“Here’s your ticket for your complimentary pisco sour. The bar is on the eighth floor, the pool on the ninth floor, and if you need anything at all just ring the front desk. Good night, seniorita.” With that the bellman closed the door to my hotel room.
When I was sure he was gone, I let my jaw drop and gawked at the immensity of the room. I don't think I moved for a good five minutes, just stood there in disbelief. Once I finally closed my mouth, I spent what must’ve been another five minutes crossing the room to the opposite wall, walking at a normal pace mind you. The wall I approached was actually a giant ripply curtain and after I rustled through the heavy canvas fabric for a minute I finally found where it parted in the middle. Having thrust the curtains aside, I looked out from my sixth floor window to see how the night settles on Puerto Montt, a city both dirty and striking at the same time. It settles okay, I decided, but I didn’t spend too much time admiring the view because I hadn’t checked out the bathroom yet.
I was en route to Futaleufu again after my three week “winter” vacation in Ohio. It’s a strange concept and took some getting used to, this idea of vacationing in my own country. However, after spending a year and a half in Chile, it no longer feels like I’m vacationing or even traveling when I’m here. For this very reason I was a bit nervous to come back to Chile. I thrive on adventure, new things. Flying into Santiago, returning to Futaleufu wasn’t new. I now realize I was foolish to think that I would be disappointed by my return. Although I haven’t experienced that natural high of new adventure, upon driving into town for the first time after a month, I did experience a feeling of warm familiarity that I’ve come to appreciate, both in the states and here. It felt homey, even, this town I’ve lived in for the last four months. I suppose that process toward homey-ness is accelerated when you’re general living area is twenty blocks big. Or twenty blocks small, rather.
Eva laughed when I told her how great it feels to be back. She said, “Give it a week!” After 20 years here, she’s entitled to make comments like that.
My transition back to this allegedly developing country was made smoother by the fact that while in Santiago I stayed at one of my bosses’ house in Vitacura, a decidedly prosperous sector of the Chilean capital that is more than slightly reminiscent of a U.S. suburb. Patagonia Sur, the foundation that hired me, has an office in the same area, and is neighbored by a Starbucks that I visited with all too much frequency and that has more of a gringo feel than any single place I visited while in Ohio. The staff of Patagonia Sur with whom I met in Santiago is peopled with fantastic characters, all very enthusiastic about the foundation’s conservation and education initiatives in the south and eager to make the idyllic visions a reality.
When I was sure he was gone, I let my jaw drop and gawked at the immensity of the room. I don't think I moved for a good five minutes, just stood there in disbelief. Once I finally closed my mouth, I spent what must’ve been another five minutes crossing the room to the opposite wall, walking at a normal pace mind you. The wall I approached was actually a giant ripply curtain and after I rustled through the heavy canvas fabric for a minute I finally found where it parted in the middle. Having thrust the curtains aside, I looked out from my sixth floor window to see how the night settles on Puerto Montt, a city both dirty and striking at the same time. It settles okay, I decided, but I didn’t spend too much time admiring the view because I hadn’t checked out the bathroom yet.
I was en route to Futaleufu again after my three week “winter” vacation in Ohio. It’s a strange concept and took some getting used to, this idea of vacationing in my own country. However, after spending a year and a half in Chile, it no longer feels like I’m vacationing or even traveling when I’m here. For this very reason I was a bit nervous to come back to Chile. I thrive on adventure, new things. Flying into Santiago, returning to Futaleufu wasn’t new. I now realize I was foolish to think that I would be disappointed by my return. Although I haven’t experienced that natural high of new adventure, upon driving into town for the first time after a month, I did experience a feeling of warm familiarity that I’ve come to appreciate, both in the states and here. It felt homey, even, this town I’ve lived in for the last four months. I suppose that process toward homey-ness is accelerated when you’re general living area is twenty blocks big. Or twenty blocks small, rather.
Eva laughed when I told her how great it feels to be back. She said, “Give it a week!” After 20 years here, she’s entitled to make comments like that.
My transition back to this allegedly developing country was made smoother by the fact that while in Santiago I stayed at one of my bosses’ house in Vitacura, a decidedly prosperous sector of the Chilean capital that is more than slightly reminiscent of a U.S. suburb. Patagonia Sur, the foundation that hired me, has an office in the same area, and is neighbored by a Starbucks that I visited with all too much frequency and that has more of a gringo feel than any single place I visited while in Ohio. The staff of Patagonia Sur with whom I met in Santiago is peopled with fantastic characters, all very enthusiastic about the foundation’s conservation and education initiatives in the south and eager to make the idyllic visions a reality.
