Our Journey

Or “How it took me pretty much forever to find the right spot”

Symbolism is important

by Scott Reed

  Our story begins not on that fine, summer day in the coastal Chilean town of Valparaiso, nor does it begin in some tropical paradise or mountain villa.  It does not begin in a fancy restaurant towering above a sparkling cityscape, not even in some quaint countryside village.  No, our tale begins in a small, and rather cramped, apartment in the sprawling city of Santiago wherein I waited, and plotted.

I had decided some time earlier, I’m not sure when, that I would marry Brittany.  She is everything to me: a perfect counterpart.  This is not to say she is perfect, for no one is, I am not, and I would not wish her to be or even to try to be.  She is perfect in that she is the exclamation point added to every sentence of my life: she enhances, improves, and adds to everything that I do.  I have known this for some time: she and I are destined to amplify each other’s lives  beyond even the point where our feet merely dream of the steps they once took.  But first, I needed to plan.

Symbolism is important.  Symbols remain, even when other things fail.  When ancient peoples and religions have died and vanished from the world, their symbols remain.  As such, an appropriate symbol was necessary to fittingly etch our union into the tablet of history.  I had at first thought of taking Brittany into the mountains, as I had imagined us, hand entwined, looking out across a great expanse of peaks and snow.  This proved difficult to engineer, as I did not know the land and did not know of an opportunity to bring up such a trip.

 I considered Easter Island as an appropriate spot, as our holiday there would be an ideally memorable location.  Things seemed to go well and I planned on making my move on our last day, so best to surprise her.  Our evening of excellent food and entertainment left me feeling very optimistic of the evening so I suggested we take a walk about the town.  We saw beautiful vistas lit by the moon, crashing waves silhoutted against the sky, and the light glow of island lights in the distance.  Unfortunately these things were also witnessed by the myriad of people that milled about us: we never seemed to be able to escape them .  I felt it was not the right time.  This moment should, I thought, be a moment shared only between us, not a host of onlookers.

We left Easter Island and continued with our last few weeks together.  I began to panic, I will admit, because I deeply wanted to propose before I left Chile, but I especially did not want to propose simply out of a feeling of desperation and lack of time.  As I have said before, symbolism is important.  I racked my brain trying to think of an appropriate situation, an appropriate place that would allow me to tell the love of my life I wish to spend all of my days with her.  I had considered proposing in Santiago, perhaps on the large mountain whose name I still hadn’t learned, referring to it only as “The big hill”.  That seemed a poor decision too, not merely for my inability to remember its actual name but also in that Santiago was not, to be honest, the sort of place I would wish to remember whenever I think about that fateful day.  I felt that Brittany would strongly feel the same in this regard.  So, Santiago was out.  San Pedro was already passed.  Easter Island was out.  Where else was there?  I resigned myself to finding a place, perhaps in Europe, at some later time to ask her.  Disappointing as this was, I would still rather wait for the right opportunity to present itself than to simply take a lesser  alternative for lack of patience.

It was at this point, not long after we returned from Easter Island, that the seed of an idea began to grow in my mind.  We still had a place to go, one last destination in the country: Valparaiso.  This was a city by the sea, conveniently, and was a city in which Brittany had lived and gathered many pleasant memories.  It was one of the reasons she had so dearly wanted to return to Chile in the first place, having lived there briefly in her college exchange program.  She spoke of it with reverence, and I, having a personal affinity for the sea, felt the place might just be the appropriate spot for my surprise.  So then, Valparaiso it was!  My only concern then was to find an appropriate place within the appropriate place: symbolism is important.  If a suitable place could not be found then my plans would simply revert back to where they were after Easter Island, again delayed but in no way lessened by it. 

So I began the next step of my plans: finding a suitable spot within the city itself.  Not knowing the city, of course, this proved exceptionally difficult.  We had visited the area once before, though admittedly under some degree of stress as we had at the time been trying to make a dinner meeting with Brittany’s former host family.  I saw a bit of the city, though it was at night and only along very limited stretches of the city streets.  I still knew nothing of its grand vistas, the great hills, or the vast sea beyond that I had hoped to make my backdrop on this most special of occasions.  So my problem presented itself: how then do I plan for a specific location at a specific place for a very specific event when I knew of none of the specifics save that we would be *somewhere* in the city?  At times like this I resort to my catch-all for panic moments: improvisation.  Lacking any better plan, I banked on being able to recognize a place when we come upon it.  This is another way of saying “I didn’t have any plan at all and just winged it and hoped for the best”.  This would prove, as it typically does, a tiny bit frustrating.

