Homeward bound

I caught bus 86 to the airport and spent the rest of my pesos on a sandwich and a drink. We were a little late departing. A few hours into the flight, in the small hours of the morning, we had a refueling stop at Rio Gallegos, Patagonia. It was a small airport with only 2 gates. There was a plaque there commemorating the 50th anniversary of the first commercial flight between Rio Gallegos and Buenos Aires on 2/4/1930. The French aviator and writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was one of the pioneers in the opening up of routes to Patagonia, and his experiences formed the basis of his novel Night Flight. This was part of the mystique that had formed my impression of Patagonia before I visited.

It was cold in the airport, and even colder on the tarmac; the temperature was single digit and there was a wind chill. A short blackout occurred while we were waiting. But we finally entered the warmth of the plane and took off. And then it was really goodbye to South America. I was not to return for another 12 years.

I had been on the road for over two months. While writing this blog, 15 years after, it was amazing how a mere few words in the diary could evoke an entire incident. I learnt things that I didn't know then in the process of reconstructing my story. And it was amazing how many of the establishments I patronised are still running. Even the mundane expenditure log, which I used to keep myself to budget, gave crucial clues to what I did on a particular day.

I had seen unforgettable landscapes and marvellous sights. But most of all I remember the wonderful people I met. I sometimes wonder what became of them. Some would have gone on to have a career and a family. Some might have retired from work. Some sadly may not be with us anymore. I can only wish that they were happy, not all the time, that's too much to ask, but some of the time.

As it was a trans-polar flight, I was curious what they would do about the on-screen display of the flight path since the Mercator projection cannot represent the poles. As expected they switched to polar projection. The flight reached the 70S lattitude, within 2500 km of the south pole. There was no turbulence. The flight was all in sunshine because it was the southern spring. As I was crossing the International Date Line going west, November 15th 1997 was lost to me. We had a change of planes at Auckland and a few hours after that I was home.

Buenos Aires 6

It was my last day in Buenos Aires and South America. The flight was in the evening so I had the day to visit parts of Baires I had left out over a month ago. I discarded clothes I didn't want to take home and checked out, carrying only a daypack. I got breakfast at the supermarket.

I caught the subte (what porteños call their subway) to LN Alem station for Puerto Madero. These were former dockyards turned into an upmarket district with dwellings, offices, shops and restaurants. (I believe that more edifices and landmarks have been added in the years since my visit.)

The Catholic University of Argentina was situated there as was the museum ship ARA Presidente Sarimento. Students were out enjoying the sunshine.

I didn't note the history of this large propeller unfortunately.

This is the old customs house, if I read the name on the building correctly.

I walked back to the city and encountered Galerías Pacífico again. I couldn't resist taking more pictures of the beautiful interiors. This is the central fountain you saw before, from above. There were many smartly dressed people shopping. I spent some of my remaining money on CDs.

I went to Guerin and had some pascualina and anchoa pizza for lunch. Italian immigration has had a lot of influence on Argentinian cuisine.

At Plaza San Martin there was a memorial to the Malvinas war (the Argentinan name for the Falklands). Similar to Chile, it took a crisis, in this case a military misadventure, to put cracks in a dictatorial regime.

This is how I like to remember Buenos Aires, sitting in a park in the porteño spring at a perfect 24C with cool breezes. It was a day on which one really feels happy to be alive. I couldn't have asked for a better send-off from the Queen of the Plata.

Buenos Aires 5

Santiago's airport was smaller than I expected, there were only 8 gates. Fortunately I spent the last pesos before passing immigration because the duty free was small. A Chilean girl of 9 and her mother had the adjacent seats. It was the first time for the girl. They were going to the Canary Islands. We experienced turbulence crossing the Andes.

It was 20C and cloudy in Buenos Aires when we landed. The passport officer thought it strange that my visa specified F for sex, then understood it was a mistake made by the consulate in Sydney. She apologised for the f**king consulate (her words). I thought it amusing that she felt the need to use that kind of language to apologise.

I took public bus 86 instead of the shuttle to save money. It stopped everywhere and took 1¼ hours to get to Congreso but I was in no hurry. I was glad that I had left my backpack in storage at the airport, less to carry. Back at the Hotel Americano I got a good room, though weird because the window was partly blocked by the closet. There was a gas range but no outlet for exhaust. I wouldn't be using it anyway.

For lunch I had some fugazza pizza at Guerin. I decided that I must try their anchoa (anchovy) the next day. At an English language bookstore I bought presents of a coffee table book on Australia for G to pick up next time she visited Baires, and a CD of the soundtrack of The Piano for L and his family. I went over to L's place in the evening. His wife was away working in La Rioja. L commented that it was odd that his youngest son, who seldom spoke with strangers, was moderately chatty with me. We shared a dinner of milanesa and conversed until close to midnight, then L took me back to my hotel.

