Sleeping Around (6 page)

On my first-ever trip overseas, I was invited to stay with a girl in Dublin who I'd met briefly at a party in Melbourne. When I rang Louise from London, she told me that it was her 21st birthday party the next night and that I was welcome to come. I bet she regretted that later. After catching an overnight ferry, I arrived, without any sleep, on the afternoon of the party, and headed straight to the pub with her boyfriend and his mates. By the time we got to the very swanky party at nine o'clock (Louise's parents lived in a large house in Dublin's most exclusive suburb), I was already pleasantly plastered. I don't remember the exact details of the next few hours, but I do remember spilling a full glass of beer all over the dog, smooching and groping Louise's best friend in the middle of the lounge room, then collapsing in a drunken stupor underneath the pool table. I felt so embarrassed the next day that, after much apologising, I packed up and left.

Back at the barbecue no one had collapsed yet, but many were on their way to getting seriously intoxicated. The wine had run out and they were now drinking a wicked concoction of Drambuie, Johnny Walker, ice and fresh cloves. At least if I did fall over or try to grope Aunty Claudia*, I'd still be in the good books. When I returned with the cigarettes I also had a bouquet of flowers to give to Grandma, who almost hugged me to death and told Juan that I could move in with her.

‘You are going to write that Chileans are a bunch of drunks,' Juan said.

‘Yes, but nice drunks,' I said, smiling drunkenly.

Six hours after we had sat down for lunch, dessert was brought out. It was dark by the time people started getting up from the table. The children played happily in the garden, the old men went back to their game of cards, the older women cleaned up, and Uncle Diego* and Aunty Claudia* canoodled in the corner like teenagers while their teenage children sat drinking with us.

We finally got up to leave at 8.30, which was just in time. Any longer and I would have nodded off and fallen face-first into my cake. Juan, who had been holding back on the drinks, drove home and said, ‘I'm sorry Brian, but I have to work on my thesis tonight.'

‘That's okay,' I said, looking at my watch. It was nine o'clock. ‘I've still got lots and lots of notes to write as well.'

I was asleep at about eight minutes past nine.

I still wasn't quite sure of the whole couch-surfing protocol. When I awoke at eight the next morning, the house was quiet. Everyone was still in bed. I knew that because I tiptoed down the hallway and put my ear against everyone's bedroom door just to make sure. I really didn't know what to do. Is it considered rude to help yourself to breakfast? I wanted a shower, but did I have to wait till everyone had one before I jumped in? I snuck back into my room and made the bed and packed my bag. Fifteen minutes later I re-packed my bag, then wrote in my notebook that I'd just re-packed my bag, then made the bed again.

It was a bit after nine o'clock when Juan's mum would have had second thoughts about strangers couch-surfing in her home ever again. She stepped out of her bedroom to find a man in his underwear standing on his tiptoes with his ear up against her youngest son's bedroom door.

Breakfast was a little uncomfortable. Juan's mum didn't speak English, so I couldn't explain that I wasn't trying to sneak into Luis Alfredo's bedroom. Breakfast was a veritable feast of warm fresh rolls, giant slabs of ham and cheese, boiled eggs, pickles, jam, tea and orange juice. It was all
muy bueno
(very good), but all the food also meant that I was at the breakfast table for half-an-hour and the only thing I could say in Spanish to Juan's mum was
‘muy bueno'
. I said that a lot while trying to smile without looking too much like a deviant.

Juan finally wandered down at 10.30 (he'd been working on his thesis till 3.30). I was in a bit of a rush to leave, as I had to get to the central bus station and catch a bus to Valparaíso, so I asked Juan if he could drive me to the metro station. Juan told me that he was sad to see me go and that I should stay for a couple more days. Although I had spent less than twenty-four hours with Juan and his family they had treated me like one of their own and when Juan gave me a hug it felt like I was saying goodbye to a dear friend. Even Juan's mum was keen for me to stay after I explained to Juan what happened and he told her that I wasn't really a dirty old pervert.

