The most iconic of Pablo Neruda's houses is located at Isla Negra, about 2 hours drive west from Santiago. Probably not the best idea to travel there on the day of New Year's Eve like we did, but definitely worth visiting. (Apparently the best celebrations for New Year's Eve in Chile are held by the sea; either the grand fireworks in Valparaíso or the parties in Viña del Mar and other neighbouring beaches - in other words, anywhere out of the smoggy city. Some people travel all that way only to venture back to Santiago as soon as the celebrations are over, purely because accommodation is so damn expensive). Naturally, all the buses were fully booked out.
Third attempt and my lovely Chilean was able to find us tickets on a ragged, derelict, old bus but at least we could get going, and it left immediately. Now Neruda had this obsession with collecting items, mostly nautical-related of course, but at the coastal house we found that it expanded much further to include stuffed animals, funny shaped glass bottles and even early 20th century photographs of nude women, which he conveniently collaged onto the back of the toilet door. Every nook and cranny of the house was filled with something exotic from his many travels abroad, a present from some famous artist (for he was great friends with artists such as Picasso) or some integral part of a ship. The only part missing was his famous collection of books. After the library was burnt at La Chascona, all the books from Isla Negra and Neruda’s third house, La Sebastiana, were taken to the city house to fill the walls of shelves; that house being the most visited by tourists.
La Casa de Isla Negra purposely has low ceilings to give the impression of being on a vessel at sea. In fact, every aspect of it makes you feel as if you had stepped onto a movie set. Yet, he never was able to finish the house. Looking through the large windows of his study, you can see his grave peacefully sitting below on the rocks, watching the waves crash as the tide comes in.
Across the road, we ate enormous fresh empanadas and natural fruit juice. Alike many of the surrounding restaurants and cafes, the place was decked out in bowsprits to seashells, recognition of the great poet's love of the ocean.
It was not hard to get back to Santiago. Car after car piled their way down the opposite side of the highway, desperate to escape the mundane reality of normal city life. Apparently Neruda was the same, always preferring to stay at
In the evening, my family joined the in-laws for a typical celebratory asado with ensalada chilena, pisco sour or colo de mono, and followed by mote conhuesillo for dessert. Everyone's high spirits carried on well into the early morning...
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