Physical exercise

After all it looks like I’m not going to cycle to work. Wednesday was bank holiday and I tried out the route to my work on this horrible road bike I bought of the crazy Austrian who was moving out of my flat as I moved in. By the way, he fractured an incisor for not paying attention to a pothole. My trip to work luckily did not involve any accidents but I still found it really intimidating on this ramshackle, zero-security, zero-comfort bike with its brakes in the typical inaccessible road bike position.
Crossing an intersection I didn’t notice lights were already red as I was looking behind, scared that the approaching SUV planning on making a right turn might not take notice of me. Luckily the cars starting off from the crossroad decided not to knock me over, merely beeping and one yelling something.
Last night I decided to go for a run. What a bad idea. It’s strenuous, slow and nauseating. I suppose that what makes it so exhausting is a combination of the altitude (520m) and la contaminación. I only went for 30 minutes (though it felt longer), running mainly through parks which doesn’t mean that one could escape those busy roads; there will always be one running parallel within 50m or so. And it didn’t feel good. I wonder if many Santiagans pursue some physical exercise. If so, maybe they shouldn’t. Today, my legs and my lungs hurt.

Santiago crisp and clear

Santiagans always complain about smog and poor air quality, known as ‘la contaminación’. It’s true that the air here is not like in the swiss alps and, yes, the city always seemed kinda cloudy to me. Santiago’s geographical location in a valley surrounded by mountains makes it particularly vulnerable for la contaminación. I therefore found its presence normal and not really worth complaining about. However, after it had rained the whole of Saturday (which I didn’t really notice because I slept through it), on Sunday the skies were clear all of a sudden and I was awed by the mountain panorama backdrop and the clear view of all the city from a friend’s 22nd floor apartment. For sunset, I decided to visit Cerro Santa Lucia, a historical hill in the centre, barely 5 minutes walk from my house and I started to realize that this is really quite a beautiful city - at least without la contaminatión.
It is thus very likely that I shall end up complaining about la contamiación just like the average Santiagan, especially when I start cycling to work which I will in a few days.
Moreover, I had my first glimpse at the Santiago section of the Lonely Planet Chile guidebook and there seem plenty of things to do and discover in town, although I can't help but dislike the series' laboured easygoing we-are-hip-gringos-but-we-know-it-all-better-than-the-locals style for the oh-so individualistic adventurer. Admittedly, it's probably still the best guidebook you can get.

Feelings

Adapting to a new environment is emotionally challenging. Changes in mood are frequent and intense. After some fun birthday drinks at mine last night with a diverse bunch of people I am all very happy to know, this morning at work I felt hung over, tired and unproductive. Now, in the afternoon after a wholesome lunch and a bit more than a pint of coke (580 ml) I feel productive and energetic again.
Moods strongly affect the perspective on many things. A blog-entry that one is content with can be nauseating if read an hour or so later. I also tend to find that people's characters change with the language spoken. As I am currently in an intense Spanish learning phase this implies somewhat developing a new personality which is a bit like a trial-and-error process and causes changes in mood and perception.

P.S.: The photo shows a bunch of cables in Santiago

Commuting

On my first two working days in Santiago, commuting to work would take about an hour with some 45 minutes on the metro and changing from the yellow to the red line. In London I usually avoided taking rush-hour trains (viva la bicicleta), but I could swear it’s a lot worse here. Trains run very, very frequently but are still so packed that there is not even space to take a glimpse at one’s Publimetro or La Hora, the Santiago equivalents to London’s Metro (luckily there is no afternoon thelondonpaper/London Shite epidemic here). Personnel in yellow uniforms walk along the platforms and help dispatch the trains. I find that in the crowded transportation system fat, middle-aged females were among the rudest - elbowing and pushing other people waiting to board a train. Unsurprisingly, I saw one of those evil, aggressive mamas get into conflict with a yellow dispatcher on my first-ever commute.
The good news is that people and metros in Chile don’t smell. The characteristic perspirational bodily odour found on public transport in so many countries is absent even on the most crowded of trains.

P.S.: The photo shows an empty metro train taken last saturday

Montreal to Santiago (transit in Toronto which isn't really worth mentioning)

Poutine is the French Canadian’s national dish. Pronounced in the same way as the former Russian president, the two names are so alike that any attempt of a pun would not be perceived as very original. Anyhow, La Poutine consists of chips and fresh unripened cheddar cheese with a sauce on top of which some say it is not entirely vegetarian. It’s quite delicious though so I decided not to undertake any further investigations into whether it would meet my usually very strict dietary preferences and had myself invited to Montreal’s second best Poutine place by two charming Canadian friends.

The next day, before leaving for Chile I bought a bag of the lovely fresh Poutine cheese lumps, a great (though expensive) alternative to crisps. It is packed on the same day and already tastes bad the day after. Unfortunately, I forgot to eat it (I was really, really tired on the trip) and, fortunately, the Chilean authorities scanning the luggage on arrival for agricultural products did not take notice of it.
From the airport, I took the bus and then the metro to southern Santiago, where my wonderful Couchsurfing host family took care of me with a wholesome lunch and a trip to a little mountain village outside Santiago. Pardon the cliché but I immediately felt at home. Before going to bed I found the fresh cheese bag and put it into the fridge with little faith that it would still be edible. Then I forgot about it.

P.S. The photo shows the main stage of the Montreal Jazz Festival - good music.

Prologue: Bienvenue au Canada

The Amtrak 69 service New York to Montreal which I took about 10 days ago before moving on to Chile runs along the Hudson River and the shores of scenic lakes. Just as memorable as the stunningly beautiful landscape, though less pleasant, was crossing the border into Canada.

The young, tanned border inspection officer who in her uniform reminded me of an Israeli soldier would ask everyone on the fully-booked train a set of questions about the circumstances of their visit to Canada, dispatching a large patchwork family interested in visiting the Montreal Jazz Festival before turning to me. My circumstances were slightly complicated (from Germany, living in England, travelling from the US into Canada to visit friends and then take Air Canada to Chile). Ms Borders thought so, too, and as a consequence started asking personal questions (What are your friends’ names, how do you know them…), while telling me in between that I was nervous, red-faced and speaking at a low voice. Finally, she handed over to her colleague from Immigration Canada, giving her instructions in French to take me out of the train if I wouldn’t give her good answers. I told them that of course I would. Ms Immigration was less evil although she would ask humiliating questions all over again but in the end she must have found my answers were good and stamped my passport. Welcome to Canada.