Agassi's Confession (and why he and I are cool)

I know it has been a few months since the shit hit the fan, but I feel I still need to write about Andre Agassi's controversial autobiography. Named Open, a somewhat obvious pun, the book is a weighty tome in which he confesses, among other things, that: a) he hated tennis; b) he wore a toupee for some matches; c) he stopped wearing underwear in court after 1999; d) it really pissed him off when opponents thanked God during or after a match; and e) he used crystal meth for a stretch back in 1997, when his marriage with Brooke Shields fell through and his career hit a solid rock bottom. These admissions are pretty well-known now, but, should the need arise, here and here are links to some of the pieces ESPN.com published about this story.

I haven't actually held a copy of the book yet, but it has the looks of a must-read. In fact, I'll download it to my Kindle as soon as I buy one (aaaany day now). Whether it is by force of Agassi's personality, easily one of the most beloved and charismatic people to ever grab a tennis racket, or by the depth of his confessions, the book just cannot be ignored, not even by those who don't really care about sports. As far as biographies go, this one has - or at least it promises - the entire package: lots of human drama, a big juicy scandal and firsthand celebrity gossip. Plus, that bit about the toupee looks like it came straight off a Seinfeld episode (as does his ban on underwear, for that matter), so for entertainment value alone it's worth a look.

Nevertheless, as amusing as the little anecdotes might be, the most interesting part of Agassi's admissions has to be the crystal meth experience. Not so much the actual drug use, but the stir caused by a former professional tennis player, a legend, confessing to use crystal meth while on the Tour. When the first reports about the book were published, people - as usual - immediately broke into two opposite camps: they were either praising Agassi for coming clean, a true example to other athletes all around; or they were calling him a cheater and a disgrace to the sport.

Even though I always liked him, my first thought was that Agassi was a bit of an asshole to blow the whistle like that, because he wasn't the only one involved. He got caught in a drug test and, to save his own butt, made up a story about unwittingly taking crystal meth. Then, using his enormous prestige, he convinced the ATP to be lenient and keep matters private. Basically, he asked for - and received - special superstar treatment. So when he decided, a few years later, to write a tell-all book, he was pretty much throwing in the fire the very same people who bent - and perhaps broke - the rules for him. Whether it was due to an irresistible urge to come clean or just to make a quick buck is inconsequential: that was a dick move, period. Not that the ATP people were right to cover for him, nor that they didn't have their own agenda there (Agassi on drugs would be bad press for the sport), but you don't ask someone for special treatment and then expose them like that. You just don't.

However, much to my surprise, that didn't seem to bother anybody else. In fact, I don't recall reading anything about how classless this particular way of confessing your sins was. But then again, maybe people were too busy being outraged by the fact that he was a cheater. Oh, the humanity! A cheater! Sergi Bruguera, the two-time Roland Garros champion who lost the 1996 Olympic final to Agassi, was suddenly demanding the gold medal, claiming it rightfully belonged to him. Marat Safin, formerly a top-ranked player in the world, suggested that Agassi should give back all the titles and money he won while on drugs. And, like them, a legion of journalists, athletes and anonymous people came forth to profess their indignation.

Although I don't necessarily agree with the doping rules currently in place, I understand certain substances are forbidden and that, if an athlete is caught using them, they could face sanctions - usually some sort of probation or suspension. Those are the rules of the game and everybody has to abide by them, whether they like it or not. So Agassi probably should have been suspended by the ATP, which he wasn't. Right. And the way he handled things later on was not exactly gentlemanlike, so 0-for-2 for Andre there. Still, to call the man a cheater is a bit of a stretch.

I know (actually, I didn't know, but Wikipedia told me so) that methamphetamines are substances that increase one's alertness and energy, so they could be used by an athlete looking for a boost, who wants to train and/or play harder. Thus, they are considered a PED - the infamous performance enhancing drugs - and are a no-no for athletes. Agassi, however, wasn't using it to gain an unfair advantage over his opponents. Crystal meth is also a highly addictive and harmful substance and Agassi was down in the dumps, using it as a recreational drug. So, if anything, to him, it was a performance impairing drug.