We began our trip to Valparaiso, fortunately, unlike our previous trip.  We found our correct bus terminal, situated ourselves comfortably inside, and snagged ourselves comfortable seats in the back.  While it was unfortunate we could not see the television in the front of the bus to check for any movies that might be playing, it didn’t matter too much because there weren’t any movies playing anyway.  We looked out the window at the great hills and mountains passing us by.  I was oft reminded of my home in California, with its similar hills and mountains dotted with small desert shrubs and trees, and felt then that this was an appropriate place for me to propose to her.  It had the feel of an adventure in far off lands while still bearing those similar sights that memory had come to call “home”.  The trip continued uneventfully until we at last found ourselves in the city that, dared I to hope, would change our lives forever.

I liked Valparaiso as soon as I saw it.  I thought the inhabitants were absolutely insane for building their homes in much the same way one might stack a deck of cards after drinking heavily, but this was an endearing quality.  Our first stop was, of course, the bus station terminal to get our bearings, collect maps, and generally figure out what, exactly, it was we were actually going to do.  I immediately noticed several items of interest, most notably several large hills and a naval museum nearby.  Surely, I thought, these hills might hide some fantastic vantage point wherein we might have a moment of privacy.  Also, naval museums are awesome.  We began towards these places, Brittany asking if we should perhaps take a bus as they were some distance away.  I opted for the walking, as it would be good for us to be out and about and would provide me with extra time to plot the layout of the city and find a suitable location for my proposal. 

We walked for some time in the sunshine, taking in the different sights.  I remember in particular a large loading dock and a storage building that seemed very old.   As we passed several bus stops Brittany remarked that the busses would often not completely stop, requiring you to essentially do a bit of a running jump to board them.  I was not surprised, as again the nature of some of the more interesting cliffside housing informed me that fear of physical danger was not among identifiable Chilean characteristics.  We walked more, looking out to the sea and enjoying the sky above.  Truly, better weather could not have existed on such a day.  I looked out upon the many ships at sea and wandered what purpose they had.  Brittany told me of the Chilean Navy’s tendency to remain in a sort of constant alert status for fear of attack from Peru, or perhaps it was Argentina, because… well, that’s what they do.

As we walked we encountered various vendors and shops, all selling interesting and less interesting manner of objects.  Brittany told me of, I believe, a pub or bar or restaurant that used to be underground in the area.  We passed by a very interesting artist selling pictures of the city: I would later discover that these were common souvenirs sold all over.  The pictures were superimposed over various objects: posters, notebooks, wallets, key chains, and the like.  For a few dollars you could take home a bit of Valparaiso art.  After much deliberating and worrying  over price and whether it was “worth it”, I purchased a small notebook depicting a funicular and the vast sea beyond

We arrived at the base of a steep hill and Brittany introduced me to the second funicular of my life.  For those who do not know, the funicular is a sort of carriage system consisting of a boxcar, a set of tracks, and cable to pull the car up the hill.  The whole thing was like some Frankenstein creation of wood and steel, but I was excited to attempt it and we joined the line.  Now, typically, riding a funicular has some sort of cost associated with it.   This usually isn’t much, a few dollars worth or the like, but there is something.  After some time of waiting for this monstrosity to arrive for our turn, we both seemed to realize that nobody was paying any money.  At the very least, nobody was taking any.  There was a brief moment of panic as we both mentally went through the potential reasons why this might be, the probability of us being correct, and the embarrassment potentially suffered were we to make a false assumption.  It is entirely possible all of this went only through my own head, but I like to think Brittany and I both have that special kind of paranoia streak that makes you think to yourself “Get ON with it!”.

We entered the funicular and it began its slow ascent.  We took pictures out of the tiny windows as we rose above the sea and into the sky.  The ships were laid out before us in great majesty and I thought, again, that this seemed an excellent place for me to ask for Brittany’s hand.  We reached the top, only to be greeted by a dog.  I’m not sure who owned this dog, which is essentially the norm with every dog in the country, but it seemed to feel rather at home where it was and informed us through its tiny yapping that it was so.  There was also a cat on top of a car.  I believe it was yellow.  The cat, being considerably less interesting to me (and judging by the thing’s lazy sprawl over the car, likely not very interesting to itself either) did not draw my attention.  Brittany, on the other hand, loved the thing and, as she often does, offered to take it home to love and pet and feed and cuddle and everything else apparently that cat lovers do.  I shall not pretend to understand: I suppose it was fluffy.

