In retrospect I probably should have booked a room in Vina del Mar before I arrived. It's become so easy with the Internet (more on that later), that it just doesn't make sense not to. But I didn't. Mainly because the place I wanted to stay, Casa del Sol, couldn't be booked online. I could have had the guys at Hotel Don Santiago call for me, but I didn't. I just rocked up and hoped for the best.
When I reached Vina, it was mid-day and it was a long sweaty walk from the bus station to the hotel. I had directions, but it was still tricky to find, even using Google Maps, because the place was set in amongt the winding hilly streets to the north of town.
I wasn't sure I arrived at the hotel, because, like the Don Santiago, there was no sign. For security reasons, I suppose. I rang the bell and woman answers "hello", and I asked if this was the Casa del Sol and she said yes. At which point I expected the door to open, but it didn't. I felt like an ass, but I had to say "can you open the door please". There was a couple, English guy and Chilean girl who had just alighted from a taxi waiting. And they laughed. At the situation, not at me. But the door opened and we went up into the hotel.
So it turns out that they didn't have another room, but there was one avalaible at the sister hotel, the Reloj and if I could just wait a few minutes while she checked the couple in, she'd take me down there.
Half an hour later, Marina is walking me to the hotel. She tells me it's 32 dollars a night including breakfast. It seems expensive, but then all of Chile seems inordinately expensive to me. I don't want to deal with finding another place. Plus if it's anything like the Case del Sol, ill be very comfy there. When se asks me where I'm from and I say California, she tells me I look very Californian and asks if. I know Brad Pitt. Sure, we best buds.
We arrive at the hotel after a brief walk. Outside, the place is very nice. A smoky red building with shimmering white crown molding and an elegant etched glass sign mounted outside. I guess there were no security concerns here. Maybe it something to do with the angle of the street which was monstourous, like a 25% grade. When I was trying to decide if I could ride my bike up it (probably not), Marina figured out which key to use and led me inside.
There was a sunny common room with a lightly flapping white linen sheet canopied below the sunlight with the room a distincly warm and breezy feel. Benches covered with pillows lined the perimeter. There was a kitchen off to the right and a computer with Internet to the left. I thought, this will do nicely.
Then Marina showed me the room.
She opened up the French doors to the room and revealed a space like a postage stamp. There was room for a twin sized bed and little else, but somehow they were able to jam in a TV and an end table. There was no place for luggage. No place for anything. There was a door that out to a small balcony with a view of the Pacifc through some buildings which was nice.
I was hesitant. For 32 dollares Americanos, I expected a bit more. But I didn't feel like dealing with finding another place, so I relented and paid for two nights in advance. As I became more familiar with my room, I'd realize what a mistke this was.
Marina then showed me how the shower worked. In order to get hot water, I had to go into the kitchen and start the hot water heater. I'd halso have to not set it too hot or I'd get a scalding shower. Then she gave me a map and told me how to get to various places and not to be sucked by the craft dealers in Valparaiso when I get the same thing for tenth the price at the Feria de Artensas in Vina, which was helpful. Then she 3:34:46 PM and I never daw her or anyone else who spoke English again.
I got organized headed to the bus station to get my ticket to Argentina and then to the beach. I got back to the Reloj about 8pm, before the sun was setting. I tried to take a shower but it was a disaster. I got the water heater started after a few attempts, but I couldn't get the water to stay a constant temperature. It either unbearably hot or shockingly cold. It was torturous.
It was when I went back to my to enjoy the evening on the balcony with an empanada de pollo for a snack and a good book that I realized some of the limitations of my room. The French doors locked from the outside with a padlock. From the inside, there was not only no way to lock them, there was no way to secure them. So they just kept flying open. This was never more true than when the balcony door was open as the evening breeze would swing my French doors wide open. There were latches on the bottom of the door, but no one had bother to drill the hole necessary in the floor. I suppose they get an A for effort.
The balcony door was clear glass and there was no curtain. That and the front door that wouldn't behave made changing a trick. There was also a hole about half a dollar in diameter right at the eyeheight of the average Chilean. Not that I thoght anyone would look in, or that it mattered because I couldn't keep my door closed anyway, but I stuffed the end of one of shirts in the hole and it made me feel better.
The metal bed frame was so rickety that even the slightly movment would cause an echoy squeak in the whole room. Having sex in the bed would cause a cacophony of sound that wake the house. Having freaky circus sex would wake the neighbors and involve Chile's equivalent of FEMA. Lucky for everyone within earshot, I was alone.
There was a light on the endtable but. Was fitted with a new eco-friendly fluorescent bulb that was s weak I could barely see in the room after dark and sported a shade designed for a standard incandescent so it listed like a staggering drunk.
Right as I settled into bed, I saw my nemesis, a hovering mosquito. I tracked it along the white ceiling but lost it in the red painted wall behind my bed and woke up with a fresh, swollen bite in my left arm.
I've stayed in smaller rooms. I once had a room off Kao San Rd in Bangkok that was so narrow I could touch both side walls at the same time. But that place cost less than 2 dollars and included a banana pancake and fresh juice for breakfast. But I had never stayed in a room with so many little problems. And certainly not one that cost this much.
Despite all this, I slept well. I woke in the morning very refreshed and went out to breakfast. Since this was not a hostel, but fancied itself a B&B, I expected great things. That was a mistake.
Inside the little kitchen there was a table set for 8 people, but no one was around. Each setting had a piece of fruit, either an apple or banana, a small container of yogurt and a microscopic bowl of cornflakes. There was a thermos of hot water along with Nescafe, sugar and something that looked distinctly like powdered milk. There was also a sandwich on untoasted bread with one slice of some kind of indescribable mystery pressed meat. This was truly disheartening.
Just to put this into perspective, the Don Santiago (in Santiago), which is a hostel and not a B&B, served up fresh coffee, lightly scrambled eggs, toast with fresh strawberry jam and a fruit plate of banana, cherries and oranges, all in seemingly unlimited quantities. My room there was spartan, but it was spacious, the door locked from the inside and it now seems like an unbelievable bargain at 22 dollars a night.
I tried to make Nescafe with the powdered milk but it would dissolve and I couldn't drink clumpy coffee so I chucked it down the sink. There was a toaster, so I chucked the mystery meat in the basura, made toast and scrounged in the fridge for some butter, finding some unnatually looking yellow substance called mantequilla which I know means butter but looked more some sickly margarine. I don't know how long ago thew table was set, but it was long enough that the yogurt was warm and runny. Perhaps some people like it way. Not me. I ate my banana and left the dry cornflakes and I didn't think they'd be all that appetizing sprinkled with powdered leche. This was just a sad and pathetic attempt at breakfast, one of the hardest meals to fuck up and it had been done on what can only be described as a masterful level.
My bus tomorrow leaves at 9 in the morning which means, sadly, I have to miss breakfast which is served at the Reloj at 8:30. Then again, juding from the temperature of the yogurt, the breakfast table might be set the night before and I can grab my baloney sandwich on my way out the door.
Ok, so I broke a few state laws on the way down south and maybe some federal ones too, but I got here in one piece even if I didn't make the best time in world. I have driven Highway 5 between northern and southern California probably close to 50 times. It has to be one of the most boring drives in the country. It's flat. It's dusty. There's nothing to see but the occasional pit stop city. But it's fast, usually. 
Driving 13 hours with two insane kittens was never going to be a picnic, but add in icy roads over 13 thousand foot passes and you end up with the ingredients for a nasty adventure. 
