed through jungle. It was Winter in Peru so the night sky was visible with all the constellations and a little bit of the Milky Way, if I recall correctly. Our guide would stop with us and tell of Incan and indigenous Peruvian constellations, such as the Llama. We would turn off our flashlights and in the dark just look up to discover how marvelous our position in the universe was.

I knew the hostel we were heading toward would have cold showers. Once we arrived, that didn't seem so bad as we found ourselves covered in exhausted heat and sweat. After settling a bit I felt better and intended to stick to my nasty habit of not taking cold showers.

The hostel was run by a local family that made us homemade food, a beef stew with rice and potatoes that I found yummy.

...

Before I ended my day I began to get to know my group. There was Aviv and his father, Shmulik, from Israel. Aviv had been in the Israeli Army for 5 years and was now backpacking South America for 7 months before university. His father came to Peru for two weeks to see his son. Troy, of Australia, was doing a freakin' round the world trip; I asked him, "How much longer do you have" expecting 6 weeks or 2 months. His answer: "18 months." Shit. There were two sets of English pairs: Imo and Cath, recent high school graduates who had volunteered in Peru, and Matthew and Flora, whom we nicknamed FlorMatt, who were about to go to university as well. There was a Swedish pair of missionaries whose names I can't honestly remember (because I'm an ass). They kept to themselves but overall I enjoyed talking to Stina (yes--I think) and her friend. Two Dutchmen, Tom and Guido, were accompanied by the lovely Geraldine of Argentina. Last but not least was my Poroy train mate, Monalisa, of Brazil who had a pension for eating Oreos and Snickers while trekking and also had a pretty damn good American English accent. I met a lot of people on my way through South America that became close to me, but with the exception of P this was THE group I held on tightly with. We all developed bonds in our trek to Machu Picchu.

...

The second day wasn't wholly eventful. We didn't bike or raft. Instead, we walked. 8 hours. That being said our journey had a value that I shall put briefly into words. First and foremost we made our way through portions of the Inca trail which was closely linked on the mountains. It was very narrow and understanding the lesson that being manly doesn't pay off I walked slowly and carefully down the shattered rock paths, straddling a deep drop on my left.

Throughout the trek our guides would let us know about the Incans, about Machu Picchu, and about the locals. We would be informed of the harsh reality of the locals' lives, of the effects of Fujimori and Fujirmorism on the peoples of the highlands, and the effects of globalism on their market. They were important lessons but I relished in seeing the bucolic existence of these people who aimed to stay close to the land. One place we stopped at for water and supplies had a couple of little girls, 5 and 6, respectively who I found inspiring and struck up a basic Spanish conversation with.

As most of the persons on our trip spoke English better than Spanish, English was the language most used. I made an effort, however, to continue learning Spanish and tried to speak with Hugo in Spanish, asking him Spanish words I didn't know. It was probably annoying.

We walked around the Urubamba River and managed through the jungle and the plantations of cocoa. By the way, much of the coffee we drank was from the cocoa grown here and it was without question the best coffee I ever had.

Our destination that day was a hot springs pool in Santa Teresa. To get there we had to get across to a mountain. This meant cable car. When I say cable car I don't mean a full on professional rig. I mean a bare skeleton cart that held two people at a time pulled via rope and hand. Down below us was 500+ m of air and the shallow river. Oh, and rocks.

Hell yeah that was fun.

Then we hit the pools. The pools had varying degrees of warmth but the one I aimed to try was the 30 Celsius pool. To get into the pool required a shower first so I showered a bit but the guard was like "Oh no, more." These showers were cold and I thought I'll get my hair wet and that'll be the end of it. He came around and said "No, more" and I thought "You bastard!" I gave myself into the full-on cold shower until he was happy and stepped into the hot pool that felt so, so, so good. It was like swimming in bath water. After 8 hours of trekking I felt as though my weariness was melting off of me. Not since my 15 minute massage at the Lima Airport had I felt so relieved, so relaxed. Heaven is a series of 30 Celsius pools.

We were given the option of hiking to our hostel or taking a bus and staying longer. Most of us chose the bus. This time our dinner was furnished at a local restaurant and afterward I went back to my hostel.

...

The next morning a group woke early to zipline while the rest of us lounged around until a late breakfast was served: a banana covered in a pancake covered in chocolate. Oh it was delightful.

This day was lighter than the others, comparatively. We trekked some more but our destination was Agua Calientes and we reached the town in a short amount of time. Agua Calientes, unlike Santa Maria and Santa Teresa, was touristy. It was touristy in a bad way. It wasn't touristy in the same way that Cusco or Mendoza was, it was American touristy, bad touristy. All around were hat stores for Machu Picchu, for Cusco, etc. Llama postcards aren't my thing. Yet, this hostel had free wifi, rooms that weren't 11 or 12 per, and our food was quite nice. Plus the bathrooms had lids.

Living this life was simple and sublime but I must bitch about the toilets because I am a man who values toilet lids. None of the bathrooms in the highlands had toilet lids. Even in the most touristy spots like at the Machu Picchu Information Center which charged 1 sole for bathroom usage, didn't have toilet lids. Some of them also didn't have a lot of toilet paper but I managed that. Still, toilet lids are important. I will get rich, one day, and donate toilet lids to the world.

No less, we had to sleep early. We had to wake up at 4AM. Why? Machu Picchu, that's why.

...

This was the day. This was the day I worked over one year for, that I quit my job for, that I battled my father over through arguments for. It was Machu Picchu day.

Our day began by waking up at 4AM. We were to meet some of our fellow travelers at 4:30AM at a bridge in Agua Calientes. We were to be at the gate to Machu Picchu by 5AM.

Machu Picchu only gives out 2500 passes to the site per day. Yet many had the same plans as us, to hike up early to the site. As it was still night the scene seemed like a procession with flashlights making their way to the gate. We had to show the guards our ticket and passport and walk across, walk right, and start going up. I had bread and water. I was ready.

Except I wasn't really. There are two paths to Machu Picchu. One is up the steps that takes 1 hour to get up. The other is a road that isn't so steep but takes 2 hours. Mainly buses take the road (you could take a bus up to the site). By accident, after following FlorMatt, we ended up on the road and quickly realized we need to find the steps. Once we did we started going up a wall hit me. I couldn't even eat the bread, I just needed water. I was walking up a step at a time, breath being drug out of me. It seemed endless, all the steps, all the steep, steep mountain. I could see the faint blue of the sky coming up. I could feel the weight of my childhood falling to my feet as I kept walking up, kept walking up, not knowing if I was going to make it. Then, after FlorMatt had left me because of my slowness I heard Swedish. The Swedish girls had caught up and it was nice to hear familiar voices. We began to walk up together when we heard voices talking. We were close. Nearly falling over we reached the Information Center area. We made it. Sorta.

The Information Center area is full of touristy restaurants--a buffet, a stand with hot dogs and hamburgers, as well as overpriced drinks. Most bottles of water in the area costs between 2-3 soles; here it was 8 soles. More on that later.