But rules are rules, right? In addition, it doesn't matter that he was not looking for a competitive edge, all professional athletes must cope with tremendous pressure. It's in the job description. In fact, that mental strength is what separates the wannabes from the great ones, it is perhaps even more important than pure athletic prowess. So, if Agassi resorted to illegal drugs because he couldn't keep his shit together and was unable to handle the mental aspect of being a professional athlete, he was cheating. Other players have to deal with similar problems - overbearing stage parents, annoying spouses, sleazy agents, you name it - and they have to stay away from these substances, so, in a way, it did give Agassi an edge. And, although I still wouldn't crucify the man for using recreational drugs, nor call him a cheater because of that, I cannot argue against that sort of reasoning.

Nevertheless, as airtight as that approach might seem, it does not mean that the critics are right to ask for his head. Agassi said he used crystal meth in 1997, when his self-loathing reached an all-time high, and dropped the habit soon after. He played a grand total of 24 matches that year and won zero titles, dropping to 141st in the ATP rankings. Some doping, huh? So, even if the he forfeits all his tainted matches and returns his earnings and titles from that period, as Safin suggested, he would keep all of his hardware and probably send the ATP a check for 47 dollars and change. As for Bruguera, their Olympic clash took place an entire year before the drug habit started, so the Spaniard should probably quit whining. People don't really like sore losers.

Looking at his subsequent results, it becomes clear that the so-called doping didn't do him much good. In 1998, after he quit the drug, he soared back to number 6 in the world, the fastest ever ascent to the top-10, which remains a record today. In other words: he lost when he was using it and went right back to winning after he quit it. Again, so much for performance enhancing.

This chain of events is also why I don't even question his version: not the dates, nor the alleged motives for using drugs or any of his personal problems. Everything fits, it makes perfect sense when combined with the information that was already available. Moreover, I don't think he would start this mess, out of the blue as he did, just to tell another lie. So, as far as I can tell, the man is not a cheater, though I wouldn't praise him for his honesty either - as I said, the way he handled things was classless.

In the end, what is left is a flawed human being - a self-loathing individual who hated the sport he played for a living, had issues with his father and a marriage from hell; someone who went through a rough patch and made some bad decisions, most of which only really hurt himself. And yet, oddly enough, in spite of all his problems and shortcomings, he was (and still is) seen as an example to be followed by the rest of us, a role model. People wanted to emulate him and, when they discovered he wasn't a deity at all, they were deeply disappointed.

Tales about great heroes dazzle us since humankind first started drawing funny pictures on cave walls, so maybe we can't help it. And that is the real irony: this controversy only exists because the man is an icon, and he's an icon only because he could handle a tennis racket better than nearly anyone alive. One skill - hitting a little yellow ball - it's all it took, people didn't even care about the rest. And now, the same irrational passion that made him relevant in the first place is the one thing that is keeping people from looking at his career objectively and from judging it solely based on his results on the court. Instead, he is measured against people's preconceived notions of how idols should behave, in all aspects of life - a contest no human being could ever win.

As for me, I still like Agassi, perhaps even more now that he is human. It takes some balls (balls which had no additional support, mind you) to admit wearing a wig, even if a decade after the fact. Plus, he's a man who went to hell and back (and married Steffi Graf and made millions in the process), so I give him some extra points for that. But I guess I admire him the most for his tirade against Michael Chang (something I would really like to say to quite a number of athletes out there nowadays):

"He thanks God -- credits God -- for the win, which offends me. That God should take sides in a tennis match, that God should side against me, that God should be in Chang's box, feels ludicrous and insulting. I beat [him] and savor every blasphemous stroke."

Amen, brother. You had me at blasphemous.

My very own Dakar (Final Thoughts)

After The Boss and I returned from our second visit to the Andes in as many days, it was finally time to move on. That same night we hopped on yet another bus from hell, this one on its way to Cordoba. Actually, let me get it straight: the bus itself wasn't bad at all, boarding the damn thing that was a nightmare. I had never seen so many people gathered right in front of the door of a bus they weren't even taking.

However, once we finally pushed through that impromptu moshpit, we found ourselves in one of the most comfortable buses I have ever seen, with more leg room and entertainment options than our hotel room in Mendoza. I just thought they overdid it a little when the bus attendant served, as dinner, two trays chock full of food, including half a roasted chicken for each person. Unfortunately I couldn't muster the nerve to try a bus chicken (or anything on either tray, for that matter), but, still, that was an A for effort if I ever saw one.