Santiago 6

Café Caribe, short skirts but ugly women, so read the entry in my diary for this day. Intrigued, I looked it up on the Internet and it came back to me. It seems that in the 80s coffee wasn't good in Chile, so cafes, including the aforementioned Café Caribe, offered "Café con Piernas" (coffee with legs), waitresses dressed in micro-skirts to entice customers. I hope they have improved since. The coffees, that is.

This time I caught the metro to Tobalaba station, looking for an English language bookstore for a present. But they were few and the selection was poor. Shopping arcades had a mix of professional suites and shops. Many units were empty. The retail centre of gravity seemed to be moving towards Providencia. I found a late lunch of escalope a lo pobre (a variation on lomo a lo pobre) near Plaza de Armas. Had too much beer with it though.

In the evening I repacked my backpack for storage in Buenos Aires airport, as I intended to carry just a daypack for the last couple of days. I tried to look for more CDs and even took the metro to Los Leones station but the mall was closed by 2100. I gave in and had a burger as a late dinner. It tasted like fast food everywhere else in the world.

It was now evening and it looked like in darker corners men and women were having secret trysts. Was Chilean society a bit repressed?

I thought of getting an ice cream to round off the evening, but raindrops put paid to the idea. This was my last picture taken in Chile, of La Moneda by lamplight, before calling it a night.

Santiago 5

Unfortunately I had two more days in Santiago. This was because I had skipped Temuco so had a day in hand, and I was conservative with Santiago, leaving some safety margin before flying back to Buenos Aires. In retrospect I should have taken a day trip out of Santiago or something; I should have improvised. Also I was getting homesick. But that was partly in the mind. As the return date approached, I began to live in the future, a bad habit.

I took a metro to Escuela Militar station and walked back along Apoquindo and Providencia. These avenues are lined by shopping centres. I found a Feria Disco shop for CDs. I also bought a copy of Patagonia Express (1995) in the original Spanish, by Luis Sepúlveda, a Chilean writer who had lived through the Pinochet years, partly in exile. The original title is a reshuffling of lines from Antonio Machado: Al andar se hace el camino se hace el camino al andar (By walking we make the road, the road is made by walking). I had read this in translation before the trip and enjoyed the account of his perambulations in the south of the continent during those years. That evening though, G looked at my copy and said: es una copia. Book piracy was rife in South America then and still is in many countries.

I found a late lunch (to pre-adapt to jet lag) of cazuela. I bought chocolates for my visit. I also tried some mani confitado (caramelised peanuts). They were exactly as the name denoted, no surprises.

That evening I caught a taxi to G's place, but the driver wasn't knowledgeable enough to locate the correct block of apartments. I rang G and got walking directions from where the driver left me. G worked as a research sociologist for UNESCO promoting adult education. She also taught short courses, but mostly did research. Her apartment was tastefully decorated. She was a great conversationalist. The topics ranged through travel, films, books, and society. She liked hot Indian curries and sometimes cooked with a wok. At one point when she served the light supper of bread and canapes, she said: It looks like there is more equality in your country. She explained: You volunteered to carry the tray. A Chilean man would have let me do all the work, i.e. Chilean society was more machismo and conservative. There was no divorce, for example. She thought Argentina was more open.

She visited L and his wife in Buenos Aires periodically. I resolved to get her a present and leave it with L for her next visit.

Santiago 4

After breakfast I walked over to the hostel to meet up with D. He came down late and gave me the denouement of the saga of M. It seems that J told her there was no boat but there was a chalet available and guess what, he would come along. It was one of those I told you so moments. She got pissed and got in about 0300 in the morning, according to another hosteller. Ah well, it takes all sorts to make a world.

I accompanied D to Alameda and we said goodbye. So now I had to explore the city on my own. Santa Lucia is a small hill, the remnant of an ancient volcano, in the centre of the city, not as high as Cerro San Cristóbal. There is a park with statutary and fountains.

I remembered something amusing the girls had said the night before: When they put on a salsa Chileans dance, when they put on a cueca (their national dance) Chileans sit down. Chile is relatively unknown in the world. One reason is there are few of them, around 15 million at the time of my visit. Then too when you mention Brazil to most people, what comes to mind? Beaches, samba, carnival, Amazon, perhaps. Argentina? Tango, Evita, Buenos Aires. Chile? Blank.

At this point I had used up all my slide film so the remaining pictures are on print film. L in Buenos Aires had given me the phone number of G, one of his contemporaries, to contact and enjoy a conversation with. I called and she was finally at home. I arranged to drop by the evening after.

For dinner I found a place serving pastel de choclo, a thick maize stew with meat and hard boiled egg. I couldn't say that it was something I would look for again. Then a dessert of ice cream before heading back to hotel to read and listen to a jazz station, trying to stretch the hours in advance of the jet lag. The music selection was quite good actually, mostly oldies, but also new stuff from Pat Metheny and Quincy Jones.

Santiago 3

Time to head back to Santiago. J stuck like a leech to M in Viña and at the last moment jumped onto the Santiago bus, saying that he was going to visit friends in Santiago. M divulged the story: she had met J in Peru, he had pursued her everywhere, and eventually she had sneaked away. But in Viña she felt guilty about dumping him and had phoned him in La Serena. He came down south and the rest we knew.

