Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday—A Collage/Essay—for Valparaiso and James Henkel

             Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday/ Who could hang a name on you?/

             When you change with every new day/ Still I'm gonna miss you

Landing in Valparaiso was easy after a dramatic eyeful of Andes and a slow, dumb transition from Argentina to Chilean customs where officers cut open old ladies’ taped boxes to check for illegal meat. At the bus terminal I was met with offers to stay in hostels, one conveniently located near the bus station, always a lovely area of any city (ahem), and the other a viable option up on one of the cerros (hill communities), the kind of area I was looking for. A middle-aged woman, a stranger who’d traveled on my bus from Mendoza, was standing near me by the baggage storage area at the belly of the bus and approved of the second offered location and the price—Cerro Alegre and 9,000 pesos. Though I was having some difficulty wrapping my head around all of those zeros, I went with the flow, reading human behavior and monitoring my responses. The situation engendered uncertainty, but my antennae were telling me this was a go. 

The proprietress of Hospedaje Blanca and I caught a crowded city bus. I think I paid for both of us. And she took me to a corner where I was passed off to her longhaired husband, a short, gregarious man who walked me along and uphill to the Victoria ascensor (a boxy elevator pulled mechanically, and in this case manually, along uphill cables, one of several such elevators utilized to move citizens and tourists up the various cerros of Valparaiso).

Hospedaje Blanca is in an amiable and lively enough spot atop Cerro Alegre, a hill with cafes and restaurants and fantastic graffiti and wall murals. My luck continued. The hubby and I got on in our conversation, and he’d recommended three things:

1. that I walk along Avenue Alemania, a long winding street that leads to, among other places, La Sebastiana, Valparaiso’s Neruda house (the poet Neruda had five houses in Chile)

2. that the next day I have a very reasonably priced seafood meal down below in Mercado Puerto

AND

3. that I go to a crazy little traditional place down below—Jota Cruz—for a plate of their chorrillana, a mountain of fries topped with onion, egg, and a pile ó meat. (Only several days later did I learn that this dish is commonly shared among two or three people, especially after a session of knocking back libations.)

I reserved numbers one and two for the following day, but chorrillana was getting to be a must. I’d had but one empanada since departing from Mendoza. So I braved the ascensor for a mere100 pesos and made my way down toward the dot on the little map I had in hand. Shortly after reaching ground, I wandered into a warm-looking bookstore three steps up from a sidewalk high above the street, the only shop featuring a selection of literary books in English, and was greeted in American English by the owner, James Henkel. I felt at home with the used books in the poetry section; I’d owned several of them in former lives. An old edition of The Modern Library anthology of modern German poetry particularly stood out; I’d never seen it anywhere but my home shelf of poetry. We talked briefly, and James informed me that the store was about to close but, after a split-second pause, never missing a beat, invited me to a party the following night. He and his roommate Marion, an architect and teacher, were losing a lovely flat that had just been sold, and they were having a final farewell gathering. I said yes. He then introduced me to Guillermo, an owl-eyed physics professor ogling a book from deep within a big leather chair, and then arranged for the fellow at the cash register at the bookstore to meet me before closing the following evening so I wouldn’t get lost in the winding streets of Cerro Alegre on my way to the party. Unbelievable. I’d only just landed in Valparaiso, and it was drawing me in to its life.

As the store was closing, James walked me to the restaurant.

Jota Cruz Restaurant, an old joint where people write on the tables, and where the walls are covered with memorabilia, including articles of clothing and photo-booth snapshots, is known for its traditional Chileno dish chorrillana, a significant mound of heavy food (tasty gut bomb). The meal required two beers to get through it, but the restaurant, located at the end of a narrow alleyway, was thick with colorful atmosphere. Two old musicians in their mid-to-late seventies entered—an accordion player and a singer with maracas; they played, worked the crowd, and left envelopes on tables for us to offer payment.

