Canada to Patagonia at a Worrying Age

I’m sure that when I left La Paz I was still in South America. It was all over the news. However, it’s now becoming clear that either I got on the wrong plane or, more likely, the pilot took a wrong turn somewhere.

The moment I arrived in so-called Santiago de Chile it was clear something was up. The airport was quiet and ordered with no taxi touts in evidence. I got a minibus to my hotel for the agreed price and the first traffic lights gave an immediate clue. No one beeped their horn in an effort to get the lights to change more quickly. There were no people selling sausages at these lights and no jugglers. Also, instead of half-built slums, there were estates of Barratt houses and car sales showrooms on the road in from the airport.

I looked in vain for indigenous people, folk selling second-hand batteries and shoe-shine boys. Their absence led me to one conclusion. I am now back in Europe, probably Madrid.

To further test the hypothesis I went out for a meal. I was given what I ordered in normal waiterly time and was able to finish the meal with a proper espresso. The bill came when I asked for it, not before I’d finished my starter or an hour after I’d finished my meal.

I went for a walk and was not the tallest person by far. There is no faint smell of urine (so it can’t be Peru). There are bookshops and pedestrian crossings and no filthy child beggars. All very confusing.

Contra-indications include Jesus statues on hillsides, the presence of Baptists and people collecting cardboard. Not enough though. The round hotel in which I’m staying was constructed in 1971, by the looks, and my bed has a mirror headboard with a sideboard which Vicky would, seriously, kill for. This could be a Gaudi creation, so perhaps it’s Barcelona, not Madrid. The bath works as a bath (and the water’s not brown) – highly unusual for South America. And, the clincher, there’s quilted toilet paper (which I do not need to put in a bucket when used).

Other matters – it’s hot. So the need for a vest is seriously diminished. We appear to be at sea level, or something like, so I can trot around the city like a spring chicken – with no danger of getting my entrails read.

So here I am somewhere in Spain. I look forward to receiving visitors.

Anyway, the song is obvious – Safe European Home, by Those Clash Boys. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t been anything other than safe in South America. New Ffrett song is Safe South American Home. Wrote it by myself, so all royalties to me – sod off Rick, Fez and the Ffrett chicks. This is going to be No 1.

Tags: Travel

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