The Time I Fell into a Hole

The plan was to see the Museum of Precolombian Art, get some lunch downtown, and then, do a bit more museum time elsewhere. I would head back to Eileen‘s place after a good wander, and then, later that afternoon, we would go to the Hilton to meet my friend Andrew, who had serendipitously arrived in Santiago that day.

I had a map, a reasonable idea about where I was going, and it wasn’t too terribly hot. I found the museum, though I had to walk around the block three or four times to find the entrance — everything looked like it might be the museum, official and grand, while the museum itself was hiding somewhat behind an arcaded walkway where tarot card readers sat on little folding chairs telling the future. In retrospect, asking one of them for advice might not have been a bad idea.

I started a little late, which means I headed out of the museum — a short but visually satisfying stop — at prime lunch time. The restaurant where I’d wanted to eat had a snake of a line out the front door and along the windows of the shop next door. I was impatient, a little intimidated by the crowd and my bad Spanish, and I was hungry. I decided to skip it, to walk along the plaza for a bit and see if I might find what looked like, to me, an easier lunch.

That’s when I fell into a hole*. As did my plans.

Instead of getting lunch and going to the next museum, I thanked the very nice women who hauled me out of the hole. I bought a bottle water from a kiosk and I headed back to Eileen’s apartment.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I fell into a hole,” I said.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have this bag of ice handy.”

I spent the better part of the afternoon with my feet up, icing a spectacular bruise that is still, about a month later, a minor swelling and a tender to the touch. It was a doozy. Because I didn’t use all the ice, Eileen made iced coffee. I ate avocado sandwiches and chatted online with the husband. It was not the day I’d planned.

We still made it to the Hilton to meet Andrew, and then, we went to the mall where we ate giant helpings of delicious ice cream and talked and talked and talked, three Americans in a very glitzy Chilean shopping center that could have been anywhere, a store that could have been Crate and Barrel behind us, a store that could have been H&M just over there. And we talked some more back at the hotel, admiring the view from Andrew’s room, and then, he went to his fancy job and we went to Los Domincos.

Probably, at certain times of day, or the year, Los Domincos — it’s a kind of craft village —  is very crowded. But on this late afternoon, it was nearly empty. There were four fancy Brazilians in tight pants and expensive looking shirts. There was a huge cage full of chickens and peacocks. There was a garden shop with flats of plants that had recently been sprayed with water and it smelled fresh and green. There were two Americans, a dad and his grown son, I think. That was about it. We window shopped for textiles and ceramics and art and jewelry. I snapped photos in the perfect afternoon light.  Later still, we ate Peruvian ceviche, outdoors, and I drank beer. Then we went home and I used some more ice for my giant purple bruises.

Honestly, it hurt like hell. If I knock up against something, it still hurts. I injured myself but good. I fell into a hole.

I had a perfect day.

*The “hole” in question was actually a gutter in a pedestrian plaza. It was about 10 inches deep. It’s supposed to be covered with a grate. The next day, I mentioned, in passing, to another expat that I’d fallen in a hole. “Missing grate?” he asked.