Why Don't We Get Drunk?

Bienvenido Amor!

Is the song that's playing while I sit here drinking a cup of Nescafe instant coffee. The entrepreneurial side of me kicks in. A man could make an absolute killing if he were to open up a cafe that sold real (non instant) coffee down here. Then the thread in my mind really starts to unravel. No, it wouldn't be about the money at all, but rather providing a product that Valparaiso desperately needs. Why stop at coffee? I could import fullbodied microbrews from the Pacific northwest by the half barrell as well... Some seriously bomb breakfast scrambles with fresh bell peppers, onions, potatoes, eggs topped with a light layer of cheese and some Aji de Chile sauce that taste good any time of the day. Burritos, which are also extremely scarce down here, and quesadillas with some imported pepperjack cheese might be appreciated as well. So anyone who is interested, let me know how much money you're willing to put up and I'll find the Chilean contact who can get the business license so it is legitimate. Just a small project for the future.

Despite the non existant ¨real¨ coffee, microbrews and burritos, life here is absolutely amazing. Two weeks in, and I have already fallen in love with the city and the Chilean people. The majority of Chileans that I have met are super nice, willing to talk, and go about their days in a relatively unhurried manner. Unless of course they're in a hurry. What ¨we¨ would call politeness when walking on the street, such as letting people pass in front of you, or waiting your turn to cross the street, is a little different here. No one seems to get offended when another pedestrian gets cut off, but rather calmly find another way around. Possibly this isn't an intrinsic social fact, specific to Chile, but of big cities in general. And Valparaiso is a big city indeed. The other day, I walked up to Cerro Bellavista, one of the most touristic hills in Valpo. The world renowned poet/writer Pablo Neruda had a house, now called La Sebastiana that exists as a museum, on this hill. I was originally intending on visiting the late Neruda's house, but decided to walk as far up the insanely steep hill as my dogs would carry me. With only a few rest stops, I made it to where the dirt roads adorned wth enormous ruts begin, and the old pavement ends. With a beautiful view (as the name implies), I could see all the way past Viña to the sand dunes of Reñaca to the north, Valpo's port district to the south, and many house strewn hills in between. With the setting sun illuminating the ships in the harbor, I started the great descent and thanked the cosmos for life as I know it.

Since the last time I dropped some lines out to ya'll in tv and radio land I have gotten sick and recovered. Yes, I survived! A friend kept telling me to go to the pharmacy and get pills that are sold over the counter that would supposedly make you feel better. I was skeptical, but when the cough, sinus discomfort and colored nasal discharge failed to cease, I took my friend's advice and trekked down to Cruz Verde pharmacy to investigate. I informed the pharmacist what symptoms I was experiencing and she produced a small box out of her synthetic drug stash in the back. I didn't feel too comforted when she told me to take a pill every 6 hours and then asked the young cashier standing next to her if that was correct... With a here goes nothin' attitude, the miracle pills got me back on my feet carreteando in no time flat. Pharmacies are like rabbits here, on just about every corner, without their furry, biological counterpart's high reproductive rate.

I also bought a cell phone off the street. Skeptical about this endeavor, I asked my friends to accompany me so I didn't get ripped off. I like the fact that I paid $20 dollars for the phone, microchip and charger, and another $20 for the minutes I put on it. Later on that day, a fella called me saying that the phone belonged to his uncle, an unfortunate soul that had his phone stolen. But my conscience remained intact, bad things happen to good people all the time. And I had just invested $40 bucks in improving my social life abroad. Our friend from Western, and also my former next door neighbor, Marie, had her purse stolen right out from under her nose while she and her friends were sitting in a circleon the beach in Viña. Not aggressive robbery, but sneaky for sure. So far, I've been fortunate and have taken good care to guard my belongings. Knock on wood.

A side note from the present moment, a ragged looking gentleman just stumbled up to the bar where I am seated immediately to my right. With a rough voice, he asks the bar tender for a glass of wine, which the barkeep produces in an enormous, antique jug from behind the bar. Pouring the man a glass of clear wine, the vagabond lets it sit there for a minute or two eyeing it wondrously. In one fell swoop, the man downs the glass of fermented drink followed by a series of hacking coughs then pacing restlessly around the bar. I am reminded at the dangers of alchohol and its potential to destroy lives and consume its consumer. But really the bar is a cool little joint with Italian decorations, an old, sturdy bar top and a couple of regulars seated at a table. The old music playing at a comfortable volume in Italian versions of You Are The Sunshine Of My Life and It's 5 O'clock give priceless ambiance to this old haunt. And it's also during times like these that I realize just how beautiful yet fragile life is and how fortunate I am to be me. I think the bartender knew the man had no money, but as willing to provide the man with a glass of his favorite, destructive vice nonetheless.

Another excellent time here in Chile came on Saturday with a couple hours of basketball. About 15 to 18 people showed up, only 4 of those being gringos and the rest Chilenos. I was sick at the time, but decided to play anyway. I once again realized shortly in, that I love to play pick up games of basketball. Some of the opponents were good, others were piss poor, and others could shoot, lights out, with a hand in their face on command. It was almost dark when we stopped, not  by choice, but because there were no lights and the compound we were playing in was closing. I find myself waiting for next Saturday at 3 o'clockto roll around to hoop once again.

They say that when you start dreaming in a foreign language, you really have it down. By no means am I claiming to be an expert, but I had my first dream in Spanish last night. It was ultra strange because I was conversing with my 10 year old cousin from Michigan, Shelby. Go figure right? Maybe you have a future speaking Spanish Shelb. My ma, step dad, Shelby, her older sister Jenae, and younger brother Kyle were seated on the grass in a circle and Shelby was cranking out the Spanish like no other. Any dream interpreters out there want to throw their hat into the ring about what my first dream in Spanish means? This sub conscious experience was encouraging if not a bit odd...

Alrighty folks, I think it's time for me to can it and let you get on with your lives. Love from Chile, this is Elvagabundonumeruno, which I have since learned means homeless person rather than traveler in Spanish, signing off.