Despite being a reasonably large city and the capital of the province with the same name, Cordoba is not a very touristy place at all and we were there only for a day, really just to catch a plane. But that's not saying the city has nothing to offer. For example, they do have a Krusty Burger restaurant, probably the only one south of Tijuana. Their historical monuments look incredibly neat and well-kept (although we later discovered that they just had them restored for New Year's, so you have to deduct some points there). And The Boss even dragged me, kicking and screaming, to see a freaking rotating house that wasn't even rotating, so it's not like you can't find things to do in Cordoba. However, the temperature there was 47 degrees celsius and I just don't do tourism when it's that fucking hot. I was done, it was time to go home.

So the trip was finally over and, while I sat there on the plane and dealt with a bad case of sunburn, I mulled over the little things I had seen in Chile and Argentina. And here are my final random thoughts:

1) There's a staggering amount of Brazilians in Santiago. I don't know if it's the exchange rate, a newfound love for tourism or just a huge coincidence, but they (we) were everywhere. Still, what impressed me the most wasn't even their vast number, but rather how they don't even try to speak Spanish anymore.

Back in the day, Brazilians would resort to Portuñol in order to communicate with our hermanos. Granted, Portuñol is not really a language. In fact, it isn't much more than Portuguese with a thick Spanish accent and a few easy words thrown in for good measure. But we, Brazilians, were all born fluent in it and, when we speak it, we show we care. Spanish-speakers actually think we bothered to learn their language, we pretend we are more knowledgeable than we really are and everybody goes home happy.

Moreover, even though it's crap (and we know it), Portuñol goes a long way in helping them to understand us. It's odd and I never really understood why, but it is easier for us to understand them than the other way around (I do have a few theories on the subject, but that's for another day). So, with Portuñol, we can balance it out, making it a phony language that nevertheless serves a practical purpose.

But that's all in the past. Swarms of Brazilian tourists now invade South America, speaking Portuguese, loud and clear, and God help the poor waiter who can't understand them. Now that Brazil has finally established itself as a regional leader, they think they own the place and no longer reach for a middle ground. They actually reminded me of that stereotypical North American tourist who travel to Paris or wherever and doesn't even make an effort. And that's never a good thing.

2) Other than Brazilians, there was another overrepresented group roaming freely on the streets of both Chile and Argentina: the stray dogs. Dozens of canines, in each and every corner, of each and every city, just walking around, mingling with the crowd. And I'm not talking about your average urban fleabag either: most of them were not even dogs, they were freaking wolves (and yet, extremely well-behaved ones).

3) There were a lot of cars in Santiago that were missing that traditional front piece with the manufacturer's logo. After conducting further empirical studies, the Flip Flop University Research Center determined that roughly 10% of the cars in Santiago (that's uno in every diez) had said piece removed. The research also showed no correlation between the phenomenon and the price, maker or category of the vehicle, indicating it is in fact a widespread occurrence. Moreover, it seems that the Toyota piece (shown - or better yet, not shown - in the picture) is the trickiest one to remove, as there were more than a few Toyotas with broken pieces still attached to them.

What could not be established by the researchers was why the hell this happens. The most accepted theories are that either a) the pieces actually pass as currency in the Santiago underworld (and that Toyota one is worth a fortune); b) some of the Chilean car owners strenuously object advertising the automakers' brands without proper compensation and, when negotiations fail, they remove the pieces themselves; or c) the latest teenager prank fad in Santiago got way out of hand.

4) Speaking of automobiles, Argentina has the oldest, crappiest cars on the planet. They probably bought their latest batch from the USSR. Here's an example. Oh, and even though the photo is a little blurred and you can't see it, that piece of paper on the window actually read "For Sale". I'm not making this up, I swear.

5) Last but not least, the brave few ones who actually read this entire saga and clicked on every link might have noticed that a few of the pictures are blurred, especially the ones taken from the inside of a moving vehicle (e.g. that last one). I thought that was weird, considering that the camera we used has that image stabilization mode designed precisely to prevent that sort of thing. So I asked The Boss, owner of the camera, why she didn't use the tool and she said the camera actually had two stabilization modes and she wasn't sure which one would be more appropriate, the one where the little man was running or the one where he was skiing. I dare you: try and find the man skiing.

My very own Dakar (Part 2)

When planning the trip, The Boss had decided that we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Argentina because a) it was cheaper and b) we would have already seen the mountains from above on our flight to Santiago anyway. As far as that second part goes, we didn't really get to see anything from our aisle seats, but I wasn't fretting. In fact, I was much more interested in seeing the Andes from up close, so I was excited (that is, as excited as I can get after being dragged to a bus station at 7am).

