I leave our apartment in the center of Santiago on an early morning walk, joining the stream of uniformed schoolchildren and sharp-dressed business people. The strangers around me peel off to their schools and workplaces, until I, the loafing traveler, walk alone.
I reach the colorful Bellavista neighborhood, once home to Pablo Neruda, and turn onto the road that climbs uphill.
The Place: Cerro San Cristobal, Santiago, Chile
My Rating: 3.5/5
I’m only a few steps up St Christopher’s Hill when a brown dog trots over and falls in at my side.
I can’t help but notice that the dog positions himself between me and the teenage boy that pedals past on a bike. He does it again when we walk through a construction site, slowing down to stay between me and the workers until we’re through.
He feels like better protection than the fragile shield I usually try to throw up when walking alone through a city. Mine is built out of a confident stride and don’t-give-a-fuck expression, whereas this one is all muscle and teeth and undeserved loyalty.
I reach a fork in the trail and pause to read which way to go. The dog walks twenty yards down one of the branches and looks back over his shoulder, waiting for me to realize that, yes, he chose the correct way.
When I catch up, he runs ahead to chase a bird up a slope before sprinting back to my side, tongue lolling.
We soon make it to the top of the hill, where there’s a sanctuary dedicated to the Immaculate Conception. In a few hours, the funicular will deposit herds of other tourists here, but right now the summit is deserted. Heavenly church music plays through the empty gardens, an eerie soundtrack as I wander between crosses and palm trees.
I climb the steps to the base of the 70-foot-tall statue of the Virgin Mary. The dog flops down at my side and I reward him with scratches behind the ear while I pull out my book to read, all of Santiago stretched at my feet.
The Book: Light in August by William Faulkner
My Rating: 3/5
This Southern Gothic novel weaves together the stories of three misfits, victims of the Puritanical society in which they live.
Pregnant Lena walks barefoot for endless miles to find the father of her child. Reverend Gail Hightower can’t stop thinking about the Civil War and his past. And orphaned Joe Christmas resorts to violence while grappling with his mixed-race heritage.
Faulkner’s narrative structure and inconsistent grammar took some getting used to, but there is beauty in his words. I found the story itself too overburdened to be truly enjoyable, steeped as it is in allegory and meaning.
Southern literature reminds me just how much racism is part of the United States’ collective conscious. Is it the same for other countries?
In Chile, there is still widespread prejudice against the Mapuche people and others with indigenous features. However, it’s impossible for me to understand the extent of racial bias during my short time in the country, especially when I just go on hikes instead of throwing myself into the culture.
The dog interrupts my reading when he leaps up barking and bristling. It’s the first warning that I’m no longer alone. Moments later, I spot a person running toward me up the stairs.
It’s just a jogger, but once again the strange dog has once again proven he’s got my back. I better head down the hill anyway - the morning is aging and losing its magic.
I push thoughts of religion and racism from my mind and start my walk back to the city.
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- Katie, @therovingreader