Fear and Jim Leff in Santiago

So, Monday I did my final hike, climbed to a glacial lake, scrambling over boulders up and down, and enjoying the company of a huge gang of 20 somethings from Rio -- apparently everyone in Rio flees town when Carneval starts -- they all talked about it exactly the way we´d talk about New Year´s Eve in Times Square.

Monday night the last succulent lomo, and then bright and early Tuesday morning it was Don't Cry for Me Patagonia time, as I bused five long hours to Punta Arenas, and then flew north to Santiago.

My heart was racing as I deplaned in Santiago. Everywhere I've been people have told me lurid crime stories about Santiago, the nicest looking old ladies or well-dressed young girls are apparently all trained thieves, my guidebook more or less advised handing over your wallet to the first Santiagan you meet so as to avoid being knifed, kidnapped and fleeced down to your underwear, and the email of Santiago highlights I´d received from a native friend of a friend concluded with equally dire warnings. As I got ready to leave the relative safety of the airport, I reviewed everything: no jewelry -- check; wallet, inside pocket - check; watch -- cheap timex bought for this trip -- check; clothes, non-descript -- check; purse, zipper on the inside, hand over zipper, arm clutching bag to body-- check; facial expression, hostile - check. Then I touched my head. Oh, shit. Prada sunglasses. I´m done for. According to all my info, I might as well strip naked and crawl pitifully to the U.S. embassy right about now. I am a TARGET. Maybe, I hoped, the hordes of wily street thieves will mistake my sunglasses for cheap Chinese knockoffs....

When I miraculously reached my hotel with all my possessions intact, I started thinking about the similar warnings I´d received about Nairobi, Bangkok, Palermo and a host of other places where nothing has ever happened to me. I thought of Armando, heading off to Brazil wishing he had an armor-plated vehicle. The fact of the matter is that the only places I have ever been robbed are New York and New Haven. I´ve never had so much as a lira taken anywhere else. But I get terrified by the horror stories every time! I remember the first time I took an overnight train in Spain, I was terrified to fall asleep because of those probably urban myths about the thieves who would pump knock out gas into the sleeping cars... I couldn,t have slept even if I wanted to, since I was lying on top of all my possessions and it was freaking uncomfortable.

Anyway, after all the warnings, I couldn{t bring myself to go out to dinner, and ate in the hotel restaurant. It was actually decent, and the waiters were super nice, although I didn{t share their enthusiasm for the local liqueur (boldo) that they made me try. Nonetheless, I was haunted by a different type of fear the whole time: I could just see the spirits of Jim Leff and Calvin Trillin materializing before my eyes and saying: "First, you turned down the chance to eat the Nandu the bus driver´s cousin was going to catch for you, and now, you have one night in Santiago, and instead of searching out back alley shacks where Mapuche grandmothers grind their own corn and make mysterious penguin ceviches, you are EATING IN A HOTEL RESTAURANT."

So, today, after a visit to the Museum of National History and a coffee in the Plaza des Armas, I was ready to make amends to the Gods of Chow. Clutching my purse in the perscribed manner, I made my way through thronged downtown Santiago (busy, a little dirty, sad begging dogs and people; the light, the mix of decripit and elegant, the palm trees and the colors all reminding me more than a bit of Palermo). I was in possession of that Chowhound piece of holy writ: A Local Tip. The friend of a friend who e'mailed me about Santiago had told me that I couldn{t leave Santiago without trying a Chilean hot dog with the works (known as el completo), and that the best hot dogs were to be had at a place called Domino on Huerfanos. In time-honored Chowhound fashion, my tipster hadn´t given me a cross street or an address, so I had to EARN my hot dog by walking the length of Huerfanos.

After a few blocks of suspiciously glaring at every well dressed woman (cutpurses all of them!) who came within a few feet of me, I spotted Domino "Fuente de Soda" across the street. I stuck my head in and my heart sank. It was a counter operation (major Leffpoints), with no seats (even more Leffpoints), the local patrons were piled three deep, with nary a tourist in sight (Leffbonanza)and there seemed to be a ritual associated with ordering, eating and paying that wasn´t readily apparent to outsiders (off the Leff charts). None of this was the problem. The problem was that every single one of the probably 60 patrons crowded into the counter space was male. All probably kind and well-intentioned, but I just couldn,t deal. I backed out, hot dog less.

I spent the next few blocks kicking myself mentally. You call yourself a foodie? A traveler? You, you,re no better than a TOURIST, with your hotel restaurants and easily scared off nature.

Before I could go too far down that path, I spotted my salvation: Antoher Domino Fuente de Soda! True it wasn´t the Domino on HUERFANOS, which as we all know, can be the key in these situations. But it was a Domino, it was slightly less crowded, and it had some women in it!

I shouldered my way to the counter, wedged myself elbow to elbow between two business suited guys intently eating hotdogs, ordered my El Completo, and had one of those not quite meaningful Spanish-Italian conversations with the (rather handsome)counter man. He shouted my order to somewhere in the back, and with some ritual seeming wipes and flourishes gave me a glass of Coke and a paper napkin.

After a few seconds, the El Completo appeared. It was a (nicely meaty) hot dog covered with lots of mayo, some salsa, some ketchup and a lot of chopped tomatoes. It cost less than $2.00, and it was quite tasty, as far as really mayonnaise-y hot dogs go. More importantly, it gave me back some of my dignity. As I wiped the last bits of mayo from my cheeks, chin and fingers, I felt I had at least partially redeemed myself for the hotel restaurant. If I could eat some roasted sheep entrails before my plane leaves, I{d be in like Flynn....

Of course, as I walked away, a little voice (Leff? Trillin?) in my head muttered "Yea, but it wasn{t the Domino on Huerfanos... You really should go back and COMPARE THE TWO."