Kindness of Strangers

Monday, January 5, 2009

You’ve undoubtedly heard about Argentina’s to-die-for steaks, the grass-fed ones that are so tender you can cut them with a spoon. I’m not a huge meat eater, but I like a good steak as much as the next person, and was excited to see how an expert hand could transform a slab of beef into a religious experience.

Going to an Argentine steakhouse, traditionally referred to as a parrilla, is a unique undertaking, one that I was slightly nervous about. “Don’t order too much,” I was warned by fellow travelers who had visited Buenos Aires. “It’s perfectly acceptable to split a cut of meat.” “Take it slow,” cautioned others, “pace yourself.” Who knew meat-eating was such an involved experience? We decided to take the plunge at Pena Parrilla, which was recommended to us by a lovely American couple we met in Valparaiso.

I dressed in my best outfit, which isn’t saying much these days, unsure as to what we were in for. We crawled down a dimly lit street, wondering if we had passed the restaurant, when we spotted a crowded mass huddled outside a bright doorway. “This must be the place,” I said. We pushed our way into the vestibule, where neat rows of various cuts of meat sat sizzling on a massive indoor grill. The place was packed with locals, sporting everything from workout gear to suits: it was 9 pm on a Monday evening.

I flipped open my menu, and was immediately accosted by a dizzying array of choices. Bife de lomo, bife de chorizo, mollejas, vacio, costillas, brochettes, parrillada. They were all cuts of meat, but who knew what any of them were in English, nevertheless Spanish? And choosing a cut of meat is only the first step in the process. Steak dinners are always an a la carte affair in Argentina, requiring you to choose your sides. There are typically salads, pastas, and a panoply of potatoes. What to choose? And how much? I glanced around the restaurant, wondering what I should order, but all I saw was a sea of meat.

Feeling helpless, we asked our smartly dressed waiter what he recommended. “To share?” he asked. We nodded our heads. “Okay, let’s see. Split the bife de lomo. Mixed salad. A bottle of wine.” We pointed to a bottle that sounded good. “No,” he said, “we’re out of that one. I’ll choose another for you.” Ordering had never been so simple.

First the salad was produced, an interesting mix of greens, tomatoes, onions (all Argentine salads seem to include these three ingredients, usually in equal proportion), corn, potatoes, and, my personal favorite, beets, laced with olive oil and vinegar. Simple but delicious. Twenty minutes later the massive steak was presented on a rustic wooden board. We cut the lomo, which it turned out was beef tenderloin, the best cut of meat, in half like a stick of butter. It was the juiciest and most tender steak I’d ever laid eyes on. Rosy on the inside, a touch crispy on the outside. Simple but simply delicious. Stuffed to the gills and slightly tipsy, we ordered the tiramisu, which didn’t disappoint. It was the perfect end to our first Argentine steak dinner.

* * *

A few nights later a former colleague of Maikael’s mom, who lives and works in Buenos Aires, joined us for a night on the town. After meeting for drinks in Recoleta we made our way towards San Telmo to La Brigada, which Rene told us was a local favorite. At 10 pm the line was out the door, a snake of people waiting for a table. The front door to the restaurant was locked and guarded by a man whose neck was as long as it was wide, seemingly bunched up in his mock turtleneck. That’s how popular this place was: they thought people were going to storm the place if they left the door unmanned. But relative order was maintained, and we were seated by 10:30 pm.

Rene explained the different cuts of meat that we’d puzzled over, and we were relieved that we hadn’t ordered the mollejas, which turned out to be sweetbreads (and I ain’t talking cinnamon rolls here, my friends). He ordered a super nice bottle of Malbec for the table, a gracious gesture for someone we had just met, and discussed the good, bad, and ugly of Buenos Aires (but mostly the good). He admitted that he was steak-crazy when he first moved to the city three years ago from California, but has tempered his appetite to about once a week. We, on the other hand, are still averaging a steak every two days, which is nothing compared to Aidan, an Irish guy we met in New Zealand, who reported eating 30 steaks during his 26-day stay in Argentina! If there’s anything I’ve learned about Argentine steak eating, it’s that everyone has a different threshold.