For now, we made our way into the site. To use words seems almost unfair. I can't describe how lovely Machu Picchu was. The clouds were rising up and veiled the mountains. The stones walls, unfettered by mortar because of how tightly packed they were. The layers of agriculture pits that descended down. The steps that ached your thighs with each step. Huayna Picchu's intimidating presence staring at you. You realize up here how little everything is. Your problems are little, your life, your knowledge. At 8,000 ft, nestled in the Andes and smokey clouds, you realize how little Earth is. But it's not a problem to realize this; it becomes alright to be in this place, a place of realizing how little everything is.

Now our guide Hugo left us and as bittersweet as it was, we began to wander and check out the site. We got to the guard house where we got the standard postcard view of Machu Picchu and the site. A number of us had paid for the Machu Picchu mountain to hike and get a large view of the whole area. This was 9,000+ feet above sea level. Most of us had paid for it, but many conceded after the enormous morning hike going up the mountain was not feasible. As I miser I decided that if I paid for it I should give it a try. Four of us decided to continue as planned and go up the mountain. I started and of the four was last. Being tiresome from trying to catch up meant I was tired even as I moved slowly. At first I was consistent but I started feeling the hike more and more and my water became less and less. As we walked up the steep mountain, the sun became more visible and it was hotter and hotter as we walked up. A group of hikers told us we were 30 minutes away and given this information we decided to continue. Eventually the three besides me got ahead. As I kept walking I saw how painfully low my water was and felt how tired I was. Eventually a group came down and informed me that it was going to be 1 hour before I would reach the top. I was nearly dry in my water bottle and because of this poor planning I didn't have any water left with me. Given this time eventuality and the water supply, I decided to move down.

Heavily disappointed I noticed in the check out station many had done the same as me and it was little comfort. I informed a group from the US and asked them to inform my British friends ahead of me. Even though I didn't make it I understood that I was at least 8500 ft above sea level. I got a view of the site and of the world very few had managed to see. Plus, trying to walk up a mountain and making it halfway is a shit ton better than just staying at home on my ass and watching netflix (which I'm doing right now, by the way).

I did the right thing because I came back down, got one of the 8 sole bottles of water, had a lunch in the shade at the site and gathered my energy. Then I had enough time and energy to explore the rest of the site, including the Astronomy Observatory with the sun dial, the buildings, everything. I got to the site at 6AM and after 8 hours I left (by bus to help my lazy ass) at 2PM. Then I took the train to Poroy and the bus to Cusco where I slept peacefully.

There's a sense of satisfaction that comes with Machu Picchu. Hiking up, walking around, gazing at the Incan structures abandoned for 400 years and left intact. Machu Picchu is my heaven, my paradise. I can't put to words how I truly feel. The way you feel about your children is the way I feel about Machu Picchu. Beautiful, radiant, stunning--doesn't cut it. Machu Picchu is just...Machu Picchu.

It would be anticlimactic, with this adventure ended, to end in Lima. That's what I would do, however.

THE SUPER DUPER EXCITING WORLD OF...Callao, also Cusco

Since my last post on Valparaiso wasn't given a very ornate title, I figured I'd give this one something with more sass than it is actually worth. This post will be reasonably brief, a sort of interlude if you will.

When I arrived at the Lima airport I was in the final leg of my tri-country trip. Thus far I had been to Argentina, Chile and now I was to commence with Peru. Because of the dead early time of my flight from Lima to Cusco I had initially thought to just spend the night in the airport, as I had done at the start of my journey. The Jorge Chavez International Airport in Lima is actually quite the airport for sleepovers, particularly in the Starbucks where wifi was available with purchase.

Ragged and reasonably exhausted I started letting the "it doesn't pay to be cheap" lesson take full effect and realized that I wanted a proper bed and, given my lack of showers due to the cold shower debacle in Santiago, a nice hot shower. Conveniently enough there was a hostel not 2 miles from the airport that offered such amenities plus cab service to and from the airport. I had to arrive to the airport at 4:00AM the next morning so I wouldn't mind a cab service. In the meantime I could walk to the hostel, find a market, eat some food, and sleep after taking a hot shower. Thirty five soles? Hell yes.

Now understand that  the Lima Airport, like most international big ass airports, isn't located in the city proper. Just like the Atlanta airport is actually in Hapeville, the Lima airport is located in a port city called Callao. If you wikipedia Callao you'll find pictures of dizzying beauty, marvelous beach fronts, and warm glass and steel buildings. During the winter, however, Callao is an overcast mess of run down buildings that has unfortunately suffered through infrastructure deficiencies. Particularly around the airport Callao isn't kind to the tourist's eyes.

Google Maps, my faithful friend throughout my trip, guided me to walk some, walk some, take a right, walk some, and my hostel would be there waiting for me. Simple enough, no? In reality this was a dreary journey as the Lima area during winter is mercilessly overcast (something I'd find in full effect when I returned to Lima proper). The area around the airport was industrialized but not unsafe; many of the military were around to keep proper order. That didn't mean that my gringo-ness wasn't obvious.

In the United States, most airports forbid solicitation outside; in the airport in Atlanta only registered cabs are allowed to be around, but they don't solicit. You hook up with an agency or find a free cab and move on from there. That's not the case in Peru. In Peru no one gives two shits about solicitation regulation, so walking out of the airport means wading through the hungry masses of 50-75 drivers asking "where's your hotel?," "need a car?" and etc. Travel guides advise against taking a taxi like this because of stories of kidnapping. Also they're liable to rip you off though later I'd find out that the official taxi rips you off too. Walking out I was swarmed, swarmed, and swarmed. Fair enough. Even walking outside the airport, a taxi or two driving would honk their horn after seeing me to get me to come in their cab. Whatever.

As I was walking I noticed the sidewalks sorta vanished. They were no longer concrete. They had become dirt. I was clearly not doing what most was doing. No matter. I was too near the hostel to give up now. Once I got to the hostel my day was pretty much done except for getting some food at the supermarket down the street. As I walked down the street it wasn't uncommon for people to point at me and so forth. When I say this was super duper exciting...I was clearly kidding.

...

This wasn't a great start for Peru. Then I got to Cusco and discovered a completely different animal.

If Callao was dreary, overcast, and vapid in my initial day, Cusco was lively, vibrant, and exceptionally sunny.

Cusco has a Mendoza feel to it. Like Mendoza it is a touristy area. Many of the backpackers I met along the way had strong negative associations with Cusco's tourist nature but really this is everywhere. It wasn't as bad as Mendoza and it wasn't incredibly tacky. Sure, there was a McDonald's and Starbucks in the city square, and handicraft vendors gobbled up the place. Yet there remained a charm in spite of such tourist-oriented facilities. Cusco was the capital of the Incan Empire and it was settled by the Spanish soon after its discovery. Consequently it is a city rising in stone, with Incan walls around the city and marvelous Spanish red cathedrals in the midst of white buildings and red roofs nestled in the highlands of Peru. That may be a bit too much hyperbole. No less, I quickly felt the dreariness of Callao lift and I started to not just see and walk through Cusco but feel it--primarily slight altitude sickness.

