The first taste of Santiago
As we flew low over the snow on the Andes and landed in Santiago, Duncan next to me breathed a visible sigh of familiarity. Cesar and his girlfriend Cata picked us up from the airport and drove us through the dusty brightness of Santiago, laughing back and forth in joyous conversations in mixed Spanish and English with the occasional pause for translation for the benefit of Cata and me. Duncan first met Cesar when he came and taught in Chile in 2000. He came back after he finished at Oxford and he and Cesar travelled with a friend across South America. Like the Olympics, Duncan says he tries to come back to Chile every four years.
Santiago spreads out on a low lying flood plain surrounded by mountains. Those to the east are the beginnings of the Andes and are snow capped even in the height of summer. The heat is dry and windless until late in the day when the breeze picks up. The sunlight is bright on the eyes and on bad days the dust from the desert and the pollution from the congested city rest like a blanket on the flatlands. But the views from the apartment blocks of Providencia, where the Varelas live, are over leafy streets and church steeples. There you can sit out on the verandah and look across the city and then lift your eyes up towards the foothills and the snow.
The Varelas are old friends of Duncan and they know him well. Too well. They are wonderfully generous people and they have beautiful manners. We arrived in time to for Saturday lunch with the verandah door open, an abundance of avocado (ooh, those Chilean avocados) and an update on the past four years. Nobody in Chile knows anything about Zimbabwe but once I explained Mugabe, redistribution of land and leaving the country etc it was roughly translated by Cesar into a Chilean framework (ie Mugabe = undemocratic dictator, redistribution = socialism and leaving = being in exile) Pato, Cesar´s dad´s immediate response was "then you must come to Chile, I will get you a Chilean passport".
The Chileans sleep, eat and stay up even later than the Argentinians. We whiled away the afternoon by the pool, had a brief nap until about 10pm and then Cesar prepared a parilla (a braai) and Cata introduced me to Pisco. We sat in the evening breeze together, sipping and talking about Catholicism, religion, development, Pinochet, Chilean economics; eating as late as midnight and going to bed much later than that.
Parilla and Pisco are what the Chileans do well, often together. I hesitate before I begin to describe meat eating and meat cooking in South America because I fear I cannot sufficiently do it justice. It is a continental art form. They are very good at it. Not only is it ridiculously cheap, it is ridiculously good.
Pause for effect (in order to communicate emphasis on the amazing goodness of parilla).
Pisco is less of an art form, it would probably be better described as a Chilean institution, but it is just as enjoyable. Pisco is brandy made from Muscat grapes. It´s drunk as an aperitif - Piscosour - which is lemon juice, Pisco, egg white. Or as a cocktail - Piscola - with ice and Coke. Or straight, should the mood take you. It is a soft, gentle drink for which I have developed a great affection. Even now, writing this in Brazil after having 2 hefty Caipirinhas* last night, I realise that vodka is not my friend the way the Pisco is my friend.
On Sunday we met Fernando, the third in the trio who took the 30 hour bus trips across South America in 2004. We had another parilla at his apartment, laughing at his description of his mother´s reaction to his moving out of home. In the evening we joined the other Varela kids and their respective boyfriends and girlfriends for dinner at a German sandwich restaurant thus beginning our introduction to the subtle German influences in Chilean culture and the very good mix of sauerkraut with avocado.
*I should note that a Caipirinha is more correctly drunk with cane rather than vodka. But I am a sissy and a half weight and this morning has confirmed that my decision not to risk the local petrol was a good one.
Santiago spreads out on a low lying flood plain surrounded by mountains. Those to the east are the beginnings of the Andes and are snow capped even in the height of summer. The heat is dry and windless until late in the day when the breeze picks up. The sunlight is bright on the eyes and on bad days the dust from the desert and the pollution from the congested city rest like a blanket on the flatlands. But the views from the apartment blocks of Providencia, where the Varelas live, are over leafy streets and church steeples. There you can sit out on the verandah and look across the city and then lift your eyes up towards the foothills and the snow.
The Varelas are old friends of Duncan and they know him well. Too well. They are wonderfully generous people and they have beautiful manners. We arrived in time to for Saturday lunch with the verandah door open, an abundance of avocado (ooh, those Chilean avocados) and an update on the past four years. Nobody in Chile knows anything about Zimbabwe but once I explained Mugabe, redistribution of land and leaving the country etc it was roughly translated by Cesar into a Chilean framework (ie Mugabe = undemocratic dictator, redistribution = socialism and leaving = being in exile) Pato, Cesar´s dad´s immediate response was "then you must come to Chile, I will get you a Chilean passport".
The Chileans sleep, eat and stay up even later than the Argentinians. We whiled away the afternoon by the pool, had a brief nap until about 10pm and then Cesar prepared a parilla (a braai) and Cata introduced me to Pisco. We sat in the evening breeze together, sipping and talking about Catholicism, religion, development, Pinochet, Chilean economics; eating as late as midnight and going to bed much later than that.
Parilla and Pisco are what the Chileans do well, often together. I hesitate before I begin to describe meat eating and meat cooking in South America because I fear I cannot sufficiently do it justice. It is a continental art form. They are very good at it. Not only is it ridiculously cheap, it is ridiculously good.
Pause for effect (in order to communicate emphasis on the amazing goodness of parilla).
Pisco is less of an art form, it would probably be better described as a Chilean institution, but it is just as enjoyable. Pisco is brandy made from Muscat grapes. It´s drunk as an aperitif - Piscosour - which is lemon juice, Pisco, egg white. Or as a cocktail - Piscola - with ice and Coke. Or straight, should the mood take you. It is a soft, gentle drink for which I have developed a great affection. Even now, writing this in Brazil after having 2 hefty Caipirinhas* last night, I realise that vodka is not my friend the way the Pisco is my friend.
On Sunday we met Fernando, the third in the trio who took the 30 hour bus trips across South America in 2004. We had another parilla at his apartment, laughing at his description of his mother´s reaction to his moving out of home. In the evening we joined the other Varela kids and their respective boyfriends and girlfriends for dinner at a German sandwich restaurant thus beginning our introduction to the subtle German influences in Chilean culture and the very good mix of sauerkraut with avocado.
*I should note that a Caipirinha is more correctly drunk with cane rather than vodka. But I am a sissy and a half weight and this morning has confirmed that my decision not to risk the local petrol was a good one.
posted by Kait at 9:30 pm
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