I spent the following day completing numbers one and two on the list. A San Franciso-style cool fog settled in all day, so I dug out the fleece vest. The walk along Avenue Alemania wound around the top of the cerro, offering a variety of views and insights into classes of lives other than just those of the tourist variety. I snapped photos of wall art along the way as well. The Neruda house is lovely and quirky. The guy was living the good life in a personal way. I also learned in the tiny bar area of his home, where only he was allowed to tend bar, that he enjoyed a drink of equal parts cognac and champagne, with a dash of cointreau and a dash of orange juice. It was, after all, an educational sojourn to the great man’s abode, and the poet’s preferred drink was the kind of inside scoop I knew I should record for future reference.

Afterward, I bussed down the hill to the Mercado Puerto—lucky that the first bus that came along went right where I was headed. The driver was a daredevil sort of guy with a lead foot, trusting blind corners would always be clear, but we made it, and he kindly pointed out my destination when we arrived, at which time I pried my white-knuckled fingers loose and hopped into a stream of sidewalk pedestrians.

At the gateway to the dimly lit market, a hard-faced, bright-eyed woman named Rose animatedly talked me up in Spanish, with the occasional English word, about her restaurant’s food. My first inclination was to resist, but I ignored that and let her lead me through the dingy market and up flights of stairs well-worn at the middle, to an area of humble restaurants (slightly dirty). There were two workin´guys eating at a table in her small restaurant, a good sign, so I stayed and ordered a piece of fish (I never could figure out what type) and a salad (which was easy to figure out) for 4,000 pesos (nine dollars?) and a water (con gas). The fish was good, only slightly overcooked, and added another experience in being led by whatever appeared in front of me. Somehow this lack of rational method was working.

I found another ascensor that I knew would lead to an area near my digs and close to a wine store where I could purchase a bottle to take along to the party. At that moment I was keenly aware of my upbringing. My parents, both now gone, my father recently passed away, always taught me that I should never arrive at a party empty-handed. I felt my mother and father in the night nudging me toward the wine shop. The Carmenere wine that I wanted was on sale. Me thinks the gods luvs me some days. And I had a bit over an hour to nap before I needed to take the Victoria ascensor back down to the bookstore to catch my guide to the party.

Arriving at the bookstore early, I took time to get some cash from a machine and to locate a store where I could get mouthwash and deodorant. The little details of resupplying hygienic items can become a project when traveling, so I was glad to locate the exact items I desired.

An odd thing about Chilean cabs, or at least the ones in Valparaiso: when we got into the cab, another man got into the front seat, and yet another person squeezed into the backseat with us. We were dropped off first, and my guide, who really only spoke Spanish, insisted upon paying, so I never did get the picture.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Ari Weinberg/2 April 2008

Valparaiso, Chile

Ari,

When you get back to SA, at some point, if it's

feasible, you should get to Valparaiso, a city built

on a series of cerros, mighty big hills that need

elevators (ascensors) in order to carry folks up to

where they live, work, or  play. I am on one of the

cerros proclaimed a Patrimonial Heritage Site, and

I'm not too far from one of Neruda’s homes (he had

five homes in Chile), to which I'll trek after a

little breakfast called ENERGETICA on the menu at

the high-ceilinged restaurant around the corner from

my lodgings. That power breakfast includes coffee, juice, bread,

and an egg; I'm hoping it will give me the energy for my walk.

I'm in the district called Cerro Alegre, where

buildings are painted colorful pinks, yellows, greens,

and blues, with the usual flat-colored buildings

around to keep the place from becoming a circus.

Breakfast has arrived, and I don't have the proper

adaptor for outlets here, so the laptop will run out

of juice.

Thought of you. This is your kinda place.

Love,

StevenDa

______________________________________________________________________________________

At the party, I met a variety of expatriates from France, Germany, Canada, and the United States, as well as a mix of homegrown Valparaiso residents. The food was excellent and beautiful, and pisco and wine were plentiful. Because these hills with their narrow streets can be confusing, perhaps leading to a stranger taking a wrong turn and disappearing into a chasm, James, along with an owl-eyed physics professor in round black-rimmed glasses, and a drunk Frenchman in a beret walked me back to my pension. When we parted, James suggested I meet him the next day at one o’clock at the bookstore to head out for lunch and a bit of a guided tour.