We’ve tried four different steakhouses in Buenos Aires with varying degrees of success, including the iconic and ultra-chic La Cabrera, where each steak is accompanied by a host of imaginative and diminutive side dishes (think roasted apples and caramelized garlic). But with every steak I eat, I find myself comparing it to Pena Parrilla’s, which is the best we’ve found in terms of price and quality. Itching to go back, we enjoyed an excellent second dinner there. We’ll try the much-lauded Siga La Vaca before we go – but my heart belongs to Pena Parrilla.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

With its big city party culture, Buenos Aires promised to be the perfect place to ring in the new year, but our plans for an exciting, action-packed New Year’s Eve fell through at the last minute. “What do people do for New Year’s here?” we asked Betty, our hostess at the Casa de los Angelitos. As it turns out, not much. Most people spend the evening with family or friends at home, which seemed strange to me. Don’t Argentines party at any given opportunity? But that’s just the problem. They are so accustomed to late night revelry – remember, this is a country where the clubs don’t open until 2:30 am – that the idea of staying up until midnight seems a little pedestrian. Without a home to go to for New Year’s, we decided to make our own party. We considered seeing a tango show, but soon discovered that most of them were closed for the holiday, and most restaurants proved to be the same case, too. Finding ourselves still without plans at 5 pm, we decided to celebrate how we normally do: by spending a quiet evening at home over take-out and a bottle of wine.

We made a pilgrimage to the grocery store for wine and little bottle of champagne, then marched around the corner to El Espanol, which has quickly become our neighborhood joint. It’s the kind of place where you see the same people every day at lunch, and where the waiters are quickly beginning to recognize our faces. We’re usually the only foreigners there, a feat at the height of tourist season. All of their pastas, pizzas, and breads are made in-house, behind an expansive window where you can watch the bakers in little red vests feed dough into a complex series of machines like yeasty mad scientists. This was my home away from home in Buenos Aires, so I could think of no better place to order my New Year’s Eve dinner.

I needed some comfort food. I was feeling down, this holiday season having been a big disappointment from beginning to end. I placed a few New Year’s Eve phone calls to friends, which made me feel better. By the time I finished my calls it was 11:30 pm, and we made our way down to the lovely patio, which was emptied of guests who were out at parties of different varieties of crazy. We heated up our pizza and pasta (it would have felt less pathetic if we could have brought it straight home, piping hot, but the restaurant closed at 9 pm, and nobody eats dinner that early in Buenos Aires) and began to discuss the New Year. Usually we hash out some New Year’s resolutions, reflecting on how we’d like our life to be different in the coming months, but this year has been one big resolution, where a conversation like this takes place at least once a day. Instead, we discussed the things were were grateful to be throwing out from 2008, and the things we were looking forward to welcoming in 2009.

Goodbye, 2008. We’re glad that we’re done spending all of our time and money planning an epic journey. We’re glad to be rid of fear and old patterns. Hello, 2009. We’re looking forward to new dreams, new gardens, new challenges, and a new way of being in the world.  We’re looking forward to getting back to our everyday lives.

As we were talking quietly amongst ourselves, a girl from a neighboring building dashed out onto her balcony. “Woo, woo!” she yelled. Then, the crash of fireworks began. “It must be New Year’s,” Maikael said. Although my watch said 11:57, it was midnight according to the portenos. What began as a solo performance soon developed into a full-blown symphony of noise. There is no official fireworks show in Buenos Aires, but you’d never know otherwise if you craned your neck skyward. Lights showered from above, as booms and crackles roared through the city. The cacophony was doubled by the portenos throwing open their doors and blasting music from anemic stereos. The show continued until past one, a heavy cloud of spent fireworks having settled over the city. With lax controls, the New Year was ushered in by the loudest firecrackers I’ve ever heard. “Those have to be bigger than M-80s,” Maikael said at one point. The next morning, our hosts assured us this was an unusual year. “Usually the fireworks go until five. But with the economic crisis, I guess people aren’t buying as many.”

We flopped into bed as the last fireworks fizzled out, forgetting to even crack open our bottle of champagne. The next morning we discovered that someone had polished it off, which somehow seemed like a fitting end to this dismal holiday season. Who knows where we’ll ring in 2010, or how the circumstances of our lives will have changed yet again. But I hope I’m surrounded by the people I care about – and I’m banking on the fact that the fireworks won’t be nearly as loud.

