·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.