Why do trees hide the splendor of their roots?

The pachamamas had arrived in Santiago Wednesday night tired, bored and ready to explode with energy. Especially Barbara, the wild, gorgeous, austrian speaking, blonde, italian. We dropped our bags on our bunks and split off into separate directions, with plans to reconvene at 8 for dinner and sharing of the wine we purchased during the Balduzzi wine tour earlier that day.

I made a split for Bellavista, a neighborhood I had fallen in love with when I first arrived in Santiago over a month ago. I had a cappuccino chico with crema, even though I asked for a grande, and wrote in my journal next to another foreign woman, who was also journaling. I asked if I could sit next to her a few minutes earlier, and she only said OK. How friendly.

The cafe was great, the people watching better, but something was wrong. My stomach started gurgling and churning, sending little sos' to my brain, which I managed to ignore until 730, when I thought I might just die. I've gotten used to the pure water of southern chile, patagonia in particular, and my body was in shock after having ingested the dirty santiago agua.

The wine seemed to help, but I needed to lay down. Just as I was falling asleep a dark haired beauty of an australian approached my bunk to chat. She invited me to share pisco sour and coke, followed by a night out on the town. Still at university, camila was young and sprite and insisted that I get blasted on this wednesday night, my last night. I nodded my head reluctantly, but several glasses of wine and pisco and cokes later, I was wearing her frilly, flowery, PINK dress and crazy bombshell italian barbara's flipflops, in a taxi headed to the clubs of Bellavista.

A half dozen of us, a smattering of europeans, aussies and canadians, again, me being the lone american, were dancing and drinking mojitos when my stomach raised it's red flag yet again. I couldn't move. The smoke infested bar made me nauseous and I had to get some fresh air. Sitting outside, several drunk chilleans approached me for conversation, which I politely entertained while I tried not to puke. Graham, one of the canadians, brought me a water, and told me to come back inside. I hate dancing and I want to go home, I said, feeling truly odd in my girly dress, now soaked in aromas of tobacco.

At 4 am the others tired spontaneously, dancing hard one minute and barely making it to the taxi the next. I figured food would help, and as I sat in bed, ate two large raspberry cookies in less than 30 seconds, falling asleep in crumbs.

At 7 am I woke up, and was frightfully determined to take a shower, despite having run out of shampoo and soap. The smell of tobacco in my hair and dress, which I had fallen asleep in, made me cringe. My feet were caked in dirt, and the blisters between my toes from last week's trek were throbbing. Somehow I had also managed to slice my thumb open. As a slow trickle of hot water sort of rinsed the stench from my hair, I started to feel better, and decided to go for a long walk in search of a hearty breakfast.

At Cafe De Artes, I had an omelet, toast, raspberry juice, and coffee. As I was sipping my cortado, I heard a SMACK and by the time I looked right had just missed witnessing a businessman get hit by a car. The car, turning left, hit the man's shins, sending him tumbling over the hood of his car, landing bluntly, cradling his bruised shins. Within a minute the cops were there, and the situation was under control. The man wasn't seriously hurt, but witnessing this was a very good reminder that I'm not in boulder any more, that I can't cross the streets without turning my head like I do there.

After breakfast Hannah and I had plans to spend my last day in santiago together, doing girly things like shopping and visiting museums, and of course eating ice cream. We did all three, bringing my last day to a quite pleasant end, rather enjoying the english company. Her way of speech is rubbing off on me, and I reckon I've taken on a bit of her accent. Hannah lost all of her cards and money last week, having to live off the little bit her dad could wire her, and so I treated her to an english tour of the Poet Pablo Neruda's house.

And on this tour I learned that as he was dying he wrote a book of questions. In his study, one of these questions sat on his desk, asking me Why do trees hide the splendor of their roots?

A smile crept into my lips, I closed my eyes, and thought up my answer...the most beautiful things are not what we see, but what we imagine.