Feliz Navidad

I’m something of a traditionalist. There is a way to do Christmas. It usually takes place in Minnesota, there are Swedish meatballs, and Christmas carols. There are lots of children. There are letters from Santa penned in a script closely resembling my father’s. It is chaotic and full of love. If you’re lucky there may even be a Mimi walking into the bathroom while a Joe is showering, but that’s a story for another time. Needless to say, the idea of doing Christmas in another country, far from family was a little jarring. Nonetheless, Christmas time was an opportunity to get a significant chunk of time away without taking too much time off work (#capitalism #practicality), so on December 25th this year, Joe and I found ourselves in San Pedro de Atacama. 

I already wrote about how it took us a minute to warm up to this place. But, going into Christmas, the tides had turned and we were feeling excited to be where we were. What transpired over the next 24 hours, while far from traditional, turned into one of the most memorable Christmases I have had. 

(Also, another side note, last year at Christmas my entire family was in a cabin suffering from a virulent stomach bug, stuck inside fur to temperatures of -25 degrees outside... so it was not so difficult to go up from there)

Christmas morning began at 5:30am. We woke up in our hut, put on many layers of clothing and piled into a van with our driver, Gerald, and our soon to be new best friends, Karina and Arnold — an older couple from Chile who, despite Karina’s cold, were having the time of their lives together. As the sun rose, we drove through the mountains north of San Pedro. What started out as only brown became covered in cacti, and then short green bushes. We made our way above 14,000 feet (which as a Colorado College alum, meant a lot to me), and were greeted with steamy plumes in the distance. Gerald was an aggressive driver, eager to get us there at the peak time to experience the magic.

Thus, at about 7:30am, we had arrived. We stood beside a steamy cauldron, listening to it bubble, when Gerald exclaimed, “Mira! Mira!” And the water started spouting. 

Even at 32, this was a miraculous sight. We were standing amidst El Tatio Geysers — a field of geysers in the midst of mountains with vicuñas running amok. We ambled through the geysers, slowly getting to know our companions in a mixture of broken Spanish and broken English. After walking for 30 minutes or so we convened at our van, where Gerald made us fresh scrambled eggs and we mixed instant coffee. It was perfect.

Now that may have been enough for a satisfying Christmas without family, but it didn’t stop there. After the geysers, we drove a few more minutes and stopped at a thermal pool where we soaked in streams of hot water, still at 14,000 feet. Not too shabby.

(Picture of us in the pool can be seen a couple of posts back)

Then on our way back to town, we stopped in Machuca, a small hillside village. There, we had (vegans close your eyes) the most amazing grilled llama and cheese empanadas. It was by far the best food we had eaten up to that point. When we made it back to our hotel, we took them up on the offer for free champagne, meat and cheese in honor of our honeymoon. As a rule, anytime I’m offered anything for free, I generally take it (this is part of why grocery shopping with me at Costco and Trader Joe’s can be difficult #freesamples). So, we sat in the restaurant and drank champagne and ate some treats. Mind you, we are only to about 1:30pm on Christmas Day.

From there, we went looking for some groceries. We were moving on Christmas from our hotel in the “city” to a Airbnb house just outside of town. Thus, we needed provisions. We were not expecting to find much open, but turns out when you are in a tourist town, businesses don’t treat Christmas as “Christmas.” After finding some essentials we made our way to a coffee shop we had eyed the night before. Anyone who knows Joe, knows he is pretty serious about his coffee. In Chile, we have not come across the best coffee options. But, there on a side street in San Pedro de Atacama, we found Base Camp — a combination adventure touring business and third wave coffee shop. 

Solier, the barista, made us iced coffees that rivaled the best. He developed his own technique that involved shaking chilled chemex black coffee in a very cold martini shaker and pouring it over ice. The result: a creamy black coffee with a foamy head. My husband was floored. We have gone to all the best coffee shops in all the best cities and never encountered this technique. We lingered there for longer than was necessary to drink our coffees, and shared best practices in broken Spanish and broken English. 

From there, it was off to our Airbnb. From the WhatsApp interactions before arriving, I had a good feeling about our host and accommodations to come. But, upon arriving, our expectations were met and quickly exceeded (something that is hard to accomplish). Francisca is a Chilean woman in her forties who has lived many lives that always loop back to San Pedro de Atacama. She is an anthropologist with a specific interest in the trees of the Atacama and the knowledge of the indigenous people. She is a mother, and it showed in both how she cared for us, and in the tips she gave us for when someday we take on the parenting role. She is  a homesteader and entrepreneur — after working in the government in Santiago advising on indigenous rights issues, she was ready to come back to her beloved desert and make a life on her own terms. She is doing just that. 

