Chilly in Chile

It's sometime in the afernoon in the amazingly noise-polluted Barrio Bellavista in Santiago Centro. That sound a little grumpy? Probably becuase it's difficult to sleep, even though I've tried for an hour or two. That'll be the slight jetlag. Still, it hasn't stopped Jules and I from having a great couple of days so far.

Iberia Airlines are proud of thir Spanish heritatage and incorporate tradition into their services. The food is pretty limp, they’re never on time and they love piped musak. Ever heard a Spanish version of Angels? Happy you.

Still, everyone was cheery enough. There was an unintentionally hilarious crowd of Welsh-speaking pensioners on the flight - through their babble of throat-clearing and mumbling, would come words such as "Intercity 125" and varicous veins". Bless.

We crawled through Clilean passport control. I obviously had grown an extra eye as well as a nine ay em stubble, judging from the time it took for the officer to compare my fizzog and photo. We flung our backpacks over our sholders and entered the melee of competing taxi and minibus company reps. Pausing only to leave my debit card in the cash machine (thank you honest-chap-in-the-queue-behind-me), we paid about four quid apiece to take a minibus jouney into town. The outskirts of Santiago, as seen from our sixty mile-an-hour ride along the motorway are low-level concrete almost-slums. But people seem to take a pride in them.The streets are bereft of litter and dust, which is impressive, since the streets were mud. Perhaps they're too poor to have dirt. By which I mean, if you don't have much but your pride, you take a pride in what you do have.

We pulled off the motorway into the centre of town, where we continued to drive at sixty miles and hour. There seems to be a fair amount of Machismo in Chilean driving. All pedestians cross the roads at a run. Our hostel, Hostal Forestal, is cheerfully battered, but scrupulously clean. We flung the backpacks in the room, stuffed our valuables into a safebox and hit the streets. It was about 11 am, local time, 3pm BST, and we needed feeding. We ordered some random foodstuffs from the menu of a little bar/grill and set off to see the lady on top of the mountain. It seems that South Americans like to place large religious statues on the highest points of their cities. Santiagans can take a funicular railway to the feet of the crowned virgin and take in a panoramic vista of the smog that shrouds their city. Still, peaking out above the smog were the pinnacles of snow-capped jagged mountains. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of those at a later date.

We shuddered and squeaked back down the funicular and stumbled into a café where we realised that our tiredness was going to win and that surrender to siesta was inevitable. After two hours of the deepest sleep I can remember, we upped and scrubbed and set out for dinner in Barrio Bellavista, a funky little area on our doorstep, full of bars and eateries, winos and students, theatres and bordellos, street stalls and boutiques.

We decided that we needed a slap up feed to celebrate our newly arrived status and fell into a corner restaurant. Being only seven-thirty, the place was deserted – people generally don’t go out and about until much later in the evening. We ordered fillet steak and salad with a bottle of local merlot. A small charcoal grill appeared at the side of or table with two haunches of Argentinian cow gently sizzling in their own juices. We deduced that the procedure is that the kitchen flames the steak to your specification and then lets you slice off piece after succulent piece to gently seal at your leisure. The taste was incredible (I have only lately returned to eating red meat) and so was the bill. Six pounds each for the largest, juiciest, tastiest bits of meat I’ve ever been lucky enough to chew.

We stopped on our way home for a beer and a game of cards at a pavement bar (nobody in this town is sissy enough to drink indoors) and weaved our way back to the hostel. There we invited a couple of lads from Plymouth to a game of pool. After soundly being whooped by, of all people, me, the lads, Johnny and Ian, suggested that we head out for "a beer". Note, if you please, the use of the singular. On our way back into Bellavista, we met some local folk who were off to a Karaoke bar. We ageed to join them – after all, we were here to meet local people, right? If the Karaoke became too much, we could always make our excuses and retire to a less repulsive hostelry.

