·sigh·

And so here I am in Valparaiso on a leather chair in a bar with a tall glass of scotch and a brand-new used copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I want to go explore the pier, but something tells me that´s best done by day--so maybe tomorrow eve I´ll head that way. This town certainly has character: an old grizzled sailor could stump around here on a wooden leg with a salty pipe clamped in his teeth and fit right in.
If I had more time, I would stay here and see about securing a position down at the wharf. God but I dream!

The buildings of Valpo are weatherworn and well-used, all stacked up on each other like building blocks in a toddler´s playroom. Cobbled streets show under patchwork asphault repairs, and here and there people add fresh coats of paint to ironwork pitted by salt air.
A stray dog paces at my feet as I sit in a plaza watching the goings-on, offering protection from roving canine gangs in exchange for a morsel of tribute. When he understands that I´m about as poor as he is, he trots off, sniffing at and then pissing on the base of a statue of a sailor with a spyglass.
From behind a semitruck a man whistles with a strong vibrato as he loads crates and other vague cargo. His sweater drapes comfortably over his broad shoulders and a worn spitfire cap perches atop his salt-and-pepper hair. He pauses to rub his whiskers and change his tune before returning to work with vigor.

Up the hill overlooking Valparaiso and the ocean sits Pablo Neruda´s house. Inside is a collage of homey comfort which still looks more like a house than a museum despite innumerable placards and signs saying "Do not sit," "Do not touch," "Do not take photos," and the like. The walls are festooned with paintings, including one of a duchess-type with a neckruff who´s facing a portrait of a man in similar garb. Neruda positioned them that way to make sure neither was lonely.
The study is on top of the house, with big bay windows. Around the desk are various odds and ends collected over years including some petrified wood, a small sculpture from Easter Island, a photo of Walt Whitman, and shelves of books; all bits of material to prompt and inspire, and play with during writer´s block (or so I assume from personal experience).
I forcefully ignore the docents guarding every room, and my fingers itch to touch everything(which I guess is precisely why they´re there), especially the typewriter. This house makes me nearly desperate to build and fill my own, and I dream of a study overlooking the ocean or maybe one of the Great Lakes.
Downstairs is a cozy bar with various fascinating decorations like a framed 19thC patent document, a winekey in the shape of a naked boy (screw this cork, I´m out!), scotch whiskey advertisements, a bathroom with a door made of a sideways stair balustrade (very private!), and a sign that says "Don Pablo est ici." I wish I'd known this guy. Neruda's signature drink was a cocktail of equal parts champagne and cognac plus a splash each of Cointreau and orange juice.
He named his leather armchair (a staple in any man's home) El Nube. It sits beside a window, and I can easily imagine deep musings while gazing over the sparkling harbor as helicopters land on big grey navy vessels, and fishing boats dart hither and thither. I resolve to visit the Great Lakes more, and perhaps see about catching some work out there and eventually purchasing an old lighthouse.
Egad, what a dreamer I am! If I accomplish a mere fraction of the things my head cooks up, I'll lead a very interesting life indeed.

Supper with a local; a funny story recounted

28 Jun 2009

Later in the evening after showering and watching Wall-E, Gero, the trip organizer, picks us up and takes us to his home for supper. Delicious dinner cooked by his lovely pregnant wife. Gero and I chat casually about training me for service as a river guide. As he drives us back to the hostel, he says,
"Today I find out if I am a patient man: I test my limits."
Earlier that afternoon he'd driven four Americans to the Manaus Stadium to see a football game.
"I drop them off, I figure; I leave my car open because it's a short distance."
Two cops saw and suggested he lock his car.
"'No, it's okay,' I tell them, 'There is nothing in there to rob.' Of course I forget my CD player," he laments, pointing to the now-empty stereo display. He came back and drove home before noticing the absence of the removable unit.
"I think, 'Maybe I left it at home or something.'"
When he couldn't find it, he drove back and confronted the police.
'"You didn't see someone steal my CD player? You are bad cops,' I told them, 'What are you doing wearing this uniform?' I tell them those four Americans were coming to see Manaus, to see if it's safe for World Cup. Playing psychological games with their heads," he chuckles remembering. He asked them their full names, to which they replied, "We are the police: we ask you your name. What are you doing turning it around on us?"
"I say to them, 'You think you are the only police in Manaus?' We have local, city, state, federal...They get worried and start looking at each other. I tell them they are going to be in all the newspapers, and they get really worried, begging me, saying they were not looking at my car. 'I am going to fill out a report,' I told them. But I didn't: I went straight home. After all, they had told me, 'Lock your car,' and I said, 'It's okay.' What was I thinking, It's Okay? I learn my lesson."

When we got back to the hostel, we found out Michael Jackson had died while we were on the river. And Billy Mays. What's the world coming to?