Our plan really started to unravel when the fine piece of machinery, 1940's state-of-the-art engineering marvel that passed as our bus pulled in. Suddenly, I was missing the safety provided by Chile's modern funiculars. And then it got worse. We weren't expecting a tour bus, but we imagined than a vessel traveling for 9 hours on such a scenic road would at the very least make a few stops, even if only to let the passengers buy some food, use the toilet and stretch their legs. However, upon inquiry, we were informed by the gentle man who was assisting the driver (a drive attendant, perhaps?) that there were no stops scheduled. None. They would, however, provide tea, crackers and on-board entertainment: Warner Bros. latest blockbuster Troy, featuring Brad Pitt, followed by a showing of a low-quality pirate copy of Ice Age 3.

It didn't take long before The Boss started cursing at me as if it had been my idea to take that damn bus. Fully aware of the futility of using reason against angry women, I decided to focus on the other impending battle, the one between Brad Pitt and Eric Bana, and just wait for the storm to clear. Luckily, she soon became entertained by the mountains and proceeded to take 900 pictures of any hill that still had some leftover snow on it (that's just a sample. She really did take a shitload of those). God bless the Andes.

So this wasn't exactly what I expected when I decided to sign up on this bus idea, but at least it would be over soon. According to our (her) calculations, we would be arriving in our destination at around 3pm, just in time for lunch and a siesta, and could still salvage the day with a nice evening walk around beautiful Mendoza. And we got to see the Andes, which are really impressive, so everything was just dandy.

Still, the funny thing about the mountains is that, after the fifth or sixth one, they start to look the same. By then, Manny had had his baby, Diego and Sid had already escaped the T-Rex and the funny-looking squirrel had lost his nut for the umpteenth time, so I was bored to death and decided to sleep the rest of the way, hoping I would wake up to a juicy Argentine steak. Instead, I woke up when the bus stopped in front of what seemed to be a large warehouse in the middle of nowhere.

After a few minutes of confusion, we established that we were at the border and waiting for our turn to go through. Our friendly bus attendant even opened the door and authorized people to step outside, as there were a couple of buses in front of us and it would be a few minutes before we were called up. Hurray, a stop! It was 1pm or so and we were getting quite hungry, so this seemed like a good opportunity to spend our remaining Chilean pesos in some snacks at a dirty little shop right outside the police checkpoint. However, after thoroughly inspecting the facilities, we classified the jamón sandwich as potentially lethal and the rest of the food there as a type 1 vacation-ender threat, so The Boss, who had been pushing down Alfajores since the trip started, decided to just stock up on water instead. As for me, I blew my last few bucks on a chocolate bar that had been expired for so long it was turning white. Nice.

Moreover, in retrospect, I should have noticed something fishy when the bus dude just let everybody out without a care in the world. Or perhaps when nothing moved for 40 solid minutes. As it turns out, despite building a massive structure in the middle of the Andes and starting a whole joint immigration operation to simplify the process, neither Chile nor Argentina thought of actually sending their officers to the border, so we had to wait for nearly 3 hours while this one lonely dude checked the passports of every single person crossing the border at that moment (in all fairness, there was a second officer at the booth, but for some reason he was just watching the first one).

So by the time we finally entered Argentina, it was almost 4pm and I was freakin' starving. The Boss, who thanks to a steady diet of Alfajores had been showing admirable restraint so far, finally lost it when the bus attendant sort of laughed at her when she asked if we would still be in Mendoza before 5 o'clock. Apparently there were still two and a half hours left in our journey, which once again torpedoed her plans beyond repair, and all the candy in Argentina could not calm her down after that.

According to the original plan, we were supposed to use the rest of the day to see what Mendoza had to offer, as the next two days were (again) meant to be spent on two day-long tours, one to Mount Aconcágua and surrounding areas and the other to some winery, where we (I) would try some of Mendoza's wine, supposedly the world's best Malbec. However, with our arrival now scheduled to 7pm, our walk around Mendoza would have to be postponed and one of tours would have to be dropped.

It pains me to say, folks, that once again the booze drew the short stick. That's right, I spent eight days in the wine countries of Chile and Argentina and never set foot in a winery. Even The Boss, who doesn't even like wine, was deeply ashamed and, always the evil genius, quickly concocted a plan. While making me swear never to tell anyone, she snapped some pictures of a random faux-vineyard they had in our hotel and bought half a dozen of bottles of wine from a local supermarket, creating evidence of a trip that never happened. But I cannot live with this lie burning into my very soul, which is why I now confess: we never saw a single genuine grape while there.