b 

James is a history buff, poet, pilot, and intelligent book guy with a sense of humor, so we had a good time going up and down hills, eating and drinking at spots he knows, and trekking yet more hills. Then we met up with his roomate/business partner Marion at the bookstore, where they had an appointment with the bookstore landlady in order to iron out problematic lease negotiations. I took off for a while to Cinzanos, an old bar across the plaza from the bookstore, had a pisco sour (the signature drink of the country), and James and Marion came by later. In the meantime, I had met Maria, a German woman of Dutch background who sat at the bar with me and joined our group. Eventually, we all headed out to another bar/restaurant to listen to some Brazilian music sung by Tatiana, who I had met first thing in the morning just outside my building, again when James was showing me a restaurant where an artist friend of his was showing large woodblock prints (and where Tatiana was doing her sound check for the evening show), and finally for her performance.

Valparaiso coheres. When I walked out the door of my pension that morning, there was this exotically beautiful woman with the blackest long hair I had ever seen, standing right in front of me. She held posters and handbills with her pictured holding a guitar. In Spanish, she asked if “the administrator” was upstairs. Through contexts, I figured she wanted a building manager to ask about posting her materials. I told her there wasn’t anyone here to talk to about that but asked for a handbill and said I would try to make it to her performance. When I asked about directions to the club, her explanation mostly made sense to me, but I kind of doubted I would get there, not that I didn’t want to. I love Brazilian music, and even her speaking voice was lovely. So when James and I walked into the restaurant where she was doing her afternoon sound check for the evening performance, and James knew her, I felt a friendly, supportive wave forming beneath my feet wherever I went.

Tatiana sang and played confidently, and for part of the set was accompanied by her puppeteer brother on acoustic bass. Earlier in the day I had seen a hole-in-the-wall marionette workshop, peeked in the window, and seen the man who now played bass for his sister. A friendly party of three tables of Chileans invited us to join them on the dance floor. And when I requested Tatiana play La Paloma, she played it to an appreciative crowd that applauded me for having requested it.

The next day I met James for lunch again. We took a bus down the road to Vina del Mar to see more large woodblock prints at the Sheraton, located scenically on a point, and had a coffee with James’ French pal who organized the exhibit and had attended the party. Because James needed to head back for a meeting at the bookstore, we didn’t have time for lunch, so we all went for a drink at a large old restaurant shaped like a ship. As I sipped my Manhattan, the French fellow (I cannot recall his name) invited James and I to attend a small party at his apartment the following night. James suggested we meet beforehand at his and Marion’s place at six. We had a glass of port and some nibbles and walked to the soiree from there, stopping along the way for a pisco sour because we were too early to present ourselves to our host.

b 

That is how Valparaiso sang to me. It has been difficult to leave. At first, I had arranged for two nights. Then I extended for another two nights. After that, I extended a day at a time twice.

Tomorrow, though, I am headed to La Serena, a beach town six hours north of here.

b 

The cool fog follows its patterns and is moving on in for the evening.

±

An ascensor is an old boxy room with a bench and window, dragged up a hill on cables. As one ascensor goes up the hill, one goes down. The operators aren’t too careful about the doors from the station to the ascensors. One day I entered the station at the top of the hill, took the wrong side of the mechanical booth, and opened a door that was a one-step doozie. Glad I didn’t take that step. No signs, no lock on that door—just a bunch of sky on the other side of it. One of the two ascensors that I use most, Victoria, is hand cranked. It’s the oldest ascensor in Valparaiso.

As my flight for The States approaches, I have to think a little about making my way toward a May 5th departure from Buenos, Aires. For now, I have a bus ticket to La Serena, a town by a beach six hours north of Valparaiso, which will precede some exploring in smaller towns*. I have extended my stay in Valparaiso several times, and it’s now time to move in or move on. I guess the degree of desire and necessity is defined by my choice to move on.

George and Daisy would get this working port town. It is like San Francisco of another era, with more extreme topography, and with South American culture. The expatriates I’ve met have been very kind to me, inviting me to parties, and the owner of the one bookstore that carries Norte Americano Literature, James Henkel, has been a real friend, showing me the town and comparing pisco sours with me.

I’m dealing with a touch of unsteady stomach, perhaps brought on by some mussels I consumed at the Frenchman’s party last night, so it’s bananas for dinner this evening.

