We’ve spent the week exploring our local neighbourhoods, Providencia and Bellavista. It’s a ten minute walk half through park and half along highway (what a contrast) to the hubs of both neighbourhoods, in either direction.
On our first morning in Providencia we stumbled unexpectedly upon the local market, where they sold all the fruit and vegetables I could imagine, along with several I’ve never imagined before. We’ve become fond of a fruit that sits alongside the apples in supermarkets but is more like a small melon. It’s mottled white and green on the outside but on the inside is like a small, but sweeter, honeydew melon.
I love the way they handle pumpkins here. Rather than sell pre-wrapped portions, or opt for some dwarf variety, most market stalls and even supermarkets have one giant pumpkin. A customer asks for however much pumpkin’s desired and the grocer lops a chunk off with a giant knife there and then.
There’s also a bewildering array of grains and pulses. I was thrilled to get a bag of quinoa for about a dollar at the market, given that it’s typically several times that at health food stores in Australia. They also have puffed and honeyed amaranth as a breakfast option.
South America is lucky to have these excellent, whole-protein grains to call their own. So it could be a health food paradise – except fast food chains probably have more of a grip on the local population than traditional staples. As well as the typical Macdonalds and KFC there’s a fast-food chain called Schopdog, which sells hotdogs and revels in United States kitsch. Here in Chile guacamole comes with everything; hotdogs are no exception.
Guacamole or avocado salsa comes with everything because avocados are abundant. Tim was thrilled to discover you can buy them for a dollar fifty a kilo at the supermarket. Given we use avocado instead of butter (especially with vegemite on toast – try it!), having this staple so readily available is a one of those little things that make living in Chile worthwhile.
They eat late here, with breakfast nearly non-existant and lunch the main meal after 2pm. This took a few days to get used to, and one day we were hungry at 1:30pm after wandering since 11. We were in the heart of Providencia’s restaurant area but everywhere we asked said they didn’t start serving until 2. We resigned ourselves to eating at home, so walked back to our apartment with growling stomachs, imagining what we’d concoct with what remained in the fridge.
We reached the base of our apartment building and, still in the spirit of wandering, peered down the lane alongside. It was filled with upmarket cafes! Somehow we’d missed this every time we’d left and returned from the apartment thus far, as from the street the lane looks like it could be just a service entrance. I blame the jetlag on our lack of attention to detail.
Fortuitously it had just passed 2, so there was food and service galore. We sat down at a table where we could bask in the afternoon sun, where I had a vegetarian pizza (which was average, but I was hungry enough not to care) and Tim had a tofu and betroot salad, which was excellent. We also had fresh mint and pear juices served in beer glasses, which was a delightful combination I intend to repeat at home.
The best value vegetarian food we’ve found so far turned out to be right under our noses.
Filed under: chile, development, food, international relations, santiago, south america, travel
My first morning in Chile I awoke feeling dizzy and nauseous. At first I recalled my doctor had said I might suffer from altitude sickness in the Andes, then I came to my senses and realised I hadn’t eaten for more than 24 hours. After devouring a muesli bar and some macadamia nuts that weren’t confiscated at customs, we ventured into the street.
I was still alarmed by the fast traffic that zipped past. Evidently highway proximity doesn’t have the same negative real estate effect it does in Australia, as we were opposite the Hyatt and next to a five-star hotel, where men in top hats and red coats were escorting people out of their vehicles.
We crossed a pedestrian bridge and arrived where our landlord recommended we have breakfast, which turned out to be a giant shopping mall, similar to but plusher than those found in Adelaide or Calgary. It began with a large plaza where about a dozen restaurants were open for breakfast. These were no cheap Latino eateries, in fact it was hard to find a word of Spanish. There were half a dozen named in English, while the rest were a mix of French and Italian. I was flabbergasted; we may as well have been in North America. For our first breakfast in South America I had a crepe and Tim had a panini, both with espressos.
We discussed cultural imperialism over breakfast, but perhaps it would be fairer to say globalisation. As much as it seems easy to blame the United States, the restaurants were generally Italian, French or Japanese inspired. Australia has a similar lack of distinct cuisine; our culinary strengths come from multiculturalism. I wonder if foreigners visiting Australia are disappointed by the lack of a distinct local cuisine? I’ve always appreciated living somewhere with such variety, enjoying visiting places like Italy and Vietnam where reliably distinct dishes dominate, but inevitably tiring of the homogeneity. Yet finding such variety here after expecting cultural immersion was unsettling.
