Arriving back in Santiago felt like something of a homecoming; it was a really nice feeling to be traveling to a city that we were familiar with. Before leaving San Pedro, Becca and I had decided that we wanted to explore a new area, so we settled on Barrio Brasil, picked a hostel from the list in Lonely Planet, and got a taxi. Our driver didn’t speak much English, but insisted on trying to talk with us anyway. After a while, he steered the conversation to American music and then to Whitney Houston. We didn’t think anything of it until, at the next red light, he ripped open his glove compartment and started ominously hunting through it. Becca and I exchanged Is this the point where we jump out and run? glances until he proudly held up what he had been searching for: a burned CD with “Whitney Houston” written on it in Sharpie.
The next ten to fifteen minutes of memory are a hazy fog for me, filled with flashbacks of Becca and our driver (a man in his fifties with grey hair) belting out Whitney Houston with the windows down and the stereo turned up to a blistering volume while our taxi sped through nighttime Santiago, often attracting the attention of passengers in other cars or people standing on sidewalks. When we finally reached the neighborhood, we drove around for another ten minutes before our driver explained he couldn’t figure out how to get to the hostel; one particular one-way road was throwing him off. He got us as close as he could (about half a block away) and pointed us in the right direction. We grabbed our bags, paid him, thanked him for the entertainment, and he sped off.
We walked down the block, following the street numbers until we got to our hostel. Except there wasn’t a hostel there. We checked and double-checked the street and the house numbers and verified we were in the right place. Yup, right address, no hostel, just a dark building.
Thanks Lonely Planet.
We pulled up the Lonely Planet guide for the neighborhood and located the next hostel on the list. It wasn’t far, so we walked over and found it. And by “it” I mean “another dark building”. We double-checked the street and house numbers again and again; there was nothing resembling a hostel.
Fuck you Lonely Planet.
This particular block had signs for two other hostels, so we tried the first one. No answer. After a few more failed attempts, we left and tried the second hostel. The man who answered the door spoke very little English, but we spoke enough body language to understand he had no beds for the evening.
With the silence of dejection and crankiness fully upon the two of us and the hour growing very late, we started to consider (again) the possibility of being homeless for the night. As our internal monologues became increasingly riddled with obscenities, I decided to look up the third (and last) hostel listed in Lonely Planet. Based on the hostel’s description as a party palace for gap-year kids, we had previously decided to avoid it, but now our hand was being forced, so we started walking.
The hostel (La Casa Roja), thankfully, actually existed. Not only did they have beds for the night, but they had a private room and they would give us a 20% discount if we stayed for three nights. It just so happened that we had exactly three nights left in our trip, so in the interest of getting off the streets and not being grumpy anymore, we signed on.
As we walked to our room and wandered around the hostel, we slowly started to realize what we had stumbled upon. La Casa Roja is located in a former 19th century colonial mansion, complete with multiple courtyards, gardens, a swimming pool, a hot tub, massive ceilings, a huge kitchen and dining room, and at least half a dozen common areas. This was not a hostel, it was an estate. It had grounds. There was a pool house that had been converted into a bar that sold $5 bottles of Chilean wine. And all of this cost us each $20 a night.
OMG THANK YOU LONELY PLANET I LOVE YOU
The next day we slept in after partaking a bit too much of the hostel’s inexpensive selection of wine. We rolled out around lunchtime and walked the neighborhood, finally settling on a place (D’Angelus) to grab some food. We shared some chorrillana, a traditional Chilean/Peruvian dish that is a layered parfait of french fries, beef, and fried eggs. Instead of beef, we had a layer of tasty sauteed veggies. The entire dish was massive and delicious and quite possibly the most perfect hangover food ever.
After lunch, we strolled to Calle Bandera, a street that runs close to Plaza de Armas and is known for having a variety of used and vintage clothing stores. The reason for the shopping was that we wanted to have one bougie night on the trip, so I needed to find some clothes nicer than the ones I had brought. We rummaged through most of the stores for the rest of the afternoon and I ended up buying a sport coat and a few ties; I was hopeful that one of the ties would pair in a not-too-terrible way with the only nice plaid shirt I had brought on the trip.
