fishers, surfers and casters

After 5 days in Sao Paulo, I had learned enough Portuguese to order at cafes and restaurants, ask for directions, even carry on polite conference conversation. It ruined my Spanish. Well, it ruined the little Spanish I knew from my years as a Pedro Almodovar fan, and from American cop shows (the first words being las drogas and los assissinos). Two days so far and for some reason I keep getting hot chocolate instead of espresso.

Yesterday I was saved for the day by two lovely Chilean lads, Jaime, a Porticus fellow and Santiago resident, and his son, also named Jaime. First they took me to the Gran Mercado de Santiago, that was lined with small seafood restaurants with little men who accosted us, as they do in Lygon St. I was impressed by their grasp of Strine. Their “G’day mate” and “‘Ow ya goen?” were impeccable.

El Museo de Bellas Artes was bliss. The Chileans know postmodern art and embrace it. I saw  paintings of machines giving birth, of horses running gleefully through nothingness, of Jesus toting machine guns above papal and presidential marionettes. It was here that I decided to email Fran, a colleague in Melbourne who grew up in Santiago, and is presently fielding all my work calls, that I had fallen in love and wasn’t coming back.

Then mi amigo Jaime, y mi otro amigo Jaime, took a trek up Santa Lucia, a hill in the centre of town where sits an old fort built by the Spaniards to kill as many indigenous people from above. From there we could see the city in its truth, as a point among massive mountains of cloud and snow. It was either love or vertigo, or maybe they are the same thing.