Monday, December 29, 2008

You’ve heard it before: Buenos Aires is the Paris of South America. Generally I’m leery of these descriptions, the ones that overlay one culturally distinct place upon another as a way to characterize it. I once read an article that described Portugal as “the poor man’s Italy.” While I’ve never been to Italy, Portugal seemed to have an identity unto itself, and I found it difficult to imagine that I was anywhere but Portgual. But as we rolled into Buenos Aires early yesterday morning, the streets still emptied of people, I couldn’t help but think, “I feel like I’m in Europe.” We made our way to where we’ll be staying for the next week and a half, an old mansion from Buenos Aires’ golden age that’s been converted to a guesthouse. A narrow marble staircase greeted us, as stained glass windows looked down from their high perch. A small salon with exposed brick rested at the top of the stairs, which opened onto a lovely patio. I felt like I was in Paris.

During Argentina’s wave of immigration in the 1800s, nearly two thirds of Buenos Aires’ population was European, primarily of German, Russian, Polish, and Italian descent. Wealthy portenos wished desperately to be European; they emulated popular French architecture of the period, even going so far as to import building materials from France. South America’s oldest subway system lives in Buenos Aires, its original wooden cars from the early 1900s still in operation, looking like something that should be rocketing under the streets of Paris. This European influence is felt everywhere throughout the city, from grand edifices to fashion and especially food.

Argentina is known internationally for its steak, but what gets less notice is its Italian cuisine. Due to the huge influx of Italians during the last 200 years, their food has become a mainstay of the Argentine diet. A stroll through the grocery store at Christmas revealed thirty different kinds of panettone, an Italian holiday dessert bread, and well as an entire wall of fresh pasta in the refrigerated aisle. Menus scream milanesa, the tender steak pounded within an inch of its life and dredged in breadcrumbs, while daily specials often include pizza, ravioli, fideos, and pasta shapes I’ve never even heard of, like sorrentinos. Buenos Aires is a city where you can walk into a modest cafe and expect a heaping plate of homemade pasta and sauce for a few dollars. God bless Argentina!

The 29^th of each month is known as the Day of the Gnocchi when, throughout Argentina, every restaurant serves gnocchi. The story goes that, when money was tight at the end of the month, people sought out gnocchi, a potato dumpling that is both filling and quite cheap. While Argentina is now one of the wealthiest countries in Latin America, the tradition remains. Realizing it was the 29th, we marched into a restaurant today and, while it wasn’t listed on the menu, asked if they were serving gnocchi. “Of course,” responded the waiter, “it’s the 29th.” Minutes later a deep bowl of perfectly steamed dumplings were placed before us, dressed in a lovely fresh tomato and cream sauce. It was a perfect slice of Italy right here in the Southern Hemisphere. Amen!

Sunday, December 28, 2008

We had a really rough Christmas. I don’t wish to delve into details in such a public forum, but suffice it to say that the holidays ended with us leaving our arranged accommodations prematurely and feeling like a train had flattened us. As we scrambled to figure out how we would spend our last night in Mendoza before departing for Buenos Aires the next day, Maikael’s genius struck. “Let’s stay in the best hotel in town for a night,” he suggested. We quickly called the Park Hyatt Mendoza, determined it was too expensive, and booked a room anyway. Our peace of mind was on the line.

As it turned out, it was the best decision we had made in days. We trudged through the air conditioned lobby, sweating profusely as we maneuvered our massive backpacks through the throngs of chic clientele. The incongruity was not lost on us. “Are you hiking Aconcagua?” asked the bellman, referring to the snow-studded mountain peak outside of Mendoza and looking for a way to explain why two grungy backpacks slumped on his pristine luggage trolley. “No,” we said, simply. “We’re just checking in for a night.” A glittering Christmas tree dripping with twinkling stars stretched towards the soaring ceiling. My dusty sandals slapped against the cool marble tile as strains of Christmas music drifted overhead. I gazed longingly at the cerulean pool as our tired Mastercard was swiped. I was in heaven.

Our room didn’t disappoint. A quarry full of marble lined the bathroom, which boasted a trench-like bathtub and a rainforest shower. There was house-made grape-scented bath products, created to reflect the area’s viticultural heritage. A flat panel monitor aired a constant stream of American movie channels, a real treat after watching Los Simpsons in Spanish (let me assure you that Nelson doesn’t translate). There were plush robes and slippers and a petite card with a personalized weather forecast for the following day (in Celsius and Fahrenheit, no conversion calculation required!). There was real, functioning air conditioning. Even the drapes fastened together with Velcro so as to let nary an errant shaft of light invade on our perfect little oasis. It was the ideal place to recuperate.