Cusco is also similar to Mendoza in the respect that it's a bit of a gateway city. People go to Cusco on their way for trekking the mountains that surrounded the city, to raft the Urubamba River, to ski, to visit the Sacred Valley of the Incas and other archaeological sites. Mostly, however, the visitors were in my boat of preparing a trek into Machu Picchu. That was my reason for being in Cusco.

Cusco was equal parts turistas and travelers stepping alongside a largely mestizo and indigenous population in colorful handmade apparel and hats. Cusco wasn't even cold; the sun shone quite brightly as I walked around, feeling slightly woozy. The Loki Hostel, easily one of the best hostels in South America, was also located in not one of the best locations: up a hill. So to get around I had to walk down, walk up, walk down, walk up. I didn't get full on altitude sickness, but I could feel the nausea settling in.

I bore the nausea as I made my way to my favorite food market in my travels, Mercado San Pedro or the San Pedro Market. San Pedro wasn't everyone's cup of tea; many of the individuals I met were turned off by the smell of the meat they didn't trust as fresh or healthy. Fair enough, but San Pedro was something of a magical place for me. The first time I just walked around but then I started to buy food and more food and more food. I found fresh pistachios and cashews, I got some of the most delicious bread I ever had for 1 sole per bag of five pieces (two bags for me). I also found a restaurant stand and got myself the traditional Peruvian dish, cebiche or ceviche, which with rice, corn, and sweet potato costs 7 soles or roughly $3.50. Peru is well known for being the gastronomy capital of South America and I understood that quickly. The ceviche was divine (probably not so for anyone who isn't like me and a lover of water breathing organisms) and I was quite content with Cusco.

It was here I would book my trip to Machu Picchu. Before I came on this trip I had expected to take a bus and train to Machu Picchu--the conventional way. I had a hankering for trekking though, and deep trekking at that. Missing out on Atacama had done that to me. Another lesson that I think I did pretty well is to always keep an open itinerary when travelling extensively. The reason is that as I traveled, for instance, I would pick up on tips from other travelers. Talk with backpackers and learn from their experience. Many of the backpackers had talked with me about a trek called the "Inca Jungle Trek," which involved four days of hiking through the jungles of the Peruvian highlands, staying at locals' hostels and eating home cooked food among other activities such as rafting, hiking, etc. I took their advice and took on this trek.

But that's for another post... ;-)

Valparaiso

When a person visits Santiago and Chile for an extended period of time a choice is usually made for a weekend getaway. As the trip is only 2 hours away, the options are the "Garden City" modern beach metropolis Vina del Mar, or the grungy port city of Valparaiso ("Valpo" for short).

I chose Valpo. 

Granted, Valparaiso, isn't all bad reputation. On wikitravel under the"Stay Safe" section it does say "in the context of Chile being a relatively safe country, Valparaiso is among its most dangerous locales" but whatever. It's a port city. Port cities are always dangerous in certain areas. Yet, Valpo's locale is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Why? Because it is a stunningly beautiful city...just with a slight edge. 

Now, I mentioned before that my reason for visiting Chile was because of my adoration of Pablo Neruda. It made sense to me to visit Valpo in order to see Neruda's second house, La Sebastiana. As I said, I felt it would be significant to see what he saw and he saw enormous beauty and strength in Valpo. The city's houses are designed like ships to be closer to the ocean because Neruda suggested they be designed like that. 

Valpo isn't a huge metropolis akin to Santiago. It's more of a microurban area; if Asheville, NC was on a coast it might be Valpo. Notice the "might be." It's impossible to compare Valpo to a lot of cities in the US or even Latin America. Valpo is a category of its own. 

...

I stayed four days, but one of those days was spent trekking somewhere else. Let's start with getting there. 

In my Santiago post I complimented how efficient and stable Chile was, particularly in regards to transport. It would spoil me; Peru was less kind. From Santiago I took the Metro to the Pajaritos station which has the domestic bus station. I found a bus company, Tur Bus, and got a ticket to Valpo for about CH$3000 or about $6 and headed to Valpo. The drive was supposed to be 2 hours but it only took 1 hr 30. 

It was here I found my favorite hostel, which I shall name: Angel Hostel. I was originally supposed to stay at another hostel but they didn't answer their doors when I arrived so I said "screw it" and walked down, where I was stopped by a person complimenting my beard which earned that person a bear hug, and found the Angel Hostel. They answered their door. It was $14/night, but they said the magic words "hot water" and I decided I would stay there. They also had free blankets and unlimited free towels, plus free breakfast cheese sandwiches which kicked so much ass. 

...

Valparaiso isn't a city tourists go to in the same way they might go to Santiago or Bueno Aires, with set itineraries of sights and museums. It isn't huge; the bulk of the city can be scaled in a good two days. Yet if you tried to scale it in two days you'll miss out. Remaining still is the best way to take in the city.

Seriously, go to google right now. There. Good. Now click on images. Now type "Valparaiso, Chile" so it doesn't bring up "Valparaiso, Indiana." With these images you get a faint idea of Valparaiso, this city with scattered colorful buildings plopped on a mountain looking toward the sea. Beautiful, no? Oh hell yes it was gorgeous. The city layout was a work of art in its own right. 

Like Santiago, art was big here as well. Everywhere there was graffiti but incredibly adept and skilled graffiti that was more art and less scribbling. The architecture was a combination of old Latin America or old Spain and...Germany. No joke; this city was largely settled by German immigrants after the Spanish landed and they helped influence the design of the admiralty or Chile's department of the navy building. They also brought the first firefighters so all the firetrucks of Valpo are named in German. Art museums were everywhere and I had two favorites. One was a museum underground that had exposed brick walls exhibiting artwork in collaboration with an Italian group. Another was a former prison during Pinochet's regime that was turned into a grass roots art project. The former prison was incomplete and still being worked on, but it remained quite beautiful if not interesting. 

All the old houses were painted bold colors like yellow, blue, etc and they were made of metal. Valpo was a tsunami zone so it was for a practical reason but the metal were recycled shipyard metal. 

This city revolved around its port. For the beach, most people went to Vina del Mar which was about 10 minutes away by train (at most). In Valpo, it was a port city, a shipping center, and it was where a good part of the Chilean Navy stopped. There were battleships and cruisers all along the coast.

Speaking of which I need to mention something about the coast and me. When I was younger I very rarely traveled...I mean truly traveled. We went to Gatlinburg, Tennessee or St. Augustine, Florida but those were small vacations. Before this trip I had never been as far west as Austin, Texas. So Valpo was the first time I saw the Pacific Ocean. That's right; I always figured it might be California but I saw the Pacific coastline via Chile. I got near the tracks of the Valparaiso train line and walked along the sidewalk near Bellavista (in South America there are a ton of Bellavista neighborhoods and street names) and found a staircase. There was no one on it but I thought whatever, walked up, and got my first proper view of the Pacific. For me it was significant because I felt it represented me climbing out of my Georgia shell. I mean there was the ocean...but it was on the wrong side. 

