"Por eso a fuego lento surge a luz del día,
el amor, el aroma de una niebla lejana
y calle a calle vuelve la ciudad sin banderas
a palpitar tal vez y a vivir en el humo."

I love this poem. I typed out the English for you and included it at the bottom.

I know I posted on Friday, but yesterday was a pretty full day. These memories may be a little scattered:

On the way home it was night, and outside the window of the bus, the horizon, was a dark grayed purple, the mountains loomed like black construction paper cutouts, 2d shadows pasted up against the moody background. The stars beckoned clear and bright.

Today, now, the church bells ring off in the distance.

When we began our day, on an hour bus ride to Valparaiso, I almost imploded from holding in laughter on the bus.

Berti, I love you, but you are definitely one of "those people."

When we first got on the bus, Berti called Pancho and spoke to him on her cell phone. She was speaking so loudly that I was almost cringing for all the people around us. Then, she popped her earphones in and music was so loud that the man two rows in front of us was tapping along with his hand.

Periodically she would break out into song with the music, at normal voice level, and I kept waiting for someone around us to join in, but it never happened--I think they were too busy cursing.

The best part came periodically throughout the ride when she would catch sight of something off in the landscape she wanted to show me. Without removing her earphones, she would yell and point. At one point, when I could bear it no longer I sorta shushed her without meaning to, and she said,

"Oh, am I loud?"

"just a bit. I think it's because you're trying to speak over the music."

"Oh right. sorry"

If her English every gets good enough to read this (and it's getting pretty good)--I love you, I love you, I love you Berti.

It was a great beginning to a wonderful day. When we stepped off the bus into the sunshine, my grin had already begun to stretch.

Here's some of the shots I took on the bus, on the road from Santiago to Valparaiso:










People here say that Valpariaso is a lot like San Francisco. I was a little skeptical, but I see the similarities. Like for example,
a cable car. I "have a thing for" cable cars:


These are pictures of the city. I think the camera was acidentally in color tint mode for some of these:








After we had walked around for a while, we took an amazing boat ride around the port:

















I fell in love twice yesterday. Seriously, gone. done. crazy.

The first time I fell in love with this two year old. He sat next to me in the boat. He clung to my leg and wanted to sit next to me. We played peek-a-boo with our sunglasses.






After the boat ride we walked around for a bit. Then, we went up this box car on a 45 degree angle up a hill. ha. Every time it jerked, I kept thinking, hmmm, this isn't supposed to be a ride. . . and yet. . .










The magnificent view from the top caught me off guard.

















A gazebo. There was a gazebo at the top. I love gazebos.




This is the ride down.










We ate lunch at a quaint little restaurant in town. It was nice and calm. The food was great. Everything was quiet and simple.


Then we got on the bus from Hell. This driver seriously was a) having a bad day b) on some form of drugs or c)just a hyper, unhappy man. He tried to pass a huge line of cars on the wrong side of the road and almost had a head on collision. But, we made it to the beach. We changed clothes in a McDonalds bathroom. a very small McDonald's bathroom.

Then we headed to the beach--and let me tell you--IF I could imagine spring break in one of those insane cities like Panama City or anywhere MTV goes . . .this beach. . . it was like that. I was feeling very casper like in the sea of beautiful tanned people:








Then, I changed back in the same McDonald's bathroom.

I officially have a new favorite ice cream flavor, which is dangerous. It's some type of vanilla with chocolate pieces. Have I told you this yet? I think I have. anyways, I had it again yesterday. It's like a dairyqueen dip cone that been through the blender. yum. This is the ride back. The view of the coast, littered with rocks and sunlight. . .it was . . .hmm. Here's the other guy in the corner of the photo that I kinda fell in love with. I didn't speak to him or anything. he spoke french. He was funny though-the three french guys. I could tell in some other situation I would've been friends with them. One of them reminded me of Clay Butts. Wherever you are Clay, here's to you. These are two shots on that ride home.