We walked around the point where the funicular had dropped us off.  There were many shops and vendors, selling all manner of trinkets and jewelry.  We wandered a bit and looked at many of them: several selections of earrings caught Brittany’s eye.  She wanted to purchase some but, knowing she had over 9000 at home, I said “no way!” I am lying, of course.  I would buy her any number of brightly colored, shiny, cat-oriented, or otherwise cute/fluffy/pretty earrings she so desired.  None of these quite stuck out to her, however, so we moved on.

At this point we decided we were fairly famished, what with the walking and the funicularing and the cat gazing, and so decided then to grab something to eat.  Wondering about we saw many signs for some sort of restaurant situated above the funicular but could not, however, find any means by which it could be entered.  We circled it on the one side, then the other.  Perhaps they thought we should climb underneath the funicular platform in some sort of adventurous spiderman adventure time.  Regardless, we couldn’t figure it out so we went to the nearby, and clearly labeled, Café Postal.  Why it was called Postal, I don’t know.  Suffice it to say that images of mailmen entered my head. 

The Café was very pleasant, with an old sort of cabin-in-the-woods feel to it.  The front façade was painted a pleasant green and red wood combination that made it seem quite inviting.  The interior, a two story building, seemed very much a refurbished home.  There were tables, a bar, and sitting arrangements for a small number of people, no more than 25 or so.  They had a large selection of teas, of which I had something of a reddish complexion that smelled strongly of gardening.  Brittany ordered a fish and I some chicken and we sat down to a lovely meal while the sun shined brightly outside.  Doubtless the cat watched us with typical cat evils in mind.

Having finished the meal, we ventured out towards the naval museum, in which I had particular interest.  I hoped even that I could find a suitable place for the proposal here.  Not inside the museum, of course, but there was surrounding it a kind of garden that seemed suitable.  I was determined that the spot be one of some natural beauty: a vista, or grove of nature perhaps.  As we approached the museum it became obvious, however, that the garden surrounding it was not open to the public.  My mind began to work overtime, trying to think of where else we might go.  I scanned the area and, not seeing anything that could work, realized that we would have to wait until our next part of the day before I could make my move.  It was unfortunate, but not entirely hopeless yet.  I knew the area near the funicular was good, though far too populated to do.  Perhaps after we finished in the museum enough people would be gone to make it an acceptable spot.  I could but wait, and see.

We entered the museum by way of the gift shop.  A unique change, I thought, as the gift shop typically resides at the end of one’s epic journey through the past.  Good to prime your visitors with all the cool stuff before you wave it in front of their faces, frantically hurling price tags limited edition discounts.  Needless to say I wanted to buy everything.  Fortunately, I wear my cheapness about me like an armored cloak: you will not have me glorious naval trinkets! 

We meandered through the museum at a leisurely pace.  While I was panicked by the timing and location of my proposal, I was not yet in such a hurry that I could not enjoy pretty pictures and old things in boxes.  Chile had an interesting and rather varied naval history.  It appeared that the British had a hand in helping to build the Chilean Navy, a helping hand I am sure they were very grateful for.  Looking at the Chilean Navy with any scrutiny, however, showed the rather poor extent of its strength.  Even with its overseas help it seemed entirely composed of one frigate, a brigantine, and a few small ships that could pass for large fishing boats if you were to load them with something else that might be more beneficial to the Chilean Navy than what they were actually loaded with.  Like fish.  Suffice to say the Chilean Navy, technically speaking, was the world equivalent of a box of angry kittens Britain carried around threatening to drop on the Peruvians.  Nevertheless, seeing as the Navy’s entire purpose even today seems to be to protect against Peru (A terrifying enemy if ever there was one) this level of strength is perfectly appropriate.  Kittens can be a terrifying force in the right hands.  I bet that frigate is even still sailing around somewhere, all of its three and a half working guns pointed directly at the Peruvian scourge.  How can you have half of a working gun you may ask?  Welcome to Chile.

They had other nifty things on display, like hand-crafted model ships and actual chain and bar shot on display.  Chain shot is indeed quite the nifty thing.  Imagine two halves, or wholes in some cases, of a cannonball connected by a foot-long length of iron chain.  Now imagine that same thought in another thought where it is stuffed inside cannon and flung, with considerable force, at people you generally dislike.  I think you get the idea.  It’s mostly used for taking down rigging and tackle in an opposing ship but I’m sure you can imagine such a device’s affect on some poor sod whose only reason for being on the ship at that particular time was that he had a few too many drinks at entirely the wrong inn one evening.  This is also a lovely set of thoughts for someone attempting to find the most appropriate place for a marriage proposal, though leave it to me to pull out all the stops on such a day.