...

I had no set itinerary while I was in Valpo. I knew I wanted to see Neruda's house and I wanted to trek in one of my days, but otherwise I hadn't a clue. Valpo offered a free tour of the city much akin to the one in Santiago and this time I decided to do it. There were only two people besides the guide: a man from the south of England who quit his job as a nurse to backpack and me. As touristy as it might seem it was quite fascinating. We went up the funiculars or ascensors, which were rickety and at an angle that seemed near impossible to move up (but they did). We walked around and got a deeper glance of the architecture of the houses, of the places, plazas, etc. We were taken to a cave that had been filled in because in Valpo's history many of the people who went around the area would be disappeared. Soon rumors began that it was because this cave was an entry into hell and the devil or his demons were capturing people. Out of fear the people filled the cave. One of my favorite pieces was the statue of justice at the Valparaiso courthouse. The statue, unlike Lady Justice statues, doesn't have her blindfolded or with balanced scales. The story is that the artist of the statue had such a difficult time with the Valparaiso authorities he sculpted the statue as an act of bitter resentment to where the Lady Justice statue is corrupt. I also thought Lady Justice was also giving a middle finger. Still...interesting.

...

What I did mostly in Valpo was walk around. It sounds boring but Valpo is a walkable art museum. 

In my first night I did meet some really great Irish folks who let me accompany them to a seafood restaurant near Plaza Sotomayor. It was touristy; they had English menus, plus musicians came in to play music then proceeded to put envelopes on our tables to pay them. I took this opportunity to get some more paila marina, my death row if in Chile dish. Having this company was great because we talked about what we did, our differences, each other's culture, our travels; they were going to Mendoza so I talked about it with them. The thing about travelling solo, as the English backpacker from the tour stated, is that it forces you to make friends and meet people. Otherwise you're just sore. Already I was enjoying myself in Valpo and we capped our night at a local bar down from our hostel. 

The next day I started walking around again, this time on Avenida Alemania which was supposed to have beautiful houses but the city was a bit overcast in the morning. I still walked, however, because it was on a hill so instead of looking up and seeing the houses on the hill I was looking down and seeing the ocean and the buildings kiss (if I may be a bit poetic). Plus this street would eventually hit Ferrari which would lead to La Sebastiana, Neruda's house. La Sebastiana was more beautiful than La Chascona actually, and it had tours to walk in the house. I found it more interesting to walk around his courtyard because I imagine this was where he might conceive of a line or a poem. From his courtyard I could see the ocean, I could see the gardens around and the people's houses hovering above me with clotheslines. It was a different and simple kind of life I was witnessing and eventually a poem or two would come out of it. 

I made a friend in an exchange student temporarily stationed in my hostel and we walked around, stopping for jugo de pina and finding Lider, the supermarket that was quite extraordinary as supermarkets go. With my hostel I had organized a trek to Parque La Campana so I gathered food for the trek and water. 

In my Santiago post I mentioned how I'm not a discotheque person, I'm more of a live music person. It was difficult finding live music in this city and most live music was tribute bands. Granted, they were unique tribute bands (there was a tribute band for Mike Patton which was endlessly fascinating to me) but it wasn't what I was looking for. I read about a discotheque for an alternative crowd and as I researched it I also found out it catered to a gay crowd too. Now I'm not gay but this club was right down from my street so I thought I'd give it a shot. It was called Mascara and from that name I wasn't too thrilled. 

The clubs and discotheques in Valpo are a bit different than the States because they don't open until 11 at night. So I waited till 11, went down and got in. I was expecting a bit more than what I got. There were very few people really into the music, dancing; they were sitting around, drinking. It wasn't a full on gay club so much as it was for people who were different. I'd say there were just as many straight guys as gays and I'm confident enough in my heterosexuality to be in a place like that without feeling uncomfortable anyway. I mean I did feel uncomfortable but it wasn't the crowd so much as it was the music. The music was '80s New Wave and gothic music. I was in there 30 minutes and then they played Klaus Nomi's "Lightning Strikes" which led me to decided to head out. Klaus Nomi is where my tolerance for '80s New Wave music ends. Still, interesting experience. 

...

Now Valpo is a bit known for its edge but I had no problems. For the most part cops were all around just like in Santiago. On Saturday nights whole trucks of cops would be unloaded to ensure peace was kept. There were certain areas that, even during the day, a person didn't go to. The easy way to avoid those areas were to...not go there. So there were no problems and I generally felt safe.

My Santiago post discussed briefly the stray dog problem in Chile and in Valparaiso you'll see stray dogs everywhere. Everywhere you'll see strays dogs that haven't been cut or neutered, that have splotches of fur missing or handicaps. I stayed at a place on Av. Cumming and down from my hostel was a relatively small plaza but even in this relatively small plaza there would be at least 10 or so stray dogs lying down. On every street there would be stray dogs and it's hard to not feel bad. It really is. For me, particularly, as a dog owner I wished something could be done but that's the way it is in Latin America, especially Chile and especially Valpo. Even the most touristy streets, though safe, might have a dog turd or two that you would have to step over. Valpo isn't too dangerous but it is grungy to the average person not from Latin America. 

Don't let my commentary stop you from going to Valpo. It is truly one of the most unique cities in Latin America and one I felt a powerful pull toward. When travelling in general it is imperative to keep an open mind but Valpo may not be everyone's cup of tea. 

...

My third day was about going to Parque La Campana. Because of the success of my Aconcagua trek with a guided tour I thought to get one for Parque La Campana except this time it wasn't with a group. A piece of advice for travelling--never go on a tour with just a guide and oneself. Don't do it. It's too expensive. My tour cost $140 US almost. It was an expense that in hindsight wasn't worth the guide; I could've done everything by myself for much, much cheaper. Why didn't I? My confidence of doing any of the parks by myself eroded as I found very few people who had done them, who were going to do them and few who knew anything about what to do. Even the hostel people seemed befuddled at my options. That was why I gave up on Radal Siete Tazas, which I would've very much liked to see--I couldn't find any information on how to get there without renting a car. So I got a guide. 

Parque La Campana was a bit of a compromise to Atacama and Radal Siete Tazas, both of which I aim to see one day. I was honestly a bit disappointed in myself and had lowered expectations. Parque La Campana was part of a larger biosphere aiming to protect the botany of the area as it was home to "wine palms" or "Chilean palms." It was also home to a massive mountain, Cerro La Campana, that Charles Darwin once went to the top of. I figured if Darwin liked it, I'll give it a shot. 

Right away it didn't start well, however. I was told to be ready by 8:00 in the morning. I was. No one came until 8:45. Already there was a mix-up. Shit. Then I met the guy and started talking to him. From the get go he was an annoying guide. He dressed European and thought like an American. In Latin America these are dangerously annoying people. His hair was as slick back as his personality. 

