CHAPTER 32
We bid farewell to the big city of Santiago and drove west to the neighboring coastal towns of Viña del Mar and Valparaiso.  The scenery was stunning, filled with rolling green hills, crops, and vineyards- the long rows of grapevines teased our taste buds with the thought of the delicious wine we knew they would produce.  Even though Viña del Mar sits only a few miles north from Valparaiso they are distinctly different.  Viña is a beach-resort getaway, with a ritzy casino/hotel, high rise apartment buildings lining the promenade, expensive restaurants, and well dressed summer vacationers eating it all up.  Conversely, the residents of Valparaiso have worked hard to maintain its historic reputation and are proud of its bohemian vibe that pulses through the steep streets. Valparaiso was built upon sharp near vertical inclines, and in 1883 the first funiculare– a box like elevator- was constructed to mechanically climb the ridiculously steep hills, giving their passengers a much needed lift to the top.  At their peak, more than 33 funiculares were trundling up and down the hills of Valparaiso every day, but today, only 14 are in operation.
The city’s heyday has long since passed and is now in a bit of a re-vamping stage. Old houses and buildings are being renovated into brightly painted hostels and spendy boutique hotels, while bars, restaurants, & shops selling locally made crafts, jewelry, and clothes, are nudging in wherever possible.
We spent our days in Valpo, as the locals affectionately call their city, strolling the streets, popping into many of the inviting shops, and stopping for a drink and a snack whenever we felt the urge.  With our time left in Chile running short we felt it necessary to try the national drink, Pisco Sour.  It is made with the strong brandy-like liquor, pisco, and is shaken with lemon juice, the whites of one egg, and powdered sugar, then topped with a drop of angostura bitters.  It is a drink that takes some getting used to, and is defiantly not something to drink more than one of, as it is quite sweet and when made well, the taste doesn’t hint to how potent it is. We had encountered the Pisco Sour earlier on our trip in Peru, where they also proudly call it their national drink, and boast that they were actually the one’s to invent pisco. Chile scoffs at this absurdity, and the bitter rivalry between these two countries over this issue is palpable. If in any bar, in Peru or Chile, you mention out loud a statement to the contrary of that country’s claim to pisco’s origin, you are very likely to start a bar fight, especially if the patrons have already had a few stiff Pisco Sours.
A leisurely boat ride out in the harbor sounded like the perfect medicine for tired and sore legs from all of the hill climbing.  There were two options for a boat ride: a private boat costing 30,000 pesos, the equivalent of $60 USD, or a public boat costing 3,000 pesos, or $6 USD per person.  Naturally we opted for the public boat thinking we’d have more money for pisco sours afterwards.  We boarded the dilapidated wooden fishing boat amongst the 40 other tourists, anxiously hoping that they were going to pass out life-vests- with each additional passenger the boat creaked and groaned as it sank lower in the water.  Our prayers were answered and before we motored out, we were all outfitted with the standard bright orange over the neck life-jacket, though they were almost as old looking as the boat, and in my opinion would have probably just weighed you down if you found yourself swimming for your life when the boat sank.  Throughout the 30 minute voyage the captain had to turn off the motor at least three times to tinker with the malfunctioning bilge pump (a bilge pump is designed to pump out the inevitable water that slowly leaks in through small cracks in the hull of a boat).  Even so, less than halfway through the trip the water in the bilge began overflowing the floorboards, consequently soaking our feet.  At the rate the water was rising, our wet shoes became less of a worry, and we turned our concerns to the definite possibility that we may be on a sinking ship.  I don’t think the tinkering ever really resolved the issue, just delayed the rising water long enough for us to make it safely back to shore.
Even with the mayhem on board we were still able to take in the wonderful views of Valpo’s crowded buildings, a jumble of colors and shapes spilling over the hillsides down to the water’s edge.  In hindsight, we should have pulled seven other people out of the line for the public boat and pooled our money for the private tour.  It would have cost the same for all of us and the chances of sinking the ship would have been a lot less due to the absence of the other 30 passengers weighing us down.
The adrenaline from the boat trip worked up our appetites for a local dish that is called chorillana– which is typically a plate of french-fries and sausage.  It is served in many establishments in central Chile, but ask any Chileno where it is the best, and they will tell you J-Cruz, in Valparaiso. We had to try it!  This small hole-in-the-wall restaurant was located at the end of a long dark alley.  Because of its clandestine location we had a little trouble finding it, and when we asked a local woman for directions she ended up walking us seven blocks right to the front doors.  There was a line outside, so we took up the rear and waited our turn for a table inside the eclectic restaurant.   When we finally got sat, we were placed at the end of a large table shared by a Chilean family.  There was no menu, and apparently all they served was chorillana.  They made the size of the dish according to the number of people in your party, so we ordered a liter of beer and a chorillana for three.  We were pleased to see what the waitress brought- a massive plate of piping hot french-fries topped with strips of steak, grilled onions and fried eggs.
Being on the coast, of course we were all looking forward to a good beach day, so we hopped on the local bus and rode 15 minutes north to Viña del Mar.  We got off the bus right at the grand sea-side casino and thought it must be fate that we try our luck.  After a fruitless search for the dollar tables we settled for the cheapest one we could find- $5 peso minimum ($10USD)- and started with just enough for one hand each.  Luck was on our side and before we knew it we had quadrupled our money. We set aside what we had started with and continued to play with the houses chips.  We had a good go of it, but eventually cashed out an hour later- even steven.  As we walked out the other side of the fancy casino and onto the beach, we were faced with hordes of sunbathing vacationers.  There wasn’t an inch of sand left for the three of us!
So, instead of elbowing our way through one family or another to find an open spot, we opted to drive to a quieter beach just down the road.  We perused the map trying to decide on which of the many beaches on the central coast of Chile we would spend the afternoon at, and all agreed upon Playa Algarrobo. We pulled into the parking lot a bit apprehensive- we were one of only four other cars and where I had envisioned a beach looked more like a dense forest of pine trees.  We were encouraged though when we saw another family, carrying rafts and umbrellas, enter the thick grove of tall trees.  We picked up our bags and started off after them.  It felt like a fairy tale walking over the carpet of pine needles that covered the sun dappled forest floor, and as we walked through the trees the elusive beach slowly began to reveal its beauty little by little, until we abruptly emerged from the tree line and were standing upon its hot white sand rejoicing in the fact that this was just what we were looking for.  We tanned, pic-nicked, watched the people, and only dreamt about frolicking in the waves- in reality the ocean was bitter cold and after one quick dip I could not be persuaded to get back in the icy waters. We stayed long enough to watch the scorching sun settle over the horizon lighting up the sky with brilliant shades of pinks, oranges, and blues.
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