Santiago

10/27
6:45 AM

The plane landed. The sun was rising over the Andes - painting the sky with streaks of ruby red and in a touristy fashion I snapped my first pictures. Sometimes expecting the worst, although wasteful at the moment, allows you to appreciate the ease of things that happen "sin problemas."

Before I could get my pack, I had to stand in line to pay the 131 US reciprocity fee, required of Americans, Mexicans, Canadians, Australians, and a few other -ans, good for 90 days.

Next was immigracion, where the policia - all men - sat quiet and unhelpful, enjoying the foreigners expressions of confusion wondering which window to go to. The man stamped my papers and I headed in the wrong direction. "Lauren!" the man yelled, and pointed me toward baggage claim, where I collected my pack and breezed through customs.

Prade warned me about the sea of taxi drivers, and I bolted toward a man holding a TRANSVIP sign, which would take me directly to my hostal, La Casa Roja, for 9 US.

As we drove into the city, the spectacular mountain drop contrasted the litter-lined streets. Numerous bikers battled cars for rights to a lane, and before I knew it We'd arrived at the hostal. The driver struggled to lift my pack, glancing at me like I was insane for bring such an absurd amount of stuff. I tipped him 1000 pesos (2 US), hoping Chile was unlike Iceland, in which tips are insulting.

A nearly nude woman in sign form pointed me toward reception and I checked into the hostal. Room 16, bunk 5. I fell into bed. An hour later, drool forming beneath my head, dreams of hostal hippies and their antics filling my sleepy head, I woke up and made my way to the exchange house for some pesos.

and the adventure begins...