That evening, we had our bougie night. We went to dinner at an Italian restaurant (Nolita) in Las Condes, a high-end neighborhood that feels like the financial district in San Francisco. In fact, the area is also known as “Sanhattan” (a portmanteau of “Santiago” and “Manhattan”). We knew we were rolling high-class when we opened the menu and realized we were going to have to pay at least $25 for only one bottle of wine. Sheesh, talk about breaking the bank! That said, the meal was worth every penny because we had some phenomenal Italian food. Becca had the blue cheese and goat cheese gnocchi; I tried a bit and I can honestly say it was the best gnocchi I’ve ever had.
After dinner, we walked over to The W Hotel in the hopes of going to their rooftop bar, but our hopes were dashed when we learned it was being renovated. Instead, we settled into their “regular” lounge, which was probably the largest and swankiest hotel lounge I’ve ever seen. We enjoyed some cocktails and pisco while watching a scarf-laden, 20-something DJ spin some tunes while literally lounging on a sofa. We also took the opportunity of actually being dressed nicely to have a faux-model, I’m-too-good-to-look-at-the-camera photo shoot.
The next day was an actual excursion out of the city: a full-day trip to the Andes. We climbed on a coach with about fifty other tourists, rented some snow pants and Wellies, and drove up a steep, switchback-laden road to the top of the mountains. We stopped at a couple ski resorts, had some beers, had some lunch, hiked around a bit, and played in the snow for a few hours. The views and the weather were spectacular.
For our last full night in Santiago, we went back to Bellavista for dinner followed by a visit to a jazz club, something we had been trying to do for the entire trip. As usual, the evening consisted of amazing food and a bottle of wine (which was so exclusive that it didn’t have a label, but rather a vintage written in Sharpie). We spent an unusually long time at dinner because we couldn’t help but chat with the incredibly friendly staff about food, wine, Chile, the States, and traveling. The restaurant (The White Rabbit) was as high-end and organic as anything on Valencia St. in the Mission, but unfortunately they haven’t found their footing yet in Santiago. Here’s hoping that a blog mention and a positive TripAdvisor review will steer some business their way.
Our last day in Chile was spent, appropriately, visiting a couple wineries for tours and tastings. The first was Undurraga, a sprawling estate with fields, fountains, statues, old architecture, massive machinery, and cellars full of wine barrels. The tour was unlike Napa or Sonoma wine “tours” in that this visit included a guide and an actual tour of the grounds, complete with geology, history, and chemistry lessons. It was a gorgeous day out, so no one was complaining about touring a winery and tasting wine in the sunshine. Becca and I each found our soulmates.
The second winery, Santa Rita, had a similar feel. The architecture was reminiscent of Spanish villas, the grounds were sprawling, and the cellars were dark and full of barrels and bottles. Again there was an interesting dichotomy of old buildings and modern technology; bricks, stone, and wood beams peacefully coexisting with stainless steel tanks, digital readouts, and high-output assembly lines. The winery even had a full-fledged museum that was professionally curated and filled with Chilean art and artifacts. Chile takes its wine (and its wineries) very, very seriously. After three weeks of wine-induced bliss, I was ready to trust fall and Chile did not disappoint.
That evening we enjoyed what we could of the city before heading to the airport for our 2:00 AM flight. We stopped at the sushi place next door to the hostel (Platipus) for a bountiful dinner, washed down with some delicious Guayacan beer. With my opportunities for adventure dwindling, I tried one of the veggie rolls with cream cheese and chives and it was some of the best sushi I’ve ever had. Thanks Chile. Thanks for ruining another food group for me.
After dinner, we stopped by D’Angelus again for terremotos, a traditional Chilean cocktail made from pineapple ice cream and pipeño, a wine that’s somewhat similar to white wine. It was a bit too sweet and fruity for me, reminiscent of those frozen drinks you get by the yard in Vegas, but I was glad I tried it at least once. After one last round of pisco sours, we cabbed to the airport and wished Chile a heartfelt and sad goodbye as we started our journey back home.
I plan on writing up one more blog entry with some final thoughts, but for now I’ll conclude by saying my three-week adventure in Chile was a life-affirming trip with a wonderful, close friend. The entire experience was unforgettable and a reminder of why we all work hard, why we all save our money, and why we all bother to get up in the morning. We packed a lot into three weeks, and yet we barely scratched the surface of half the country.
Dare I suggest a southern Chile trip is in our futures? I guess only time will tell.