When we got to her home, we first saw the sunflowers. Joe later told me that he had a “woo-woo” moment, thinking of my aunt Kathy who passed away this year, and loved sunflowers. He saw them and thought, “this is where we are supposed to be.” Francisca rents out several homes on her property. We were staying at Casa Birque, the home she just finished in July, that ultimately she intends to be her home, but is renting it out now to make back some of the money she spent building it. It was the kind of home that felt like it was built with love. Each window carefully placed to give the occupant a view of the wild nature surrounding it. Each decoration thoughtfully arranged to accentuate the natural beauty. The home was a home. After several nights in impersonal hotels trying too hard to be something that often they just weren’t, it felt nice to be in a home. Especially on Christmas.

We settled into our new home, and took a nap. Naturally. After a couple hours of cozy country time, we went down the road to some dunes Francisca had told us about. A place without tourists, but with the same majesty of the area. When we got there, it was just one local family and us. We took off our shoes and walked in the sand until we found a good perching spot to watch the sunset. I jumped in the dunes and made Joe take pictures. We delighted in the quiet alone time.

At this point it was 8:30pm. Time to call it, right? No. Francisca had told us about an opportunity to go to an event arranged by a friend of hers. There would be a fire, Chilean wine tasting paired with indecency’s foods, and stories of the local folklore. It was a new venture and while we were invited as tourists, she was invited to advice on the event and contribute her knowledge of local indigenous culture and the trees. Did we want to go? Of course! So at 9:10 pm, Joe, Francisca and I awaited our ride to the event. The stars were peaking, so we sat in the back of our 4x4 and looked at the endless constellations. 9:30 rolled around and still no ride. Francisca attempted to reach out to her friend and there was no response. Strange. At 9:45 still nothing. Hmmmm. We decide to call it. Joe and I head back to our home. We start to make a dinner at 10pm of grains and vegetables we had picked up that afternoon. We text Francisca and invite her to stop over and join us for our makeshift Christmas dinner. She says she’ll bring wine. Just as we get everything going, Francisca calls. It’s just after 10 now. She says that her friend called, and there was a misunderstanding. He thought she was bringing us. She thought he was sending a car to get us. (For what it’s worth I think she was in the right). She said they are all there and waiting. Did we still want to go? 

Now Joe and I are not go out at 10:15pm kind of people. I could get down in my younger years. But...we are in our thirties now. Still, this was one of those times you just say yes. So we said yes, left our half-cooked meal, and piled into Francisca’s 1990 Mitsubishi pickup truck and drove to the location.

Saying yes was one of the best decisions we made on this trip. We arrived to luminaries that led us to an underground adobe fire pit. We walked down the stairs and found a group of wary travelers one pisco sour in awaiting our arrival. There was the investment banker from Australia, the do-gooder consultant from DC, the Italian-Chilean  tourist guide, the two Italian women who have been best friends since they were 14 and who go on one big trip a year together. A motley Christmas crew. We settled into an experience of traditional Atacaman cuisine narrated by Mauricio, a local librarian who has the only publisher in Northern Chile. I’ll let Joe share more of the details of what we learned — he’s better at that. After a culinary and literary journey, with the stars dazzling above, it was midnight. 

We piled back into the Mitsubishi truck, back to our new home in the desert, in something of a state of shock. How could all of these things have happened in just one day?! 

I’m sure I will be happy to return to the meatballs and kid giggles next year, but I fell asleep that night grateful for this Christmas. A one of a kind. The kind that if I wanted to create a tradition out of, I couldn’t. There is a time for traditions. And there is a time to let go and see what comes. 

Bienvenidos a San Pedro de Atacama

I’m going to be honest. My first reaction to San Pedro was not positive. Though, that could be due to the hour we spent at the Budget Rental Car desk in the Calama airport. 

