Torres del Paine, here we come!

Getting to Puerto Natales was a miracle, for which we have to thank Gauchito Gil. In fairness, we owe him one of those roadside shrines one sees around here, docked out in red, with red banners asking the Gauchito to grant our wishes - even though he already hasM really.

There we were yesterday in Pucon, cozy, but irritated and restless from the incessant gray skies. Then we learned that our room was double-booked. To make a long story short, that set into motion a chain of events that led to us saying "fuck it - let's go to Patagonia tomorrow". We had no plane tickets - let alone bus tickets to get us to the Puerto Montt airport - and we knew that there was an airline strike. But off we went. That was when Jorge announced that if we actually made it to Patagonia, he would build an altar to Gauchito Gil!

I should add that as we were leaving town, the skies started to clear. There's no mocking quite like that of the weather gods.

Three buses and nine hours later, we rolled into Puerto Montt, a gritty port city that Lonely Plane recommends leaving as soon as possible. We had nowhere to stay, so when an old woman with the grocery bags approached us offering accommodations, we had little choice but to follow her. She rounded up her possee of a middle-aged man and a small boy, and announced that we should take a taxi. Jorge and I both reacted with great suspicion, for fear of being shanghai'ed to some distant place with overpriced accommodations - or worse. We eventually got in the taxi - after she pointed to a spot nearby on the guidebook map, climbed into an actual taxi rather than the car of "a friend who could give us a ride", and repeatedly showed us her laminated ID listing her as an official purveyor of lodging. Even so, when we climbed into the taxi, I checked the door for possible escape, and planned that at first sign of trouble I'd grab the little boy - while Jorge planned to grab the old lady. Fortunately, none of this was necessary: Maria Fresia was one of the many women here who rent spare bedrooms to travelers, and was a warm, helpful innkeeper.

After we got settled, we asked where we could get some dinner. Maria Fresia gestured for us to follow, led us to an establishment about two blocks away, instructed us to walk briskly and talk to no one on our way back, and left us in the hands of the manager. We took stock of our surroundings. The air was full of smoke, in defiance of the no smoking law on the books here. The place was full of drunken portsmen. But since we didn't have anywhere else to go, we sat down to eat. We were joined almost immediately by a drunken man who came to ask where we were from. After he returned to his friends, they raised many a glass in our direction with shouts of "California!", "Puerto Rico!" and "Obama!". One guy got up to go to the bathroom and threw up along the way. The waiter, without blinking, mopped it up. The guy returned a few minutes later, and resumed drinking. They shouted for us to kiss (it felt like a wedding reception with wild west overtones), and when we humored them with a small peck, they shouted for another one with more tongue. I should add that as a gringa and one of the only women there, I was the most exotic creature in this bar - by far - and the center of attention. As I looked around the room, anytime I'd let my gaze rest even lightly on some guy, he'd turn to make eye contact. Finally, I contented myself with gazing at the butter dish. When our food came, it was excellent! As we ate, a folk guitarist wandered in to lead the guys in rousing drinking songs. We finished eating just as some of our friends were getting kicked out. We paid our bill - and in one brisk move we got up, left, and walked quickly back to Maria Fresia's along streets that were thankfully empty!

This morning, we set out to get plane tickets with the budget airline Sky Airline. Jorge had reserved seats over the phone - which was as much as we could do with a computer that doesn't run Internet Explorer, and without a Chilean credit card. We were instructed to pay in person at the airline's office in downtown Puerto Montt, half an hour by bus from the airport. Jorge couldn't understand why they wouldn't let us reserve seats for the 12:30pm flight when the airline office was supposed to open at 9:30am. But he admitted that they'd known something he didn't. when the first employee unlocked the door shortly before 10am. So we were early for our 4pm flight, and had a big lunch at the airport. Miraculously, the strike seemed to have evaporated, and our flight left Puerto Montt on time and arrived in Punta Arenas ahead of schedule. We somehow got seats on a bus bound to Puerto Natales, even though the bus company had told Jorge that the bus was full and would not stop at the airport. While we waited, Jorge secured a reservation for what seemed to be the last available accommodations in town.

Now it's one day later, Sunday in tiny little Puerto Natales, gateway to the Torres del Paine. We're preparing to set out asap for the national park - with hopes of the good weather holding for a day or two...