Got up, with a little difficulty, in time for checkout. I’d gotten a call the day before from Andres, the owner of my supposed apartment-to-be. A bit hungover, and underestimating the time it would take me to get my stuff in Nunoa and return to the centre, I was late. I messaged Andres to inform him, and he in turn messaged me that he’d be late, and it all wound up being a lot of waiting.
However, it was well worth it. The building was actually one I’d visited and enquired about during my walking tour of the city a few days earlier. Superbly located, right in the centre between Bellas Artes and Plaza de Armas metro stations, but a little north of the downtown core where I hoped there’d be a little less constant activity so that I could get a little rest when needed.
Andres, a nice guy who insisted on using his perfect english most of the time, finally arrived and gave me the grand tour of the building. Entrance, bicycle parking, laundromat, terrace on the roof with incredible view, pool and gym… wow.
On top of the world: view from the building
Finally, we came into the small apartment. Perfect! A nice kitchenette, two beds, a table, a bathroom… pretty much everything I could possibly need during the month.
My home-sweet-home: perfect!Kitchen: source of a balanced meals
Andres had forgotten the contract we were supposed to sign, which made me suspicious again, but sent me an “email receipt” for the rent. When he gave me the keys and finally left, I was happy and relieved. This was the cheapest apartment I’d found, and yet it was perfect and, most importantly, perfectly located.
I headed down to the Santa Isabel, the nearest supermarket only three blocks away, got some supplies and had a relaxed celebration in my new home.
After another tough night, I got up hoping that today—the last official weekday of my vacation time—I would finally close some deal for an apartment. I had to call Sheryl (the apt @ LaMoneda) and wanted to get some time off downtown by booking a few nights at La Casa Roja. I was getting tired of the never-ending apt hunt, especially since everyday that went by meant another day of feeling like everyone in Nunoa and back home was worried and trying to help out. The upside was that as time was running out, apartments por diarios (paid per day) started coming into range.
In any case, if nothing else worked out, I thought I might risk doing the thing through HomeChile. In the end, even if I lost the entire deposit, it would be a price similar to an apart-hotel.
Hit the road and started with La Casa Roja. One thing I noticed: it’s better to get off at Los Heroes and walk west on O’Higgins, to Av. Brasil, and then walk up north directly. Going straight north, you wind up in some less hospitable areas…
Brasil Ave and Agustinas
Book a shared room for that night and the next (Friday and Saturday). I’d been promised a night on the town on Friday by my new pals from Bar La Nona… not sure I could take it tonight, but either way I’d get some time out of the family action in Nunoa.
Aaah... Back yard, Casa Roja
Was told the best way back to the Casa late would be by taxi: Brasil avenue is a street with a few bars, passed Agustina, but below is mainly a slew of tiny stores selling hydraulic machine parts, tires, car parts and gaskets… It must be quite dead at night.
Shops on Brasil Ave
Typical example of the very specialized minishops
The call to Sheryl went in what I was coming to think of as classic Chileno fashion: suddenly things had changed, nothing was available and I should just forget it. Hard to count on anything, in these parts. “We’ll come pick you up on Wednesday”, mmhm. “Walk down three blocks”, yeah. “Use your phone number as the PIN”, sure. “Call tomorrow”, ok. It seems a grain, or ten, of salt must be added to every statement relating to the future.
La Moneda, down belowLa Moneda, up top
Sick of the equivocation, I went from Los Heroes, in barrio Brasil, to Los Leones, in Providencia, and the offices of HomeChile. Was so tired of it all, I decided to take the risk, without even seeing the apartment—even if they were starting to raise the pressure with the “other people are interested” line. Murgh.
HomeChile's spartan offices
HomeChile wanted to take the whole sum: fee, deposit and monthly rent for the owner. However, they’d only provide a receipt for the first two, and transfer the rest of the cash to the proprietor. Uh, no thanks. I gave them what they’d provide a paper trail for, and would pay the owner on Sunday, when I’d actually get the key to the place.
Took a few subtle pics of the office, and swiped the owners phone number and RUT from the computer screen by entering it in my phone like a text message. Yeah, a little paranoid, but it’s a good chunk of cash with little of anything real in hand for the moment.
A little stressed, but very happy the apt hunting might be over, I left Providencia for a little pre-Friday night downtime in Nunoa. After that, the Casa Roja seemed oddly empty.
The I've-got-an-apt dance of joyShared Room @ Casa Roja... hmmmm.
I went out back for a cerveza and a little time to collect my thoughts. The minibar by the pool had only a handful of patrons, and the actual bar was completely shut down. A small group of germans were the single source of life but their circle was slowly growing.
