Mordeduro de perro

We walk a lot in this city of Puerto Montt, despite the convenience of the buses and collectivos.  From our place on Ramon Munita, there are many routes to explore; the ones that flow downhill on escaleras and stay away from big roads full of smelly cars and trucks have been popular with me.  Richard spotted this stairway when he was coming home on a collectivo one day.  These stairs connect the Mirador (overlook) on our Ramon Munita terrace, with the next terrace down.

I take the stairs down to the next terrace, and walk the residential street out towards those dark green trees that mark the Mirador on that level.  That far Mirador is on Avenida President Ibanez, the street we walk every Saturday to go to the market.  I started using this route when I walked to the Jumbo grocery store, or all the way downtown to the Costanera.  There are lots of beautiful viewpoints along the way.

I'd probably walked this route 6 or 7 times before the morning of Thursday, December 18, when I was on my way down to the Costanera to catch a bus out to the marina.  My plan was to take photos of the mast being pulled from Abrazo. But a vicious dog came snarling out of his hole and bit my leg.

What a shock!  I was one block into the traverse of the terrace, walking the left side of the street.  A panel truck was parked on the sidewalk ... making a narrow tunnel between the fenced yard on my left and the truck on my right.  At other times, in such a situation, I've simply veered for the street to avoid the narrow passage ... but this one seemed not so narrow, and I didn't think of avoiding it.  As soon as I entered that tunnel, a dog behind the fence went off, barking hard ... which did scare me, I admit.  So already my pheromones of fear were no doubt swarming all around me.  But that dog was behind his fence.  The next house, also fenced, had a small poodle-type dog who sticks his little head thru the rails of his fence and barks every bit as fiercely as his big neighbor.   This little one was familiar to me.  Richard and I had noticed him before and admired his ferocity, wondering if he really could slip thru those bars like he was threatening to do. 

Anyway, walking along I was chanting my dog mantra:  "Bueno perro, no estoy un problema para ti.   Solo voy por la calle.  Por favor, disculpa me."  Sweet calm voice ... insistent on my right to pass ... and WHAMMO:  two dogs I had not seen before came charging out of their garage, shouting and hollering at me in the most outraged of tones.  Shaggy, golden-colored, ferocious creatures.  I'm sure their pheromones had been set off by the barking of the first two dogs ...

So why didn't I peel the pack from my back and WHALLOP one of them to let them know I WAS NOT TO BE STOPPED?

Well, you know.  That's not my style.  Or at least it has not been my style before this. 

The two golden dogs barked hard, outraged at my presence in their street.  I mumbled my mantra, sounding like a total wuss, I'm sure.  I kept walking, passing them both, and thought for a moment that I'd made it through, when all of a sudden the larger of those bad boys chomped into the back of my left calf.  I guess he had to make his statement. 

Shit!  Now I'm walking away fast; I can feel the blood oozing down my leg.  I get across the street to the next block and pull the packet of sanitary Wet Ones from my back pack.  Swab, swab, press.  Please make it stop!  A woman in the street sees me, comes over, saying "Se mordio?"  She advised me to put pressure on the wound ... and then she pointed out that the larger wound was at the back of my calf ... when I was still focused on the smaller one in front.  Ai yi yi. 

So, I'm swabbing away with my Wet Ones there on the corner, and my friendly advisor has gone back over to her corner of the street when a big German Shepherd-type dog starts coming towards me.  Oh, Goddess Mia, I'm thinking.  The smell of blood has attracted another predator. Meanwhile another mujer is walking down the street toward me.  She saw that German Shepherd and immediately took a rock out of her pocket to throw at him. 

Ah So!  Keep rocks in your pocket on this street.  Okay, noted. 

This lovely woman invited me to come back to her house for clean up.  She took my arm and led me back the way I'd come.  The two golden-haired monsters hunkered in their open garage, licking themselves quietly as we walked the opposite side of the street.  While we walked, she told me that that same dog had bitten a man here in the street the day before.  She said she's always worried when her grandchildren visit - because the owners of that dog just don't care.

In her home, she directed me to sit on the couch.  I had my wad of bloody Wet Ones in one hand, while I swabbed my leg with a new Wet One, hoping not to stain the rug or the couch.  My patroness brought a small bottle of dark liquid, with a couple of cotton balls.  More than Mercurochrome, I think, this stuff seemed to stop the bleeding at last.  She took my handful of used swabs and directed me to use the bathroom to wash my hands.  I told her I would walk to the main street and catch a collectivo for home.

"Estas un angel," I said, "Muchas gracias."  She seemed quite pleased with my words, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek, which I returned.

Onward.  By the time I reached the main street, I'd decided it would be sensible to go for some professional medical attention.  Richard would be disappointed that I was not there with the camera to capture the pulling of the mast ... but maybe a proper cleaning and dressing was more important?  I knew the Clinica Puerto Montt was over yonder near the big Wallmart grocery store, so I caught a bus headed that way.

The women in the street had given me the vocabulary I needed:  se murdio ... un mordedura de perro ... so I could make my needs known simply enough at the Clinica, where a security guard led me through interior doors and hallways to the Urgencia department.  You have to put up some money right at first, and I had just enough cash to do it:  30.000 CLP or $50 dollars US.  I would have preferred to use my credit card, but the machine at the cashier's desk just wouldn't work.  No importa.  The cashier assured me that we would simply go to the main cashier when we knew what the whole cost would be, and use the credit card there.  OKay!

The young woman who called me in to the medical office made a funny little smirk to her co-workers before showing me in to an examination room:  She knew some English, and she would probably have to use it with this white-haired extranjera!  Her first question to me was whether I could speak Spanish, and when I answered that I could, a little, she seemed much more comfortable.  I had a hard time making out her efforts at English, but we got along.