Back in my hotel room, I spread out on the enormous bed, aware of the fact that this would be the last night for a while that I’d be able to sleep comfortably in a t-shirt and only one pair of pajama pants. I flipped through TV channels until I found something interesting, a Crocodile Hunter wanna-be trying to survive in the desert. As I watched him pee on his shirt and then wrap it on his head to cool him off (my mouth agape for the second time that night), I confirmed to myself that I do not thrive on adventures of that nature. For the time being, I was content with my five-star hotel adventure, discovering how the bidet works and wondering if I could eat the goods in the refrigerator.
I thought back to the taxi ride a few hours prior from the Puerto Montt airport to my hotel. When the taxi driver asked me my destination, I read from an email I had printed the address and name of the hotel. “Ah, el Club Presidente?” he asked me, looking at me as if for the first time in the rear view mirror. Although I had never been to the hotel, I figured Virginia had made me a reservation in a rather nice place and I felt slightly embarrassed to confirm the hotel to the driver. Blame it on my humble upbringing or Chile's extreme classism, whatever the case my feelings caught me by surprise.
As I slept that night, my dreams were filled not with visions of sugar plums but with ears of corn. I dreamt that as I crossed the Argentinean border, the customs officials checked my large backpack to uncover ears of corn, husk and all, stuffed in the side pockets. Sweet corn smuggling. Choclo contraband. Maiz mayhem. When the officials accused me, I woke up.
I thought back to the taxi ride a few hours prior from the Puerto Montt airport to my hotel. When the taxi driver asked me my destination, I read from an email I had printed the address and name of the hotel. “Ah, el Club Presidente?” he asked me, looking at me as if for the first time in the rear view mirror. Although I had never been to the hotel, I figured Virginia had made me a reservation in a rather nice place and I felt slightly embarrassed to confirm the hotel to the driver. Blame it on my humble upbringing or Chile's extreme classism, whatever the case my feelings caught me by surprise.
As I slept that night, my dreams were filled not with visions of sugar plums but with ears of corn. I dreamt that as I crossed the Argentinean border, the customs officials checked my large backpack to uncover ears of corn, husk and all, stuffed in the side pockets. Sweet corn smuggling. Choclo contraband. Maiz mayhem. When the officials accused me, I woke up.
The next morning I checked out of the hotel (apparently you do have to pay for the items in the refrigerator that you eat and drink) and headed to the bus terminal where my bus departed at 8:15 in the am. About twenty minutes later, a young Chilean fellow boarded in Puerto Varas and sat at my side. A little small talk, what do you study in Bariloche, how long have you been in Chile, I learned a little English in high school, etc. The typical.
The journey continued to a stop in Osorno, the last city before crossing the Argentinean border (where I was praying they wouldn’t find any cobs of corn in my baggage). About that time I decided to pull out the book that I was currently reading. No sooner did I reach a particularly interesting part in the story when I heard the familiar instrumentals of Twentieth Century Fox announce the start of a movie. I prayed that it wouldn’t be "Big Mama's House," the cheesy Eddie Murphy movie that I had seen on two separate occasions on two different buses the previous year during travels in Chile.
No, it wasn’t “Big Mama’s House.” Yes, it did provoke an enthusiastic fist pump and an audible whoop from my neighbor.
"Terminator!!" He exclaimed. Oh dear.
The fist pumps continued throughout the production. I tried to focus on my book and tune out the loud Hollywood sound bites of glass crashing, bullets firing, bones crunching, etc; 108 minutes of pure Schwarzenegger glory.
We crossed the border. The movie ended.
And you'll never believe what happened next.
"Terminator 2" started. Incredible, really. Bariloche couldn't come soon enough.
The journey continued to a stop in Osorno, the last city before crossing the Argentinean border (where I was praying they wouldn’t find any cobs of corn in my baggage). About that time I decided to pull out the book that I was currently reading. No sooner did I reach a particularly interesting part in the story when I heard the familiar instrumentals of Twentieth Century Fox announce the start of a movie. I prayed that it wouldn’t be "Big Mama's House," the cheesy Eddie Murphy movie that I had seen on two separate occasions on two different buses the previous year during travels in Chile.
No, it wasn’t “Big Mama’s House.” Yes, it did provoke an enthusiastic fist pump and an audible whoop from my neighbor.
"Terminator!!" He exclaimed. Oh dear.
The fist pumps continued throughout the production. I tried to focus on my book and tune out the loud Hollywood sound bites of glass crashing, bullets firing, bones crunching, etc; 108 minutes of pure Schwarzenegger glory.
We crossed the border. The movie ended.
And you'll never believe what happened next.
"Terminator 2" started. Incredible, really. Bariloche couldn't come soon enough.
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