I hate Chile. The people, the culture, the abysmal socioeconomic differences, the sexism, the racism, the homophobia, the smog, the corruption, the filth, the consumerism, and plenty more. I fucking hate Chile and Chileans, in general. Yes, I am self-racist. I hate my kind and, in a way, that makes me hate myself a little. “A writer hating himself? That one’s new!” you will be probably thinking now.
So, of course, hating Chile did not make my stay in Santiago pleasant. Not the first week, for sure. Walking its streets, surrounded by Chilean pedestrians, cars, bikers and stray dogs. Suffocating in a myst of polluted air and secondhand cigarette smoke. Getting dry-raped in the metro -if that’s even a concept- and getting slapped across the face with the social injustice and the overall monstrosities of my homeland’s society. “Fuck me.” “Fuck this shit.” “Fuck Santiago.” Those were recurring thoughts.
Suddenly, like a well timed television film; suddenly things started to get better. Those were horrible streets, but I knew my way around them. That metro was dehumanizing -and sexually harassing-, but helped me getting around, visiting friends and family. Eating out wasn’t bad nor expensive. Neither was drinking. And listening to our fuck-ugly Spanish dialect was even comforting. I mean, after over a year of that puking-sounds-made-language called Danish. So, yes: it was going well after all.
I spent my last week in Santiago in a room I rented to a nice gay dude, nearby Plaza Brasil and a few blocks away from Moneda 2155 (a.k.a. my former home.) And probably it was the familiarity I found myself into, or the nice things that began to happen. Whatever it was, I felt comfortable. I felt welcomed. I felt… home. In a way.
I met a Venezuelan girl named Laura on Tinder. We matched, we exchanged a few messages and, some days later, we were drinking a bottle of nice red wine in her flat. And we talked, and we laughed, and we connected. And I freaked out, because I felt, for a brief moment there, that I could fall for her. That would have been fucked up, given the circumstances. But then we had sex and the feeling dissipated. Although the sex itself was good -she came like 5 times… yay me!-. Yet, I couldn’t get my head out of my fucked up brokenhearted mindset. All in all, it was great to meet her. Meeting a human being as interesting as her. A fellow writer. A fellow Spanish speaker. A fellow lover.
I hung out with my mum a lot. And I really mean a lot. It was, in part, motivated by a guilt trip; the kind mums are experts in. But most of it, I believe -and hope-, was driven by a genuine interest from both parties to reconnect. We were apart for a year. We needed to make up for all that time. Even if it implied for me to suck up a lot of annoyance for, now that I think about it, really stupid details. I know, I am one bitter fuck sometimes.
So, here comes the conclusion of it all. The trip is almost over. I’m, again, killing time in the Madrid airport. Said my last goodbyes yesterday. Had half a panic attack while crossing the border patrol in Santiago’s airport. Slept around 15 minutes in an anxiety-packed 13 hour flight, which I can say, for certain, was the worst of my life. And things will get back to normal in around seven hours, when I open my flat’s door, throw all my shit on the floor and jump into my bed. And Laura, my friends, my family; they will all be a nice memory. Perhaps, just then, I will hate Chile a bit less. It’s harder to hate something or someone who’s away.