And then came an assortment of people, one by one, to look at my punctured calf and deliver their judgments about what should be done.  At least four people looked at my leg  ... I don't know if any of them were doctors ... but finally a very young woman in a white jacket and a man of maybe thirty years in blue scrubs seemed to come to agreement about my treatment:  the wounds were very deep, so they did not want to close them, because of the danger of abscess.  Better to clean them, cover them, and re-dress them every 48 hours, so the wounds could heal from within.  The man in blue delivered this in perfect English after his Spanish provoked a very puzzled look from me.  Then the young woman in white told me, in Spanish, what would happen next:  a nurse will come in to clean, anesthetize, and dress the wounds.  She will give the first of five rabies shots.  She will give me a prescription for antibiotics. Okay.  And so it went.  The nurse was perfectly competent and thorough.  She made sure I understood not to get the dressing wet, and to come back in two days for another dressing.

Additional charges brought the total to 58.000 CLP for today's treatment.  Then another 19.000 CLP for the antibiotics.  Redressings are running about 8.000 CLP each.  I am certain that the people in the original emergency room experience told me that I could go anywhere to get the next dressings, and rabies shots.  However, each time I've tried to go to General Medical at different clinics, I've been sent along to the Emergency area.

Now, December 28, I've had a couple of redressings and the second rabies shot.  The last nurse, on Friday, removed the bandages and said, "Es fea, pero no es infectada."   Ugly, but not infected.  She told me to wait till Tuesday for the next re-dressing ... so we'll see how that goes.  I had to buy a roll of tape because the various nurses who do these dressings have very economical ideas about how little tape is necessary to keep a bandage secured to a round calf muscle!  Rabies shots on the next three Mondays will complete that part of the treatment.  And maybe by the end of January I'll be cleared to enjoy a hot tub soak.

Meanwhile, Richard fantasizes about going back down those stairs to the street where the vicious dogs live, with vengeance in his heart. ... What good might that do?  He could possibly eliminate the dog that bit me, I suppose.  Maybe that would save the grandchildren of the woman who helped me.  Maybe not.  It's something to ponder.  

Richard suggests that my tendency to walk forth "wearing rose-colored glasses" is being challenged by the Cosmos. My Chilean friend, Viviana, agrees.  She says I must always think of myself as a target. Sheesh!  No me gusta, esa.  But I will be more particular about where I walk.

Que les vayan bien, amigos y familia.  Y espero que los perros de su vecindario no necesitan que morder.

Syncopation

I started this post on 12-7, and then the sun came out for a few days, so I forgot about it.  But we are just now in the process of moving out of our little concrete box on the third floor of the Condominio Ramon Munita.  Before we go, I want to report my frivolous ideas about the tintinnabulation of the raindrops in the courtyard of this building. 

Here's the view from the far side of Avenida Ramon Munita.  Our little pad is on the far right side of the center red section, third floor.  The big window is our living room, the smaller one our kitchen/laundry area.  Our bedroom has a window on the inner courtyard.   

The next photo is from the near side of Avenida Ramon Munita, my view as I return from the Lider grocery store next door.  Those dogs are drinking from what's left of the perennial puddle on the corner ... usually it is more lake-like, extending well into the street. 

Our bedroom looks out into the courtyard ... a very plain place, all paved in concrete.  When the days are sunny and breezy, the courtyard area sports a dozen or so clothes drying racks of every configuration ... and there are seven or eight potted plants along one wall, not really thriving, I'm afraid.  

This courtyard is transformed, on rainy nights, into a phenomenal orchestra of water sounds, and I wish I could describe what I hear.  We have had PLENTY of rainy nights in the last month or so.  I've been studying the music.  If I was a good reporter I'd have gotten out of bed during one of those symphonic events to prowl around out there in the courtyard making notes on the sources of the key sounds.   Cadence and volume of the sounds, I believe, are determined by the size  and frequency of the leaks and dents in the gutter/drainpipe system.  Tone and melody are possibly determined by the quality of the material the water strikes.  

For instance, in the photo above you can see a greenish stripe against the wall in the sunshine.  Someone, maybe a resident who loves to eat clams, has started a seashell collection here.  Parts of that stripe are really dense with seashells.  I believe the gutter over this strip is quite thoroughly ventilated with leaks, and when the rain is really coming down, the clatter and clack of water hitting shells reminds me of lit strings of firecrackers, or the popcorn exploding in the microwaveable bag. 

Again referring to the above photo, notice the first floor awning over that courtyard entrance to the shared stairwell.  I believe that awning is a simple fold of tin, quite melodic when played by the team of dribble, drip, stream and sprinkle emoting from the gutters above.  

Rain on concrete is fairly quiet, I think, except where the concrete is hollow underneath, like it is beneath some of those courtyard tiles.  I don't know what's under that orange-colored panel on the ground in the photo ... plumbing of some kind, maybe.  And what notes are contributed by the satellite dishes?  

I thought about getting out of bed to pay closer attention.  Instead, I remembered the sound track to that funny cartoon film, The Tripletts of Belleville. Triplets of Belleville   I bet the composer had a window on a rainy courtyard.  

Return to Capitan Pastene

Monday, December 15

We chose the TurBus line only because there was no one selling tickets at our ususal favorite, Buses Jac.  TurBus showed a directo to Temuco departing at 9:15 a.m., which seemed to me a better deal anyway than the Buses Jac that Richard had identified on line, leaving at 8:30 a.m.  On entering that 9:15 TurBus Monday morning, I thought it seemed a more comfortable pair of seats than I remembered on Buses Jac last year.  The snag came after the first hour onboard, when the bus veered off of Ruta 5 to head for Valdivia, instead of continuing directo for Temuco.  Oh, well.  An extra hour of viewing the lush green riverland around Valdivia ... an extra 20 minutes or so slogging thru the city traffic to get to and from the bus terminal in Valdivia.  Pretty soon we were back on Ruta 5 rolling north.