A side note: Joe and I don’t have a great history with Budget rental company. This past summer when we were moving our entire lives from DC to Chicago, we rented a Budget moving truck. Then, 1.5 hours prior to picking up said truck on a Friday evening, we learned that truck was no longer available. And, in fact, no trucks were available in all of Washington DC until Tuesday. We ended up going to Philadelphia to get a Penske truck that cost us $1000 more than originally planned, and missing our good friends’ wedding. Needles to say, Budget made it on our shit list. One would think that negative history would result in a firm avoidance. 

Yet, somehow, there we were again, standing in front of the Budget sign behind a disgruntled Englishman who let us know he had been standing there for 90 minutes in an effort to just return the car. This was especially frustrating for him because, we learned, he worked at a car rental place for 3 years in the UK. He was an expert watching the inefficiency with the disdain of someone who knows he could do better. We put our bags down and settled in. It took about 15 minutes until we were acknowledged. Then we got a friendly nod that they did have a truck for us. And then no communication for another 20 minutes. Then the Englishman finally finished his transaction, wished us luck, and we were face to face with the woman who seemed to have all the power and no urgency. Finally after she moved lots of papers around and sold us extra protections for our car that we didn’t fully understand, we had the keys. But... don’t get too excited. We still had another 10 minutes of walking around the truck and documenting the many scrapes and dings. And then there was the lesson on all the safety features (that one I wasn’t mad about). Finally, after all of that we were in our 4x4 truck (Joe’s honeymoon dream), and on our way into the vast, dry, brown desert.

We got to San Pedro around 8pm, and were hungry. We threw our bags into our adobe hut, and headed to town. At this point, I also was realizing that a cold was overcoming me. Trying to hide it from Joe, I put on a smile and acted like everything was just fine. But after ending up at a too fancy restaurant with a fire pit in the middle of it, and accidentally ordering the largest plate of steak, eggs, and French fries possible, I cracked. Our next stop was the pharmacy where we acted out my symptoms until we successfully got a magic decongestant, and it was back to our hut for an early bedtime. I will note that as we walked back to our hut, we walked through the town right by The North Face store. That’s right, folks, in the middle of the desert, where resource scarcity is ever-present, there was a North Face store. Needless to say, we were confused.

The next morning, we wake up ready to give this place another chance. We decide to take it easy because, well, the cold. 

First, we decide to go to a “verdant gorge” with hiking that isn’t too far away. We get there, pay the nominal fee, and set off. It was...fine. Our idea of verdant and desert verdant were not exactly equivalent. There was trash in the stream. And, while I was outwardly praising the beauty to be the trip cheerleader, inside I was not exactly feeling it. Though, we had a mission. Find the petroglyphs we had been told about. We hiked to the end of the path in the gorge, closely examining the rock walls with our binoculars. Unsuccessful, we returned to the picnic area only to realize there was a placard about the petroglyphs there. We look up, walk 100 meters, and there they are. Llama and ancient hunter. It is legitimately cool. Phew, we could leave with an accomplishment. Not that honeymoons are about accomplishments, but I mean, we are who we are, honeymoon or not.

Next stop: Laguna Cejas. This is a lake that is salty enough to float in like the Dead Sea. Sounded like the perfect way to ease into the day. So, we get into the truck and head out. As we drive up there is a cyclist standing there by a closed gate. Not a good sign. I get out of the car. Cerrado. Well, shit.

Ok, no worries. Let’s drive on. Laguna Chaxa isn’t too much further. We can see the salt flat and we hear there are flamingos there. We drive up. Gate is closed. I get out. Cerrado.

Hmmmmm.

Well, fine. We didn’t want to see those things anyway. We are driving a big truck in a beautiful landscape. We can make lemonade. I’m blowing my nose for the umpteenth time, trying my best to stay positive. But, again, I crack. I admit to Joe that part of me is feeling regret we came north to the barren, stark desert and not to Patagonia as we had originally wanted to do. Joe admits he’s battling the same feeling. But, we drive on.

The next site we know about is another hour of driving. We’ve come this far. As we drive, we are getting closer into the mountains. Interesting flora is popping up. We see a large flightless bird just casually walking along the road — we have googled it and believe it was a rhea. Ok, desert. We see you. But what else do you got? 

We keep driving. We are getting higher and higher. We get to the entry gate of the altiplanic lagunas... and... it is abierto!

As we drove around the bend and laid eyes on the first of two crystal blue lakes surrounded by volcanoes, vicuñas, and flamingos, our regret for coming to San Pedro faded away. 