Seems most people were partying elsewhere tonight. Actually, you could hear the activity beyond the Casa walls and, in a quick tour of the block, I found people everywhere. The patios on Brasil were full, but so were most of the street corners and the park. Around 11pm , screaming and giggling children were on the slides and swings, while globs of teens agglomerated around most of the park benches, laughing and drinking beer, some playing music.
At the Casa, the bar man was morose and wasn’t helping the atmosphere with his complaints about low turnout, places he never wanted to go back to, and life in general. That was my queue to head out for a snack before calling it a night. I ambled down Brasil Av. a bit, stopped at the Blondie Snack Bar and ordered a napolitana pizza and coca light.
As I was sipping my coke, waiting for the food, that same group of germans showed up. The troupe had grown to 11, and included two Norwegian girls, one Canadian from T.O. and a Chilean. They promptly merged my table on the patio with two others and I was suddenly part of the gang.
A friendly and festive group, the germans had met in Valparaiso where most are studying mechanical engineering and pretty much everyone but Shane, the canadian, was in Santiago for some sort of bal-en-blanc: a rave-type affair where everybody dresses in white, to be held the following night two clicks north in an old train station. I was invited, tongue-in-cheek, to join that party—everyone seemed to know I wouldn’t have much white in my wardrobe. Shane, who was only part of the band that night, tried his best to chat with me from across the table but had lost his voice from partying the night(s) before so we basically did a bit of smile and nod and left it at that.
I was discreetly handed a small roll of paper and told it was Alex’s–the guy to my right–birthday and that on the signal, we should all throw him a little surprise. Shortly after the beers arrived, it was time. I obliged, and threw my roll which bounced off his head without unfurling. The others were more successful, namely because they were throwing confetti. Lots and lots of confetti.
Alex, the birthday boy, trying to lose a little confetti
The small mounds accumulating on the ground around Alex didn’t seem to bother the Blondie staff, but I felt a little awkward about the mess. At least they, unlike me by this point, were drinking heavily so I figured it would be all good. Still, I made excuses for the mess to the waitress and gave her a good tip to compensate a little. She didn’t seem to care about that either.
Back at the table, the booze was flowing and the conversation bouncing around many subjects but always returning to the big party set for the next night. At first, one of the Norwegian girls—studying Corporate Social Responsibility in Valpo—seemed pretty interesting and we had the beginnings of a conversation about the nature and role of enterprise. But soon the subjects of how annoying the “German mafia” at her uni was, or how tacky this or that or something else was, started getting a bit repetitive.
At some point, I returned from the washroom and a local had joined in the conversation obviously with the intent to sell something. He was 61 years old, and had a short grey beard, dark skin and was wearing fatigues with a beret. He quickly turned to the subject of the ongoing, never ending, revolution of the people of South America. You could feel the yearning in his voice when he spoke of the 1970-1973 period. He said it was the best times Chile had had and that, after, everything had changed. However brutal the Allende government had actually been here (only heard that one from a single person: a Player on the Chilean cricket team, who I’d meet later, but he had a bit of mala onda to him… so I dunno the real story there), this guy seemed like he’d been—and still was—firmly on the side of the people, and I respect that.
A revolutionary visits our table
He had something good, and revolutionary-related, to say about all the nations represented at our table. When someone spilled the beans about me, he tilted his head and stroked his beard… “yes, yes, Canada, Montreal. I can’t remember… what is the name, where you are from?” I guessed he meant Quebec, and he jump and exclaimed “Ah oui! Les Quebecois! Les Quebecois! They are fighters, as well, les Quebecois!” beaming a huge smile.
I’m uncertain whether he was living out on the street, but his income was derived from the jewelry he made of onyx and other stones. Instead of making a sale, he just gave an earring to one of the Norwegian girls and was on his way.
The party was just starting for these guys, but I was exhausted and bid them farewell. By the time I was ready to try out my upper level bunk in the shared room, it was 02h30. Shane was in the common area, with a few other people, having a cigarette or ten to ensure his voice would never return. We managed to have a talk, then, and he showed me pictures of Mendoza (Argentina). I’d been thinking of going, if only to cross the Andes by bus, and he talked of the place as somewhere he would love to live: a burning sun but with every street shaded by rows of trees, a beautiful and quiet town but where you could party all night if you felt like it. Not a bad sales pitch.
Turns out we we in the same room. I prepped and crawled into bed as quietly as I could, but feared that the alcohol might put me in big-snore mode. Don’t think it was much of a problem, my sleep was light and disturbed regularly by movement, the return of revellers, and someone’s checking around 6 am. Got a call around 7am: the guys who were supposed to take me out the night before… not sure what it was about, but it was a little late for partying by that point. Not a very restful night.
The night was long and arduous… seems I had a good sip of local water, somehow, and my system was definitely not immune from my visit from a year ago. By morning, I still felt tired but somewhat better.