After slipping under the downy sheets and cradling my head on a perfect pile of feathers, I enjoyed one of the best nights of sleep I’ve had on this trip. I was finally starting to feel better by the time I slunk into breakfast at 10:45 am. We took a seat under a clear blue sky on the veranda overlooking the picturesque Plaza de la Independencia; a shady umbrella dipped low overhead against the backdrop of the hotel’s perfect white facade. After being served cafe con leche by a Jonathan Rhys-Meyers look-alike, we were ushered into the breakfast buffet. As a matter of course I hate buffets, as they are usually an excuse to serve large quantities of low-quality food. But the buffet at the Park Hyatt Mendoza brought tears to my eyes. Delicate plates of pastries were arranged architecturally along a well-lit granite counter. My plate was transformed to a pile of golden medialunas, a distinctly Argentine croissant; brioche; hand-crafted chocolate muffins; and pain au chocolat. Large decanters of fresh-squeezed juice beckoned, including carrot and grapefruit. Sauteed pear tomatoes and perfect wedges of potatoes, kissed with a dollop of crème fraiche, sidled up to omlettes of perfection. Chards of cinnamon swam in an apple compote, as sweet chunks of fresh fruit teased me. I had died and gone to breakfast heaven.

We listened to an entire CD full of Christmas music, and happily listened again as it repeated itself after an hour. I heard more Christmas music in 90 minutes than I had in the past month, and rather than finding the whole thing cloying, I was completely charmed. After breakfast we sought refuge in the well-appointed spa and lounged by the leafy pool. Later in the afternoon we ordered a chicken sandwich, whose simple perfection nearly made me weep.

Our trip to Mendoza was nothing like we imagined. We must be the only people on the planet who somehow managed to spend 10 days in this famous wine growing region without visiting a single winery. The closest we got was an afternoon at The Vines, “South America’s first and only tasting room,” where we enjoyed a Malbec wine flight. I enjoyed the obvious creative writing at the hands of a clever marketer, who described the wines using the most colorful language I’ve ever witnessed at a tasting:

This wine sparkles in the glass with the color of Dorothy’s ruby slippers.

The aromas will take you strolling through a rose garden.

The deep color of red bricks after a rainfall.

And my personal favorite: This wine is cherry cheesecake on fire.

As we boarded our luxury bus to Buenos Aires, where we would soon be treated to full meals, on-board movies, red wine which would taste nothing like cherry cheesecake on fire, fizzy champagne, and fully-reclining seats, I couldn’t help but feel mixed emotions. Those 24 hours at the Park Hyatt Mendoza had revived me; it was money well spent, the perfect — and only — Christmas gift to ourselves. Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad that Mendoza had turned out so different than I had expected, that I had turned my back on the place and sought comfort in the arms of a swanky hotel. As the city faded into the distance, I turned my gaze towards Buenos Aires, a new chapter.

Friday, December 20, 2008

We woke at the crack of dawn on Wednesday morning to catch our bus to Mendoza, Argentina, picking our way through the gritty, deserted streets of Valparaiso, Chile.  After stopping for empanadas at the panaderia, the only shop open so early in the morning, we boarded our first South American long-haul bus, outfitted with cushy seats, TV screens, restrooms, and coffee machines.  It was more comfortable than flying on a plane.  I dozed as we crossed the Andes Mountains, barren masses of rock capped with whipped cream peaks.  After passing through the relatively hassle-free border crossing at the summit, the landscape changed, giving way to crimson rock, parched vistas, and rising temperatures.  It felt like being home.

Pam, a high school friend of Maikael’s from Costa Rica, was there to greet us at the bus station in Mendoza.  She moved here two years ago when her parents purchased two vineyards in the heart of Argentina’s burgeoning wine country, with the hopes of one day starting their own label.  A maniac driver who’s a dead ringer for a Latina Renee Zellweger, she talked excitedly as we drove through the town’s lush, tree-lined avenues:  although Mendoza is situated in desert terrain, the city planners built acequias, a series of irrigation ditches, to feed the city’s greenery, creating an oasis in the midst of a harsh landscape.  Even though I was starving, having only snacked on what were possibly the worst empanadas that have ever seen the light of day, it was still too early for dinner.  “Restaurants don’t even open until nine for dinner,” Pam said.  It was barely five o’clock.  Instead, we took a seat at a sidewalk cafe, which was just opening its shuttered doors.  Pam explained that everything closes in the middle of the day.  Lunch is served beginning at noon, which is one o’clock, and everyone goes for a big meal in the middle of the afternoon.  This sounded a lot like the Spain of the southern hemisphere.  “Are there tapas before dinner?” I asked hopefully.  Not really.