There at 13,500 feet, with thin air and short breaths we settled into this unique place. We spend two hours walking along the lakes, taking pictures of animals, marveling at the beauty, and appreciating having this time together.

On the drive back to San Pedro, we afix Joe’s GoPro — specially bought for this trip — to the top of our truck, and take video of the mountains. 

We lean in to the wild of the desert. 

We return to our hut with a renewed sense of wonder. We hit up the touristy town with a sense of humor and order the navidad menu at a local restaurant. For the first and likely only time in my life, I ate spaghetti with avocado sauce. Because, why not?

We settle in early on Christmas Eve, still with sniffles in my nose, but excitement for the next morning. Joe surprises me with a Polaroid of our Christmas tree we left at home. 

We hold each other tight on our first married Christmas — certainly one that will stand out for the rest of our lives. Our alarms are set for 5:30 am. We’ve got geysers to see instead of presents to unwrap. We realize we are just beginning to peel back the layers of this incredible place and fall asleep happy to be exactly where we are.

Luna de Miel Begins in Santiago

Some lessons have been learned in the past 48 hours. (The first being, that when I started this post in the airport 48 hours ago, it would take me another 48 hours to return to it to finish it).

Lesson number 1: Copa Airlines is not awesome. It got us here, though, so I can’t complain. But, if you find yourself flying Copa, a few tips — pack all your meals ahead of time unless you are a fan of egg with a filmy crust and chicken in mystery sauce; don’t willingly choose seats in the final row; and if Maria from Venezuela sits next to you, get ready to smile and nod for 5 hours straight. Maria was a 59 year old woman who watched every kids tv show and movie, with a particular bent toward Paw Patrol (all with no sound), drank Coca-Cola mixed with beer, and took quite a liking to Joe (thanks for taking the middle seat, babe —I owe you).

Lesson number 2: Chile is complicated. I’ll admit, prior to coming to Chile, I knew very little about its history. I knew there was a dictatorship and that the US was complicit in making that happen, but that was about it. Joe, being the perpetual learner that he is, took the lead in educating us in advance of this trip. We watched several documentaries about Chile’s history, watched a terrible fictional film about Pablo Neruda, read Isabelle Allende, and capped it off with an incredible book by Marc Cooper (Pinochet and Me). Naturally, our first stop the first morning was The Museum of Memory and Human Rights. 

The story of Chile’s recent past is haunting and important. A regime of torture, “disappearing” dissenters, and censorship ruled for nearly 20 years — a reaction to Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist. The books we read by Cooper and others as well as the Guzman films we watched, make the case that this history, while not so distant , has not fully been reckoned with in Chile. Capitalism blossomed as the dictatorship fell, and in the 90s a sort of amnesia and disengagement seemed to settle in. Where Chile had been an incredibly vibrant democracy, with over 90% voter turnout, post-Pinochet, that number dropped significantly. The museum was a big step taken to remind Chile and the world (the U.S. was no innocent bystander, and to the contrary was an active participant in the terror) of the truth and ensure it isn’t forgotten. I’m not going to pretend like I can do justice to sharing the story of Chile. I do recommend everyone read about it on your own.

It is possible to walk on the streets of Santiago and not know that the presidential palace had been bombed just over 40 years ago. The city is vibrant with bike lanes and public art. 

You can eat massive lomitos with delicious beer. 

You can ride a fernicular and a teleferico across the park. 

You can drink special coca pisco sours. You can eat delicious indigenous foods. 

You can see jazz.

You can also walk down the street and see armed, riot police, and think to yourself, “wow, that is a lot,” and casually walk a bit out of your way to not have to walk in between them. And then 30 minutes later after you’ve eaten that aforementioned delicious lomito, walk out of the restaurant and witness one of those armed officers beating someone in the street with a baton, followed by a armored personnel carrier blasting a group of protestors with a water cannon. It worked. The protest dispersed. And we carried on to enjoy our evening. Because what else do you do. But it was a powerful reminder that protests live on. The violence isn’t over here or at home. And our lives depend on remembering.

Lesson number 3: Bluetooth mini keyboards are amazing. I wrote this blog on my phone! Another smart idea by Joe.

Lesson number 4: honeymooning is pretty great. We are off to a great start (even with a minor sinus infection and some sunburns...). We have now been in San Pedro de Atacama — but more on that later

Though, because it is Christmas, I do feel the need to acknowledge that. So, Merry Christmas from a thermal bath at 14,000 feet!