. . . Even after much contemplation, with ideas sprung up such as: the hang; sitter; little bubble; shady.Quiet, as if the sounds of the avenue 20 yards behind clashes with such austerity on the polluted river 20 yards in front. One of the oddities - where silence can be heard, maybe it's even loud.
On this tree, comfy spots abound; there are twisting branches stretching anywhichway leaving an ever-higher perch.
The best spot is on the hump facing the passersby who occasionally block my view of brown river. The tallest building in Latin America is so close by east, that it can't be seen in entirety, though its gleam happens to penetrate the trees foliage during a gust. The mountains surrounding look calm from here - behemoths in reality, they are too distant to invoke fear, only awe, snowcapped, blocking the views of the mountains farther behind. To the west, rocks slightly tanned from overexposure to the sun, the cliffs below her reflecting what they can, the Virgin in white, facing with open hands to the city.
Santiago's enamored sprawl the grassy spots only a turn of the head away. Am I in love already? Or is the weather simply so perfect. Weather, or culture, must be playing some game here = public displays of affection are rampant here, public love, sometimes public love, the age doesn't seem to make a difference. The park and train should be avoided by anyway suffering from a broken heart.
Another public display of affection - the protests. Eager youngins and students cry for legalization of this or that, illegalization of that and those, more women with power, more freedom for them or that. The two girls who urinated all over the entrance to the hostel, were they protesting freedom of piss? My eyes were spared from the rumors, of the protesters, originally peacefully marching down the main avenida here, being finally beat off the streets by policemen. Though, what would you believe that you could not see?