To get to Parque La Campana we had to get off the Valparaiso Metro train at Limache and then take a bus to Olmue and La Campana. We did so but the guide didn't have his shit together because we got on the wrong bus and had to get on another. It was still nice to see the rural villages of Chile, however, like Olmue. We got inside the park and started hiking up when the views came through. The day, I must admit, was perfect; it was no more than 25 C and no less than 17 C. The views of La Campana were quite impressive and coupled with the wine palms and cactus trees it was a view one could get from a "lost world" movie or "Up." 

While the crowd went one way hiking we went up the harder way to get higher and get the best view. At first the hike was level and went by pretty smoothly. Then all of a sudden it just got steep and steeper and it started kicking my ass. I was barely moving and at that point of nearly giving up, just like with Cerro San Cristobal, but I decided instead of eating lunch at the viewpoint I'd stop and eat my sandwiches at some random dirt spot. I took my bag off and my back was drenched in sweat. It was a swamp. After eating, however, I felt better and eventually our trek went back to level and we got to the view. 

The view was quite lovely. We were about 1500 m above sea level but I could see the blue hues emanating from the wine palms of the mountains and I was quite taken. The wind also helped the experience. It was worth the steep hike. 

Then we started walking down on an area that was more green. One on side the mountain was more desert or Mediterranean climate and the other side was, the side we were currently walking down, was more rain forest or maybe just forest. We had more trees and rivers around us. We could hear the water rushing around us. We also heard the sounds of animals. Throughout the trek we heard animal sounds but when we were walking down we saw what we heard: wild horses. They were frightened of us but there were at least 6-7 wild horses roaming around. 

Now going down to this end of the park we were supposed to hit the bus back to Limache but once we finished the breathtaking hike the bus wasn't there. The locals told us we had to walk into town, into Olmue, to get back. I was frustrated at the guide for not having this knowledge or foresight to know that the bus wouldn't be there. Admittedly, though, it gave me an opportunity to see more of the rural villages of Chile and Olmue. As a rural person I always feel this is where the true country is. Eventually we hitched with a car to the bus station in Olmue that took us to the train station. I paid the guy at the station and told him, since he lived in Vina del Mar, he could get off there and not worry about accompanying me to Valpo. 

La Campana may not be on par with Atacama or even Radal Siete Tazas but being around the multiple climate zones and getting the views like they had made it worth it. With hindsight, I'm pretty sure I didn't need a guide for it, so never get a guide if you're the only one in a group. Particularly with a guy who dresses European and thinks like an American (or United Statesian, whatever).

...

My last day was a last call before I headed over to Santiago to prepare for my flight to Peru. I took the time to walk some more, overcast as it was, and visit the National Congress, the new one, which was uglier than the old one. I also visited the beachfront right outside Valpo and sat down to eat my lunch. The stray dogs also joined me. 

I would finish up a script I had a deadline on and walk around before evening hit. There was a park right near my hostel I would sit on. It was next to a school so little kids were getting out and playing on skateboards. It was quite serene. 

My foreign exchange friend and I would celebrate our last night in the hostel by going out to eat. The student chose a restaurant I could tell was touristy (English menu) and I got a disappointing salmon. 

Despite this Valpo was a unique experience, an experience that was helping me continue in my quest to be less timid and more open. I had to learn to be less timid in Valpo and Valpo rewarded me by being a marvel I couldn't experience in the States.

I had to go back to Santiago, however, and prepare for my flight to my third and last country: Peru. 

If Cities Were Women, Santiago would be a future ex wife

You don't go to South America if you're a city person.

If you're a city person you go to Europe; you go to Rome, Florence, Venice, Paris, London, Munich, Amsterdam, etc. With South America...you might have Rio de Janeiro in your radar, but South America isn't a city lover's bastion; it's a trekker's paradise. That's what I thought. 

Then I met Santiago. Santiago doesn't have the image of romanticism that Buenos Aires has cultivated. It doesn't strike up a personality like Rio. People kept warning me about Chile in Argentina; Chile was supposed to be a brute, authoritarian place, a near police-state not quite recovered from Pinochet. It was more about its military than art; a Sparta if you will. 

In my travels though, Santiago was the crown jewel, a city I fell in love with. For me there was always one city, Chicago, that I harbored an unhealthy longing and romance for; it was my Irene Adler. Santiago, though, is right up there with Chicago, a city that offers everything in the most accessible way. 

Let me backtrack though. Why would I go to Santiago? I mean its not really on anyone's radar, travel wise. 

...

I knew Chile would be special. I really did. As I mentioned previously, my journey to and throughout South America was predicated on my substantial love of this continent's, this region's literature. Whereas Argentina had Borges and Storni and Peru had Vallejo and Llosa, Chile had to me the best of the best: Pablo Neruda, who was once described as the greatest poet of any language and I absolutely agree with that. Chile also had Gabriela Mistral, Paz Molina, Maria Luisa Bombal, Violeta Parra and her brother Nicanor, among many others. It was "Nation of Poets" and as a poet I knew this would be my country. I mean, this is a country where a poet has three custom made houses. How the hell can a poet have one house, much less three?

I often described this journey to people I met as me travelling to see what my favorite writers saw. Therefore, I had an exceptional amount of anticipation because I was going to see what Pablo Neruda saw. 

...

When I last left off in Mendoza I was in a bit of a layover because the system of Andesmar, the bus company from Mendoza to Santiago, went kaput. Great. 

Nevertheless their system went live somewhere around 6 en la tarde so I was able to get the 10:30 AM ticket out of Mendoza to Santiago. 

I should take a moment to talk about the buses in South America. Like I mentioned in my Buenos Aires post, talking about Retiro, buses are the primary mechanism of travelling cross country. It's extremely common in South America, to a point that buses often offer amenities not unlike plane travel. In the Greyhound Bus, which I took from Athens, GA to Austin, TX, the bus would usually make pit stops for you to grab something to eat. Not Andesmar or the other long distance buses I took; they provided their own food, lunch and snacks, like Delta or United would. They would provided in-bus entertainment via rather crappy American films. I almost sat through two showings of "Life as We Know It" starring Katherine Heigl. Still, all this was very common in South American buses. 

Now I say sat through but I didn't watch. The true entertainment of that bus ride wasn't the hijinks of Katherine Heigl's bland character but what was outside of my window. In order to get to Santiago from Mendoza we have to go through the Andes Mountains. Notice I didn't say "go around." We have to "go through." 

The views of the Andes mountains, like my trek, were equally awe-inspiring. I just sat in my seat, jaw down, taking in all the views. 

