the end, part I: hills, things, holidays

I went to Valparaiso for a few days. It is an impossible city--a collection of hills dropping dramatically into the ocean below while the urban fabric drapes carelessly, casually over them. It looks easy for them, the houses, they hang on like it is no big deal. But it is a big deal, the city has been rattled by the earths grinding plates time and time again. Porteños are a determined people. Valparaiso`s magic goes hand in hand with its grittiness. The winding streets and hidden vertical staircases speak as much of sea-fresh whimsy as they do of piss-drunk sailors with switchblades. I was on my guard in the city, even while walking around the hip family-artist-tourist district of cerro Alegre. My vigilance was due partially to the improbable nature of the city but moreover because I am at the end of my trip. Yes, I am on my way home. And so, it felt somehow especially important to finish strong, alert. To get hit by a bus or suddenly find my passport missing on the last day would be not only terrible, but humiliating, pathetic.

Valpariaso is home to one of Pablo Neruda`s houses, with another one just down the coast. His homes, his things and his lifestyle were and are beautiful in such a way as to not only inspire me but also make me hideously jealous. I want it all. I visited both his house in Valparaiso, "La Sebastiana" and his other in Isla Negra. The houses and his surreal collections of things--from insects and folk art to ship figureheads and stain-glass doors--continue to live in such harmony with the sea. His houses were, as he said, places for him to play, places of constant flux. I had not intended my visit to his homes to be so poignant, but seeing as it is the end of my trip, his idea of home took on special meaning for me. Being around his things justified my wanting to come home--to be surrounded by my favorite playthings, to receive pleasure and peace in deciding where they live in relation to one another, to feel comfort in my everyday routine interactions with a space which I have created. These are some of the things I miss. More important was his emphasis on company. His homes, though containing private spaces, are designed to receive guests, have parties, and grand feasts. It is for this reason that I am most happy to be coming home--the sharing of meals with the ones I love or at least like. Neruda said that eating alone was like eating in the tomb. I`m not sure it is true. I don't want it to be true, but he has a point. It could always be better with cherished company. And so I was grateful to him and for the perfect timing with which I encountered his homes, it has made my homecoming that much more celebrated.
My hostel experience in Valparaiso also inspired celebration of my rapidly approaching homecoming. It was a classic hostel scene which I have come to dearly hate--australian backpackers (they usually come in ambiguous boy-girl pairs), a few cold and exclusive giggly swiss, danish or dutch girls, a couple of aging american men (always snorers, always relaxing with a beer and bragging about their recent adventures), and a decent-seeming couple from france or someplace who despite their decentness entertain the "where you´ve been, where yoú`re going" discussion. There is always an oddball. Sometimes these are the good ones and other times they are the exceptionally bad ones. This oddball was a seventy-year old world traveling narcissist by the name of Carol. She had just returned from Easter Island, and while she had loved La Serena to the north and Mendoza the the east, nothing was going to be better than the island. SHe wanted to go home, but did little in the way of making it happen. She stayed at the hostel during the day drinking instant coffee and was there at night getting very drunk on box wine. She was more or less the same by day as by night, though the box wine made her markedly more flirtatious. Her tactic was cornering anyone she could to lecture them about her travels--her likes and most of all her deep dislikes. She had many dislikes, and she became very animated in elaborating on them. She must have been a great beauty in her youth. This, I believe must have helped her battle through much of her life. She continues to maintain a good appearance--face made-up, body trim. She is, after all, a swimmer. She dearly misses her pool back at home. When I left the hostel to return to Santiago, Carol was sorting out her receipts and complaining to a newcomer (from Australia) about the filth of Valparaiso.
Valparaiso seemed particularly filthy in that particular morning's light; it was a holiday. The streets were quiet, the doors and windows barred, the still air heavy. It was a sort of Labor Day. Families gathered in the quiet plazas down below and a thinly populated parade passed by at one point. Even with their banners and megaphones, they barely filled the cobbled streets. It was in this holiday silence that I made my way back to Santiago by bus, where I found a similar scene. The streets here, however were filled with the quiet carnage of the mornings more lively parades. Only the occasional minimarket or restaurant were open, leaving the celebrating families to enjoy the peaceful comfort of their own homes. It was eery, bittersweet. A quiet farewell. The next part of the journey is all airports and changing time zones, both of which are neither quiet nor conducive to meditation.