Truth be told, we took a nap everyday, so... so much for that. But it was for good reason: jet lag + highly active South American adventure = well-deserved nap.
So on our last full day in Chile, we struck out on our most active adventure yet: we went climbing. This time we took the train-- even Emily's first time on the train unchaperoned by a native Chileno-- and that in itself was an adventure. In Chile, soliciting is a very common occurrence. On buses, on the street, and, apparently, on trains. By our last day, I had grown used to the street peddlers hopping on the the Micro for a block or two to sell their goods-- Disney playing cards, ice cream, scissors, whatever-- or to simply ask for your money from behind a sad clown face. But I wasn't expecting this kind of thing on the train.
There we were, holding tightly to the poles and handles (we weren't so fortunate as to nab a seat), when the man next to me took his guitar out of his case. While he tuned his guitar, I carried on my conversation with Emily. Somewhere in the back of my mind I reasoned that he had a gig soon and didn't have the time to tune later: wrong. The man begins singing-- nay, belting-- out tunes so loudly that I had to tell Emily that we'd finish our conversation later. After a few songs, he made an announcement letting the riders in our compartment know that if they enjoyed his performance they could feel free to make donations. And they did.
On the way back, there was a similar situation, except this time the troubadour was a story-teller. In fact, he announced to the crowd that he would prefer that we stopped talking so that he wouldn't have to yell over us. And then, he asked us for money. Some people...
**Side note: There also happened to be a Robert Pattinson look-alike in our car on the way home, and I've never had to exert such force to hold myself back from throwing myself at a man. After much deliberation with Emily-- who was such a bad influence in her encouragement to approach the Latino Edward-- I decided that the kid was underage. And then I sulked for the rest of the day about having to worry whether or not a guy is too young for me. Ugh. Quarter-life crisis.
In between train rides, we arrived in La Compana (I think...) where we hopped on a tiny bus that took us as far up the mountain as it could go; from there, we hiked uphill for a kilometer or two. By the time we reached the national park office, I was glowing with perspiration and proud we'd made such great time to our destination, although I was a little disappointed with the view...
What's that? This isn't the destination? It's the entrance? You mean... after all that... I might literally die. Those were my thoughts as we struck off up the real mountain. I almost cried as I thought I might have to tell Chasley and Em to go on without me. I made it through the entire two and a half hour hike, but I felt the effects the next day. And the day after that... and the day after that.
We calculated that we had hiked about 5 miles or more by the end of our journey, and-- covered in dust that, mixed with our surplus of sweat, had practically caked onto us-- it was well worth the trip. How often do you get to drop your blood, sweat, and tears on a mountain in South America, after all? I mean sure, there were yellow jackets aplenty, and I'm pretty sure we just barely missed a wild animal attack of some nature-- my rule in every uncomfortable situation is "Don't Make Eye Contact," so who's to say what woodland creature was coming to greet us-- it was worth the view and the adrenaline rush.
And it definitely merited a nap afterward.
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