Which leads me back to the stars. It was cold and dark when we got back to Santiago, but I was laughing. what a wonderful day.

"That’s why daylight comes with slow fire,
and love, the aroma of far-off fog,
and street by street the city returns without flags
trembling perhaps, to live in its smoke."

Don't forget to read the rest of the poem. The english is below.

Hope you and yours are happy and safe.

una aurora,
Mere

No Hay Pura Luz

No hay pura luz
ni sombra en los recuerdos:
éstos se hicieron cárdena ceniza
o pavimento sucio
de calle atravesada por los pies de las gentes
que sin cesar salía y entraba en el Mercado.

Y hay otros: los recuerdos buscando aún
qué morder
como dientes de fiera no saciada.
Buscan, roen el hueso último, devoran
este largo silencio de lo que quedó atrás.

Y todo quedó atrás, noche y aurora,
el día suspendido como un puente entre sombras,
las ciudades, los puertos del amor y el rencor,
como si al almacén la guerra hubiera entrado
llevándose una a una todas las mercancías
hasta que a los vacíos anaqueles
llegue el viento a través de las puertas rehechas
y haga bailar los ojos del olvido.

Por eso a fuego lento surge a luz del día,
el amor, el aroma de una niebla lejana
y calle a calle vuelve la ciudad sin banderas
a palpitar tal vez y a vivir en el humo.

Horas de ayer cruzadas por el hilo
de una vida como por una aguja sangrienta
entre las decisiones sin cesar derribas,
el infinito golpe del mar y e la duda
y la palpitación del cielo y sus jazmines.

Quién soy Aquél? Aquel que no sabía
sonreír, y de puro enlutado moría?
Aquel que el cascabel y el clavel de la fiesta
sostuvo derrocando la cátedra del frío?

Es tarde, tarde. Y sigo. Sigo con un ejemplo
tras otro, sin saber cuál es la moraleja,
porque de tantas vidas que tuve estoy ausente
y soy, a la vez soy aquel hombre que fui.

Tal vez es éste el fin, la verdad misteriosa

La vida, la continua sucesión de un vacío
que de día y de sombra llenaban esta copa
y el fulgor fue enterrado como un antiguo príncipe
en su propia mortaja de mineral enfermo,
hasta que tan tardíos ya somos, que no somos:
ser y no ser resultaban ser la vida.

De lo que fui no tengo sino estas marcas crueles,
porque aquellos dolores confirman mi existencia.

There is no clear light

There is no clear Light,
nor shadow in the memories:
They have grown ashy-gray,
a grubby sidewalk
crisscrossed by the endless feet of those
who come in and out of the market.

And there are others: memories still looking for
something to bite,
like fierce, unsatisfied teeth.
They gnaw us to the last bone, devouring
the long silence of all that lies behind us.

And everything lies behind, night and day,
days suspended like a bridge between shadows,
cities, ports of love and rancor,
as if war had broken into the store
and carried off everything there, piece by piece
till through broken doors
the wind blows over empty shelves
and makes the eyes of oblivion dance.

That’s why daylight comes with slow fire,
and love, the aroma of far-off fog,
and street by street the city returns without flags
trembling perhaps, to live in its smoke.

Yesterday’s hours, stitched by life
threaded on a bloodstained needle,
between decisions endlessly unfulfilled,
the infinite beat of the sea and of doubt,
the quiver of the sky and its jasmine.

Who is that other me? Who didn’t know
how to smile, who died of sheer mourning?
The one who endured the bells and the carnations,
destroying the lessons of the cold?

Perhaps that’s it, the real mystery.

Life, steady flow of emptiness
which filled this cup with days and shadows,
all brightness buried like an ancient prince
in his own infirm and mineral shroud,
until we are so behind that we don’t exist:
to be and not to be—that’s what life is.

Of all that I was, I bear only these cruel scars,
Because those griefs confirm my very existence.