Evil touristic plots aside, Mendoza turned out to be a lovely city. We were staying at the heart of the old center, which has one big square, la Plaza Independencia surrounded by four smaller squares: Plaza Italia, Plaza España, Plaza Chile and... Plaza San Martín. How very eclectic. I never really understood why Christopher Columbus and Simon Bolivar both got countries named after them (and Amerigo Vespucci got an entire continent!) while San Martin, who worked just as hard as those other guys, was never anything more than a street. I mean, there's Martinique, but I'm pretty sure that's in honor of a different Martin, so it doesn't count. And it's not like there was no room for him: Brazil is a tree, Ecuador is an imaginary line, Paraguay and Uruguay are rivers, Chile is now a sauce and Argentina refers to a freaking metal that has become a synonym for second place, so the current names are not that unique and clever to begin with. Thus, I was pleased to see that historical injustice mended in Mendoza and that, at least there, San Martin is getting the respect he deserves and is hanging out with the right crowd.

But I suppose you can't get everything right, so the same people who finally put San Martin back on the map also thought it would be a good idea to have open ditches all over the city, running next to nearly every street (think of it as Argentina's answer to the Amsterdam canals). Not only they are a pain in the ass whenever you are jaywalking, but they also stink up the place when it is hot (and it was pretty f-ing hot). Definitely not the best of ideas.

Another curious element of Mendoza was the amount of signs that read Playa and had a little arrow pointing the way. Now, playa means beach in Spanish, I know that for a fact. And I think it is extremely unlikely they had beaches anywhere near, considering we were on the wrong side of the Andes and everything. Not even The Boss, who speaks much better Spanish than I, could solve that one and I still don't know what on Earth they were talking about. And I swear, those playas were everywhere, even in the most bizarre of places.

My favorite place in Mendoza was Av. Villanueva Aristides, just outside the historic center. It is long street with bars and clubs on both sides that would require weeks - if not months - of dedication to be properly studied and cataloged. It was also there that I found the one gym I know for a fact I would never quit, as well as a restaurant that finally embraced the one truth my grandma has been telling me my entire life: that pizza is not food. A truly marvelous place.

We went west on Av. Villanueva for several blocks, gauging its apparently limitless potential for fun, before it ended abruptly at the Parque General San Martín (who else?). I'm not much of a park type of guy, but that one was pretty awesome. We went there on a beautiful Sunday morning and I think I could have stayed for two days, maybe three. Unfortunately, the place was so inviting that every single mosquito and gnat in Mendoza was there as well, which forced us to retreat back to the city for lunch. And what a lunch it was.

See, I like to eat as much as anyone and I do enjoy a good meal, but I'm not really into gastronomic tourism like, for instance, The Boss. Nevertheless, lunch in Argentina was something special, only matched, maybe, by dinner. I am a proud carnivore and lifelong fan of the Brazilian beef, which I always considered perfect. But man, can those Argentine barbecue a steak or what? And even if you say that our meat is just as good, you can't top a country where you can eat half of a perfectly cooked cow for 2 US dollars. You just can't. I tip my hat to our hermanos: you won that round, keep up the good work.

So, once again, I would have been happy to just pick a restaurant and keep ordering Bifes de Chorizo until it was time to go to Cordoba, but there was another tour to be made. I wasn't terribly excited about spending another day on a bus going up and down the Andes, but I was hoping we would at least take different road this time. Well, we didn't. In fact, we went basically up the same road all the way to the border (and to that despised checkpoint) and back. Even worse, I couldn't even take that silly picture with one foot in each country, as the actual dividing line was either up a gigantic hill or inside a freaking tunnel. What a waste.

However, on this second try, at least we got to stop at some cool places for pictures, such as the Puente del Inca, which is either a natural bridge carved in the rock by the water or a passage made of the petrified bodies of Inca warriors who sacrificed themselves to allow the ailing son of their Chief to cross the river (pick your theory). We also stopped at a smaller, more modest bridge used by our friend San Martin on his way to kick some Spanish butt back in the day; and even at little lake with turquoise water straight from the mountains that looks stunning reflecting the sun.

