I didn’t go to Santiago for a holiday. Like my first visit to Dubai, it was a work trip, the kind where days are structured around meetings and meals are squeezed in where they fit. Those trips tend to offer a particular way of seeing a place: partial, impressionistic, shaped by routine rather than wandering. Still, they often leave me with the most to think about.
The journey itself already felt layered. I flew from Barcelona to Madrid, then on to São Paulo, where I spent a few days in Brazil for work before continuing to Chile. Brazil left a strong impression. Lunch there is sacred. It’s not rushed, not negotiable. Juice must be freshly made, and people are surprisingly opinionated about how much sugar belongs in it. Those everyday rituals stayed with me, a reminder that culture often reveals itself most clearly through the mundane.
By the time I landed in Santiago, it was dark. I found my driver, got into the car, and promptly ended up at the wrong hotel. Eventually, after a short detour, I made it to the right one, in Vitacura, a calm, polished neighbourhood that would be my base for the week. It was late, and I had no real sense of where I was in the city. No landmarks, no orientation. Just tiredness and the glow of streetlights through the window.
A City Reveals Itself Slowly
The next morning changed everything.
I woke up to a clear view of the city framed by the Andes, their peaks capped with snow. Santiago revealed itself all at once, quietly but confidently. The mountains didn’t feel decorative; they felt structural, as though the city existed in conversation with them rather than in front of them.
A colleague was arriving from London early that morning, and we had planned to explore together once she had rested. We met around 1 pm and set off on a city tour with a local guide. From the beginning, it felt less like ticking off sights and more like being gently introduced to how the city works.
We started at Parque Bicentenario, a carefully designed green space that immediately felt lived-in rather than ornamental. I was especially taken by the black-necked swans, native to Chile. I hadn’t realised the country had its own swan, and learning about them became one of those small, unexpected details that linger long after a trip ends.
From there, we headed to Parque Metropolitano de Santiago to take the teleférico from Oasis station. It was a public holiday weekend, and the crowds made the wait longer than expected, but once we were on, the ride itself was quick and joyful. As we rose above the city, Santiago stretched out below us, dense and orderly, with the mountains holding their quiet position in the background.
Our guide spoke about Chilean history, indigenous cultures, and the country’s relationship with Europe. What stood out most was his consciously feminist perspective, weaving women back into stories where they are so often absent. It changed how history unfolded, making it feel more layered and alive.
We got off the teleférico and walked along a path lined with painted crosses toward the Sanctuary on San Cristóbal Hill. Inside, we paused to look at the sculpted reliefs before stepping outside to face the vast statue of the Virgin Mary.
Our guide explained that devotion to the Virgin holds particular significance in Chile, in part because the most revered and powerful indigenous deity was also female. It was a reminder that belief systems rarely replace one another entirely; they adapt, merge, and accumulate meaning over time.
We made our way back down via the funicular, the city slowly re-forming around us.
From the Hill to the City
At the bottom of the hill, we continued on foot, wandering without urgency and taking in the shifting architecture. Santiago reveals itself in layers. Residential streets sit beside grand civic buildings, and neighbourhoods change character almost block by block.
One of the most striking stops was La Chascona, tucked into Bellavista. Once the home of Pablo Neruda, the house feels less like a residence and more like a physical expression of a mind at work. Its idiosyncratic architecture and sea-inspired details reflect Neruda’s obsessions and eccentricities.
Originally built in the 1950s for Matilde Urrutia, then his secret lover and later his third wife, La Chascona carries layers of intimacy and symbolism. Inside is a painting of Urrutia by Diego Rivera, showing her with two faces, one public, one private, with Neruda’s profile hidden subtly in her hair. Even without going inside, just hearing the story gave the building a quiet emotional weight.
From there, we walked through Lastarria and Bellas Artes, passing the National Museum of Fine Arts, before continuing toward Plaza de Armas de Santiago. The centre of the city felt formal and symbolic, full of institutions and history. We passed the National History Museum, the courts of justice, and several government buildings, eventually ending at Plaza de la Constitución, facing La Moneda Palace.