I enjoyed the Neruda house, partly because I took a long amble along Alemania Avenue to get there. Mr. N. did well for himself. The Valparaiso house isn’t grand, but it’s very personal and has views fine enough to either invite poetry or inhibit it.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Last full day in Valparaiso. Last-minute email:

James,

I got a late start. On the way down the street, I decided to lunch at the French place on the corner and made a reservation for one o´clock for one or two. If you get this in time, and you have the time and inclination, see you there.

Plans after lunch are vague. I might go in search of the antiques fair across from the bus station, or some such...

Steven

_______________________________________________________________________________________

I think I will depart Valparaiso tomorrow, head toward La Serena. How can you not head toward serenity, no?¿

I attended a small party of nibbles and light drink yesterday, about five or six people there at any one time. An early night. The sun is out today, and I changed my pants (an event, as I do try to make my traveler’s limited wardrobe last).

A place around the corner, Cafe Vinolo, only plays vinyl records, mostly jazz or soul music, and is very comfortable. I had a cup of tea and a conversation with an older gentleman, a regular there. He wears a little white cap, a suit and tie, matching hanky in the coat pocket, and today told, in Spanish, much of his life story, complete with wallet pictures of his daughter, her daughter, his son, and the son’s daughter. There was something about a gigantic ranch, twelve horses, and caballeros in the story, and something about tall, proud Black women in Africa, and how one night he came into the restaurant early, was the only one, and when the owner complained that no one was in the restaurant, the old man pointed to himself to protest that someone certainly was in the restaurant.

I have a one o’clock reservation for the French restaurant across from where I’m staying. I’ve heard positive things about it, and it’s a good value. Sheila, wish you were here for a nice Sunday lunch on a sunny day.

Sounds like sunny days are coming your way at home. Let me know how the sprouts are sprouting, how things go in the life of Sheila.

±

When I left Valparaiso this morning the sun was up, no fog. The folks who run the pension Hospedaje Blanca never showed for me to pay them an extra night, so I left my key and the 9,000 pesos I owed locked in my room after scribing a note that I placed on the dining table.

I took the Victoria ascensor down, and when I reached bottom, the operator’s boom box blared the old Stones number Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, which put me in a mood. I felt time shift. It’s Monday, but it might as well be Tuesday, a Ruby Tuesday, a San Francisco Ruby Tuesday of the Sixties, only it’s Valparaiso 2008 I’m saying goodbye to on a sunny morning I will miss.

±

Ruby Tuesday (Jagger and Richards)

She would never say where she came from

Yesterday don’t matter if it’s gone

While the sun is bright

Or in the darkest night

No one knows

She comes and goes

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

Who could hang a name on you?

When you change with every new day

Still I’m gonna miss you...

Don’t question why she needs to be so free

She’ll tell you it’s the only way to be

She just can’t be chained

To a life where nothing’s gained

And nothing’s lost

At such a cost

There’s no time to lose, I heard her say

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Dying all the time

Lose your dreams

And you will lose your mind.

Ain’t life unkind?

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

Who could hang a name on you?

When you change with every new day

Still I’m gonna miss you...

±

There’s no time to lose, I heard her say

Catch your dreams before they slip away

Dying all the time

Lose your dreams

And you will lose your mind.

Ain’t life unkind?

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

Who could hang a name on you?

When you change with every new day

Still I’m gonna miss you

±

I heard the song blaring out from the ascensor operator’s booth, and purposely didn’t turn around, listened to it as I walked away into sunshine that was taunting me to stay, even as I was leaving town.

Goodbye, Valparaiso.                                                                                            

Still I’m gonna miss you.

                                                                                             Steven Jay Weinberg

                                                                                  9 May 2008—Bainbridge Island, WA

*I didn’t know it then, but I would head on to San Pedro de Atacama, cross the desert in Chile and the Uyuni Salt Flats in Bolivia in a four-wheel drive vehicle with five other tourists and a guide, stop in Potosi for a day, and then spend a pleasant week in Sucre, Bolivia. At the end of that week, I would make the crossing back into Argentina and revisit Salta before my last days in Buenos Aires.