Viña Del Mar

The next morning arrives a little too early for me, the night being full of the drunken hippies making ridiculous amounts of noise and mess. But with my bus going back to Sanitago later in the afternoon, I force myself to take one last trip up the lifts to see the ‘Gallery in the Sky’ – an open-air display of art. But call me stupid, or call me blind, because I once again find myself stumbling around, finding nothing.

The streets in town still aren’t really busy, despite being a Monday, but lots of students are moving around, hopefully doing something. Wanting to make the most of the coastline, I decided to take the train to Viña Del Mar, but it seems you need a card to travel, and they are a little too expensive for just one trip. So I jump on a minibus and let the warm sun melt the chill in the air as I make my way there.

I watch as a young boy hangs from the front door of our ride, shouting out our destination and trying to get more passengers for his driver. He can’t be more than 15 years old, and I wonder if this will be the start of a career, or just a way of avoiding school. We zoom along at break-neck pace and in no time at all, I am thrown me out at the main square where I walk up to the Palacio Vergara.

I think that it must be seniors’ day though, because the grounds have been filled with bus-loads of them who are moving about slowly. The main building is of course closed, being the first day of the week, but there is a strangely modern amphitheatre behind, that fills in some more time.

Known for its plants and greenery, Viña is dotted with plant pots and trees, but it is also home to a fair share of tin-shaking beggars who line the river crossing (well, that’s what it looks like on the map, but actually there is no water below, just a crude dusty carpark). Horse and carts follow me up the 12 blocks to the main stretch of beach and as I turn onto the waterfront, I instantly think of Port Melbourne and St Kilda.

High-rise apartment blocks wait silently for the summer again, with a handful of markets stalls and a wooden boardwalk winding a path along the back of the sand. I soon stop to grab some lunch, realising that there is not much else to see here, and think that a nice salad and some reading might calm my tired nerves. But the first place I visit, despite its extensive menu, only has ham and cheese toasties, cakes, and ice cream on offer, so I am forced to move further up after only one drink.

Aptly named “Enjoy Viña Del Mar”, the next restaurant is probably the only place that you will do such, this time of the year. Its slick stainless steel and white décor makes it stand out from its position on a tiny inlet, and I order what turns out to be the biggest latte I have ever had. I gladly let it run down my throat as I read my book in the sun and consider that some places are probably only best when enjoyed in warmth.

Up and Down To Neruda’s Merry-Go-Round

Obviously, with all the gifts that were given to us at the winery, breakfast was a rather late affair, and my plan to get to Valparaíso had to wait until after lunch. Just a short two-hour ride on the bus, Chile’s colourful coastal city – known to locals just as Valpo – was a bit of unknown entity to me (short of the lychee liqueur by the same name that I used to pour in a cocktail bar). What I was thinking was: sun, sand, and sweet drinks.

And I guess I was right on two accounts – well, one and a half. When I arrived at the bus terminal, the morning sun had lifted the hill-grown chill from the air, and people were busy going about their Sunday market trading. But as I scooted up the steady incline to my hostel, it would seem that I would have to wait until Viña del Mar to get some beach, with the waterfront here being taken up by a steady flow of ships and boats into the large seagull-infested harbour.

I dropped my bags in a garishly painted room, grabbed an empanada at the corner shop, and headed down the hill. And so started the not-so-sweet part. Filled with an even bigger number of stray dogs than Bariloche, the many laneways, alleys and quaint streets are also home to an unpleasant stench of the animal kind. Not quite the accompaniment I had hoped to go with my fresh-baked pastry.

Also lining the unfortunate streets were a disproportionate number of alternative-lifestyle types – so explains the many hippie-like individuals I spied in my brief tour of the hostel – who seem to have all just made it out to see the middle of the day. I took no notice though, despite feeling like I am constantly being watched, and head to the city’s clock tower to take its adjoining Ascensor (“lift”) Concepción up .

Now this is where it gets confusing. Not only because Lonely Planet has misnamed one of these integral transportation devices, but because this apparent solution to the city’s vertical challenges is not as simple as a quick up and down. Just to make it interesting, Valpo is set around a series of hills that rise and fall with alarming randomness throughout its suburbs – don’t bother coming here if you have bad knees. Thus, when wanting to reach a particular street in town, the ordinary map is not really very helpful, and a more geographical one is non-existent.

I make it up to the top, to see an excellent view of the harbour, and find some interesting jewellery and art in the mini-markets above. I then decide to take in some more of the multi-coloured houses and complementary graffiti and stroll around so many ups and downs, that soon I am walking around completely lost. I am just glad that it is Sunday and there are not too many people or cars about.

I eventually make it back to the ascensor - which doesn’t appear to run to a timetable, rather, it moves when the controller at the top rings a bell to say that it is on the way – and pay again at the bottom. I follow the Lonely Planet guide and walk along to the next one, to see the Palacio Barburizza – home to the Museum of Bellas Artes. But when I get there, I not only realise that it is the wrong lift, but am told that the museum is no longer open, and was closed years ago when it stopped making money (well, what did they expect when it was free to get in?) Just to be sure, I take the right lift – El Peral, which just happens to be cheaper because it is run by the local council – and quickly make my way past the young boys trying to lure me into their path to steal my stuff. (They are very cunning here, wearing all the bling - ipods, cameras and the like - to make them look like tourists or richer than they are).

But the locals are rights, and it is indeed closed. I take a final spin down past the Monumento a los Héroes de Iquique masouleum, dedicated to Chilean navymen who died in the War of the Pacific, before I realise the time and know that I must hurry if I am going to get to see Pablo Neruda’s old house before it closes. Of course the taxi driver tries to screw me again, but I am getting good and somehow manage to force him to put on the meter before he launches into a recital of his favourite Neruda poem.

Luckily when I get to La Sebastiana (named after its builder Sebastian, who Neruda said was like a poet when fashioning it) it is still open, and I squeeze in as the last person. And what a way to finish the day! I am instantly attracted to the impressive design and interior, built around the view of the harbour, and fashioned to Neruda’s love for play, From his collection of paintings, furniture and trinkets to his “cloud” chair that overlooks the view, he was meticulously in collecting pieces to fill his life and house with joy. And how could one go past the circular room with its carousel horse?

My personal favourite though, is the quirky bar – stuffed full of trinkets that each have their own story – and I quickly sneak in a photo, despite the prohibition on taking them. I am pretty sure Pablo wouldn’t mind.