The day would be a day of discovery through walking. The plan was to find a few recurring areas from the various agencies, and a promising site—http://www.portalinmobiliario.com—I’d managed to get from some Australians intercepted on the street, and walk around looking for signs or simply asking the front desk if they had rentals available.
Early Plaza de Armas
Walk I did, with Plaza de Armas as a rallying point, I walked east to Lastaria (metro Bella Artes), a very urban area nicely located and filled with activity. I think it pretty much around Mosqueto and Santo Domingo, where there’s a nice park before turning into asphalt desert and the rio Mapocho.
Screechy Preachy: you, yes YOU, are a siiiiiner!
Then north, across the Mapocho, to barrio Patronato: not a place I’d like to have to go late at night. It was dry, downtrodden, and looked like the kind of place that would be completely dead by nightfall.
Barrio Patronato--not so cool.Vinegar youths
... everywhere!
One thing that kept coming up were the small hords of dirty, and smelly—but not just regular I-haven’t-washed-in-weeks smelly, more like dipped-in-vinegar smelly—youths panhandling pretty much everywhere. I’d seen, and been perplexed by, the same last time around and they seemed more numerous than ever.
Well, I finally got an explanation: no they aren’t some weird subspecies that crop up in South American cities. Well, in a way they are, as I’ve never seen anything like it up north… in any case, they are the hapless victims of university initiations forced into smelly servitude as a right of passage.
Circled around a few times, not much luck seeing any kinds of posted signs. A few of the buildings I enquired with actually had temp rentals, including some really nice ones near Santo Domingo and Mac Iver, but none of them were ever available–blast you, U2 concert! Many would be free soon, but only on the 27th, after the show.
Back to Plaza de Armas
At the Moneda St*rbucks, got some refreshment and connectivity. Managed to talk with a few advertisers from Portal Inmobiliario, by phone, which was pretty difficult but worked out rather well. One woman had an interesting place, just south of where I was a little passed Alameda (the common name for O’Higgins). She told me to call back tomorrow, as it was occupied until then.
Horse-on-roids parkBellas Artes MetroMySpace pic!
I walked down to check out the area. Seems like south of O’Higgins is almost always the wrong side of the tracks. Just in front of La Moneda, there’s a nice public space, with vendors and fountains, but things degrade quickly.
I enquired about apartments with two people who were exiting a building. They started providing suggestions but were interrupted by a woman in a nearby kiosko. She said she knew of someone who was renting and had a place available. She called to confirm, and gave me a number to call in 45 minutes. She wasn’t too clear on where it was, other than a little bit further south, but seemed nice and I pocketed the number for Daniella, the owner.
Daniella said the people were vacating and that I should call back around five. Ambling back up north, I encountered a few friendly doorman, who usually had nothing for me but could point me to some add posted near the elevator, with a number for an agency or an owner renting to tourists. Most were dead ends or way out of my price range. Back at Plaza de Armas, the screeching preachers and sunshine were starting to get to me.
I managed to get disoriented somewhere southwest of the centre, and walked for a long time trying to stay in the shadows and drinking agua sin gas like mad. Finally found my way back to the pedestrian Ahumada, and got in touch with Daniella. “Oh my, you’re far. Call me when you’re at O’Higgins”.
Walked there and called. “Ok, walk directly south, 3 blocks to San Antonio”. So, I took a right and walked a block in order to approach our rendez-vous from the west—with the sun at my back—and have a bit of a preview rather than being an easy target. Then I walked down the three blocks. Hm, not the right street… kept going a bit, one, two… ok, I made another call. Told Daniella where I was: “Stay there, I’ll come and get you”, “Uh, no way, I’ll come to you” was my answer. “Yes, ok, continue just a little more”.
Not sure I want to live here...
Walked down two more big blocks and got a call: “Where are you?” This was getting pretty damn fishy, and the fact that I stood out like a giant sore thumb in this neighbourhood didn’t help. Couldn’t imagine coming down here late at night and all this seemed like a trap. “I’m at Eyzaguirre now”. “Oh, well I can’t see you, I am near the big dog”. No idea what she was talking about, as I was a block west.
So she was at some different cross-street than expected. That was enough for me, I called it off and started walking back immediately. “Puuuucha”, she exclaimed. I told her it had been a much longer walk than expected and that I wouldn’t be happy, that I could get the something next to the metro for the same price. Really, the whole thing seemed too fishy. She seemed disappointed but understanding. Might not have been a trap, sure smelled like one though, and all I can really count on here is my guts, so that was that.
Made it back to Nuble, barely. Felt like I was going to fall on my face at any moment… might have been the exercise from the day before, the stomach troubles from the night, sunstroke from the rays tapping all day—probably a combination of all three—but I was feverish, and could hardly move. Went to bed at nine, with every muscle in my body aching.
