Every day I leave for work at 7:45am and enter the still dark streets where the last of the drunken revelers are making their way, slowly, to their homes. It’s late autumn in Santiago and the nights have a distinct nip to them. The homeless sleeping in parks are bundled under heaps of blankets to protect themselves from the elements. One morning as I started my morning walk I saw a thickly bearded man wrapped in plastic shopping bags. He stripped them off as he walked, like a mummy coming to life, stripping his fetters.
My morning walk to work starts at near Bellas Artes metro station and proceeds to Los Leones. It’s a straight jaunt through parks and nice business areas. It takes an hour to complete and when I tell people that I do it, they seem shocked that I give up sleep for it; that I don’t simply push my way onto the subway and reach my destination in a fraction of the time. But the walk, you see, is often my favorite part of the day. I like the ritual, the repetitive nature of the thing. The following is a list of some of the people and things I see every morning that make up that ritual
In Parque Forestral the cleaners are busy at work raking up discarded beer cans and cigarette butts. By half past eight the park will be immaculate. The stray dogs chase each other around here or sit vigilant and watch the streets become busy with people. There is one old German Shepherd that sits beneath a large clock at the edge of the park, at a busy intersection. Across from him a female traffic cop wearing some battle armor on her shins whistles and directs traffic with glowing batons. It’s almost as if they are working together, watching out for the pedestrians.
Still in the parks, near the large fountain that when active creates rainbows in the mist below its spouts, there is my favorite sandwich lady. She talks to the pigeons and feeds them crumbs from the bottom of her box. Near every station there is somebody selling sandwiches; I’m addicted. They aren’t there after 9:00, so if you want them you’ve got to wake up at a reasonable hour. They are assorted, but usually have avocado and some variation of meat: strip steak, pulled pork, shredded chicken. They’re served on a soft roll, somewhat like a baguette. They’re only five hundred pesos. I eat one every day.
Past the parks I’m over half way to work. The streets are filled by now with smartly dressed business people ready to start their day, but there are a few other peculiar characters I see. One such is the middle aged man with a brown sweater and colorful scarf who zooms by every day with a cloud of smoke. He rides a bicycle to which he has had some sort of motor attached; it doesn’t look professionally done. Another of these characters is the Eeyorish beggar who stands in the middle of the road. He’s bald and stands on a grass island in the middle of a busy intersection. Occasionally he plays a small electric keyboard (very poorly), but usually this bald man with pale eyes and a large fluffy blue coat, just asks for money. He’s quite pushy about it.
When I see the pack of adolescent boys in their school uniforms I know I’m near my destination. There’s a mob of them and I wonder if they meet up somewhere beforehand or if the group gathers members as they approach the school. There are always a few of the kids sharing cigarettes and singing songs. They wear navy blue sweaters and collared shirts, usually untucked.
By the time I’ve reached my workplace I’ve managed to drink a cup of coffee, watch the sunrise, and grab a free copy of La Hora, a paper you can pick up mornings near the metro. I feel every day I’ve watched Santiago wake up and that I’m a part of it. Perhaps somebody is right now writing a blog about their morning walk in which I’m an interesting character: that weird guy who wears flip flops and a thick coat and changes into dress shoes near the church. It’s worth the lost sleep to feel a part of something.
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