Santiago’s Turn

Deja Vú
I’d been to Chile once before—ten years back. Nice enough. Iquique had the sea, the sunshine, the breezy, sandblasted charm of a city that minds its own business. But I knew then, quietly and inconveniently, that I hadn’t scratched the surface. Santiago still waited. And now, en route to Antarctica from Punta Arenas—because why not drop by the end of the earth on a weekday—I finally had an excuse. Three nights in the capital: a layover masquerading as a pilgrimage.

>>> RELATED: Iquique – 2015 <<<

AeroYESico!
I arrived after dark, stomach full of airplane food and head full of exhaustion. And here’s where I make a confession: the flight on Aeromexico, eight hours from CDMX in business class, was embarrassingly pleasant. No gold-plated nonsense, nothing silly—just a pod, a mattress pad, and a level of comfort so unassuming it almost felt illicit. I slept like a kid who hasn’t yet learned cynicism, drifted between two movies and a few good naps, and for the first time in a long while, stepped off an airplane actually feeling…human.

I slept until nearly 1 p.m. the next day. Something I’d once have felt guilty about, back when I was chasing stamps and bragging rights. But after country 193, you stop sprinting. You start strolling. Breathing. Letting the place come to you instead of trying to conquer it.

Location, Location, Location
My hotel, by dumb luck or karmic repayment, sat right next to Barrio Lastarria. Cross the street and boom—cafés, leafy corners, art, life. I wandered into Dacarrow Coffee, ordered a latte that could charm a corpse, and met Amy, the barista—Venezolana, sweet, easygoing, and the kind of person who makes you feel like you remembered more Spanish than you actually did. She set the tone: Santiago, warm handshake, not a cold shoulder.

No Tengo Dinero
Then came the ATM debacle. A farce, really. I trudged across half the city hunting for any machine willing to acknowledge my existence. Rejected, mocked, denied. I’ve been to every country in the world and somehow this was the place I couldn’t get cash? Just as I was about to declare war, someone gently pointed out that the card was expired. I laughed. What else can you do? Thankfully, I had the new one buried in my wallet.

Santiago itself…well, first impressions were a puzzle. Not bad. Just complicated. A collage city. Palm trees like L.A., art deco touches like Miami, brickwork nodding at New York, old-world bones from Europe, and the swagger of Brazil or Argentina. Grit brushed with graffiti, but clean, orderly, soft-spoken. A big city that somehow whispers instead of shouts.

ManWich
Time to eat. Antigua Fuente was the target—this 1960s sandwich temple that looks like it hasn’t changed the curtains since day one. Counter seating only, women working the grill with the grace and seriousness of surgeons. Sandwich artists before that term got ruined. I went for the Churrasco Completo: big, messy, glorious. Knife-and-fork territory. A religious experience between bread. If you come to Santiago and skip Antigua Fuente, you didn’t really come at all.

I walked off the sandwich by heading to Plaza Ciudadanía to salute the enormous Chilean flag—this giant, swaggering banner doing a full ballet in the wind. Hard not to feel something.

The ATM wild goose chase continued, pushing me into corners of the city I wouldn’t have seen otherwise. An iced tea here, a maracuyá juice there. Eventually I gave up, summoned an Uber, and headed for Costanera Center.

Tower of Power
Torre Costanera—tallest building in South America. Strange that São Paulo didn’t snag that title. I ducked into the mall, grabbed a Pepsi at Chili’s because eating at Chili’s in Chile is comedy gold. Then went up the tower, sprawled in a giant chair, took in the panoramic views. Peaceful. Enough.

Now with Added Friends
Next day I linked up with my friend Rafik—one of the rare humans I’ll actually travel with. Back to Dacarrow for another latte and a quick hello to Amy, then back to Antigua Fuente for the now-traditional sandwich baptism. I felt local enough to be dangerous.

Later I wandered into Mercado Central, solo—beautiful old structure, cinematic even, and reeking (in the best way) of the day’s catch. A little touristy, but worth the stroll.

Paseo Ahumada ended up being my favorite stretch—wide pedestrian street, locals everywhere, shops, vendors, energy without chaos. Great for wandering. Great for watching. I skipped the ubiquitous mote con huesillo and instead hit Café Caribe for an iced-coffee-meets-vanilla-ice-cream concoction that was exactly what I needed.

La Noche
Finally took the subway—victory—and headed for Cerro Cristóbal. The funicular was closed, the whole hill felt asleep, and honestly I wasn’t crushed. The neighborhood around it, with its cafés and street art, was plenty.

Back near the hotel I met up with the gang again for an evening walk through Lastarria—lemon-basil ice cream, a mountain of French fries, and the kind of mellow dusk that makes you forget where you came from and where you’re going.

El Fin
And that was Santiago. A capital city that doesn’t demand your attention but earns it. Friendly, gentle, forgiving. A place that lets you loosen your grip a little. The rare big city that quietly says:

Relax. You’re alright here.