And I suppose I should also register, without any hint of irony, that I was humbled and amazed - in the truest sense of the word - by the Andes. The pictures we took unfortunately don't make justice to the sheer size of those things and don't translate how minuscule they make you feel. Just seeing the "ceiling of the Americas", Mount Aconcágua and its 6,962 meters, even if from a distance, was enough to make that second journey worthwhile. I actually want to climb it now. It was quite a sight, although The Boss quickly killed my buzz by pointing out that, from where we were standing, the one to its left looked a lot higher.

My very own Dakar (Part 1)

I went to Chile and Argentina for New Year's, which seemed like a good way to close out the 00's. My girlfriend (hereinafter referred to as The Boss because, well, that's pretty much what she is) had been bugging me to take a trip somewhere for a while. Unfortunately, when she says trip, she doesn't mean a romantic weekend away on the beach, unless that beach is in the Caribbean or in some remote island in the Pacific. And that was a bit of a problem, since I've been broke for the past twenty-something years and everything. Thus, the idea of going to nearby countries seemed particularly good, not only due to the cheaper tickets, but also because South America is one of the few places on Earth where Brazilians can find favorable exchange rates. So Chile and Argentina it was (and later I even found out that the people from the Dakar Rally had the same idea. Never felt so trendy in my life).

Because we were flying on The Boss' miles and she was pretty much banking the entire operation, I decided to decline from any participation on the planning or scheduling of our activities. Her trip, her money, her rules. I must say, never in my life I traveled knowing so little about my destination. In fact, on the eve of our departure all I knew was that we would fly to Santiago on the 29th, where we would celebrate the New Year. Then, on the morning of January 2nd we would cross the Andes by bus on our way to Mendoza, Argentina, where we would stay for a few days before heading to Rosario, the only place where they still had mileage seats available for our return, which was supposed to happen either on January 7th, 8th or 9th (I wasn't really sure). As it turns out, even that little bit of information I had was wrong, since we were in fact scheduled to return from Cordoba on the 6th. So, really, all I knew for sure was that I could not let The Boss out of my sight, as it would probably mean I was stranded on a strange land.

Apart from a last minute scramble to finish packing (I was out drinking with friends, our flight was at 5am and, of course, I left it all to the last minute), the flight to Santiago wasn't very newsworthy. When we finally landed, though happy with the start of the trip, I was running on 90 minutes of sleep and coping with the early stages of a hangover, so my mind wasn't exactly at its best and I felt and looked like crap. Plus, I immediately noticed that the air in Santiago was extremely dry and my nose was itching like crazy. Which means I was, at the same time, happy, sleepy, grumpy, dopey, bashful and sneezy. That's six of the seven dwarfs right there, probably a world record. And if you consider The Boss' height (1.54m) and title, a case could be made for Doc's presence as well.

After checking into our hotel and getting some much-needed shuteye, we finally went out to explore our surroundings. We were staying at a neighborhood called Vitacura and within walking distance of a highly-praised shopping center called Parque Arauco, so we figured we could kick things off by going there for lunch/dinner.

I had heard great things about Santiago, considered by many one of the finest cities in South America, so I wasn't really surprised by how nice it looked. Our hotel was located in a really pleasant avenue, with lots of trees and a really nice paseo that had a constant flow of runners and cyclists. I was especially amused by an orange sign in front of the hotel that read Pavimento en Mal Estado (something like Asphalt in Poor Conditions), which meant that they actually sent workers over to install the sign instead of just fixing the road. Great comedy. In any case, it was a truly enjoyable neighborhood, which even had a killer view of the mountains.

After 15 minutes walking we finally arrived at the Parque Arauco and it was love at first sight. That was hands down my favorite place in all of Chile. Unlike your average mall, the Parque has an outdoor plaza surrounded by restaurants and cafes that instills an irresistible urge to just sit down, order a drink and just enjoy the atmosphere. If that doesn't convince you, there's also a giant slingshot that tosses people 30 meters up in the air for the modest price of 30,000 pesos (something like 60 USD). Entertainment for everyone, guaranteed.

While I would have been happy to set camp there for the next few days and just eat and drink the trip away, The Boss was adamant about seeing the rest of the city. See, she practices a type of fascist tourism in which people must wake up early and march all day, taking as many pictures as possible before collapsing from fatigue. It was, in sum, pretty much the opposite of what I was hoping for, but, again, her money, her trip, her rules.

