Yeah, about this whole adventure to Valparaiso.
The impetus of this impromptu weekend trip came courtesy of Fran, a nice enough Chilean girl I met at the Couchsurfer meetup here in Santiago a couple of weeks ago. Per her instructions, on Saturday morning I am waiting at the assigned train station, barely noticing that what starts as one blonde guy hanging in the metro station grows into a small group of 4 guys, one of which I notice is really good-looking. This has nothing to do with me... until Fran greets them with hugs. Awesome-- we are the only girls on the trip. But we are an international group. Our male majority is: a blonde, dimpled Russian, Nikita; a guy sporting a hippy look (SHUT IT, Mark & Derek) is Noel, from... not sure? I thought Argentina, but he lisped like the Spanish; the strikingly good-looking guy is Jonas from Denmark; & the only other Chilean, a long-haired, blue-eyed guy named Eduardo. Actually, I later noticed that Fran is the only person in our group whose eyes aren't blue.
I end up sitting with Eduardo on the 1.5 hour trip there. I ended up getting along with him the best: he has a quiet voice, he can be outgoing (& bless him for asking me questions and attempting conversation), but I sensed he's ok with my being quiet. Which is good, because that was definitely me on this trip. Period.
I have to say, I liked ALL the guys, though I practically ignored Jonas because that's what I do with really good-looking guys. It isn't fair or right-- he really was a nice guy, but whatever he's looking for I'm not it, and I am a sore loser when it comes to pretty boys. So I spoke to him the least. He may have even noticed my silence was even more pronounced toward him, but what can I do? Treat him like a normal human being? He's NOT normal. Normal isn't that pretty in the male population.
Jonas works with Nikita, and I guess Noel-- they're here via the Chilean government, who pays for entrepreneurs from other countries to do shit here. Nikita & Noel met when Nikita was living in London. So Nikita & Noel are good friends, Jonas has that connection so they all get to know each other better, & everyone, but me, is outgoing, so great times for them all.
Fran... I remember she seemed nice, but I felt no connection with her at the meet-up. That, I think, will determine my agreeing to anymore cockamamy trips with couchsurfers: even though many CSers I've met were perfectly pleasant, the thrill of an impromptu invitation to go somewhere with an unknown number and constituency of travelers, is out. I hear you: the vast majority of you linked this to the whole, "don't talk to strangers" adults told you when you were a kid. Well bully for you, you well-adjusted, normal people living your normal lives. I've always envied you your normality, as it allowed you to seamlessly fit in with everyone else around you, having shared the same experiences, beliefs, & approaches to people and situations. So, awesome, you'll never find yourself feeling like a fish out of water in a town that is woefully misrepresented as a vacation spot. You win.
The weather, of course, sucked. It was 40-50 & rainy or raining. 5-10% of Valparaiso is lovely. The rest is like the rest of Chile, which this trip I realized is exactly like Guatemala, only with less comprehensible Spanish. As far as I can tell, Fran has marbles in her mouth for all I can understand (except when she talks about food or drink. SOMEHOW, I can always understand those words). Noel speaks so quickly that, yeah, it's pointless to try listening. After listening as carefully as I can to the 3 Spanish speakers for a minute, my mind drifts away from a conversation I can't understand. (Though I'm relieved I'm not the only one: Nikita doesn't speak much Spanish at all. Jonas seems pretty capable from what I can tell, but he definitely, definitely prefers English.)
Anyway, yeah, other than a few of the highlights you can see on Fb, Valpo is dirty, rundown, largely unimpressive, and mostly closed on the weekends. How this is supposed to be something to come & see, *I* surely don't know.
I most enjoyed the led tour, which included a Spanish group (though a guy there had stayed in Lombard for a month, so we chatted a bit), and a guy from Scotland, with whom I spoke quite a bit. Were I traveling alone like he was, maybe I could have had a night out like *I* wanted: laidback, just sitting drinking, rather than the night out that young, attractive 20-something guys want. Or Fran. Or... all of humanity, except for me.
Post-tour, we sit around in our hostel room for a while, & that's when the building started shaking. We all looked at each other, then people started running out of the room. Since I've never actually been in any sort of real earthquake before, I follow suit, guessing there's a reason for doing so. And sure enough, even though Cadu is right that the earth is also shaking outside (lo!), Fran tells me that this is proper earthquake procedure.
Outside, Nikita & I are enjoying the experience, while poor Fran & some locals are freaking out. From what I can tell, Chileans either barely notice anything happened (Eduardo), or are probably freaked out from past, very large earthquakes. I feel it's in poor taste for Nikita & me to be enjoying ourselves, but we are. It was over in a few seconds, and while it was pretty noticeable, absolutely no damage was done to anything, no injuries from anything, etc. Back in the room, Jonas says it was a 6.2. An earthquake of that magnitude really isn't considered one of any magnitude in Chile, though Fran said that had it been an 8.2, that would have been a big deal. Fran, who planned on taking a shower before it, now won't get into the shower, as she's afraid another may be coming.