Still, 6 hours in a bus is a long haul.  My back was aching by the time we got off in Temuco, at the Rodoviario / terminal at the far end of the city.  We took a few minutes before leaving the terminal to upgrade our tickets for the return trip so we could sit in those full-recliners in the front of the bus.  A taxi to the rental car place, and it didn't take long before we were on our way, with Richard at the wheel of a little Chevrolet Spark from Avis.  An hour and a half drive from Temuco is our favorite little Chilean town, the one founded by Italian colonists back in 1905:  Capitan Pastene.

If you read about our visit there last February, you know we only went to eat.  This time, since we had established a link to Patricio, the multi-lingual manager of L'Emiliano's restaurant and cabañas, we'd booked a single room for one night for CLP 45,000 ... about $84.  What a spot!  A huge and very comfortable bed, a bathroom tiled from floor to ceiling, just like in Italy, and a little sunporch with a table at which Señora Genny served the wine we'd chosen.  We were a couple hours early for the 8 pm dinner, so had time to enjoy a walk around town before the wine.
One of L'Emiliano's buildings is under construction right now ... and it is amazing to see the way they are rebuilding a very old area along the street ... The original rafters and frames of alerce, the Chilean redwood, probably erected in the early 1910s are staying in place ... with some rearrangement of doors and windows, some additions of brick walls.  The ancient roof tiles are stacked for reuse, and hoses for radiant heat cover the new concrete floor.  Patricio says they want to open the restaurant with access from the street.  Previously, you entered thru the driveway that circles a beautiful grape-arbor, pool, and grassy lawn, to get to the restaurant. Genny dusts the table on our sunporch with a few minor grumbles about the by-products of construction.  Then she throws up her hands, "Labores, labores, labores, nunca finito!"

We feasted on prosciutto and pasta ... the pasta every bit as tender and cloud-like as I remembered.  The photo inside the restaurant is just too blurry ... I'll get you a decent one next month when we return.  As we got up to leave at 10 pm., the gang of 9 Italians who are staying tonight in the cabaña next to ours ... (They are making an Around The World Road Trip, according to the signage on their two vehicles.) ... came in for dinner.  Patricio and Genny offered them full service, everybody laughing and telling tales as the food was ordered.  We could barely roll ourselves across the little courtyard to our bed!

Look at this beautiful bathroom!  We'll have to go back in winter sometime to really test those towel racks.

At breakfast, Richard questioned Patricio about property values in Capitan Pastene, and we heard that lots, depending on the size, ranged in price from 15.000,000 to 50.000,000 CLP (or US$25,000 to $83,333 ... using the current 600 pesos per US dollar).

L'Emiliano serves a  fine breakfast, including scrambled eggs if you want them.  But the workers were starting to hammer and bang in earnest by 10 a.m. so we got out of there.  As we checked out, Patricio had just been talking with his mother, Genny, on the phone.  He wanted us to know that they had a lot for sale, with a house on it, for 60.000,000 CLP (US $100,000).  He told us where to find it, and we walked down that way to have a look.  Nice little house.  Big lot.  Right on the main entrance into town, though, on a street much used by the logging trucks.

There are A LOT OF LOGGING TRUCKS rolling thru Capitan Pastene.  We drove out of town on a road we'd never tried before, just to see where it would take us.  Whew!  UP into the forested hills with the working loggers.  We passed cold decks every so often, where the logging operations stack their logs for transport; and all along the road huge trucks, heavily laden with logs, pine mostly, came toward us on their way down to the big highway.  .

Back into town for lunch.  We returned to MonteCorone, the establishment run by green-eyed Mabel, who remembered Richard from our last visit.  He was dazzled by her new poster, and she promised that by the time we come back again in February, she'll have postcards and tee shirts available with this magnificent ad:

"The best legs are in Capitan Pastene and they are Montecorone's."

We bought four packets of proscuitto and a bottle of Limoncello which Mabel says is made right there in Capitan Pastene.  Haven't opened it yet.  Maybe tonight for Christmas Eve.

Last year we told you about dining at Don Primo's, where the pasta was not quite as heavenly as at L'Emiliano.  This year we tried the pasta at Mabel's place, Montecorone.  Very good, flavorful, but I think I could tell the pasta had been made ahead of time and stored or frozen ... whereas the pasta at L'Emiliana always tastes like it was made just now for this particular dish. Below is Mabel's restaurant, but the hanging hams here are just for show.  The light fixture is repurposed from the grain-milling enterprise that still operates next door.  I'm afraid I couldn't make out just exactly how it worked before it was wired for lights.

We went back to Don Primo's to get photos of his warehouse, where the famous hams hang for months to cure.

The camera flashes in this dark room, and I'm afraid we could not capture for you the amazing range of colors on these hams.  Every shade of green, many blues and yellows ... and then the reds, pinks and browns.  The photos around the walls are all of original colonists, some working their trades, some posed in family groups.

The door to the ham gallery seems to be always open ... so the air can circulate well, I guess.  We saw no other people here ... just those colonial manekins you see below.

Outside Don Primo's warehouse is this formidable old engine.  There are birds in the wooden pens, turkeys and peahens.  Later in the day two ancient hombres worked just beyond that pile of gravel on the left, mixing a batch of concrete for some project.  We walked on up to the top of the street and turned to the left to find Anita Covilli's shop.  She has her own special pasta restauarant, with a retail outlet across the street.  We interrupted her pasta-making to buy a packet of HER prosciutto.  (Wish I'd captured a photo of her with that bright white dab of flour on her nose.)  We're already planning another trip to Capitan Pastene, towards the end of January, when our friend Teresita will come along with us.  I predict a pasta taste test at Anita Covilli's at that time.   

As we walked back to the car, Richard spotted this water sprinkler.  A big plastic bottle repurposed as a sprinkler.  What luck that the hose fitting matched the bottle opening!  Ingenuity ... is it Italian, Chilean, or simply human?  

