The city of Valparaíso is energetic, languid, poetic, and dilapidated, all at the same time, but not enough to reduce me to tears.
This was the thought going through my mind, as I turned from Calle Esmeralda to begin the ascent to the museum of poet Pablo Neruda. Jetlagged, liberated, excited, but crying.
And that, was seconds before I realized I was tear-gassed. My downpour was because of the leftover tear gas from the actions on Plaza Anibal Pinto the day before. The realization finally dawned when I saw people around with mouths and noses covered by masks, scarves, or hands, their eyes rosy, scarlet, or coral. It wasn’t clear whether the scene was induced by chemicals, or stirred up by contagious emotions. When the red eyes glanced over my direction, I couldn’t tell whether they were carrying compassion, animosity, or mere bodily irritation.
The imminent danger of raw feelings, of clashing wants, of a society a-changing, had never been so in my face — in the form of the familiar clear liquid that was all of a sudden agitating and mysterious.
I arrived in Chile just a couple of hours before, on a Thursday morning with an announced national strike, amidst the nation-wide protests that had already been raging for a month. It was all over the news: this was a movement triggered by a thirty-peso…