Seeing all of this in one afternoon helped anchor the city for me, not just geographically, but politically and historically too.
Dinner in Vitacura
That evening, back in Vitacura, we went to Mercado Urbano Tobalaba. It’s less a traditional mall and more a vertical food hall, layered with restaurants and bars designed for lingering. We had dinner at Ambrosía Bistro, which balances refinement with ease. The menu focuses on seasonal Chilean produce with global influences, and despite speaking Spanish, I was struck by how many ingredients I didn’t recognise. Chilean food has its own vocabulary, and I found myself constantly checking what things actually were.
We started with tiradito dressed with sea urchin, scallions, and bonito soy sauce, delicate but deeply savoury. We also shared pulpo al olivo with huancaína and fried plantain, rich and comforting. For my main, I chose fish with cauliflower in several forms, purée, florets, alongside cucumber noodles, capers, and almonds. It was restrained, thoughtful, and quietly impressive.
After a day full of history and walking, it felt grounding, a calm return to the present.
A Day Alone, and a Museum That Stayed With Me
The next day, I had the morning to myself. I worked for a few hours before heading out to the Chilean Museum of Pre-Columbian Art. I don’t say this lightly: it is one of the most impressive museums I have ever visited. I was completely floored.
What makes it exceptional is its curation. The exhibitions are organised geographically and chronologically, guiding you through thousands of years of history in a way that feels coherent rather than overwhelming. It doesn’t assume knowledge, but it also never simplifies. It tells complex stories clearly, without stripping them of depth.
I moved through Mesoamerican cultures first, encountering objects linked to the Olmec, Maya, Teotihuacan, and Aztec worlds. Ceramics, masks, and ritual items carried astonishing detail, collapsing time in unexpected ways. These were not distant, abstract civilisations, but societies full of structure, belief, and contradiction.
The Intermediate Area followed, bridging Mesoamerica and the Andes. I was particularly struck by the goldwork of the Tairona, delicate yet powerful pieces that expressed status and spirituality in equal measure.
The Andean section was vast and absorbing. Chavín imagery hinted at shamanic transformation. Moche portrait vessels were startling in their realism, ceramic faces that felt confrontational in their humanity. Chimú and Inca artefacts revealed different expressions of power and organisation, while the absence of vast Inca gold displays served as a quiet reminder of colonial destruction and loss.
A darkened room devoted to feather art and textiles was one of the most beautiful spaces in the museum. Wari textiles, bold and geometric, demonstrated a mastery of weaving and symbolism that felt almost modern.
And then I went downstairs.
The Mapuche collection was the emotional core of the museum. Silver jewellery carried deep cosmological meaning, and towering wooden funerary statues stood silently, representing the am, the spirit of the deceased. Chiefs and great warriors were believed to journey east, toward the volcanoes of Kalfumapu, the “blue land,” while others travelled west beyond the sea. Standing there, dwarfed by these figures, I felt unexpectedly moved.
There was also a section on Rapa Nui (also known as Easter Island), another reminder of just how wide and complex Chile’s cultural geography really is.
Afterwards, I stayed for lunch at Café Precolombino in the museum courtyard. I ordered an octopus salad with merkén-seasoned potatoes and a glass of fresh chirimoya juice, followed by a homemade custard-like dessert I couldn’t resist. It felt like the right way to come back down after such an intense morning.
Working, Living, Leaving
That afternoon marked the beginning of my full working week in Chile. The days blurred into meetings, dinners, and long conversations. It was busy, but warm, and I found myself enjoying it more than I had expected. Still, it was that quiet day alone, and that museum in particular, that stayed with me the most.
Santiago didn’t announce itself loudly. It revealed itself slowly, through views framed by mountains, through history told with care, through moments of reflection between work commitments. I left feeling like I had only skimmed the surface, but also grateful for what I had seen.
Maybe some cities demand to be explored. Santiago, I think, prefers to be understood over time.
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