Pam ordered us a round of gancia batido, the national liquor of Argentina shaken with lemon juice.  It was a South American lemon drop in a tall, cool glass.  After another round I was desperately in need of food, so we headed towards the backyard setting of Anna Bistro, where chairs and tables were sprinkled amongst a shady garden.  “Service in Argentina is terrible,” Pam explained, and indeed it was.  I was elated when we were finally handed food menus, and disappointed when I learned that half the items weren’t available until 8:30, when dinner service began.

After running into some ex-pat friends of Pam’s, we settled the bill and moved onto Cafe Flora for more drinks and dessert.  It was nearly nine by now; traffic was suddenly heavy and the restaurants were just beginning to fill.  Pam confirmed that it really is true what they say about Argentines:  they eat a lot of beef.  Most people eat a slab of steak with a petite green salad and not much else for dinner.  Rice and beans, a staple in most of Latin America, is unheard of here:  as the world’s number one producer of beef, it’s cheaper than vegetables.  Pasta is also popular here, as Argentina is home to huge numbers of Italian immigrants, so if it’s not heavy meat it’s carbs for dinner.  And if you’re eating heavy meals at 11 pm you’re probably not very hungry for breakfast, when most Argentines eat a sweet roll and a cup of coffee.  What a diet, huh?  And yet, most people appear to be trim and fit, leaving me to wonder if the Argentines swim in the same gene pool as the French.

“Don’t call an Argentine before 9 am and expect them to be awake,” Pam warned.  “But it’s totally fine to call someone until 11 o’clock at night,” she continued.  The clubs don’t open until 2:30 am, and with those late dinners, most nights are late nights by US standards.  “The afternoon officially goes to 9 pm,” Pam explained, “and it’s common to have business meetings and appointments until that time.”  Later that evening, Pam got a text message confirming a pedicure appointment for eight o’clock in the afternoon.

So as far as I can tell, here’s how a typical Argentine day goes:  stumble out of bed for work around 9 am; eat a light, quick breakfast; work until 1 pm; go for a big, leisurely lunch or take a nap; work through the early evening; have a late, heavy dinner; go out for drinks; then hit the hay.  Rinse and repeat.  If the Australians can drink anyone under the table, then the Argentines win the award for the least amount of sleep required to still call yourself a functioning human being.

Of all the places we’ve visited in the world, Argentina seems to have the most complex and structured rules about schedules.  I had never thought about schedules as being such a salient part of culture, but it most certainly tells you something about a national psyche.  This is a place that values having fun and taking one’s time with eating.  And while this appeals to me, I am beginning to see how deeply ingrained our schedules are with respect to our culture.  I have always been an early riser, reinforced through my culture’s industrial, Puritanical roots, and the thought of waiting to eat a proper meal until halfway through the afternoon makes me a little uneasy.  I’m slowly trying to get on the Argentine schedule – I even slept in until 11 am today in the hopes that I will be able to stay up late tonight without feeling like death warmed over — but it leaves me feeling out of sorts.

Maikael the Nightowl, on the other hand, has found Mecca.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

The New York Times features a travel column called “24 Hours in (insert name of major international city here),” which I always thought was a ridiculous idea. How, I wondered, could you even begin to get a flavor for a city in a mere 24 hour period? But we had only 24 hours to see Santiago de Chile, the country’s capital city, and I was going to put the New York Times’ theory to the test. As it turns out, they might be on to something.

We arrived late yesterday afternoon, soaring over the Andes Mountains, as dusty brown hills gave way to jagged, snow-capped peaks, even in the height of summer. Santiago sits cradled in a giant bowl, hugged snugly by the imposing Andes. After dropping our bags at our Providencia neighborhood digs, we made our way to dinner at Pizzeria Nostra, a 30-year tradition in Santiago. We munched on pizza that would make Napoli proud, accompanied by fresh frutilla, Chile’s answer to fresh strawberry juice. When I thanked the waiter, he demurred. “No, thank you,” providing what an affable, modest, and polite bunch the Chileans are. As we crawled through the nighttime streets, we noticed a group of giggling girls, dressed like little fairies, having just come from a school Christmas pageant, and women chatting on cell phones on park benches: this was obviously a safe city. We marveled at how light and orderly the traffic was, feeling more like Europe than Latin America.