Now once we got to the Chilean border we had to undergo a customs inspection. Chile is very strict about what food products you bring in from other countries to your country. Because of its relative isolation via the Andes and the Atacama desert, Chile has been able to maintain a very healthy and clean amount of vegetables and fruit. They stake a part of their economy on the exportation of fruits and veggies which means they want to ensure that nothing will harm or interfere with that. So whereas most of the time customs took no more than 30 minutes in other countries I visited, Chile took at least 1 hour. We had to sit our bags out and have a dog sniff them. There was one guy who brought salami with him and the customs agents took it away from him and gave it to the dog. Don't bring in outside food. 

Afterwards we continued into Chile. For the most part going through the Andes was a pretty steady adventure, but we reached a point where we had to go down...and not in a level vertical kind of way. We had 23 steep curves we had to drive around; no rails, nothing to stop the bus. As it was a double decker it was a bit unwieldy and so any time we wrapped around a curve we were looking down and thinking "Oh SHIT!" The driver, on the other hand, was as calm as Lebron James not only driving steadily but PASSING drivers. What you learn in South America is that bus drivers just don't give a shit. 

...

One thing I learned in my travels over the years was to never judge a city based on where their bus station or airport was. Regardless of where you are the bus station and airport is always going to be in a neighborhood that is strikingly sketchy. 

I had taken this journey alongside a New Zealander couple I had met at my hostel in Mendoza. We got out, witnessing a foggy Santiago setting for the day and in a not touristy neighborhood we realized we needed to bail and find a Metro station. They had been in Santiago before and they knew the Metro was the best way to get around. Their hostel was in Bellavista and my hostel was in Providencia. To get where they needed they just needed to get off at Baquedano, which is this huge station, where I would also get off to get on the Vincente Valdes line. My station was Santa Isabel. 

I got off and got on the Vincente Valdes line, but what I didn't realize is that during rush hour the trains that normally hit Santa Isabel change. I needed to get on a train that had a green light, but I didn't realize this so I got on the one that said Vincente Valdes. Turns out it had a red light and having not realized it was the wrong train once we came upon Santa Isabel the train passed and I thought "what the shit?" Instead it landed on the Irarrazaval (which I still can't pronounce) station. From there I GPS'ed my directions and saw that it was a 20 minute walk. Ok, fine. It was dark now. Ok. There were no street lights where I was. The United Statesian in me had a "Oh, shit" moment. 

When you read a travel guide or two under the "Stay Safe" section it usually says to avoid walking into the areas of Santiago where the windows had bars on them. All the buildings in the neighborhood I was at had bars on their windows. Whoops. 

What I would realize is that I was in a communa, a residential neighborhood. Providencia isn't a nightlife hub a la Bellavista, or a tourist hub a la Santa Lucia or Plaza de Armas. I would also realize that I was in a fairly safe communa and developed a confidence walking around the area. At the time, however, I was alone at night not familiar with this territory with very little lighting so I was consequently being a wimp. Eventually I found the hostel, got settled in, and went out and ate a ton of grilled meats and peppers. Not so bad. 

...

The next day was tourist day, for me. There was a free tour of Santiago offered but I decided to not do it because it would interfere with a specific goal I had, which was to have paila marina. 

Before coming to Chile I had read up on dishes common in Chile and discovered paila marina. For me any organism that has to breathe in water in order to survive is delicious. Paila marina is a dish that is sort of a soup, with a spicy broth in cilantro with assorted seafood. Whatever the restaurant had, they put in. Shrimp, scallops, oysters, mussels, clams, etc. I was giddy. 

The front desk gentlemen at my hostel told me that if I wanted seafood I needed to go to Mercado Central. This was off of Plaza de Armas so I figured I'd start there. 

When you imagine Latin America you sort of imagine something like Plaza de Armas in Santiago. Wonderfully beautiful, colorful Old Spanish buildings mixed with green life and people trying to solicit and sell you any and everything they have from art to tourist brochures and seeing retired old men in flat caps read the newspapers. One of the cathedrals had a bookstore where I got a Spanish collection of Neruda's "24 Poems about Love and One Song of Despair."

The most delightful thing I saw on Plaza de Armas, though, was a ballet company practicing. In the middle of the plaza, with ballet music playing, a substantial group of dancers decided this was their place for practice. Awesome.

The reason I didn't do the free tour was because I wanted to be able to break away and hit Mercado Central and see if I can find paila marina. After a moment of not knowing where the hell I was going I eventually found my way to el mercado. I walked in and could whiff at a specific, pungent stench that I knew could only belong to fresh fish and oceanic creatures. I was drawn in. 

My senses did not fail me for I was beholden by the spectacular sight of fish, fish everywhere! For me it was a paradise. To my right I saw food stands run by the market individuals, and on their signs I saw the magic words "paila marina." It was around 12 so, like I was floating on air, I was led into a no name place for paila marina. I was sat down, given bread with salsa, a coke, and waited as the dish came to me. It was like seeing a Seurat painting in person it was so beautiful. The deep pot with shrimp and seafood in an orange broth that smelled so...screw it. I didn't take it all in like some pretentious wine drinker. I ate it, taking much joy in each bite. Paila marina was helping me fall in love with Chile. 

...

At the hostel I stayed at we were given information about a free tour of Santiago along with a map. Because the times didn't really work with my schedule of eating paila marina I decided to take the free tour myself. The main sight I really wanted to see was La Chascona, one of the three (freaking three) houses of poet Pablo Neruda. It was the last stop on the our so what the hell I'll follow the path on the map.

I followed most of the free tour areas which were primarily government buildings, such as the Presidential Palace, the Palace of Justice (their Supreme Court). I also saw the old congress building which bore a striking resemblance to the US White House. What made it fascinating (marginally) was that it was the "old congress" building; the new congress building was in Valparaiso, wouldn't you know? I would find this out in Valparaiso (where I would see the new congress building) but sometime in the 1960s/1970s Chileans really had a demand for government branches in more than just Santiago because why just Santiago. They decided to put the new congress in Valparaiso. It's like if the US people decided they wanted a government branch in Omaha, Nebraska.

Still all the buildings were pretty neat. On the way I'd take pictures of the buildings, walk around them, etc. I walked into two buildings; one a cathedral because mass was going on and I wanted to see what it was like. As an anthropologist-sorta I found it fascinating because it was 2 or 3 in the afternoon and there was an exceptional amount of people inside. Anytime a person walked by a cathedral or iglesia they always crossed oneself. Another building I went into was the National Library which was, frankly, infinitely more interesting looking than the National Library of Argentina. I walked around, people watching because I'm a creep, trying to sneak into digital archives but not being able to because the doors were locked. The library also had a bookstore inside and a freakin' cafe. I thought it was neat, but I was being tourist so maybe not I don't know screw you. All this was leading to something truly transcendent, however: Cerro Santa Lucia. 