We finally have dinner: Mexican, of all things. GOD have I missed cheese with taste. The queso fresco that is everywhere in Chile is so bland it obliterates the flavor of whatever food you eat it with. Welcome to cheese by Chile. Afterwards, we go to some bar. It is a bit loud, but not terrible. What's terrible are the drinks. But that's par for the course here in Chile. Nikita was laughing, accurately, that frequently Chile will copy NYC, only 10 years later. And not fully accurately. Just enough that you recognize it was an attempt with a misunderstood execution. I have to say it's JUST ABOUT TIME for the craft cocktail to arrive here, but so far, nothing doing. I make the mistake of ordering a daiquiri (though in Spanish it's a little different and I was so tired I didn't care anymore). The original is lime, but I can't just have that-- I must have a flavor. Many of you know what it's like when I am forced to add options I didn't want to have-- I give up & don't care, crankily. I did that, minus the burst of bad temper. To give myself credit: I am a mute all weekend, but an agreeable mute.
I am brought a pink liquid that is repulsive, what with the artificial mixer flavors that are all the rage here. Orange juice? Yeah, they squeeze the juice, THEN add more sugar, and something to make it thicker and more Tang-like. The sweet tooth of Chileans is a horror show. I wince from the odd tug-of-war in my mouth of sour & too-sweet that is any artificially-fruit-flavored concoction.
Contrasted with what Eduardo ends up having, which apparently is called a transplant, (b/c it's red?). It is 3 distinct layers: clear on top; kind of milky in the middle, & bright red on the bottom (or: rum; lemon juice; grenadine). It is a bit too tart since the layers also won't mix, but I still kind of like it. Eduardo's a lightweight, so I share his.
At this point, I'm feeling sleepy, & not looking forward to all the seat-dancing Nikita keeps doing: there's definitely a dance club in tonight's future. And my gender GPA will be revealved for the D+ that it is, thanks to my being 1 of only, what, 3 or so women in the world who DON'T dance?
There are LOTS of bars & clubs to try, so onward we go. We end up walking down toward the port, where I can already hear the music of a particularly loud dance club. This is my cue to leave... except for that whole I-don't-have-a-key-to-the-hostel. I get one from 1 of the guys, and breezily, in my eagerness to get farther away from the headache-inducing music volume of the club they're lining up to get into, tell Fran that yes, I know how to get back to the hostel.
As soon as I have walked 1/2 a block, I realize that not only do I NOT actually completely know how to get back-- I don't even know the NAME of the hostel, only that it begins with an L. So, a last-resort cab ride is out. Luckily, I don't know HOW I did it, but I did manage to wend my way back.
My relief at getting back is only enhanced because the hot water heater is turned off at night, & when our tour of the hostel included a cursory & in-no-way complete method for turning it back on, I can't see what's what since 2 tall Europeans are in the way. Hence, I have the pleasure of a cold sponge-shower, since I can't put myself under the cold water. Not in an (of course) unheated building. But what IS on tonight is the music club the hostel shares a building with. Oh yes: live music, on a stage that I estimate is directly under the room across the 2-feet-wide hall. It's great music, but WHAT?!!!? OH! YEAH, IT IS LOUD! REALLLLLY LOUD! I can hear it comfortably with my earplugs in, but somehow manage to fall asleep.
In the morning, I am reminded, again, of what I so dislike about hostels, and what Sartre said: hell is other people. Or, as Jonathan Rauch (unintentionally?) misquoted: Hell is other people at breakfast. Specifically, a non-filling, unsatisfying breakfast of bread, weak tea/bad coffee, and forced socializing. Knowing that group mentality will deem me a weirdo and/or bitch for not wanting more company than plenty of protein, veggies, & good, fresh coffee when I first wake up, I go into the crowded kitchen, only to see that all of the mugs have been taken. Hurray.
Suffice it to say, thanks to yesterday's earthquake & today's heavy rain, there will be no surfing or horseback riding, which was part of the plan for this trip. After spending the last 24 hours with people nonstop, I'm relieved. For once, the guys want to do what I want to do: get back to Santiago ASAP. It takes Fran a particularly long time to get her shit together, but eventually we are on our way.
We are slowed a little in our progress due to Eduardo, who's about my age, taking these 2 (lost-ish) girls on the Valparaiso street we're on under his not-exactly-disinterested wing. They look 12 to me at first, though later I conclude are 18 or 19. They come fully-equipped with the TERRRRRRIBLE fashion sense of every young Chilean. Our current model is wearing orange, blue, and fluorescent green tie-dyed/floral patterned leggings with fluroescent orange and pink socks with a coral shirt and blue tennies. Irony isn't permitted across the Chilean border, so this is an outfit earnestly chosen for its aesthetic appeal by our intrepid girl who clearly, CLEARLY dressed herself without any adult supervision, common sense, or humanity. If she has a boyfriend back in Santiago, you will see him in faded or bright red hipster jeans and the ubiquitous mullet. I didn't know there were different types of mullet before I came here, but the unsurpassed assortment and variety is visible despite burned retinas, tears, and keeping your eyes squeezed shut. (Derek, per your facebook post, you need to move your family here.)
Nevertheless, we make it back to Santiago just fine, and I do my best to rid my head of a caffeine headache and a curious weekend with coffee with pisco sours. Though I am clearly and firmly in the downward portion of the curve that is adjusting to life in a new country, there's evidence of progress, even if it's only that my drinking has started going native. I know the adjustment curve will start and keep heading upward. Let's just hope my mullet tolerance remains at the bottom of the U.
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