In the morning we made our way towards Bellavista, Santiago’s bohemian enclave, where the buildings are slathered in colorful murals. As we crossed a street, three perky cheerleaders dashed out into traffic, quickly clapping their hands three times like cheerleaders do, and promptly began performing aerial tricks in the crosswalk. The idling drivers, waiting for the traffic light to change, craned their necks out of the car windows. Just before the light turned green, the cheerleaders dashed between cars collecting donations; it was the most jovial and inspired bit of entrepreneurship that I’d seen in a long time.

The fun continued at La Chascona, one of Pablo Neruda’s notoriously zany houses. Although I knew little of Chile’s most celebrated poet, I had read that his houses were a love song to kitsch, and I was eager to see what all the fuss was about. Perched on the hill above Bellavista, La Chascona, named for the famously unruly locks of his third wife, didn’t disappoint. Each of his three houses was built to reflect his fascination with ships, and each is filled with his staggering collections. He collected everything: bottles, colored glass, maritime objects, hand-shaped door knockers, dolls, salt and pepper shakers, Blue Willow china, paintings featuring watermelons. What he chose to collect didn’t have much rhyme or reason, and nothing was of particular value (he believed the best way to understand a place was to visit their flea markets). He simply collected what he liked, with little regard as to whether it made sense or “went together” from a design standpoint, and I found this to be completely admirable. Each room was a fascinating hodge podge of things that shouldn’t have worked together, but somehow did (my favorite part was the dining room table set with Blue Willow china and chunky waterglasses in primary colors). I can only guess it worked because it was a reflection of him and what he loved best, and it made me wonder what the world would look like if we simply decorated ourselves and our homes with the things we loved. Indeed, if our lives were guided by what felt right, and not what we thought we should do or be.

Feeling philosophical, we made our way further downtown towards Santiago’s most iconic sights. We stopped in at The Clinic, a small retail shop named for the satirical newspaper bearing the same name. My Lonely Planet states, “This is where you get your T-shirt with Pinochet’s mugshot!” Although it was tempting, we skipped over the T-shirts and headed to El Palacio de la Moneda, the site of the 1973 coup that heralded the beginning of Chile’s revolution. Mammoth Chilean flags flapped in the breeze in front of the refurbished palace, having been closed during the entire course of the dictatorship and reopened in 2000. The site of one of modern history’s bloodiest coups now plays host to sunny military men dressed in their Sunday best and a courtyard displaying modern art. It was hard to believe what had taken place there less than 40 years ago; clearly, Chile was ready to shake off its past and move on to better times.

We walked around the central area of town, a mix of classic architecture and skyscrapers, a reminder of Santiago’s place as a Latin American trading center. Passing by a large cathedral, scores of women sat outside reading tarot cards at rickety folding tables; I have always been fascinated with the mix of the occult and Catholicism that seems to play a role in Latin America spirituality. In need of a rejuvenation, we ducked into Bar Nacional, a bustling place sent from a bygone era. Waiters clad in black vests and bow ties dashed around the restaurant, while a man dressed as a soda jerk lorded over an old fashioned soda counter brimming with fresh fruit. Like a bartender, his sole responsibility at this establishment was to whip up cold, frothy jugos naturales, which are hands down one of the best parts of traveling in Latin America.

As we wandered the tidy streets, we stumbled upon a Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera exhibition below the Palacio de la Moneda, the former being my favorite artist. We were able to take in some of her greatest paintings for less than two dollars. And just when I had begun to think that Santiago was a mini European city, an obnoxiously loud (and bad) garage band began throbbing from a nearby stage, its sound promptly cutting out within 30 seconds, reminding me that we were in Latin America.

That evening we enjoyed a great meal at the quirky Ligurgia, whose walls were crammed with vintage paintings, posters, and memorabilia. A pitcher of borgona was produced, Chile’s answer to sangria, an infusion of wine and frutilla. Unlike Spain, we enjoyed a gigantic pitcher for less than $10.

This was my kind of city – even if I only had 24 hours to enjoy it.