Black Island
The long distance bus chugs on up through the steep valley sides of the city's neighbourhoods and makes good progress. The landscape is now of trees and dry scrubland. There was little wind this morning and a thin sea mist sat above the bay and over the sloping cityscape. Of course, this is because of the differential temperature between the cool Humboldt current which flows up the Chilean coastline cooling the Pacific Ocean and the contrast with the sun baked land. It is the first day when the backdrop of the Andes has been hidden from view; on a clear, windy day you can see Argentina. That's how extraordinarily thin this country is.
Market day in Valpo
To get here, the local bus (something between a mini bus and single decker) had taken me down through sinuous streets I hadn't yet explored. It snaked down through the unfamiliar cerros (city hill neighbourhoods) past yet more colourful shacks perched on steep slopes; down past yet more funiculars, whose rickety wooden carriages shook their passengers up and down the hillsides; and onto the flat part of the city where decadent, ornate façades of up to five stories paved the city streets, deep in the port. More murals still painted the walls; the art in this city is forever.
A rustic air of romance permanently fills the air that words, pictures or videos cannot embody.
Down in the thin, flatter docking area there was much traffic for the market was on; delicious looking corn, cherries, onions, potatoes, red and green peppers were presented to the public in shopping trolleys, in cardboard boxes, in hands, in bags and all types of vessel imaginable. The market workers here are as resourceful as they are pragmatic.
Then, the bus stops at the intersection and the market comes onto the bus. A man steps on board and calls out to all the passengers "agüita", he is selling cool bottled water. His wrinkled face is missing half his teeth. Another steps on board, selling ice lollies from a cardboard box the size of his torso. I glance at the box in curiosity and sharply look away as he thinks he has made a sale.
Then, I am off the bus and in the crowds and off I go to the bus station, equipped with 500g of fresh cherries for 500 pesos. *
Pablo Neruda's house on the Pacific.
If words cannot capture the mystical romance that Valpariso holds as I mentioned earlier whilst typing on the bus and recalling my morning, then even pictures, letters, symbols, videos and sounds and smells are insufficient and language is suddenly limiting in its ability to define the tranquility of this magical and imaginary spot.
And let me be honest about my lack of cultural knowledge; I only knew the name Neruda from the hotel I stayed in in Mendoza but I knew this was a place I was drawn to. And having got here, like a magnet I will have to fight the forces keeping me here in this peace.
It is magical, the shades of the grey stones inside and out the house. The collections of shells, of boats in bottles swimming on the windowsills on the waves of the ocean outside, of the wooden carvings of Gods from Easter Island, of the lapis lazuli quartz and crystal fireplace decorated with specially chosen fossils, of the position of the bed out to sea, of the views out to the Pacific and beyond, of the mozaic fish that speckle the walls of this most special house and to my favourite; not the collection of over two hundred glass bottles bought from flea markets in Paris but of the larger blues, greens and turquoise glass bottles that seem to shimmer and dance in the Pacific Ocean light streaming through the window in the dining room.
And the colour of the Pisco Sour has drawn me to it so I order one and sip it, gazing out to the crashing waves below me.
Here I am.
And this is life.
I ask for a table and the waiter explains that I can wait for a good view, I tell him time here is not important, that life is short and that I may never come back. I sit at the bar waiting on my table with my dazzling blue green pisco sour reflecting in that most extraordinary light. And then at my table with the oceanic backdrop where I take a moment to type this, he serves me a small white bowl of seaweed and tells me I have beautiful eyes. I ask him to take a photo and he tells me of course how could he not take a photo of such a gorgeous model. He points down to the seaweed at the rocks below my feet, this is for you to try he says. It is divine.
A guitarist stands behind me singing about a sadness so strong that the sky has begun to weep and I gaze into the turquoise curling waves of Neruda's vista and I shed a tear uncontrollably, a melancholic wave washes over me
The guitarist hands me a paper bag and on it in a pen from the gift shop I write the following, including 800 pesos in coins
Your song about the weeping sky made me shed a tear whilst gazing at the crashing, blue green waves.
I don't know if he will understand it or who will see it but there it is; a message on a paper bag in the ether.
The waiter returns with my black tea and blueberry cheesecake and it is delicious. It comes with a ball of Vanilla icecream on the side and I read my new book "Poems to remember" by Neruda. As he sets down my cheescake he tells me "I wish I could enjoy this moment with you." I say "oh Im shy." And he says "I am too." I say to him distantly, "I don't think you are." He is tanned and has a long dark plat in his hair.
"In this life if we don't dare ourselves we do not know what we can get." The 21 year old tells me. "Never be afraid of compliments."
