Santiago de Chile

People don't seem to have too many nice things to say about Santiago de Chile, but I liked it. The biggest problem is the pollution. What should be the stunning natural backdrop to the city instead hides behind a curtain of smog. You might not notice it right in front of you, but look anywhere in the distance and you'll see. Climbed up Cerro San Cristobal to admire the view? Never mind. I can't imagine what the Virgin Mary must make of it all.

Back down at street level, the city buzzes along without ever really feeling quite as big as it is. Little pockets of tranquility are dotted around the place - the parks and plazas, cerro Santa Lucia. Tiny bars and cafes from which the sound of laughter and the smell of cigarette smoke drift out onto the street.

Around the centre, the barrios themselves are small and compact, each with a slightly different character. I stayed in Santa Lucia on my second stop, and liked its relaxed little street of bars, restaurants and cafes. Over the river, Bellavista seems livelier and more touristy. In the west, Barrio Brasil is more bohemian, and just south of the centre, Paris Londres looks vaguely European. But overall, the city lacks the romance, dynamism and edginess of, say, Buenos Aires, and maybe that's why it gets a less favourable write up. No one travels to South America just to see Santiago, after all.

Dotted around town are a number of architecturally impressive buildings, that stand out amongst the humdrum shopping malls, arcades and ugly seventies facades. There's beauty in there somewhere, but you have to look for it.

The people are friendly (once I've tuned into the accent). And you have to admire Chileans for their courage and resilience, given that every twenty years or so their country is shaken to its roots by a terramoto. The damage is still scattered about - the Palacio de Bellas Artes, seemingly took a bit of a pounding, though luckily the roof survived.

Just for now though, things are calm again. Maybe because of the upheaval, little signs of peace seem all the more important, as Santiago slips into a beautiful autumn. It's just a shame you can never quite see far enough to truly appreciate it.

Expect the unexpected

I was pretty tired when I got back from Mendoza the other night, so lamed out and ate in the ‘restaurant’ at my pretty low-grade hotel. The starter was surprisingly good - camarones al pil pil. After two days and nights of heavy gourmet eating I plumped for chicken and chips, and it was fittingly rubbish.

I have a very early start tomorrow, and I can’t be arsed to go out. I lame out again, and walk up the six flights of stairs once more. What follows is a transcript from the notebook I take to the table with me every time I dine alone:

Prawns nowhere near as good as the other night. Worse though, they’re clearly under pressure. My beer takes twenty minutes. They forget the bread. When they eventually bring it from the warming oven it is a) burnt and b) cold.

Waiting for my main course of grilled pomfret (reineta), I am anxiously hopping about in my chair trying to attract the mozo’s attention and remind him about that second beer I ordered, back when I didn’t have a beard.

I flick through the food diary, and notice how often I begin my reviews with an assessment of a restaurant’s "promise". The lower the expectation, the better the result. I begin writing my review in my head; “I have absolutely no expectations whatsoever of my meal. Normally this would be a good thing, but not tonight: I have eaten here before”.

The waiter appears carrying a plate of food and I actually take the Lord’s name in vain, out loud. My laughter subsides shortly after he walks past to another table, but the sense of foreboding does not.

My fish arrives, dumped unceremoniously in the middle of a slightly grubby plate, with nothing else for company. Jesus H. Christ. The first mouthful stops me laughing. I must be imagining things. I try again. Nope. Heavenly.

Even a blind squirrel stumbles upon the occasional nut.

A fishy business

Mercado Central in Santiago sounds promising. The ornate steel roof was built in Britain and assembled here, and underneath fishmongers compete with eager restaurateurs to trap the tourist pesos. I wander about and put fish names to fish. Or try to at least, my fish recognition skills having tailed off a little since Ballymaloe.

I've been told that Donde Augusta is the best of the many restaurants that cram themselves in here, so I sit myself down. My meal has already ordered itself really. I am in the central fish market in Santiago. I have grilled sea bass with a glass of sauvignon blanc. Waiting for it to arrive, we are serenaded by a seemingly endless procession of guitarists, all of whom seem to suffer from one physical defect or another in an effort to prise more pesos from my vice like grip. It's a bit touristy, but it's lively and colourful and I like the fact that I'm eating right in the heart of the market.

I start dreaming about the most succulent sea-bass I am ever going to taste, and in just about the best place in the world to enjoy it too. These are just the type of experiences I yearn for on this trip. A true food odyssey. But I’ve been going long enough now and I should really know better.

It looks all right when it arrives. Just. It's well cooked. At times it tastes okay, too. But I have more than a sneaking suspicion it has been on the plancha in extremely close proximity to a piece of meat, since it tastes, well, beefy. And there’s definitely something fishy about that.

An Englishman in Santiago

I’m not normally one for gawping out of aeroplane windows, but the view of the Andes flying into Santiago de Chile was spectacular. As we approached our destination, I got my first glimpse of the famous pollution. The hazy smog drapes itself over the city like a dirty old blanket.

When I first arrived in Buenos Aires I felt scared and alone. I didn’t know anyone, couldn’t communicate and for a few days I had no confidence whatsoever. But it became my home. Whenever I went away, I knew I had somewhere to come back to. I don’t anymore. The next month is all about moving, and I’m a little unsure how I feel about losing that security.

Staying in the Paris Londres neighbourhood should help me feel at home. I check into my hotel and stride out into downtown Santiago, but I’m not my usual self. There’s just a hint of trepidation and an absence of swagger. I find myself inadvertently climbing Cerro Santa Lucia, a beautiful park on a steep hill, complete with winding paths and steps and entwined lovers on every available bench.

Cerro Santa Lucia

Down the other side I stop for a coffee and make a rather nasty discovery. I cannot understand a single fucking word anyone is saying, and they can’t understand me either. Fortunately for me, espresso and muffin are pretty much universal. But little turns of phrases, things I’m used to, they’re gone. With this shadow looming over me, I suddenly find my Spanish dropping a few notches. I forget words and start stuttering like Gareth G-G-G-G-Gates.

A few blocks and I’m in Plaza de Armas. Tables are laid out for chess, and a hundred or so guys are either playing or watching. Elsewhere a big circle is watching two blokes acting out a comedy, and rows of artists are painting away and displaying their work. It reminds me of Morocco - Meknes maybe. And Salta too - people are just hanging out and taking it easy. It’s exactly the kind of place Buenos Aires needs but doesn’t have.

Plaza de Armas

I head home, regroup and start thinking about dinner. But since I left my Spanish on the wrong side of the Andes, I no longer feel confident getting in a taxi. And taking the subway becomes suddenly more daunting too, especially since I don’t have a clue where I’m going. So I opt to stay local. Which is a big mistake.

I’m right in the middle of town, which shuts down at night. I walk in circles for blocks and
blocks looking for somewhere to eat before hunger forces my hand. I plump for some Italian place that looks like a Travelodge from the outside and a Harvester from the inside.

The food is indescribably bad. I order two large gin and tonics to let my sorrows swim around in, and sit staring out of the window castigating myself. What a loser. Dining alone in the shittiest restaurant in the southern hemisphere because I was too frightened, lazy or stupid to jump in a cab and go somewhere else. Thank God I have another ten months in which to pull myself together.