So early the next day, December 30th, the trip was afoot. The plan was basically to take the subway downtown and walk around, and so we did. Now, downtown Santiago wasn't nearly as nice as our little neighborhood and there are only so many churches and cathedrals one can take, but eventually we arrived at a place I actually wanted to visit: the Palacio de la Moneda, seat of the Chilean government. Being a bit of a History aficionado, I had always wanted to see the palace Pinochet bombed nearly to the ground during the coup in 1973, which, according to legend, even after its complete reconstruction in the 1980s still carried some of the bullet holes from those dark days.

Unfortunately, we could not get close enough to inspect the walls and the building seemed entirely too modern to match the images I had in my mind, so I could feel the idea I had of the palace fading away. Apart from the mandatory statues of military figures all around it, the whole thing just did not fit the stereotype. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I was seeing was way too normal for a place that had such a powerful history.

I barely had five seconds to be bummed out about it when I noticed a little ruckus nearby. There were people walking into that little moat, shouting things like A lucha Chile! and Abajo el gobierno! Soon enough, two dozens carabineros showed up, surrounded the trespassers and, after a moment of hesitation (it looked like some of the brave policemen did not want to get wet), proceeded to escort them out of the moat, using gentle persuasion whenever necessary. Much to my dismay, that was the end of it: no teargas bombs, no rubber bullets, no bloodshed, just half a dozen people being taken into custody. But still, I felt that was more like it. My first Latin American protest, and just in front of the Palacio de la Moneda. Hell yeah! They even had a second manifestation happening on the other side of the palace, but that one was part of some world march for peace and non-violence and just lacked that Latin American revolutionary vibe. Still, all in all, a very productive visit protest-wise.

Before leaving the premises and resuming our march across Santiago, we decided to check out the Cultural Center they have below the palace, hoping it would have some sort of museum of Chilean history. Fat chance. Instead, they had yet another exposition with those Chinese terracotta warriors that seem to be everywhere nowadays. My guess is that the Chinese found so many of those dudes buried that they just don't know what to do with them, so decided to hand them out like chocolate on Halloween.

Next on our list was the Cerro de San Cristóbal, a hill located in the middle of the Parque Metropolitano de Santiago, from where we could ride a cable ferry that was supposed to provide an amazing view of the city. The park is quite nice, but the hill is as steep as they come. So, to ascend to its top, we had to take the funicular, which was just bumpy and old enough to give us a little adrenaline rush. I was surprised to learn, while there, that the City Zoo is also on that hill. How on Earth they managed to build an entire Zoo on a hill that steep really stirred my curiosity, but at that point I was too hungry, the sun was too hot and my feet were too sore. I just wanted to get the damn cable ferry thing done so I could retreat to a room with air conditioning, soft cushioning and food. So, after I was done bitching about everything, we decided against the Zoo, only to discover, a week later, that five rare white tiger cubs had just been born there (apparently we wouldn't have been able to see them, which is the only thing that prevented me from kicking myself. Hard).

Once on the summit, we found out that the ferry was out of order, which, I must confess, didn't make me too upset. And at least we could enjoy a nice view of the city, albeit with a very thick smog. At first I refused to believe a city with so much green everywhere and without any visible industries and with no apparent traffic problems could be so polluted, but, as it turns out, Santiago has considerable environmental issues and much of what I had been attributing to the dry air had been in fact caused by pollution. I suppose that, deep inside a valley, the pollution released in the city can't really escape anywhere. So, on that note, we decided to go back to the Parque Arauco to eat and do some light shopping before calling it a day.

The next day was New Year's eve and The Boss had decided she wanted to go on a tour to the nearby cities of Valparaiso and Viña del Mar. The original idea was to make two day-long trips in Chile: one to the wine country and the other to those two cities. However, though usually a masterful travel planner, she had forgotten to take some things into account this time around. For instance, that the New Year's is big in Chile. Big as in the-entire-freakin'-country-stops-on-January-1st-and-you-would-be-hard-pressed-to-find-a-place-to-eat big. So we could only go on one tour and, since she doesn't drink at all and we would already see enough wine in Mendoza anyway, the famous Concha y Toro wineries took the hit. No Casillero del Diablo for me.

The other thing we failed to notice is that Viña del Mar is the foremost touristic destination on the coast of Chile and, as such, the place to be for New Year's. The city was expecting to more than 1 million visitors from Santiago that day, which meant that a) our tour would be shorter than usual and b) traffic would be hell.

