menu-driven
planet]
the first in a series by david
the first in a series by david
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...SO after ANOTHER bus ride over the Andes (from Bariloche, Argentinathis time) we arrive in Puerto Montt, Chile. This is a combination terrestrial truck nexus and port for those
plunging into Patagonia to the South. We half- commandeer, half-hijack a taxi driving by the Bus Station in an outer lane- the Driver freezes up, feigns ignorance-another Driver intercedes, points us (in retrospect) towards our destination- Hotel Gran Pacifico- looming above us on the Hill. We roll our cases thru the sidestreets, instinctively seeking high ground. We schlep up a vast staircase- me carrying Toms' bag, as hewill soon be 68- and are at the Hotel, which up to this point has displayed no sign. It is recommended in the Guidebook as a place for those tired of being in hostels and want a clean, private room with optional full business services. I hit the shower and we head upstairsto Dinner; Congrio (eel) fillet with oysters, spinach and rice. The oysters have their "coral" (roe) attached, as is the norm any where outside "cleanliness"- obssessed Estados Unidos. The portion is perfect sized for me, tired and hungry but not famished in a Chile which treatsalmost every meal not just as an excuse to show off the fruits of thesea but to show that they are working double time to strip-mine it aswell. Chile is about the Fish. I fear at times that the Hotel Gran Pacifico is another "Love Hotel", albeit a clean, modern, amenity-laden one. I worry, if this is so, that Tom and I will get ejected for bickering. The elevators ply- glass-walled shafts, the penthouse restaurant- where we eat
more thanI'd like to admit- has tremendous views and the simple jugos framboise featured (sin zucar) in the breakfast buffet is easily one of the tastiest and most restorative things I injest on the entire trip. We cab out to Angelmo market, a waterfront expanse of restaurants and shops. A gentleman sides up to us and instigates a conversation."...Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you..." He assures us, and a tour ages and degree of bumpin' around we'd been doing, we needed to hear this. He is short, built like a firetruck, lives in upscale Vina Del Mar, involved with Planes (lots o' Chileans have Pilots' Licenses)and the red hair typical of German/Chilean mixes. We select an eatery and sit down; there is salmon of some sort on the house- Chileans are, alas, crazed for Salmon that is farmed, not very tasty or healthy (though Swiss organic certifiers IMO have certified fish farms that wedo not visit). Our new friend orders "LOCOS", which are abalone. All but extinct in the North American wild, he receives a plate with at least a dozen of the dense little plugs of ocean protein...covered in what looks like bright orange aerosol cheese. Remember, this guy couldbe a linebacker- and he can not even finish off half of the mollusks, looks somewhat distressed at the Waste of it all. We safely order HAKE-MERZLUNA- a mild white fish that is ubiquitous in Chile. It is decently cooked and of course appallingly fresh. We thank the guy and bid him adieu, walk the short distance back to the Hotel Gran Pacifico. Across from the bus station (now unrecognizeable from the night and our Entry to the City) between the Angelmo Market and Hotel is MELLIPULLI Artists' Village. The sign saying "organic coffee" is misleading because the Cafe serving it is run by an Italian, an artisan explains, and he is too moody to be open. I talk to the kindred folk there- some of the booths have collections of what many would call"junk" but in the context and the displays sometimes appropriate genius. I follow a clue here and there and manage to score some grass-perhaps the dreaded "Paraguay
an" (what a world!). Squirreling it back to the hotel makes me happy- it at least has enough oil to stain the paper and, say what you will, wasn't grown under any fucking lamps. Tom has stumbled across local ecological Chilean wine- a lovely-labelled CHISIYAM- from the mall across the Street. The Malbec we toss as it is corked, but the Cabernet Saugvignon is the Real Deal. I give thanks to be in such an exotic place, warm, secure, with the One I love, enjoyingthe Local agricultural products. I pass on dinner because the penthouse restaurant is packed (Puerto Montt is a tiny City) and the reefer and wine are local and real but not polished (read: ROUGH) and my system is feeling it. Tom of courseblames it on the grass so I am on my own for dinner. PORTO MONTT is a perfect PORT City. I return to the restaurant-again, chosen from the guidebook- that we shared an unmemorable lunchin. It is night now- historical buildings appear so fragile that a breeze might move them into the Pacific. Dogs shadow me appraisingly, copulate- and lock up- on the sidewalks in front of Malls that have subsumed even a town so remote and tiny as Porto Montt. The moon-"KUYEN" to the MAPUCHE people who 1st inhabited this Land- watchesover all. It is late and all but deserted. My server is a sweet, good looking, Exotic- eyed young woman who has a case of wander-lust if for no other reason than waiting on so many travelers. There on the TV is a Latin-America Diva who I should probably recognize- what with that stupendous stage set-up, those not-occurring -in- nature bosoms...but she is singing in Spanish. The late dinner here is as unmemorable as lunch but ends with a top-notch cake of many precise layers...again,the German influence. 
