Dude, Where’s My Apartment
There I was, 20 apartment buzzers staring at me, yet I had no idea which one to press.
2 plane rides and 16 hours after leaving Melbourne I had landed in Santiago, Chile, only one and half hours later. Disappointed that teleporting still needs work, I retrieve my only bag for the trip from the overhead locker before proceeding straight through immigration and out of the international arrivals door. This was when I was greeted with a sea of men yelling, waving and grabbing, touting their taxi services. I assume so anyway, due to the body odour.
I needed the ATM, which I knew was in the arrivals hall, so I'm looking around. Rookie error. I've shown weakness and the vultures target me more aggressively. As I push my way to the back of the crowd, a quieter man says that he's an official airport helper. He had a card on a lanyard, so he must be legit. He shows me where the ATM's are. He then tries to sell me a taxi, but after repeatedly insisting that I am taking the bus he heads back to join his people.
After the bus and a train ride, I arrived at my Airbnb near Parque Forestal (Forestal Park). This was when I realised that I did not know which number the apartment was.
"Fuck, what do I do now?" I thought.
My choices comprised of finding free wifi and messaging my Airbnb host Veronica, or vibing it out. Hopefully, I'd get it right the first time, and if not at least not repeatedly call the same apartment and get the cops called on me for harassment. Although they might feed me and I was starving.
Before I had time to make a decision, a middle-aged woman came out of the building.
"Hola, do you speak English?" I asked hopefully.
"Yes" came back the familiar Kiwi accent.
She didn't know Veronica but did let me through the building’s security gate, so I could "wait there".
I was now inside the dimly lit old brick building, but I still had no idea which apartment I was looking for. Once again, I was considering my options and while I was looking out of the front of the building and it hit me that I had seen this view of the park across the street before. It was very similar to one of the photos I'd seen on the Airbnb listing.
"Brilliant."
Knowing that the apartment had to be on that side of the building, I could now confidently, confidently is probably not the right word, unleash my natural door knocking ability with the increased odds.
But first I had to navigate the precariously narrow steps on the spiral staircase. On the narrow side of the 3 meter wide steps, the steps angled away to nothing. Not even a child could have fit their foot on them, but at least there was a balustrade to hold onto while you were floating. On the deeper side, the steps were still shorter in length than my size 10 shoe, and there was no balustrade. I don't think this architect understands how steps work. The lack of light inside just increased the difficulty setting. I slowly worked my way up the stairs, focusing heavily on each step to make sure I did not have to start the level again.
I finally reached the first floor, where I could identify one door at the end of the dimly lit corridor. I approached hoping to strike it rich on the entry into the lottery. I knocked on the door. I hear movement from behind the door.
"Hola?!" comes back a confused voice.
"Veronica?" I ask.
"No."
"Gracias."
Up another flight of the stairs of death, I get greeted with another similarily confused exchange. Although this time through the slightly open door, which was restricted by a well-chosen security chain, through which a quarter of an old man’s face peered.
On the third floor, I get no response at all. I had failed three times, so it was probably time to give up and go home.
After giving myself a Rocky Balboa style pep talk, I survived the stairs for the fourth time, and once again proceeded down the short corridor to the apartment door at the end.
After knocking, I was once again presented with some movement in the apartment and a surprised "Hola?"
"Hola, Veronica?"
"Si, Will?" comes the response as the door opens.
