Getting there

First I apologize for not writing while actually traveling. But then, I was traveling, and sitting in front of a computer typing is what I do at work so I wasn't very excited about sitting in front of a computer typing while on vacation.
If your life seemed to lose purpose, I am here now to provide a ray of hope. Now I'll start with the whole story, from memory, which is what I get to keep anyway.

Atlanta-Santiago
We left on July 4, took a taxi to the Garnett MARTA station where we were accosted by a guy who said he'd just gotten out of jail and really needed 75 cents. He did not believe that I did not have 75 cents, then approached somebody else. Another guy insisted that we jump the gate while he held them open. We declined. Lucky, because we'd have had to jump them at our destination too.
Train ride to the airport, usual U.S.A. security rigamarole, and onto the nearly empty plane for a 10 p.m. flight. I guess people don't travel to South American capitals much on Independence Day. We moved to an exit row.
Nine and a half hours later, after a terrible Sandra Bullock movie ("Premonition") and airplane sleep, we landed in Santiago, Chile at 7:30 a.m.
It costs $200 US for a visa to get into the country. Lucky we had cash. A couple of stamps and guards later and we were officially in Chile.
We had a whole day to kill before our next flight to the far north, so we checked our bag (one between us) and took a bus into Santiago centro.
There's graffiti everywhere, on everything. There are stray dogs everywhere, in packs and alone. People just ignore them and they mostly ignore the people. Some beg, but not in the city. None appeared dangerous, though many were old, mangy, and had obviously taken part in some heated exchanges with other dogs. Lots of people. Rain, winter weather. Smelled like pee (like many large cities).
We walked down the Alameda to the government plaza, where there was some kind of military ceremony going on. Horses, guys in fancy hats, lots of soldiers. The riot squads with water cannon tanks lurked nearby, and all the police vehicles were covered in chicken mesh to protect windows, tires, mirrors.
We walked around, visited the city museum, where they had the best dioramas ever, if not the most enlightening history exhibits.
We went to the Cafe Haiti for a coffee. It seemed like a Hooters, although I've never been to Hooters. Businessmen leaned on the coffee bar while women in very short, very tight skirts and hose served coffee and chatted them up. Apparently this was a more tame version of the Cafes con Piernas, or "cafes with legs," that are favorites of Chilean businessmen where women in bikinis serve coffee. Unfortunately we did not come across any of these.
We walked around the downtown for a while, eventually stopped at a place for lunch, where we had churrasco sandwiches. Sorta just like a roast beef sandwich. Chileans like mayonnaise. And Nescafe, the usual coffee in Chile. Instant. They also use very tiny, but elegantly displayed, napkins about the size of one square of toilet paper.
They spread sand on the floors to soak up the water.
Allison, being beautiful and fluent in Spanish, was very popular with the waiter. I don't think they see many gringas down there who sound like they're from Spain. It was interesting to be constantly referred to in the third person while I was sitting right there. Eventually I became better at listening and understanding Chilean Spanish and more comfortable speaking for myself, but I'm still hardly fluent. Maybe half-literate. Just eliminate the "s" from all words. That's Chilean Spanish in a nutshell.
Eventually we made our way back to the bus stop and then to the airport. Too early, we ended up sitting around at the airport for four hours. Should have found something else to do in the city, but we were excited and anxious to be on our way.
Finally our domestic flight began boarding. Cheap tickets, good. Two stops along the way, bad. It was more a series of take offs and landings than flying.
Eventually we made it to Arica at the far northern tip of the country, just about 10 miles from the Peruvian border, and were at the official start of the trip back south.