plunging into Patagonia to the South. We half- commandeer, half-hijack a taxi driving by the Bus Station in an outer lane- the Driver freezes up, feigns ignorance-another Driver intercedes, points us (in retrospect) towards our destination- Hotel Gran Pacifico- looming above us on the Hill. We roll our cases thru the sidestreets, instinctively seeking high ground. We schlep up a vast staircase- me carrying Toms' bag, as hewill soon be 68- and are at the Hotel, which up to this point has displayed no sign. It is recommended in the Guidebook as a place for those tired of being in hostels and want a clean, private room with optional full business services. I hit the shower and we head upstairsto Dinner; Congrio (eel) fillet with oysters, spinach and rice. The oysters have their "coral" (roe) attached, as is the norm any where outside "cleanliness"- obssessed Estados Unidos. The portion is perfect sized for me, tired and hungry but not famished in a Chile which treatsalmost every meal not just as an excuse to show off the fruits of thesea but to show that they are working double time to strip-mine it aswell. Chile is about the Fish. I fear at times that the Hotel Gran Pacifico is another "Love Hotel", albeit a clean, modern, amenity-laden one. I worry, if this is so, that Tom and I will get ejected for bickering. The elevators ply- glass-walled shafts, the penthouse restaurant- where we eat
more thanI'd like to admit- has tremendous views and the simple jugos framboise featured (sin zucar) in the breakfast buffet is easily one of the tastiest and most restorative things I injest on the entire trip. We cab out to Angelmo market, a waterfront expanse of restaurants and shops. A gentleman sides up to us and instigates a conversation."...Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you..." He assures us, and a tour ages and degree of bumpin' around we'd been doing, we needed to hear this. He is short, built like a firetruck, lives in upscale Vina Del Mar, involved with Planes (lots o' Chileans have Pilots' Licenses)and the red hair typical of German/Chilean mixes. We select an eatery and sit down; there is salmon of some sort on the house- Chileans are, alas, crazed for Salmon that is farmed, not very tasty or healthy (though Swiss organic certifiers IMO have certified fish farms that wedo not visit). Our new friend orders "LOCOS", which are abalone. All but extinct in the North American wild, he receives a plate with at least a dozen of the dense little plugs of ocean protein...covered in what looks like bright orange aerosol cheese. Remember, this guy couldbe a linebacker- and he can not even finish off half of the mollusks, looks somewhat distressed at the Waste of it all. We safely order HAKE-MERZLUNA- a mild white fish that is ubiquitous in Chile. It is decently cooked and of course appallingly fresh. We thank the guy and bid him adieu, walk the short distance back to the Hotel Gran Pacifico. Across from the bus station (now unrecognizeable from the night and our Entry to the City) between the Angelmo Market and Hotel is MELLIPULLI Artists' Village. The sign saying "organic coffee" is misleading because the Cafe serving it is run by an Italian, an artisan explains, and he is too moody to be open. I talk to the kindred folk there- some of the booths have collections of what many would call"junk" but in the context and the displays sometimes appropriate genius. I follow a clue here and there and manage to score some grass-perhaps the dreaded "Paraguay
an" (what a world!). Squirreling it back to the hotel makes me happy- it at least has enough oil to stain the paper and, say what you will, wasn't grown under any fucking lamps. Tom has stumbled across local ecological Chilean wine- a lovely-labelled CHISIYAM- from the mall across the Street. The Malbec we toss as it is corked, but the Cabernet Saugvignon is the Real Deal. I give thanks to be in such an exotic place, warm, secure, with the One I love, enjoyingthe Local agricultural products. I pass on dinner because the penthouse restaurant is packed (Puerto Montt is a tiny City) and the reefer and wine are local and real but not polished (read: ROUGH) and my system is feeling it. Tom of courseblames it on the grass so I am on my own for dinner. PORTO MONTT is a perfect PORT City. I return to the restaurant-again, chosen from the guidebook- that we shared an unmemorable lunchin. It is night now- historical buildings appear so fragile that a breeze might move them into the Pacific. Dogs shadow me appraisingly, copulate- and lock up- on the sidewalks in front of Malls that have subsumed even a town so remote and tiny as Porto Montt. The moon-"KUYEN" to the MAPUCHE people who 1st inhabited this Land- watchesover all. It is late and all but deserted. My server is a sweet, good looking, Exotic- eyed young woman who has a case of wander-lust if for no other reason than waiting on so many travelers. There on the TV is a Latin-America Diva who I should probably recognize- what with that stupendous stage set-up, those not-occurring -in- nature bosoms...but she is singing in Spanish. The late dinner here is as unmemorable as lunch but ends with a top-notch cake of many precise layers...again,the German influence. 
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