Santiago was a cold, gray, sea of fog when the plane touched down. A little disorienting after just stepping off the sands of sunny San Clemente with my board and a bottle of sunscreen. But there was a nice, old Chilean taxi driver, only two teeth missing, standing outside the customs and baggage claim area, holding a hand written sign that read, "Willians Tritt." Close enough. So we strapped my boards to the roof, crammed my bloated 3+ bags, backpack, and 20 inch imac desktop computer into the trunk, backseat and under my feet, and slowly disappeared into the icy Santiago fog.
La Moneda in Santiago
My fellow Fulbrighters waiting to register our arrival at the Santiago Registro Civil.
My First Elevator Ride, and Pisco
By the time the taxi pulled up to the Hotel Presidente, the sun was out and the streets of Santiago were in full boom. I did feel a little self-conscious dragging my surfboards and bags through the cramped, hotel lobby. I checked the boards at the front desk then the bellhop helped me cram myself and 2 of my bags into an elevator that could have passed for an old telephone booth. I pushed number 3 and bellhop watched me lift off the 1st floor. The elevator stopped at the third floor and I waited for the door to open. It didn't, and I began to descend once again to the first floor. The bellhop waiting with my other bags saw me through the glass and began to motion with his hands. I thought he was telling me to push the button again so I did. Up I went, and again waited for the door to open on the 3rd floor. It didn't open, and I was sent back down to the first floor. This time the bellhop (with a smirky sort of confused look on his face) opened the elevator door and I promptly told him the elevator door was malfunctioning and would not open for me on the third floor. He said it wasn't automatic and that I needed to push it open. Ahhh! I said, and confidently hit the número tres to send me up once again. I don't know exactly why the door would not open on the third floor, my third attempt to get me and half of my stuff up to my room, but it did not open. I felt my stomach start to churn watching the second floor rise as I arrived at the first floor for the fourth time. At this point a line had formed and there was more than one smirky smile.
"Bienvenido a Chile," said the bellhop. I just shrugged my gringo shoulders and had a good laugh all the way up to the third floor. The fifth time worked like a charm.
Now for the Pisco Sour story.
I knew of Pisco only from the emails I received from Magdalena before my arrival to Chile. It sounded to me like Chilean Tequila made from special grapes grown in the Valle de Elqui, a mystical, cosmic energy-charged valley just a few miles from La Serena. According to Magdalena, a very powerful drink on more than one level. Anyway, the first time I was presented a Pisco was at a Fulbright luncheon at atop this tall building in the middle of downtown Santiago. Well, there it was, a Pisco Sour. It even looked like a Margarita with a slice of lime, and sugar instead of salt lining the rim of the glass. I just stared at it for a minute or so wondering if it was safe to drink on an empty stomach. I saw others sipping and smiling so I too took my first sip. Hmmmmm. It was tasty. Sort of a sweet and sour lemonade with a kick. As I opened my eyes thinking the drink was much more tame than I had anticipated, the table, and everything on it and everyone around it seemed to be moving, or revolving ever so slightly. I closed my eyes again and shook my head thinking my jet-lag should have already worn off, but when I opened them again, the sensation of slowly spinning continued. I was actually feeling a bit unsettled, and began to wonder if this Pisco was maybe a closer to cousin to Fire Water than Vino Blanco. I was sure that the table, and maybe the entire restaurant was spinning. But everyone else seemed so normal and under control. It had to be the jet-lag. Or maybe my brain reacting to the blazing fast Spanish spoken here in Chile, so thick with "modismos" that is sounds more like Greek than Castellano. I don't know but I thought I'd take one more sip see if the spinning would subside. It didn't. I was just about to swear off Pisco for good when the lady sitting to my left turned to me and said in that special, Chilean Spanish, "Isn't it amazing how they made this restaurant to revolve 360 degrees?" "They," I said, thinking she might be talking about the Pisco distillers. "Sí, claro! The restaurant was designed, and built to revolve and give diners a 360 degree view of the city while they eat."
Me: "What......eh.......So it's not the Pisco?"
She: "¿Qué?"
Me: "Never mind.......eh, me gusta el Pisco!"
She: "Sí. ¡El Pisco es muy rico! ¡Bienvenido a Chile!"
Me: "Gracias. "¡Muchas gracias!"
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