Speaking of ingenuity, we had not come empty-handed to Capitan Pastene, this time.  We'd brought this photo, from GUSTO at the Bellingham Farmer's Market, to share with Patricio at our favorite restuarant.  Ah, cross-cultural interaction!  The key to human progress.  

A Drive to Ensenada

Saturday, December 13:  

Marlene invited us to go to lunch at a special restaurant in Ensenada.  We walked the three and a half blocks to her house from our apartment, and she drove from there - north out of the city on Ruta 5, then turn off at the north entrance to Puerto Varas, where the famous Casa de Los Ganzos commands the hilltop, and the big white geese form clouds here and there against the green slopes below the house.  I had just met Cristina, maker of goose down comforters and pillows, at the English Speakers Book Club the week before.  She has actually offered to host the next meeting at this lovely house!

Marlene knows all about Cristina and the House of Geese because there was a television special just recently.  The house was built some thirty years ago by a couple of Chileans from nearby Nueva Branau, which was settled by colonists from Germany in the 1860s.  (By the way, last winter Marlene took us on a tour of Nueva Branau.  I can't believe I didn't share photos from that trip with you yet!  We enjoyed the German Museum very much.)
The family who built the House of the Geese owned a huge parcel of land around the house, long before Puerto Varas had begun to grow.  The family ceded some land for development of the national highway, Ruta 5.  A daughter, Cristina, educated in the US and working there as an engineer in the Annapolis area, returned to Chile a few years ago when her parents died.  She "snowbirds" like we do, but when in Chile she is managing the goose down business.  Casa de Los Ganzos

From Casa de Los Gansos website:  view down to Puerto Varas, w. Volcan Osorno across the lake.

Onward!  Marlene drove down the long hill into Puerto Varas, and onto the Costanera along the edge of Lago Llanquihue.  The day was as glorious as in the photo above, and Marlene regaled us* with stories from her business life, in which she sells marine supplies to boaters and boat-building businesses, fishermen and cruisers.  She orders supplies from the US sometimes, and Richard has helped her with that process when the supplier does not speak Spanish.  Recently, a certain supply from a dealer in Maine, was shipped via the US Postal Service ... and that turns out to be a nightmare because the package must then transfer to the Chilean Postal Service.  The item traveled from Maine to Santiago in three days, but had been awaiting movement in Santiago for almost three weeks already.  Our Marlene is a persistent, intelligent woman, and she has been speaking with the postal officials.  Woe betide them if the thing is not delivered soon!  

(* Marlene told her stories in español, if you please!  We are understanding better every day.)

The road out past Puerto Varas is very beautiful, with vistas of the huge lake, great stands of eucalyptus trees, rolling meadows full of cows or sheep, bridges over deep ravines or roiling rivers, and always the glimpse or the grand display of Osorno.  Only one small part of the road was still under construction.  

Three of my fellow book club members live out this way, but I don't know just where:  Antje, who came to Chile in 1953 and worked as a secretary for many years for Phillips Electric, is the grand matriarch of the book group, keeper of the little crystal bell that might one day have to be used to call order;  Diana, who is my age, and new to the club this year, comes from London and Singapore, though she also lived for a time in Florida ... Boca Raton ... a name she delights in translating for us; and Wendy, a few years younger than me, transplanted from the Oregon Coast last year at this time.  She and her husband are renting now, with a great view of Osorno, and looking for a piece of property, or a house, with just as good a view.  These Ensenada women usually ride in together for the every other Friday book club meetings, and now that I see how LONG the ride is, I appreciate even more their regular attendance.  

Probably 40 minutes or so on that beautiful road brings us to the town of Ensenada, not much more than a scatter of restaurants with a gas station and a few stores.  Marlene comments on two of the restaurants that were once good, but no longer.  Don Salmon is the one she has in mind.  She was here with her daughter, La Nino, two weeks ago for a celebration.  Don Salmon is a Tenedor Libre ... a Free Fork ... which translates really to Smorgasbord.  

from his website:  www.donsalmon.cl

Yes, the salmon is pretty good, but the cordero, lamb, is special - slow-roasted on a spit, tender and full of flavor.  Every variety of salad and vegetable side dish is displayed beautifully.  The grilled eggplant was delicious.  Marlene twisted my arm to take a second dessert plate, but she did agree to share it with me. 

Dining with a view of Volcan Osorno is spectacular in itself.  And this view offers one shoulder of the volcano swirling toward us, the ridge descending to the lake, so close, so inviting.  Wouldn't it be grand to climb that slope one day?

 

Don Salmon, himself, spoke with us just before we left, in answer to Richard's questions about what the cost of property in this area might be.  Don Salmon happens to have a few parcelas for sale, some with large trees.  He tells us that the cost to put solar on a house is very cheap ... only something like $500 per house.  Hmmm.  We always have to second guess ourselves when translating these financial details.  

The long drive home included Marlene's descriptions of the wind-surfers' beach outside of Puerto Varas, and then we all gasped in surprise to see a lot of people swimming off the beach right in Puerto Varas.  It IS almost Midsummer's Eve here, but that water must be cold.  

At home on Avenida Ramon Munita, the next day, I walked about six blocks from the apartment to the road that overlooks the Valle de Volcanes.  You can see the cone of Osorno on the left.  Calbuco is closer to us.  

  The Valle de Volcanes is filled with small houses, like so many cobblestones fill a street.  Ah, it was nice to get out of town for the day!  

Public Transit here and elsewhere ...

Thanksgiving Day is already old news.  I hope you enjoyed a feast of food and human connection.  I more or less missed the spirit, suffering from a miserable cold and not feeling grateful for anything except the occasional ability to breathe.  You know how that goes ... Even those of us who are IDEALISTS can be laid low by the body's woes.  I guess I'm thankful for the fact that I can still refocus my mind to some kind of positive, even when everything hurts.  As of today, 12/6, I'm finally feeling normal again.  But Richard coughs and wheezes, pobrecito!