5

‘Interesting enough, the historical hull of the city proves for the visitor that it is a cultural patrimony of the humanity by UNESCO.'

Mariano Carlos Cubillos, 24, Valparaíso, Chile

CouchSurfing.com

‘This is my place,' Mariano said, pointing across the busy city street to a large grey building. The building was a hardware store. Thoughts crossed my mind of sleeping on a bed of paint tins and eating dinner with a garden trowel before we entered a side doorway and climbed up a flight of steep stairs to a large bohemian pad. I say ‘bohemian pad' because it was exactly what I imagined a bohemian pad would look like. The large high-ceilinged open lounge area was sparse, with only a scattering of mismatched lounge chairs that looked just made for some serious lounging about. Leaning against the walls were a series of finished and unfinished paintings and a collection of musical instruments, including two acoustic guitars, a mandolin and what I imagine is a mandatory requirement for any bohemian pad: a set of bongos. There was no TV, only an old turntable. The only other piece of furniture was a small coffee table that had a large ashtray on it filled with joint butts. To make the bohemian picture complete, lounging on one of the chairs was a hip-looking dude wearing a cravat and floral pants.

Even if I really tried I don't think I could invent a better bunch of bohemians to be sharing a bohemian pad. There was Nicolas, the puppet maker, and his boyfriend Sebastian, the cinema studies student; Marcella, the surrealist painter; Leonardo, the musician; Frida, the Asian/Swedish/Chilean silversmith; and my host Mariano, the journalist.

Mariano showed me my bed, which was a bright blue single-seat lounge chair that folded down to became a very short mattress. The chair was totally covered in dog's hair. The hair belonged to Mariano's dog Remedios who, by the way, didn't look too happy about me stealing his bed.

When I arrived in Valparaíso it was Remedios the beagle that I was told to look out for in the crowded bus station. Attached on a leash to that beagle would be my host Mariano. Mind you, if Mariano had told me to look out for an incredibly tall, handsome-looking beatnik with a goatee, I think I would have found him easily enough without Remedios.

The bus had arrived bang on the scheduled 1.30 arrival time after a 90-minute journey through verdant hills dotted with orange and purple flowers, vineyards, lakes, orchards and pine forests. The most impressive leg of the journey, however, was saved for last as we dropped spectacularly into Valparaíso. Ringing the bay was an immense natural amphitheatre and the chain of surrounding hills was covered with a chaotic tumble of vibrantly coloured houses that were wedged precariously in every fold of the steep hillside. The city itself looked decidedly rundown, but I liked it.

Mariano's flat also looked decidedly rundown—although I think any sort of renovation would have spoilt its charm. Remedios wasn't exactly charmed with me, however. After having his bed stolen, he was now going to be stuck inside while Mariano took me out to the city's main market, El Mercado Cardonal, for lunch. ‘Remedios was a present from my ex-girlfriend,' Mariano said as Remedios gave us that pathetic sad dog look as we left. ‘I'd been very sick for a week and I was feeling miserable, so she gave me a cute puppy as a remedy. So that's what I named him.'

‘There is a bottle shop on every other corner,' said Mariano as we passed our sixth bottle shop in two blocks. ‘Chile is the fifth biggest drinking country in the world,' Mariano said proudly. I was quite surprised that Chile is only fifth—after my day with Juan's family, I would have thought Chileans would at least be on the podium (albeit in danger of losing their balance and toppling off).

El Mercado Cardonal was on two floors. The bottom floor was all produce, then some rickety wooden stairs led up to a rough-and-tumble jumble of restaurants or
cocinerías
. It looked like a clichéd Hollywood movie-set version of jaunty seafood restaurants, with fishing nets strung up on the ceilings and filled with plastic lobsters, red-and-white- checked tablecloths and old men sitting around in striped shirts and captain's hats.

