Pax and calm in the transit, now no rain, not bad

Surely these late spring streets were typical for any modern city after a torrent, especially Santiago, what in the bowl-like valley in the west shadow of the Andes, still snow capped; wide straight slate gray avenues and boulevard-rivers, the Gran Avenida, Alemeda, Avenida Providencia, Apoquindo, Vicuña Mackenna, and how many more, the to-and-from separated by the tree-lined grass parks and the park bench, the Parque Forrestal and the Cerro Santa Lucia, and el rio Mapocho. These late spring streets cut through the canyons of the modern, the colonial, and anything from the centuries in between. The low sun light is filtered by the smog, and the hazy sticky-clear-tar fog droplets; the buildings uptown veiled by it, the Andes almost completely obscured. The air was still cool.

Buses, taxis, the colectivos, trucks, cars and other traffic choke the morning. Pedestrian proletariat, office workers, business classes, school children students and the avant-guard college bound, artists, kiosk-tied hawkers; many hundreds of thousands of the several million, all non-stop in the ebb and flow, rush to and from the metro, the buses, the schools and office buildings. Christmas and summer vacations to the coast are still more than a month away.

The standing-room-only buses start and stop their race for the terminals, and the metro has added trains to take up the hour’s rush. Ice cream vendor boys and musico buskers with the age old guitar, and what was a broken harp, and clowns with a frown to perform the three rings; all earn their salary, 100 pesos coin; una gamba, or an occasional extra tip, all day. In competition, the self employed, board one of any hundreds of the city buses, risk being crushed between them in the on-and-off to hawk cherimoya alegre ice creamsicles, the salted peanuts, to sing, to entertain, to earn enough for their daily bread, to be blessed by Santa Teresita de Los Andes.
 
The carabineros with the uzi subs guard the bank facades, and at the intersections, the carabineros with the white glove assist the semaforo. Just today I decided to take the metro, in order to save time if not money, to rub the elbow with the unseated, unhindered from the above ground. This metro is the modern type built from the 1970’s by Pinochet’s order and still to today by subsequent administrations and Parisian know-how. These rubber tire trains that roll smooth and straight, quiet and swoosh-like without the click-clack, the back and forth lunge, or the twist and turn. No city noises and smells, less smog, lungs better for it, the stations pristine clean; a good twelve or more stations to go. Las Rejas, Repubilca, Salvador, Manuel Montt...

Los Leones station, Providencia, a still low sun, church bells announce the hour, Avenida Suecia, Santiago Community Church, protestant but with the stained glass, cross and candle, High Church Anglican mixed with Presbyterian Low, a touch of Rome also; solemn respite with the lawn and flowers in the courtyard, a white wash stucco stone Spanish colonial style, not cathedral-like, English speaking for the English speaking. The small almacen store for the cheese and butter sandwich on the marraqueta bread, the street corner sidewalk magazine vendor with the "Time International" and smile, clearly have their clientele. I will wait for next week’s issue and remember to order two sandwiches later. I speak local with the slight accent. Residential apartment buildings off the main with the lawn and the concierge, the grass covered parking lot, balconies with the hanging plants and bistros set for breakfast, colorful tiles, and city hustle-bustle damped now off the beaten. I have Neruda in the book bag over my right shoulder, Santiago College over my left; pax and calm in the transit, now no rain, not bad.