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MADE IN SANHATTAN   (p. 2 of 3)

1   |   2   |   3   |   JUL '04

The geographic setting of Santiago makes it easy to love the place. Cerro San Cristóbal cuts the city off from its northern suburbs the way the Hollywood Hills separate the San Fernando Valley from L.A. proper. In the summer, the land has a bleached out quality reminiscent of Southern California. And yet, the city itself is remarkably green. Giant trees canopy the streets of Providencia and Bellavista. There is an abundance of parks, large and small. Because the Río Mapocho has a tendency to flood in the spring, the river is ringed by parkland.

But walk the streets, and it’s hard to nail down a defining character. In Bellavista, tucked into the lee of San Cristóbal, the houses on a shady residential street (such as Antonia Lopez de Bello) evoke Madrid, Munich, Amsterdam and L.A. in a single block. Providencia is Vancouver’s West End. The squat apartments with large balconies tucked next to old houses, the exquisite gardens, the quality of the sun – it’s all reminiscent of Vancouver. If anything, Santiago feels and looks like what would happen if the city of Vancouver were plopped into the L.A. basin.

Of course, any discussion of modern Chile, or the "new" Santiago, will inevitably lead to the international success of the wine industry. Marcela Herrera tells me that 80 percent of Anakena’s wines are sold overseas, to the U.K. principally, but also to the U.S. and Asia. And this success has impacted the food scene. "We’re building a real food culture here," says Herrera. "People are enjoying going out, having dinner. Five years ago, we just had Chinese and Peruvian restaurants. Now we have Japanese, Thai, even Spanish." Indeed, sushi restaurants have overrun the city like so much nori, and the number of restaurant openings is staggering. But it is indicative of the Chilean sense of self-deprecation that most expensive restaurants in town still advertise themselves as Argentinian – if they serve beef – or Peruvian – if they serve seafood. Perhaps the best proof of the low regard that Chileans have for their own cuisine is this simple fact: In a country with a 4,300-kilometre coastline and every conceivable kind of fish, more people prefer beef to fish.

The rise in the local wine industry has played a huge role not just in refining the local palate but in pumping up national self-esteem. If anything, the success of the wine industry is seen as a symbol of the profound changes that have taken place here, of what is possible and of what Chileans are capable of accomplishing.

Walking the undeniably tacky Avenida Suecia bar district in Providencia one night, I was again reminded of how far the country has come. All the bars in the strip have themes; the street is sort of like Disneyland fuelled by a tremendous amount of alcohol. You can step into Louisiana, Inferno, Red Bull, Green Bull (both country and western) – all, despite the themes, blurting out the same Top 40 dance music. But one of the bars will make you stop – or at least it should. The bar is built like a bunker. It is called Junta. The waiters are all beefcake-type young males sporting green army fatigues and berets. On this street, at least, the dictatorship has become nothing more than another theme, an enticement for the young to come in, have a few drinks, do a little dance. Get giddy.

And that mood is also evident in older sections of town, say the colourful Barrio Brasil just west of downtown, where international design mixes with the local vernacular to create something approaching an "older" local style. The Barrio is full of small square houses painted in tropical colours. It is about as Latin American a part of town as you’re likely to find in Santiago. But the citizenry’s relentless march toward modernism is evident here as well. The Barrio seems like the next part of town to feel the effects of gentrification. Only now is a preservation movement getting started in Santiago. Locals might still drive two hours to the coastal city of Valparaíso to see the "real Chile." In Santiago, the populace is too busy happily remaking themselves to notice what is being lost.

And I think I know why. It’s because Santiaguinos really do love their city. They don’t think anything can go wrong with it. Not now anyway, not after everything they’ve been through. They might be unsure of their new place in the world, but they are pretty sure that their city is something special.

One night, sitting on the rooftop of the Zanzíbar restaurant and bar in the eastern suburbs, sucking back dangerously good pisco sours, I take a long look around. I am surrounded by a young, well-dressed crowd, full of laughter. Over the balcony’s edge, the setting sun colours the mountains gold. To the west, the skyline of Sanhattan glistens. And beyond it, though I can’t see it, is the Pacific. Where once the mountains and the ocean stood as barriers, they are now enticements to a world hungry to find new places. I order another pisco sour and sit back and wait.

Wait for the world to start flocking to this city. [ ]

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