As soon as we sat down, we were given a bowl of
pebre
(a Chilean salsa dip made with tomato, chilli, coriander and chives) and bread.

‘Chile is the second biggest consumer of bread in the world,' Mariano said with a mouthful of bread.

Of course, it was no accident that I chose Mariano, a journalist, as a couch-surfing host. It was obvious, even to me, that a journalist would be an easy source of local knowledge. Mariano had worked as a political reporter for Chile's largest national daily newspaper,
La Tercera
. I say had worked, because Mariano had given it away. ‘Most days I would work twelve hours and it was just too stressful,' he said with a sigh. ‘I'd had enough of politics anyway. It's all the same. We vote one fucker out then vote another fucker in.'

Mariano was now studying part-time for his Masters and writing a thesis called ‘Untouchable Paradise in Valparaíso'. It may have sounded more like a novel of bohemian life, but it was actually philosophical in a more literal sense. He explained the argument to me, but I have trouble saying philosophical, let alone understanding it. Mariano was very passionate about the project and believed the thesis would be very well received.

‘What do you want to do when you finish?' I asked.

‘I'd like to open a bar,' he mused.

Mariano recommended that I have a local dish called
chupe de locos.
‘It means full of craziness,' Mariano told me after I had ordered it. (It also means ‘suck like crazy', as I discovered when I went to check the exact spelling on the net and was taken to a series of rather interesting photos on a Spanish gay porn site.)

It may have been full of craziness, but it was also full of scrumptiousness. It was similar to a clam chowder and the massive bowl was chock-full of sizzling chunks of abalone, fish and shrimps and topped with cheese.

Mariano had a meeting about a freelance journalism job (‘I do some jobs because I have to eat!' he said), so I went to walk—or, more accurately, waddle—off my lunch. I headed down to the port because Mariano had made it sound mightily impressive. Valparaíso was, until the opening of the Panama Canal, the most important port in South America. In the space of less than a hundred years from the early 1800s, the population of the city rose from 5000 to more than 100 000. In the process it attracted wealthy foreign merchants who helped make Valparaíso Chile's financial and cultural capital.

I walked for ages next to a high cyclone-wire fence that separated the docks from the city. Although the area was certainly impressively large, I was largely unimpressed. The port, like most ports the world over, was grey and dirty and all I could see were lots of large ugly cranes, large ugly shipping containers and considerably larger ugly rusting ships. The entire bay was closed off for the docks, which meant that you had to leave the city to actually get near the water. I wish I'd known that before I'd walked for more than an hour looking for a break in the cyclone fence.

I returned through the centre of town, which had the feel of a Mediterranean port city. The narrow, congested streets were lined with solid, classic buildings that had once been colourfully painted but were now faded and crumbling. Some of the buildings looked admirably grand, but I didn't get much of a chance to admire them. I was too busy avoiding the large packs of roaming dogs. I had never in my life seen so many stray dogs. They were everywhere and they were loping through the city—and, curiously, stopping dutifully at traffic lights—as if they owned the place. Each gang seemed to have a leader, but it wasn't necessarily the biggest pooch. One gang, which was mostly made up of large nasty-looking brutes, was being led by an extremely cocky cocker spaniel.

I gave a wide berth to one mob that was milling about the front of a bottle shop as if they were waiting for someone to go in and buy them some beer. I was steering well clear of the packs because—and for the life of me I wish I knew why—whenever I make eye contact with a dog, it suddenly feels a pressing need to tear me into teeny-weeny bits. I spent most of the walk back with my shoulders hunched and my eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Just to prove my point, I accidentally glanced up at a lone dog sitting nonchalantly on the footpath. As soon as our eyes met, its muscles tightened, its eyes took on a satanic glow and it lunged at me as if it had been waiting patiently all day for me to turn up. I swung my bag at the beast while screaming every swear word I know and running backwards. When I got to the other side of the road, I stood and watched as hordes of people wandered past the dog without it giving so much as a slight grimace to a single one of them.