We did pass by one other thing that wasn’t entirely to do with people finding ingenious ways of offing one-another, which was a pleasant surprise.  They actually had the cage elevator that the Chilean government used to pull out all of those miners who were trapped underground for months.  Supposedly it took quite a long time to ride the thing up to the top.  We were able to step inside: I couldn’t imagine being raised for hours in such a small space in complete darkness.  I remember also that the workers were required to wear goggles or masks or the like to protect their eyes from the brightness of being outside.  It was a pleasant sight to know that not all the inventiveness of the human mind is spent on aggressive acts.

We finally ended our time at the museum and the full panic of the day began to hit me: the sun was beginning to go down and I still had no idea where I was going to propose.  I couldn’t just do it in the middle of the street or anything: Symbolism is important!  I decided I would try and find another high vantage point which might be suitable. I noticed to our left as we exited the museum that there seemed to be some cliffs in the distance so I decided in the moment that these would be my next target.  Brittany made to go in the opposite direction, however, and I suddenly felt my plans spoiled.  When all else fails, however, the tried and true option remains: make something up.  I explained that I wanted to go explore that side of the city because it seemed interesting or beautiful or something.  Anything, really, to get her to follow me.  This didn’t end exactly as I had hoped.

We spent the next hour or so wandering around sketchy places: abandoned buildings, dogs (not that there was anything surprising about that in Chile though), broken machinery, and other things not entirely found on the list of “Nice Things You Want to Remember on the Day You Were Proposed To”.  There was even a broken down funicular leading up to what appeared to be an abandoned building.  Much as I might be tempted to investigate such a place, it still didn’t seem to me the best sort of place for what I had in mind.  We continued, however, until we came to something of a ledge that curved around and down back towards the city center where we had come from.  At this point I resigned myself to not proposing on this particular day and, feeling rather at a loss, simply walked with Brittany back towards the bus station as the sun began to set.

We walked for some time, stopping once inside a shop for a quick drink, before we came to a very large staircase.  It extended far up one of the many hills of the city.  There must have been four or five flights of stairs there!  Being the sort always up for a challenge, I proceeded to run up the stairs two at a time.  Brittany, being the not-quite-so-foolish type, walked behind me.  When we reached the top we discovered a very interesting work of art: someone had decorated the topmost brick wall to look like one of the local buses, complete with passengers.  There was quite a bit of similar graffiti around, though more art than the typical “Jo waz Heer” or street gang nonsense.  Beautiful wasn’t quite the word, but interesting doesn’t do it quite enough justice.

Just past the top of the stairs, beyond a sports area where people were busy playing games, we came at last to the central point of my story.  We came, at last, to the place I knew I would propose to Brittany at.  It was an overlook, an old house-turned-museum.  Beyond a low stone wall the great sea expanded and the ships continued their slow meandering at the port.  The sun was setting.  No other people were around.  I knew, at last, that I had found an acceptable place.

 I wasn’t exactly sure how to go about doing it though.  I knew how people did it in movies, in books and stories, but I had never really expected to find myself in a similar situation.  I decided then to do things in my usual style and manner:  Wing it.  I took Brittany to the edge of the wall under the pretense of looking out to see.  We both admired the view.  There was a beat.  The rest of the world seemed to tune out, to fade away.  I could feel my heart trying to climb right out of my throat.  Now or never.  I knelt on two knees (because one just wasn’t enough!) and began a speech.  Honestly, I don’t remember much of it now: I know I spoke about how lucky I was, how I owed a lot to her for making me feel like a legitimate person, how I appreciated everything she did.  There was a lot.  In the end, I asked her to marry me. 

The rest is a bit of a blur.  She was excited, I was excited.  She accepted and we held each other near the amazing view of the sea.  It was then that we noticed an old man behind us near the gate, motioning at us to leave.  Seems we had stayed past the closing time!  Feeling elated and just a little bit awkward, we left and began our walk back to the station.  We boarded our bus and enjoyed the long, dark trip back.  Our lives had changed.  Changed for the better.  Most importantly, they had changed for the better at a special time in a special place in a special way.  After all, symbolism is important.