How wise.
We exchange names and part ways.
Good luck, he says.
You too.
I walk up to the bus stop and sit down beside a sign indicating the evacuation route in case of tsunami and I am reminded how ephemeral life can be.
Market day in Valpo
To get here, the local bus (something between a mini bus and single decker) had taken me down through sinuous streets I hadn't yet explored. It snaked down through the unfamiliar cerros (city hill neighbourhoods) past yet more colourful shacks perched on steep slopes; down past yet more funiculars, whose rickety wooden carriages shook their passengers up and down the hillsides; and onto the flat part of the city where decadent, ornate façades of up to five stories paved the city streets, deep in the port. More murals still painted the walls; the art in this city is forever.
A rustic air of romance permanently fills the air that words, pictures or videos cannot embody.
Down in the thin, flatter docking area there was much traffic for the market was on; delicious looking corn, cherries, onions, potatoes, red and green peppers were presented to the public in shopping trolleys, in cardboard boxes, in hands, in bags and all types of vessel imaginable. The market workers here are as resourceful as they are pragmatic.
Then, the bus stops at the intersection and the market comes onto the bus. A man steps on board and calls out to all the passengers "agüita", he is selling cool bottled water. His wrinkled face is missing half his teeth. Another steps on board, selling ice lollies from a cardboard box the size of his torso. I glance at the box in curiosity and sharply look away as he thinks he has made a sale.
Then, I am off the bus and in the crowds and off I go to the bus station, equipped with 500g of fresh cherries for 500 pesos. *
Pablo Neruda's house on the Pacific.
If words cannot capture the mystical romance that Valpariso holds as I mentioned earlier whilst typing on the bus and recalling my morning, then even pictures, letters, symbols, videos and sounds and smells are insufficient and language is suddenly limiting in its ability to define the tranquility of this magical and imaginary spot.
And let me be honest about my lack of cultural knowledge; I only knew the name Neruda from the hotel I stayed in in Mendoza but I knew this was a place I was drawn to. And having got here, like a magnet I will have to fight the forces keeping me here in this peace.
It is magical, the shades of the grey stones inside and out the house. The collections of shells, of boats in bottles swimming on the windowsills on the waves of the ocean outside, of the wooden carvings of Gods from Easter Island, of the lapis lazuli quartz and crystal fireplace decorated with specially chosen fossils, of the position of the bed out to sea, of the views out to the Pacific and beyond, of the mozaic fish that speckle the walls of this most special house and to my favourite; not the collection of over two hundred glass bottles bought from flea markets in Paris but of the larger blues, greens and turquoise glass bottles that seem to shimmer and dance in the Pacific Ocean light streaming through the window in the dining room.
And the colour of the Pisco Sour has drawn me to it so I order one and sip it, gazing out to the crashing waves below me.
Here I am.
And this is life.
I ask for a table and the waiter explains that I can wait for a good view, I tell him time here is not important, that life is short and that I may never come back. I sit at the bar waiting on my table with my dazzling blue green pisco sour reflecting in that most extraordinary light. And then at my table with the oceanic backdrop where I take a moment to type this, he serves me a small white bowl of seaweed and tells me I have beautiful eyes. I ask him to take a photo and he tells me of course how could he not take a photo of such a gorgeous model. He points down to the seaweed at the rocks below my feet, this is for you to try he says. It is divine.
A guitarist stands behind me singing about a sadness so strong that the sky has begun to weep and I gaze into the turquoise curling waves of Neruda's vista and I shed a tear uncontrollably, a melancholic wave washes over me
The guitarist hands me a paper bag and on it in a pen from the gift shop I write the following, including 800 pesos in coins
Your song about the weeping sky made me shed a tear whilst gazing at the crashing, blue green waves.
I don't know if he will understand it or who will see it but there it is; a message on a paper bag in the ether.
The waiter returns with my black tea and blueberry cheesecake and it is delicious. It comes with a ball of Vanilla icecream on the side and I read my new book "Poems to remember" by Neruda. As he sets down my cheescake he tells me "I wish I could enjoy this moment with you." I say "oh Im shy." And he says "I am too." I say to him distantly, "I don't think you are." He is tanned and has a long dark plat in his hair.
"In this life if we don't dare ourselves we do not know what we can get." The 21 year old tells me. "Never be afraid of compliments."
How wise.
We exchange names and part ways.
Good luck, he says.
You too.
I walk up to the bus stop and sit down beside a sign indicating the evacuation route in case of tsunami and I am reminded how ephemeral life can be.
The Market
Isla Negra
Isla Negra, Chile
Sabado el 15 de diciembre 2018
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