My sweet Chilean story

“I hope you actually like Regina Spektor, not just because you pick up girls using her music.”

“I’m sorry, I just like her to pick up girls. It works every time. Your place or mine?”

This can also be a way to start a conversation that leads to a date on Friday afternoon. It takes a while to make sure that we’re not just a couple of rude egocentrics and that we talk this way because of weird sarcastic sense of humor. He brings his dog, just in case it would make me smile at its cute animal face, rather than this cheeky Latin American. The dog finds his place right next to my feet; we drink coffee and talk about traveling. I have never met a digital nomad who would come to Prague for a concert and never leave. I have never talked to a guy who would move to London after meeting a beautiful girl in a Venice bar. I have never met a son who called his mother to sell all his stuff because he won’t be returning home.

We are sitting in a courtyard. It is run-down and beautiful. With string lights above our heads, we shout trying to be louder than three Germans, who look lost on their Prague beer tour. It’s Friday afternoon and the city center is full of tourists who decided to forget about their well-paid jobs and crawl from one pub to another. We are trying to find our way through a forest of selfie sticks, to avoid people taking hundreds of photos of themselves rather than hundreds of towers that gave Prague one of its names. We stop only at Kampa Island where we are trying to learn something from the swans. They seem to ignore their surroundings when it’s annoying and doesn’t offer them anything meaningful.

Spending time with him, I think about my travels around Chile. On a summer day like this, it’s not really hard to refresh the memories from my walks under its clear blue skies. My life also seemed clear at the time, with no clouds or thunderstorm on the horizon. I can still feel the hot, dry air, and the powerful mixture of happiness and Carmenére running through my veins. Colchagua valley is a home of great wines, full of flavor. And it’s not so hard to get a feeling that I could also lead a great, a full life in here. I felt the same when I was climbing up to an active volcano still covered by snow. Until the very last moment, we cannot be sure whether we will reach to the top or will have to come back down because of a poisonous smoke. Today, Villarica is kind to us and we can walk up to the volcanic crater; we’re sweaty and satisfied. We meet a bunch of Czech tourists there, happy to share their words of wisdom with us. A few months later, the volcano explodes as well as our relationship.

Let’s not lose the illusion of happiness, not quite yet. We still need to reach the borders of Patagonia, watch some penguins and dream about our future together. It’s too bad we’re not Catholics, we could have gotten married in one of those colorful churches in Chiloé. Right here, right now, just the two of us, without all the stressful wedding plans, without the meatball soup he wouldn’t eat because he’s a vegetarian. Traveling with a vegetarian is always fun, anywhere in the world. “Tengo alergia,” he says and it doesn’t really sound like a legit argument. “You mean you don’t eat any meat?” — “No.” — “Chicken?” — “No.” — “Fish?” — “No.” — “Seafood?” — “No.” — “Not even shrimps?” — “No.” Now it’s time for the driver to call his wife: “You wouldn’t believe the hitchhikers I’ve just picked up. Czech boy and girl. He doesn’t eat meat and she does, do you understand? I mean, she’s the one who eats the steak and he gets the vegetables.” He ate some meat eventually when he wanted to try the rotten shark. But that’s a whole different story.

Let’s not get back to reality, not quite yet. We still need to visit Valparaíso and the mansion of Pablo Neruda. Most writers could only dream about a house like this. Or maybe only write about it. It’s the off-season and all the hostels are closed now. We spend a night in a gallery with a beautiful young couple that sells souvenirs and makes their own art in the meantime. We brought home a great memory and a painting of a hangman’s noose. It’s not the right time to think about a place to hang it, not quite yet. We still need to go to the north, to the dry countryside where pisco is made. Both Chile and Peru claim to be a homeland of pisco, even though it’s almost undrinkable without a coke or lime juice. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t suit us in a warm spring evening. Astronomers also love this place because of the clear, dry air and no light pollution. The starry heavens above me and the piscosaurus within me.

I exchange bright smiles with a nice Chilean guy in Prague and I’m looking for some memories from his country that now seems out of this world. He asks me all the kinds of questions (it’s all there: sex, drugs, and puppies) but I cannot answer the most basic one: What am I doing here? What am I looking for? Is it love, sex or new friendships? Or is it just another way how to get out of my comfort zone and experience something that I can write about?

I spend the late Friday afternoon with a guy who enjoys just the right amount of solitude. He works in busy cafés surrounded by other human beings without the need to build any relationships or partnerships with them. I’m not afraid to look in his eyes when he talks to me. Am I just looking at myself hidden in another body? I’m not quite sure right now. Then he asks me whether I’m happy. And I say yes.