ALSO, I am thankful for PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION in its many forms and variations.  Here in Chile, especially ... where we have no car.

When we left Bellingham, we put the car in the locked garage and changed the insurance to "comprehensive only" for the price break.  We drove the car less than 5000 miles last year.  I had a bus pass to get to my Zumba classes;  we both did a lot of walking.

Here in Puerto Montt, the Collectivo system is huge and we use it almost every day.  Collectivos are small cars that can carry 4 passengers.  I do sometimes have a hard time getting in or out of those close-quartered back seats.  Always, I'm delighted if the front passenger seat is available.  So much more espacio!

Each Collectivo sports a sign across the roof that announces what section of the city you can get to in that car.  Users who are "in the know" can tell by the Number and/or the Color of the sign which of many different routes through and around the city that car will follow.  I wish there was a guide book, delineating all the different routes, but there is no such thing.  Our friend, Marlene, who lives a few blocks from our apartment, advised us to look for the #8, and/or the ones that have a RED sign on top.  We've learned that many of the red-signed collectivos will eventually make their way to Avenida Ramon Munita and get us home.
When you see one with the right color or the right route number on his car-top sign, you stick out your index finger to stop him.  Maybe you stick two fingers out if you need space for two people.  When they are over in the center lane, they're usually already full.  Sometimes, with luck, they pull over to empty people out, and then there's room for you.

So when I'm standing outside the Jumbo grocery store with my pack full of goods, I watch for a #8, or a red-signed #12 or 27.  For about 80 cents that car takes me up to my apartment, a distance of about three miles with A LOT of elevation gain.  In the morning, for the sake of time, we sometimes catch the collectivo outside our apartment down to the Costanera, where we can get the bus (another 80 cents) to the marina.  But if we're not in a hurry, it's easy enough to walk the 2+ miles, all downhill, to the Costanera, if the weather's decent.

Collectivos trolling past the Bus Terminal downtown.  This is the best place to catch one, before they get filled w. people.

 One Sunday afternoon when we'd shopped at the Jumbo on our way home from the marina, we waited and waited for a collectivo with room for two.  They were all full.  Finally we went back into the Jumbo parking garage where the taxis wait, and spent $6 to get home.

 If the collectivo picks up a full load here at the bus terminal, he'll drive the most direct route up the hills.  If he's still looking for passengers, he'll drive farther down the Costanera and turn up to go by the Jumbo, trolling for fares.  What a system!
Maybe you can guess that the collectivo drivers are up in arms about regulation of the price they can charge.  They are faced with higher and higher fuel taxes, to pay for all the road improvements going on in this town, but they're not allowed to raise their rates.
Buses are still pretty cheap here, too.  I take a bus to Puerto Varas every other week to meet with the women of the English-Speaking Book Club there.  Yesterday, after a very nice lunch at Cumbres Restaurant, Maureen gave me a ride to centro so I could get my bus back to Puerto Montt.  When she drives to Puerto Montt, burning fuel for half an hour of freeway driving and then frying her nerves in the wildish traffic in that city, what is the true cost of the trip?  She was amazed to hear that the bus only charges 800 pesos ... about $1.30 in dollars.

Are we gearing up to get rid of the car altogether?  Hmmm.  If only we had collectivos in Bellingham!

A little dog died ...

We take turns cooking dinner here in our apartment.  Monday was my night to cook - very easy because Richard had fixed his super risotto the day before and there were lots of leftovers.  I put a couple portions in the casserole dish to bake, and prepared a potful of carrots and asparagus to go along.  While things heated, I watched the street below.  6:30-ish ... tail end of the traffic rush ... drizzling rain.

I didn't see the car hit the dog.  What I saw was the man getting out of his car to walk back and pick up the dog he'd just hit.  Or maybe he'd seen it get hit.  He carried the small white animal gently, his hands under the shoulders and hips.  He laid it down on the parking strip, close to the sidewalk.  The poor little dog's legs twitched for a moment and then drooped.  The man went back to his car and moved on, leaving the little canine on the ground.

Maybe it was new to the neighborhood, a puppy, and hadn't learned the rules of the road yet?

Richard watched too, commenting he was pretty sure he'd seen that dog patrolling a few houses to the right.  The large, curly-haired white dog, next door to where this little one now lay, is the noisy one, barking at every passerby.  The fat, shaggy, golden brown dog who lives in the house in front of which this corpse now rested, came out to sniff:  first the butt, then the belly, then the face.  No connection, no response.  Que pena!  Pobrecito!

Cars passed.  The rain stopped.  People walked by, both on the sidewalk and on the street.  We ate our risotto with vegetables and then Richard moved into the kitchen to clean up, while I walked downstairs and next door to the grocery store for a box of grapefruit juice.

When I came back to my window, I watched two young men stand in the grassy median of the street.  Each hefted his back pack as well as some tool in the hand.  As they walked out of the median, crossing to the far sidewalk, I saw that one carried the spade of a shovel, while the other carried the handle.  The canine corpse was gone.  No doubt they'd lifted a plug of grass in the median and interred the little dog.  Rest in Peace.

Photo taken Wednesday night around 7 pm.  

I don't think the men had any connection to the little dog except that they saw a fellow creature in need of burial.  They left the shovel pieces somewhere behind that plywood-paneled truck and walked on down the sidewalk to the left.

"Lyf so short ... The craft so long to learn."  ........ Chaucer

Eye to Eye with Calbuco

View from my dining room table today, November 12

Thursday, November 6, 2014: 

We have no heat in this little apartment on Avenida Ramon Munita.  From my third floor window I look out across a neighborhood of small two-story casas, the stove pipes above their metal roofs spewing smoke that lays down flat in the cold northwest wind.  I'm so jealous of their fires!  I should have gone along with Richard down to the boat this morning, where he’s right now stoking Abrazo’s wood stove. 

