"Quickly Valparaiso, Sailor, You forget the tears" - Pablo Neruda
I said goodbye to some of the dancers at breakfast, but I have never been fond of goodbyes, too awkward, too uncertain. On the streets of Santiago, the marathon runners circled around me. How fitting that my first day on my own was obstructed by a marathon. I have spent the last three years running mile after mile, searching for a new path and clearing out the past. Running has become easy; living has become the more difficult battle to fight. Tired of courses dictated by someone else’s map, I refused to have a plan. I am a free-spirit blown by the wind, guided by a sense of adventure. I went to the bus station and took the first bus out of town: Valparaiso.
Houses perch upon the hills uncertain if their wings will fly. Nested together, the flock protects the people below from the harsh world threatening to invade. Beneath their watchful eyes, the park is warm and full of Sunday neighbors. Children screech with joy racing pedal cars around circled paths, grizzled men warily assess their opponent’s skill at chess. Mothers stroll chatting like Jersey housewives while their husbands shake their heads. Above all, Chile is a country of Families. I envy them. Their closeness, their value. Their difficulties as a country have created a strong community grounded in love for each other. I am welcome among them, but an interloper as well. Their hospitality is politely curious but never overly familiar in warmth. I put away my maps and wander the streets snaking through the hills. As steep as San Francisco, these hills are meant to put muscle in your legs and keep the empanadas at work. Houses pile together: some aging ladies with elegant demeanor, some crisp young gentlemen with every hair in place. The further up the mountainside the idea of structure wears down to aluminum siding leaning drunkenly against the slope. Piles of trash pour down from the crest indiscriminately spreading from shack to mansion. Instead of pulling the focus from the buildings, it adds a bit more character. The Monet-like specks of garbage blend into the strongest unifying factor: murals of graffiti cover every surface until the entire town looks like an Urban Louvre. The days roll easily as a game of ‘Chutes and Ladders’ traipsing up the miles of stairs, winding back down again. Eventually I broke down and took one of the ascentures, elevators straight to the upper deck. Sunset views of the entire bay. Lovers walking together in sentimental eternity. Down to the waterside, families packed into tiny boats taking a whirl upon the sea. A crusty one-eyed fisherman named Ricardo cozied up to me, telling me to take his picture proudly in front of the boats at harbor. Sometimes, this life seems surreal.
Ode to Valparaiso
By: Pablo Neruda
Translated by: Laney Sullivan
What nonsense
You are
What a crazy
Insane Port.
Your mounded head
Disheveled
You never finish combing your hair
Life has always surprised you
Death woke you
In your undershirt and long underwear
Fringed with color
Naked
With a name tattooed on the stomach
And with a cap
The earthquake grabbed you
You ran
Mad
Broke your fingernails
It moved
The waters and the stones
Sidewalks
And seas
The night,
You would sleep
In the ground
Tired
From your sailing
And the furious earth
Lifted its waves
More stormy
Than a tempest
The dust
Covered you
The eyes
The flames
Burned your shoes
The solid
Houses of bankers
Trembled
Like wounded whales
While above
The houses of the poor
Leapt
Into nothingness
Like captive birds
Testing their wings
Collapse
Quickly
Valparaiso,
Sailor,
You forget
the tears
and you return
to hanging your dwellings
to paint doors
green
Windows
Yellow,
Everything
You transform into a boat
Your are
The patched bow
Of a small
Courageous
Ship
The crowns nest
With foam
Your rope lines that sing
And the light of the ocean
That shakes the masts
And flags
In your indestructible swaying
Dark star
You are
From far away
In the height of the coast
Shining
And soon
You surrender
Your hidden fire
The rocking
Of your deaf alleys
The naturalness
Of your movement
The clarity
Of your seamanship
Here ends this ode
Valparaiso
So small
Like a cloth
Helpless
Hanging
Ragged in a Window
Swaying
In the Wind
of the ocean
Impregnated
With all the pain
Of your ground
Receiving
The dew
Of the sea, the kiss
Of the wild angry sea
That with all of its power
Beat the rocks
It could not
Knock you down
Because on your southern chest
Is tattooed
The struggle
The hope
The solidarity
And the joy
As anchors
Resisting
The waves of the earth.
