Long time, no journal.
Here is a short piece of writing that will act as shorthand for some of the experiences I have had so far:
My phone tells a story of photography all in a row. I am glad to have all the memories so neatly filed somewhere, experience is not so neat.
All smiles, first dinner, snapshots, we are tourists winding through the fort that started Santiago.
Palm trees, cactus plants like Medusas hair. Houses with lattice work windows.
Graffiti on a pompous old building. The tags are ugly sometimes, but sometimes they go further into the surreal: a mural of a three eyed cat, for example.
The old churches are sometimes interrupted by steel and glass from a newer economy.
Wandering back from the market, the Feria de pulgas or flee market covers the whole park with a fabric of teenagers selling their whole life.
In the adjacent quiet park, stray dogs are bothering all the couples who have no problem necking all day.
On a Quiet Sunday, scale to the top of the hill at the centre of Santiago. Cristobal, some guitar music floats from the tiny chapel, and you see 360 degrees of city.
On a Monday, Unapologetic dishes are left by teachers hurrying out to work.
Above it a window, the Andes is massive, full of snow capped details.
On Wednesday, Chile wins a soccer match against a World Cup champion. During the game the people are more silent than the statues in the Church, after it is the sound of thousands of car horns.
It is the winter Solstice on the weekend. There is a small gathering, with sorpaipillas. This is fried bread made out of pumpkins and flour. The sound of people speaking Spanish in the kitchen, and singing Brazilian samba played using a guitar and palms on a table is not caught on my phone.
I am piecing together a new language with new words. I do not understand everything, yet.