Thankfully, the bar was closed. After a firm rejecion, by me, of a bar playing live freeform jazz, we stopped at a random street bar and started to drink beer. And talk. And meet new people. And order more beer. And chat. And tell jokes. And order more beer. And discuss the changes in Rapa Nui brought on by the advent of tourism. And meet new people. And argue for the right to buy the next round of beers. And be kind to a professor of English at the local University by not acually telling him that, no his English accent was appalling. And tell stories. And hug ferociously. And, eventually, weave our way back to the hostel at about four in the morning.

Work? What work?

Well, that's that. I am done with the world of work for the next year. Having saved for three years, I'm ready for a twelve-month period of beaches, jungles, temples and mountains.

Last night, I went out with my team from Park Avenue Disabilities Resource Centre - a service that I have managed for the last three years - to get a bit messy over pizza and wine. All went well - we went for ice cream afterwards in the brand-new gelateria across the road (very Winchmore Hill).

The night before, however, there were strange things afoot in N21. Firstly, the Lesbian Seagulls (trading under the temporary name of The Hamster Recovery Team) came second in the Half Moon pub quiz. This is not unusual in itself, but is peculiar in that we lost to a team other than Phil & Co, our regular nemisis. Secondly, at around two pee em, an overweight, but not unattractive, man was seen to clamber in the front window of a downstairs flat on Station Rd in a state of total undress. There is no basis to the rumour that he was drunk. Not at all, officer.

Here's a picture of my Ma. She's having a party tonight in celebration of a special birthday. Everyone has to dress as something beginning with the letter B. My brother Gareth is going as a butcher. Hmm, what shall I go as?

More tomorrow.

Take two.

Hmm. Don't seem to be able to stick any photos in this blog yet. I shall try again in a mo.

Any way, We're off to Chile, then Peru, then San Francisco (for Christmas), then Auckland, Christchurch, Sydney-Dawin-Perth, Manilla-Hong Kong-Bangkok (take a breath), Jo-burg-Victoria Falls- CapeTown-Home. Jealous? You should be, matey.

Ooh. Look! I've managed to insert a picture. Things is lookin' up.

It's not easy going around the world, y'know. There are Things To Be Done.

One of the Things To Be Done is to let our flat. So, we have to make it look presentable when the letting agents come around. A Lick Of Paint is required. Hmm: A Lick Of Paint is a phrase what trips of the tongue readily enough, but conceals behind its three innocent sylabbles, a world of white spirit, wafer-thin dust sheets, sanding, sugar-soaping, effing and blinding, and, eventually, yer actual painting. (I had to curtail the list of horrors somewhat - it was making my headache in anticipation.)

Let's change the subject for a mo and see if we can't present you with a photo of Jules.

That's her halo, don't cha know.

Oh, she's up and about. More later.

Love and that, Dames.

Tea Minus Two Months, Five Days

Shhh!

It's about Eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning. I've already been to the shops and bought eggs and milk and OJ. I've made the tea, drunk the tea, let Jules' tea get cold, made another cup for Jules, and while that one cools, I've finally set up a wee blog.

Jules is, quite frankly, rubbish in the mornings; horrible to know before noon if she's been on the sauce the night before. Here's a picture of Jules:

(Don't worry: there are better ones.)

She's the most tremendous woman when she's got up and drunk her tea. She motivates and laughs and makes, quite justified, fun of me. Today, for example, we're making a start on the decorating of the bedroom. I'll be the one making excuses to do other stuff: "Oooh! Look! An interesting cloud!"; Jules, very sensibly, will be saying things like: "Yes, but it's not as interesting as the Guinness that will be coming your way when the sanding's all done. Don't cha think?"

You may already have guessed that alcohol is a great motivator in our lives.

"Why, oh why would you be a-decorating on this rainy Saturday in glorious August, Dames?", I hear you question. Ah, dear reader, here is the very nub, crux and raison d'etre of this blog what you is perusing. In two months and five days, Jules and Dames will be stepping aboard an Iberia flight from Heathrow to Santiago, Chile.