Instead I chose to do some cleaning and sorting here in the new nest, hopeful that Don Pedro will call me back soon with news that he’s bringing us a heater.  We haven’t been able to figure out how to light the stove, but pots of hot tea from the gas burners sustain me.  Small challenges continue.  The apartment has no internet, and Don Pedro  suggested a USB modem.  But the one we bought at Falabella … well … after hours of puzzling with it, both at home and back at the tech desk where we bought it, the vendor agreed it was a bad piece of equipment.  By then I had no patience left for trying another unit.  Maybe tomorrow.      

Los colores de mi vida.  Note the black droid lower right by the stool!

Friday, November 7

Last night Don Pedro came up to see us, with his wife Erica and their two young teens, Cristobal and Catalina.  The chico carried the black metal cube with wheels that is my new best friend:  an electric heater.  Richard had figured out how to light the gas oven by then, so we were not totally frigid; and with all those bodies in the apartment, the windows were soon streaming with condensed vapors. 

Once the newly painted walls, newly covered floors and newly tiled bathroom tub surround had been admired by Erica, I asked my remaining questions (“What does this knob do?” etc.).  When Don Pedro advised us that the cost of electricity is very high, I feared he wanted to raise the rent already, but we assured him we would only use the heater sparingly.  Also, Erica agreed to investigate having internet activated in the apartment.  Then we sat around to chat for a few minutes. 

Catalina, had a question for me, her mother said.

“Do you have daughters or sons?” the chica asked.  At first I couldn’t make out her pronunciation of “daughters”… which embarrassed HER, of course.  Disculpa me!  We recovered.  They all laughed when I explained that the boat has been our hija y hijo.    

Both kids enjoyed the oportunidad to show off their English in front of their parents.  They study it in their schools.  Cristobal claims he has learned most from “the You Tubes.”  Catalina likes American music, and says “English is awesome.”  I’m glad.  Our Angelmo friend complains that English has such an ugly sound compared to Spanish. 

While we chatted, Don Pedro looked through our little picture book 

about the construction of the boat, and proclaimed our boat un tesoro.  Then he rounded up his own gang of treasures and left us to enjoy the electric warmth of our new droid. 

Saturday, November 8

Condominio Ramon Munita is about the same distance from the Mercado Presidente Ibañez as was our apartment in Los Almendros last year, but last year we had to walk UP a steep hill to get to the market.  This year we actually live on a bench a bit higher than the market, so the uphill hike, nowhere near as steep, is on the way home.

We find the Saturday morning market just as colorful, crowded, and fresh as we remembered … see pics in last year’s blog  "Saturday Morning Market" 12-9-13. 

The vendor with the gold tooth is happy to see us again, the ancient blind man still plays his accordion, layers of fresh fish and mounds of shellfish fill the tables, and the supplies of fresh-cut lettuce and parsley are still cheaper than the grocery store.  With laden back-packs we hike home, where Richard begins the ritual of creating his spaghetti sauce.  Teresita is coming for a 1:30 almuerzo.  She already loves R’s spaghetti. 

I bought a bouquet of flowers (the purple-white vallica) at the market, and Tere brings a pretty bunch of rododendro fucsia from her home. 

It’s Chilean tradition, she says, on your first visit to a person’s home, to bring flowers.  When Tere sees that we have a fine view of Volcan Calbuco from the dining table (when the clouds lift, that is), she approves our living arrangements, despite the fact we have “no natura” … no trees or gardens around the building.  

Here's the view without benefit of telephoto

We’re paying around $600/month … like last year… but this time the gas, electric, and gastos are included.  The building is not so elegant as Los Almendros.  We’re farther from the center of town.  It’s easy enough to walk down, when we have time and the weather permits, and catch the Costanera bus to the marina.  But on the return we usually look for a collective to get us back up the hills:  up to the level of the Jumbo grocery store, near where we lived last year … up again to the level of Avenida Presidente Ibañez … then up again to the top of Av. Sargento Silva.  You can see in the photo above that there’s yet another terrace of houses above us. 

Wednesday, November 12

The man from Moviestar came today so we are connected for internet and wi-fi, too.  Yay!  Hope all your connections are operating well, and that the news you find is mostly good.

Got to find a home ...

A glorious day in Pelluco, and a fine view from the window of Teresita's dining room:  yellow azaleas at the wall of her house, a gallery of rhododendrons and a snowball tree (copas de nieve), a whole park full of trees reaching down to the coastal road, the towers are apartment buildings in Pelluco, and the cityscape in the far distance is Puerto Montt.  Tere served us a quiche-like spinach pancake cut into appetizer sections (spinach from her own invernadero.  She also served a delicious ceviche made with salmon and vegetables, with her muy especiale mixed berry compote for dessert.

When she visited us in Bellingham this past summer, Tere had a good time washing, chopping, and cooking vegetables from our garden and greenhouse (invernadero) in between sessions of practicing her English.

Now, we do our best to converse in Español with our elegant hostess.  

She would love to have us move in with her right now, but we'll wait till January when one of her two rentals will become available.  In the meantime, we're staying at the Hostal de Los Navegantes, across the road from the marina, where we have a room with private bath, breakfast served downstairs, wifi, and a very nice fire in the stove on days like today, when the spring storms roll in one after the other and the rain showers alternate with hail showers outside.  I like the warmth and openness of the upstairs lounge, here, where I have the big table all to myself for writing and reading.  Don Pedro, the owner here, has an apartment in town he is almost ready to rent to us.  Not as high-toned a neighborhood as we had last year, and not as close to Centro, either, but we'll get to learn a whole new set of buses and collectivos, as well as a different group of vecinos.  The apartment we had last year is available once again, but there has been a 25% hike in the rent.  Don Pedro's place, with all utilities included, rents for what we paid last year.  Is it a 25% less attractive spot?  I guess it all evens out.  Maybe we can move in by Tuesday.  He's been retiling the bathroom, repainting, etc.  He's told us if there's anything missing as far as furniture or dishes, all we need to do is let him know and he will provide.