After breakfast we wandered the mall for a while, where my surprise continued. They have Zara and Topshop and United Colors of Benetton! I needn’t miss European fashion either. This is certainly not a developing country like most of its neighbours. Granted, thanks to a mixup by our landlord we were in one of Santiago’s ritziest neighbourhoods, so this is not typical of Chile. But it is Chile nonetheless. I’d reassured wary older relatives that Chile was a first-world country, in the OECD, safe enough. I’m not sure I really believed it, but I do now.
After wandering we returned outside only to stumble upon a Boost juice. If I was shocked before I was floored now. This business founded in Adelaide had extended to Santiago! How could we not support a local business gone global? So we sipped our juices while looking in the window of the Quiksilver shop next door.
I was rather relieved we were only in Viticura for one night, because as Tim observed, we hadn’t flown halfway around the world to do the same things we do at home.
My friend thought it would be entertaining to take me to a Norwegian nude beach. This was a bit of a misleading plan, because it was not much of a beach, and there were not many nudes. There were more surf life savers and bicycles than bathers, but that was okay by me.
Here I made the mistake of buying liquorice, despite my friend’s warnings. Unlike our soft and sweet liquorice, liquorice sold at Norwegian nudist beaches (and elsewhere in the country I’m told) is hard and salty. An acquired taste. I think of it as Scandinavian vegemite.
We arrived in Paris with nothing planned but our hotel in Montmartre. My last few times I’ve stayed in the same hostel, La Maison, in a dorm room, but with Ian in tow and their phone number not working we decided instead on Calaincourt Square, which was tres Parisien and in a great location.After an evening in Montmartre, wandering around the district of my favourite church (thus far) in Europe, the Sacre Coeur, we spent the next day strolling through Paris towards the Eiffel Tower, via the Louvre and Champs-Élysées. It was Ian’s first time in Paris after all.
We were feeling peckish, so luck smiled upon us when we passed some ladies in pink handing out promotional tubs of yoghurt. They offered one to me and I accepted. Ian looked eager. The lady asked if he wanted one as well. “Oui!” he said enthusiastically.
We sat in the garden of a nearby church to consume our yoghurts and read the accompanying promotional material (good French practice). It turned out this yoghurt was unique in that it was ‘bien pour la peau’, the first yoghurt to enhance women’s beauty from the inside, thanks to added nutrients. “Every woman wants to look more beautiful,” it said. We understood why the woman had been reluctant to give Ian some of the pink yoghurt.
I don’t see why men can’t want beautiful skin as well.
Last weekend I popped over the sea to Amsterdam. A friend recently moved there, and though we’re about to embark on a few months of intense traveling, the Netherlands is one of the few places that’s easily accessible from the East of England.
We only had a weekend, but as Fabio kept pointing out, the Netherlands is very small and it doesn’t take much time to get around.
It’s always more fun to visit friends. Fabi is a great example of why, because he runs a wine company. Hence our Saturday was oriented by the food and wine fair where he was based. We sampled lots of Dutch (and Italian, thanks Fabi) produce and roamed amongst Amsterdam’s charming canals and indulgent artists’ residences.
In the evening we went to a typical local pub, where we had satay – which is apparently quite Dutch – and of course some great beers. By the time we were planning to go clubbing though I had a splitting headache and felt like I was coming down with something.
The next morning after blowing my nose and feeling much better, I realized it was because I’m now used to smoke-free pubs. After just a month of no smoking in England’s bars, I reacted horribly to the passive smoke in Amsterdam. I found that pretty surprising. But I was relieved, because it meant I wasn’t actually getting sick at all, and could enjoy the Netherlands (smoke aside).
I’m very busy at the moment, finishing off various projects and starting new ones. There’s also the underlying stress of not knowing what’s happening next, like the subtle but irritating hum of Ian’s laptop.
Sometimes the best thing to do when you’ve got too much to think about is nothing. This is precisely what Helena and I did the other day. Helena is someone I met last time I was in Cambridge, who’s subsequently moved to London and is coordinating the London Design Festival. It’s coming up soon, so she’s understandably stressed also.
So we got together in London the other day with the intention of a quick lunch, which ended up being a long lunch (at the best Vietnamese restaurant outside of Vietnam), then some more drinks, then some tapas and more wine, then a journalist’s party I was going to in the evening. We spent some time putting together a good journalistic alias for getting her into the party (something about novels and National Geographic), but it turned out nobody cared.
Sometimes, that’s what I like about London.