So we hopped on the bus and began our journey to the Pacific, while the tour guide talked about Santiago, about Chile, about the wineries, tunnels, rivers, mountains... about pretty much anything that crossed our path. Because we had to get up at 6am I was half asleep most of the way, listening without paying much attention. But then she said something about Chile being a tri-continental country (as in it was part of 3 different continents) and that was news for me, so I decided to listen closely. Apparently, aside from continental Chile, they also claim sovereignty over the Easter Island (which is internationally recognized) and part of Antarctica (not so much). Thus, Chile was simultaneously in South America, Oceania and Antarctica. The chutzpa on those people!

Immediately the latent regional rivalry kicked in and my first instinct was to yell that they were barely part of South America, squeezed between the Andes and the Pacific, let alone of three continents. Never mind that the bit of Antarctica they claim is also "part" of Argentina and of the UK and that they exercise no effective jurisdiction over that territory. Or that the rest of the world actually signed a treaty saying Antarctica could not be claimed by any country and scoffs at their pretense. But the guide seemed to be a really nice lady and I like the country, so I decided to let it go. Nevertheless, I'm always amazed by this facet of South Americans, full of bravado even though they can't back it up. It was the same thing with the Argentine, who still put the Falklands on their maps even after getting their asses handed to them in the 1980's. But I digress...

When we finally made it to Valparaiso, I was less than impressed. Valparaiso is one of Chile's most important seaports and was declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 2003. In addition, it houses the National Congress and Pablo Neruda's former home (now a museum). But, even though it looks pretty from above, the city is actually quite ugly and chaotic, crammed somewhat precariously between the mountain and the ocean. It looks a lot like one of Rio's favelas, only with more colorful walls. But hey, the Greeks went all-white on similar conditions and have been making some serious money ever since, so who am I to judge?

In any case, from the entire city, I only truly liked three things: the mandatory city square filled with statues of soldiers who died horrible deaths on some random battlefield, which looked quite nice; a random monument resembling a copper wire celebrating Chile's status as the world's leading copper producer or something; and the building of the old Stock Exchange, which could not have its exterior changed because of the UNESCO thing and thus forced the Chileans to improvise during its expansion. Pretty cool.

As for the vaunted Valparaiso seaport, it looked a lot like, well, a seaport. Hectic, noisy, dirty and filled with rickety boats overcrowded with tourists. Nothing truly memorable. And, just like that, our time in Valparaiso was up and we had to move on to Vinã del Mar, as the traffic became increasingly worse. Meanwhile, this British dude on the bus was really disappointed he wouldn't get to ride any of the famous funiculars of the city, what, according to the guide he read, was like going to Venice and not going on the Gondolas. Mmm, right. Maybe he was onto something, but I definitely wasn't too eager to board one of those things.

Viña del Mar was literally down the street, on the northern part of a large bay shaped like a "3". The city was definitely prettier than Valparaiso, but still a long way from being the ultimate beach destination described by the tour guides. Cold water, dark sand... it might be the Pacific, but it is no Zihuantanejo, that's for sure. We did get to see, however, an original Easter Island head, one of the few ever to be removed from the island, so there was that.

We started our drive back at about 5pm and, by then, the traffic towards Viña del Mar was backed up all way to Santiago - and I do mean all the way. It's only a 130km trip, but I bet some of those people only got there in 2010. As for The Boss and I, we didn't have any special plans, so we thought about having a quiet night; perhaps having dinner at the Parque Arauco and then watch the fireworks on TV or something.

Again, that was a gross underestimation of the impact of el año nuevo in Chile. By the time we got back, there wasn't a single restaurant in Santiago willing to seat us. The waiters on the few places still open were so anxious to leave that even the people already on the tables didn't dare to order anything else. Our plan B, to buy some goodies at a nearby supermarket, also didn't pan out due to premature closing. And that's how my last supper of the decade was a combo of shady room service and crap bought from a convenience store. It tasted every bit as good as it looks, even if The Boss, always the gourmet, refused to try the "piece of knee" I accidentally ordered, claiming her dad would disown her if she ever ate such a thing. At least we got to watch the fireworks of two different time zones (Copacabana and Viña del Mar) on TV, so, again, there was that.

And if we thought December 31st was bad, it was only because we were yet to see what January 1st had to offer, which was nothing. Not a soul anywhere. We did find restaurants open for lunch, but even our waitress was struggling badly with a hangover. But that general slumber saved me from a trip to an artsy market in the outskirts of Santiago that The Boss really wanted to see, so no complaints, not from me. Plus, we would be leaving to Argentina early the next day and had a full day going up and down the Andes coming up, so I rather welcomed the lazy day.