If you do a lonely planet, wikitravel, or tripadvisor search on Santiago Cerro Santa Lucia is always going to come up. It's a main tourist attraction for Santiago and rightfully so. It's a park that at the ground level doesn't seem to awe inspiring until you hit the ornate, yellow painted first building. I started walking up and as I walked up I got better and better views of Santiago. It was a layer cake of ornate buildings atop ornate buildings with gardens such as Jardin Darwin or "Darwin's Garden." As one walks up, like I did, the views become more and more impressive until  you reach the old fort set up by the Spanish, a red brick mammoth. The city was laid out  with its mixture of plain high rises and old Spanish colonial buildings. The very top, however, was at the top of the old fort looking towards the east with the city laid out underneath the clouds and the snow capped Andes peaking above the clouds like the clouds were a blanket. The words I give you to describe this view barely conjure the experience that felt almost, dare I say, divine. Cerro Santa Lucia also has a nickname, "Lover's Hill," and I understood why because most of the individuals at the top were couples and they took Samsung Galaxy photos of themselves kissing with the clouds in the background. I couldn't help but feel a tad uneasy at my status of being partner-less, and frankly I missed P (whom I mentioned in the Buenos Aires post). Even alone the view still left you threadbare.

It was hard to beat this climax but I figured a good denouement would be finishing up the walk to La Chascona. To get to La Chascona I had to make my way through Bellavista. As I mentioned before, the individuals I met in Argentina had a tendency to pin the Chileans as more brute and less artistic. Bellavista was where I saw how truly wrong they were.

Bellavista earns scores of accolades among travelers thanks to Lonely Planet (or if you're an amateur and read Frommers) so it has a reputation among the locals, like the people in my hostel, as a touristy barrio or neighborhood. In reality Bellavista does attract tourists and it has a few gentrified areas, but for the most part it's not the most touristy area. It's an area that for Atlantans would approximate to Inman Park or Decatur with the Baquedano/Plaza Italia area nearby as Midtown. Due to the proximity of three universities including the University of Chile, Bellavista is a college town within the city. Walking around there was definitely an alternative vibe as college students and sandwich and hot dog stands were everywhere. I got myself on Constitucion to find La Chascona and on my way saw colorful buildings with graffiti bordering on Basquiat-esque artwork. La Chascona was seemingly anticlimactic as one such as myself couldn't go in but being around this neighborhood led me to hatch up some plans for the next day.

Speaking of plans for the next day I realized I wasn't experiencing a good portion of nightlife. Granted, this was due in part to my schedule (I was in Santiago on Wednesday this day) but I felt especially bad after primarily staying in the hostel that night to stream a hockey game and eat leftovers. I figured this needed to change.

...

By the way I should note I didn't like this particular hostel. I mean it's hard to like any hostels but this hostel never gave me a comfortable vibe.

In Santiago, the temperature was quite low. At night it was no higher than 5 C and from there it could be as low as -2 C. Most hostels didn't have heating, which I was used to. I slept in layers and snuggled in the blankets. With this hostel, however, blankets cost. They charged for freakin' blankets. You, my reader, may think "well it's a hostel, what do you expect, 'Holiday Inn?'" Most of the hostels I stayed at, even the most run down ones, offered free blankets.

It was also in Santiago I came to appreciate hot showers. This hostel promised hot water but rarely delivered; at best the water could be lukewarm. Now, I could scratch this to the "it doesn't pay to be cheap" part of my trip as I chose this place due to its low price of $14/night compared to the others that were $18/night. When I got back from Valparaiso I picked another hostel that was in fact $18/night and in Bellavista no less and the showers...were still cold. There was a point in this Bellavista hostel where I was standing naked, waiting for the water to warm up, putting my hand in the water to see if it would get warm. Sometimes it might feel lukewarm and I would get excited that it was going to be hot then a second or two later it would turn back to ice cold. I did this for 20 minutes and gave up.

As nasty as this sounds I decided to not take a shower if it was a cold shower. No way. I didn't care if it wasn't hygienic, forget cold showers. On the opposite end the key word for any hostel I found online was "hot shower." I didn't care if they put me in the open park and made me take a shower in front of hot ladies laughing at me I would be gracious enough to do it so long as it was a hot shower.

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On another tangent before I go into my second day I want to mention a few things about Chile. Chile, of all the countries I went to in South America, was the safest, stablest country.

Now, I never felt unsafe in Peru and Argentina, but in Chile there was always a police presence. These police, the Carabiners, were not like US police. They were not part of a separate civil service branch; they were a branch of the military. This mean they were wearing fatigue green, they were fit, and they were scattered in enough areas to where so long as you didn't veer away from heavily populated areas and communas safety was never an issue. There was also a fair gender equality in the Carabiners; nearly half if not 1/3rd of all the police were females. The police are also pretty reliable and if you try to bribe one of them you'll end up going to jail.

Another part of this stability was transportation. Transportation never felt sketchy. In Buenos Aires, the city was fairly walkable and safe but the rapid transit, the Subte, wasn't so friendly. This wasn't the case with the Metro in Santiago, which was rapid, efficient, and incredibly clean. So Santiago was fairly walkable but if you started feeling the blisters you had the Metro. Cool.

With this stability there is a price for tourists...literally. Whereas Argentina and Peru might spoil one with low prices, Chile was kind of expensive. By expensive I don't mean the country overcharged any specific group but the prices were similar to the US or Europe even. This is good for Chile because it means their economy was stable but as a traveler I wanted to whine.

There were homeless but it wasn't as severe as Buenos Aires and there weren't any homeless children in the areas I walked around. If there was anything that might turn off a tourist, particularly a United States one, it would be the amount of stray dogs. I'll talk about that in my Valparaiso post because it was more severe there but stray dogs were everywhere in Chile.

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My second day had a bit more of a tight itinerary. First and foremost I intended to walk up Cerro San Cristobal, a 800 or so meter hill in the Bellavista neighborhood that I got a glimpse of the day before. Secondly, I intended to visit Centro Cultural de Gabriela Mistral. Then I intended to find some food at a place I heard good things about called Ciudad Vieja. Lastly, I intended to do something that night, but I was uncertain.

Originally I wanted to trek but despite what my hostel said in their signs they were not much help, particularly with Radal Siete Tazas. In fact I couldn't find anything on how to get to Radal Siete Tazas so I ended up scratching that idea despite how beautiful it looked.

Looking online I wanted to see what theatrical events were going on and found very little aside from "The Barber of Seville" at Teatro Municipal. When I say very little I mean there wasn't much to intrigue me but I also realized looking for stage shows was a bad idea as my comprehension of spoken Spanish was...lento, or slow. So I looked into ballet performances and discovered the National Ballet was in Baquedano near Bellavista and had a show going on for CH$2000 or $4 (student price).

I started off on San Cristobal which wasn't the stacked layers of ornate buildings that Santa Lucia was. It was steep, arduous, and despite being a measly 800m I found myself in a difficult position, almost giving up. Most people when they want to go to San Cristobal take the ascensors or funiculars. I decided to walk because I'm hardcore like that. Or cheap; I'll say hardcore. Out of breath I made it to the top or so I thought but no just a road. I had to walk to get to the very, very top, which is dedicated to the Immaculate Conception. Consequently once I was at the top I started to hear Gregorian chant and other holy music, seeing walls of people's written prayers, finally making it to the statue of the Virgin Mary, where I sat and gazed upon Santiago. I was pretty exhausted but it was worth the view for I could see more up there than Cerro Santa Lucia.