Richard is off in Puerto Varas today for lunch with the ROMEOs.  Did I tell you about them last year?  An adjunct to the ladies' English-Speaking Book Club, the Retired Old Men Eating Out might bring Richard into contact with someone who will know someone who will want to buy the boat.  If nothing else, he'll have a fine time talking economics, politics and etc with men from Oregon, Scotland, New York, and I don't know where all else.

I attended the ladies' book club meeting this past Tuesday, tho it had been transformed into a baby shower for the newest member, due to give birth next week.  I brought the books they'd requested from the States:  The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window & Disappeared, by Jonas Jonasson; and The Hundred-Foot Journey by Richard C. Morais.  I also brought two copies of The Women, by TC Boyle, even tho I hadn't read it yet myself.  Now that I've almost finished that one, I'll prepare a recommendation of it for the club.  The novel is about Frank Lloyd Wright's various wives and mistresses from the point of view of a Japanese architectural apprentice who lives and studies with Wright for nine years in the Thirties. "The stress and challenge of living with a genius ..." 

Before I leave you, let me add this little story:   

Soon after Richard and I got home to Bellingham this past spring, I met my friend, Dianne M, downtown for a pleasant reunion over Mayan Coffees at the Adaggio Café. In answer to one of her probing questions, I babbled about the ardent wave of love for my home I’d felt on re-entering my front door, stepping back into my own living room after having been away in Chile for almost six months.  The warm colors and cozy textures, shelves full of books, art on the walls, the carpet, the couch, the lamps and rocking chairs  … all so comfortingly familiar!  I hadn’t missed any of these things consciously, and that rush of happiness at being back amidst these objects and articles surprised me. 

Dianne had been rereading  The Wind in the Willows, probably preparing to share it with her grand-daughter one day soon.  Surprised that I’d never read it, she told me that “The warm sense of home” is beautifully drawn in this storybook.  Curiousity about what that is, that sense of home, and respect for my friend’s recommendation, soon led me to a delightful read.  And The Wind in the Willows brought me another sweet wave of surprise:  Mr. Rat, Mr. Badger, Mr. Mole and Mr. Toad deliver in their very different ways the spirit of deep satisfaction they enjoy in their homes.  But it was the migratory birds that best described my own feelings of connection with home!  You can read the whole story on line at www.gutenberg.org … but here’s a bit from Chapter 9 to show you what I mean. 

                                                                                       

Mr. Rat is feeling restless towards the end of summer.  He notices there are fewer and fewer birds in the neighborhood.  While walking his usual rounds one day, he spies three sparrows, talking together and “fidgeting restlessly on their bough.”

“'What, ALREADY,' said the Rat, strolling up to them. 'What's the hurry? I call it simply ridiculous.'

“'O, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean,' replied the first swallow. 'We're only making plans and arranging things. Talking it over, you know—what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so on. That's half the fun!'

“'Fun?' said the Rat; 'now that's just what I don't understand. If you've GOT to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the hour strikes I've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need——'

“'No, you don't understand, naturally,' said the second swallow. 'First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.' …

“'Ah, yes, the call of the South!' twittered the other two dreamily. 'Its songs its hues, its radiant air!’ and, forgetting the Rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence …

“'Why do you ever come back, then, at all?' he demanded of the swallows jealously. 'What do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?'

“'And do you think,' said the first swallow, 'that the other call is not for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect Eaves?'

“'Do you suppose,' asked the second one, that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note again?'

“'In due time,' said the third, 'we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music.'”

Now, ain't that a fine depiction of the migratory spirit! 

May all your homes be blessed with the wheelings and circlings of sweet memories.

The Autumnal Migration: Smooth, Tho Exhaustipating

Challenges here, challenges there ... It's a good thing we're both patient, persistent, and resilient.  Last week I captured photos of my yard in Bellingham, where Richard had been working hard to get all the garden beds put to sleep for the winter.  Now, can I load one of those photos to this blog?  No!  Something has changed ... the photo link doesn't give me access to the photos on my Ipad anymore.  Google wants me to go thru Picasso?  Sheesh!

Tuesday morning, while checking thru the Canadian border crossing on our way to the airport in Vancouver BC, the customs agent asked me to tell him what had happened in New Orleans in 1975.  OMG!  I had no idea that raggedy old business might show up ... those charges were supposed to have been "expunged from the record."  Maybe that particular customs agent enjoyed flustering me.

And then there's the migratory flight itself.  Ours began on a beautiful new 737 that carried us over the Cascade Mountains and the Wind River Range and south over Pueblo, Colorado to Texas and a smooth landing at Dallas-Ft. Worth.  We had a brisk walk around the loop of E-Gates, and then a glass of wine at Pizza-Vino, where our waiter used my Ipad to take a photo of us.  (I'd post that photo here, if I could.  I tried to start this blog entry from that restaurant, in fact, but Google seemed concerned about security and I couldn't get in.)
The flight from Dallas to Santiago de Chile boarded at 9:00 pm.  An old plane ... none of those wonderful video screens at each seat, with nearly endless choices of movies or games, etc.  But the crew eventually served us tortellini and wine, and the overhead-mounted tv screens delivered Angelina Jolie as Maleficent.  By the time they started the movie over again, a little after midnight, we'd discovered that we could hear it in English on channel 11.  Then ensued some long dark hours of hip and spine and shoulder pain as we bent and stretched and tried to sleep.  But HEY!  Think of how the birds must feel after using their OWN wings to fly all those miles.  I guess we had it easy.
After a few hours wait in the domestic terminal at Santiago, we flew on down to Puerto Montt, where our lovely friend, Teresita, met us and drove us to the Hostal de Los Navegantes, near Marina Reloncavi.  ( Imagine a photo of Tere, here )

Abrazo floats peacefully at the dock ... and the Hostal's bed was warm and comfy.  At breakfast this morning we met a couple from Seattle who have also just returned to their boat here.  Their boat is on the hard, so they'll be polishing up the fiberglass and arranging to have her put back into the water with plans to sail south to the Beagle Channel and Cape Horn.  We'll be polishing up the For Sale sign, and getting Abrazo's galley operating, while we look for an apartment or a house to live in.

