Day 2. Santiago, Chile
Let me try to describe the city of Santiago. It's hot and dusty and the combination of air pollution, an inadequate sewerage system and a foul coloured canal that divides the city, has created a pungent smell that you can't escape and even taints the food you eat. The tree lined streets fail to mask just how run down the buildings and infrastructure is. But through the thick brown smog that obfuscates the horizon you can make out a silhouette of the Andes and their size is breathtaking.

Venturing out of the hotel, I quickly realised that this is not a particularly cosmopolitan city and the occasional bunch of overdressed tourists stand out awkwardly in the streets bustling with locals. Everyone is in a hurry here, especially the drivers, who are completely reckless and accidents and near misses seem to happen all around you.

The jetlag really messed with me and much of my second day was spent close to the small neighborhood of Bellavista. I would stay up as late as 4am in my third floor hotel room, resting my pillow on the window sill and staring out into the street corner, often for hours at a time. I developed a fascination for the constant activity below, thanks to the many bars and cafes within view. The ubiquitous Coke trucks would frequently stop and load and unload crates, the glass bottles rattling together was oddly comforting through the night.

In the street corner across from the hotel a group of homeless men would huddle together under filthy blankets and sacks as the warm dusk made way for the chilled night air. Time was such a blur in my state of malaise and on the second day I slept until 2:30 in the afternoon. The hotel porter, who spoke no English, seemed surprised by this and I spent 10 minutes explaining it to him using my flailing arms and those 20 odd Spanish words I knew. I suspect the cleaners had tried to come into my room - but the stool I jammed against the door handle as protection from banditos in the night must have thwarted their efforts.
 
As I slowly adjusted, passing time watching Spanish dubbed Scooby Doo on the hotel TV was only deepening my sense of isolation, even though the Shaggy sounded very authentic.