the good times are killing me...

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Puerto Varas was a smallish town on the edge of Lago Llanquihue.

We found a nice hostel, right near the lake. It was a bit of a walk from the bus station – again the LP had lied to us and said the bus station was in town. It was not – there was a ticket office there. There was not, and never had been, a bloody bus station. It did give us a chance to stretch our legs and see the outskirts of the town, at least.

Cold, but not bitterly so, and it showed clearly the German influence of the area. As a town in the Lakes District it was certainly set up for tourists, and the centre was very civilised, maybe a bit too much so – all the big corporates, plenty of outdoor shops and a ATM on every corner.

The hostel wasn't bad, certainly a friendly place. It was pretty small – basically a few rooms centred around a large central area with a big table and some old comfy chairs. A lot like your uni mate's under the house area, really. It was cozy and friendly enough. It did mean that you were forced to interact with the the other guests – which I did, with disastrous results.

It started well enough, the evening. A few guests clustered around the big dining room table. I sat quietly, reading my book and drinking a beer. The beer itself was pretty ordinary. Supposedly a boutique brewery type beer, it was terrible – I've used better home brews to clean the barbecue. This meant I had to break out some other beers to wash the taste out of my mouth.

A couple of beers later, and I had got past my natural reticence and was chatting to the other guests. There was a Swiss bloke, an American bloke, an English couple. It would have been a quiet, pleasant night, but, as it turned out, every Saturday night is party night at the Hostel Margouya. The place began to fill up. It was then I broke out the Havana Club, sharing it with some local expat Yank who made beer for some of the local pubs. I hoped it wasn't one of his that I'd been mocking to other guests – no matter, all was forgiven as the first of a few university cigarettes floated around.

The rest of the evening is something of a blur. I remember a little club across the street, making disparaging remarks about Christians, and being distraught about being unable to get back into the hostel. Klaire tells me she also saved me from wandering about in the nud on the way to the shower in the early hours.

Needless to say, upon waking I didn't feel all that hot.

I also discovered a large graze on my forehead – a shining testament to alcohol's ability to enhance my god-given tendency to whack into things.

After breakfast, and not at all recovered, Klaire forced me to go for a walk around the lake, which turned out to be very pleasant. We walked around, as far as we could reasonably go, accompanied only by our thoughts and a friendly dog that had had his legs stolen some time before (or perhaps he was simply the offspring of a dachshund and a sheepdog).

There wasn't a hell of a lot keeping us in Puerto Varas, to be honest. We weren't into boating, or rock climbing, or rafting, or any of the myriad pursuits of the 'outdoor enthusiast'. We had enjoyed Chile, for sure, but it was time to pack our bags for Argentina.

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Comments

[Sarah]

Yay
Loving all these posts... also, heh, drunkie.