Soon I will study the new photo protocols; maybe my next entry here will be more colorful.  It was great to be "at home" in Bellingham this past summer, but you know ... I'm happy to be back "home" to the warming spring season here in Puerto Montt, now that the transition trip is done.

You have transitions of varying shapes and sizes every day, no doubt.  We wish you smooth shifting and plenty of endurance!

Tender Torteloni in Capitan Pastene

Sunday, the 19th of January, Richard was enjoying his usual Skype call with Brother Bob, when Bob mentioned a travelogue about Chile's Lake District that had captured his attention.  A certain town in the hills, founded by colonists from Italy.  Hundreds of prosciutto hams hanging from a ceiling; long tables where Italian-speaking women rolled pasta strips, dotted them with filling and cut raviolis and tortelinis.  Bob had not held on to the NAME of this special town, but Richard was able to find it on the internet:  Capitan Pastene.  We had to go!  Over the next few days, R searched the net for maps, hotels, etc.  We decided to go on Monday, the 27th.  So on Saturday, the 25th, we hiked downtown to buy our bus tickets.  From the Costanera we could see 77 sailboats milling around in the bay, awaiting the starting gun.  This bi-annual Regatta is five days of races, with parties at the stopping points in between, south to the island of Chiloe.  The fastest boat are the Soto 40s, with their 10-12 person crews and their carbon-fiber sails.  

Buses Jac has a five hour ride north on Ruta Cinco to Temuco, for $14 a piece.  We'd rent a car there and drive almost 2 hours thru the hills to Capitan Pastene.  To get there before the lunch service closed, we bought tickets for the 7 a.m. bus.  Sheesh, I hadn't been up that early in months! We were excited to get out of town, though, and as it turns out, my Ipad has a delightful alarm clock. 

Comfy seats, especially when the air-conditioning works.

Beautiful landscape viewed from the car ... lots of golden straw ready for baling, huge John Deere and New Holland combines and balers working ... in some fields the grain stubble is disked ... trees embroider the drainages ... very pretty territory.

We drove west, but could look back to the east where the volcanoes rise.

Made it to L'Emiliano Restaurant right around 3 pm. Genny, the owner, came out to greet us as we parked, and her son, Patricio, the manager, welcomed us in English and made us comfortable at a table on the outside porch.  First the wine, with an antipasto tabla of prosciutto, copa, and local cheese.  Then Torteloni stuffed w spinach & walnuts, in Alfredo sauce, and Gnocchi dressed with Pesto. (Go to L'Emiliano Restaurant for a great tour.)  We finished with espresso and limoncello.  In bliss.

The only info Richard had found about staying in Capitan Pastene was very expensive, so he'd booked us a room at a place in Los Angeles:  El Rincon.  As it turned out, this wonderful hostal is some 10 miles north of Los Angeles.  We chose to take the scenic route up thru Angol and Coihue, and what with pot holes, traffic jams, and a lot of really slow logging trucks, it took us almost three hours to get there.  Vale la pena, sin duda.  Roland and Wendy welcomed us to their green oasis, where clusters of grapes hang from the pergola and burbling waters flow in hand-dug channels throughout the grounds.  They've sailed all over the world in every kind of boat, and promised to connect us to a broker in the British Virgin islands.  They'd never heard of Capitan Pastene, but we made them salivate with our stories.  And after the quietest night's sleep since we left Bellingham, we decided it WOULD be smart to keep our reservation for a second night despite the long drive.   

In the morning after breakfast, we walked the paths outside the hostal's cabins out to the river, across a channel to the huge vegetable garden, greenhouse, and berry patch that provides the basics for El Rincon's cuisine, and up the dirt driveway a stretch, just for exercise.  We told our hosts we would not sign up for dinner with them, since we intended to eat our fill in CP again.  They asked us to buy them a stock of prosciutto and copa, and maybe a pan of fresh pasta if possible!

Don Primo's is famous for his prosciutto, which we found to be indeed delicious.  His pasta was not as special as what we'd had the day before, however.  Just not as tender as at L'Emiliana.  (We went back to Patricio to buy a take-home for Wendy & Roland.)

At Don Primo's, however, I really liked the sign about a smile changing the world.  And our waitress, Marivella, was generous with her own pretty smiles.
Once stuffed again, we strolled around town snapping pictures.  There are large investments being made in new construction, improvements to the town plaza, widening of roads, refacing of sidewalks.  One side of town has recently bulged with a new burb in that awful-looking form we are seeing in many places here:  small identical boxes packed together on a flat spot.

Some still resist the trends.

Montecorone has great gelato.  We had such fun talking with Mabel, who owns the place, that we bought souvenirs and more prosciutto here, too.  Will have to go back another time to try her pasta, or pizza, or other treats.  

Before driving back to Ruta Cinco, thru forested hills and golden fields we learned that there are some normally-priced accommodations in this wonderful town.  Mabel will let us know the dates for the next Prosciutto Festival, and we'll make our way here again to stay a few days. 

Our last night at El Rincon was another pleasure.  Wendy & Roland have invited us to consider taking over for them sometime while they take a couple weeks' vacation to include Capitan Pastene themselves.