After thoroughly absorbing all the beautiful sights of the 1970s yarn shops I continued in a southerly direction, stopping as necessary to take photos of the delightful historic fountains and churches and so on.
Old men sit in the shade of the trees and play chess, and who can blame them. I wish I were there now. London is freezing cold and raining as usual.
The National Museum of Santiago.
Look at that church. I am no special friend of Jesus but you can’t argue with the architecture.
A clothes shop. I know. All clothes shops should look like this.
Just when you think it’s all about history, you rock up at Bellas Artes metro station and encounter these:
Look at those colours. The whole city is like this. The sunlight and the colours are something to behold.
The most excellent walking tour that I was following advised me that I could stop at this point if desired. However, the previous day I had tried and failed to find the museum of contemporary art, so I pressed on. When I eventually found it I had been walking around for about four hours, I was exhausted and ravenously hungry, so once I realised I was in the right general area, instead of charging directly into the museum which had become the final point of my personal quest, I headed for the nearest cafe and had a huge burger and more beer than was strictly necessary. That kind of behaviour is why I’m five pounds heavier than I used to be.
And with that, fed and rested, I ambled away, slightly drunkenly, in the direction of the museum of contemporary art, my personal holy grail.