Going down I decided it was time for lunch but the restaurants in the area didn't feel the same as me. Even though it was after 11:30 most of the restaurants weren't opening until 12:30PM. Fine. I'll just go to the Gabriela Mistral Cultural Center.

I talked about how the conception of Chile as anything other than a lover of arts was bullshit. This was the day that proved it more than anything because for me a good city that loves art not only has a lot of arts going around but it has it in an accessible format. Instead of the arts community being in a sketchy area you need a taxi to go to  the arts community here is omnipresent. This was Santiago. Baquedano is the biggest metro station so it is the most accessible place, relatively speaking. Around the area was Plaza Italia, Parque Forestal, and the two neighborhoods Lastarria and Bellavista.

Within this area was a good portion of the arts life but there was others in Barrio Brasil and Barrio Nunoa. The Gabriela Mistral Cultural Center was on my radar, honestly, because of my affection for Gabriela Mistral's poetry (she was the first female Latin American to win a Nobel Prize by the way). From I read it seemed like primarily a shopping area and there was a shopping area component to it alongside a cafe. Fair enough. It was also an arts center and it showcased the artwork of the faculty of the University of Chile as well as a special exhibition on Japan, with a photography showcase and a series of short, experimental films by Japanese directors. I sat down and watched at least four of the short films and took in that a) this kind of place was here which was awesome and b) it was all free. I didn't have to pay a cover charge to get in; I could just walk around and enjoy the art. There was also a performance space and cinema on the other side of the center.

Since it was nearly 1 in the afternoon I decided to make my way to Ciudad Vieja. Most of the sandwiches were lomo sandwiches except one called the "Olympico" which grabbed my fancy, particularly because it was only CH$3900. I thought being cheap wouldn't pay off but oh did it ever. I didn't really know what to expect but they brought out the sandwich and it was covered in melted cheese. When I say covered I mean there was a toasted ham and tomato sandwich and the entire plate including the sandwich was covered in melted cheese and oregano. Holy crap it was tasty. This day would lead me to forever discuss Santiago as the city where you could hike a 800 m hill, come down and watch experimental Japanese films for free and then eat a sandwich covered in melted, gooey cheese. For me that was kind of sublime.

That evening I would go and see the dance show, which was quite fantastic. It also led me to a revelation about dance and the nature of art. I realized that great art, even in the most brute mistranslation of oral or written language, can still have a pathos understood by anyone. Even though I barely understood Spanish I understand the language of this performance, immersing myself in the mood of the music and movement of the performers. The dance was about a woman leaving in a relationship but its depiction was quite striking. There was a moment when her lover wanted her to stay, with a literal visual representation of him holding her and her breaking away. When broken away she doesn't dance but walks slowly as if in hesitation about not knowing she made the right decision; she knew it was truly right to leave but was fearful of the loneliness. As someone who has done this, many times, I felt her pain and her loneliness.

It was only in Santiago I would have an artistic experience this transcendent.

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I would leave for Valparaiso the next day but I came back to Santiago because of a flight. That Tuesday evening and Wednesday afternoon weren't too eventful so I'll be reasonably brief.

The main event for me was going to the International Documentary Film Festival, or FI Docs. There weren't many documentaries in English or with English subtitles but I saw that it was showing a documentary called "No Habra Revolucion sin Cancion," which dealt with how music influenced the revolutions of Chile in the 1970s and the 1980s. Even though I didn't understand any of the interviewees I understood the movie and the pathos of the music. I understood the movie enough to be inspired to do two things: 1) I wanted to see live music before I left Chile and 2) I wanted to visit Museo de la Memoria.

The first wasn't easily accomplished because most of the places around Bellavista (where I was now staying) were discotheques. Around 10PM I was walking and found a place with an acoustic folk singer playing. The club was decorated with images of Violeta Parra and Victor Jara and since I had watched a documentary about the influence of folk I figured this was the place. I sat down, drank coffee, enjoyed myself until a comedian came on. He was asking people where they were from and most were from Brazil, France etc. He was into his bit when he saw me. He stopped mid-routine and starting looking at me. Then in his microphone "de donde eres?" "Estado Unidos." He smiled with excitement and said in his mike "gringo en la vista." I knew he would involve me in his routine so like a poon I bailed.

The next day I took care of number two before I went to the airport. First and foremost everyone in the United States needs to understand something about what happened in Chile, September 11, 1973. With US logistical and technical support a democratically elected president named Salvador Allende was overthrown in a military coup. Allende, under pressure by the military, committed suicide and the military installed a dictatorship with Gen. Augusto Pinochet at the helm. Unlike most South American and Latin American nations, which had a history of caudillos or "big, tough guy" military authoritarians, Chile had remained a primarily Democratic nation. Allende, a Socialist, was seen as a threat to the economic prosperity of the nation. Some, Conservatives, in Chile actually don't view Allende as a martyr and talk about bread lines and economic despair during his brief presidency. Regardless, after Allende and during Pinochet's regime many leftists and anti-dictatorship people were imprisoned, executed, including the aforementioned singer Victor Jara. Over 3,000 people "disappeared." For more information I'd highly recommend going on wikipedia or googling this information.

No less, Museo de la Memoria was a museum dedicated to remembering these events, the "disappeared," and the struggle for bringing back democracy to Chile via the Si/No vote of 1988. The museum including a Declaration of Human Rights, pictures from protests during the Pinochet government, among others. There was a special exhibition of clothes on the steps of the museum representing the different types of people affected by the dictatorship via empty shirts and pants, dresses, suits. The exhibitions included documentation of arrests, propaganda posters, video clips of the leaders, etc. The most special exhibit was a candlelit vigil of sorts with pictures on the wall of various "disappeared." You could see in their faces a special humanity and feel the full weight of what this dictatorship did to the innocent. This isn't fun, but it's transcendent and important, especially as an American. It's important to understand the tangible effects of our foreign policy and there's a bittersweet feeling of both guilt for our contribution to this horrific regime but happiness that Chile has moved on to become a great nation.

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Santiago has moved on with a modern sensibility unique in how it embraces its history and art. Many will tell you Chile isn't an artistic place, but Santiago proves them wrong. You learn by being around its history and art that it was through artistic expression that Chile brought back democracy. As a writer I found it transcendent that it is through artistic expression via both individuality and due process that democracy is created and maintained.

More importantly Santiago is the kind of city you dream of. It's on par with Chicago.

I couldn't help, though, feeling lonely as I missed P, as I didn't make a lot of friends here, but even alone the city will treat you will with its gargantuan pork sandwiches and heaping bowls of paila marina.

Never neglect Santiago in your itinerary.

In between my four day stay in Santiago I made my way to Valparaiso, which would prove to me how wonderful Chile truly is.