In Santiago J went his way at a metro station after getting M to promise to meet up later. D and M went back to the hostel and I checked into a hotel. (I had decided to luxuriate a little.) A colleague of mine back home had given me an introduction to Chilean girls she had met in Tierra del Fuego. We were asked to meet at Irarrázaval metro station. There are a few Basque and Galician place names in Santiago, reflecting immigration from there. M decided to keep her appointment with J inspite of attempts to talk her out of it. She thought J could help her get passage on a boat to Tierra del Fuego.

D and I arrived at the station 20 minutes late and were met by a young Chilean man. He asked where our backpacks were. It turned out that that they had thought we needed accommodation. We went to his flat, shared with a friend of the girls. D was a good ice-breaker; I was glad of his company. The other 4 girls turned up, two were sisters. I gave them photos from my colleague as well as some souvenirs from Sydney. At this point D took his leave.

They took me to a shopping centre and shouted me ice cream. The girls and the sisters in particular were delightfully idiosyncratic, they made noises to match the engine, and told me that they had un coche pessimo (opposite of optimo, i.e. a terrible car).  They took me back to their apartment where they made pisco sour to accompany cheese. I was introduced to their parents. Remembering the etiquette tips in my guide, I kissed the mother on the cheek and shook hands with the father (only men-men encounters do the handshake). The father, who was an engineer, said that the pollution of Santiago didn't agree with him. (Santiago is backed by mountains and this traps the pollution.) One of the girls was studying engineering and hoped to get a job up north; more opportunities and cleaner air, she said. The boyfriends who were supposed to join them didn't, so they gave me a quick car tour of the upper middle class suburb of Providencia before taking me back to my hotel around midnight.

Valparaíso

Valparaíso's hills slope down to the sea, a bit reminiscent of Rio de Janeiro. So funiculars (ascensores to the locals) were built to provide transport. M had arranged to meet a Chilean acquaintance at the bus station. We missed it by one stop so she had to walk back. D and I went up the El Peral ascensor. The neighbourhood was poor, there was garbage in the streets and dogs wandering around. It seems strange that the poor in Rio and Valparaíso should have such scenic views. I think it was simply that in the past the poor built the shanty towns where nobody else wanted to live, out of easy reach of jobs, transport and shopping.

Our destination was the Fine Arts Museum (Palacio Barburizza). You could have a private tour, but a group of 4 was required. I didn't really want to see any of the exhibits but admire the art nouveau style building.

There was a stocky tree in the grounds. I wrote in my diary that it was a 300 year-old pepper tree (probably this), but I cannot find anything about its history on the Internet. I must have copied the information off a plaque.

We walked downhill to the Muelle (Pier) Prat. There were tourist souvenir shops there. We were offered boat rides.

We had a drink while waiting for M to turn up. She arrived with a Chilean youth, J, in tow. It was obvious that he was smitten with her, but the full story was to emerge later. We took lunch at one of the restaurants on Plaza Sotomayor. M was vegetarian so she had rice with a fried egg.

Pablo Neruda is Chile's 1971 Nobel prize winning poet. Isla Negra, one of his houses, was not convenient for us to visit, either not open to the public at the time or because it was 70km down south, I don't remember. However we could visit La Sebastiana, his residence in Valparaíso. This time we took a colectivo up the hill.

It was an elegant house with beautiful keepsakes; Neruda was quite a collector. I think photography was not allowed inside so that's why I have no pictures of the interior. However the hillside had great vistas of the harbour and beyond on a sunny spring day.

Neruda was ill with cancer and died days after the coup. Perhaps it was just as well, with his left-leaning sympathies, the times would have broken his heart.

A telephoto shot of the harbour.

We walked down one of the roads to the sea level and had beer in a cafe. We enthusiastically adopted a suggestion to have dinner in one of the hillside restaurants. We took the Concepcíon ascensor to Café Turri.

There were lovely views of the harbour at dusk.

We couldn't get a window table so we settled for one outside. The seafood was expensive but excellent, worth the splurge. M and J conversed in Spanish. I sensed that D was annoyed by this as he didn't understand Spanish.

The evening ended with a bus back to Viña, with J in tow right up to the hotel. He told M he would call in the morning with news about Tierra del Fuego.

Viña del Mar

A couple of the Aussies at the hostel, D who worked for the army in Canberra and M, who was taking time off before further studies joined me for Viña del Mar and Valparaíso. There were delays while M made phone calls to try to find out about boats to Tierra del Fuego but finally we got underway around 1100. Santiago is about 120 km from the coast, so the trip took about 2 hours by bus. The highway went through 2 long tunnels and the final descent into Viña was spectacular.

The two are adjoining urban areas belonging to the Valparaíso Region. Valparaíso is a port city while Viña is a resort city. So the guide book advised to stay in Viña and just catch a city bus to visit Valparaíso. We found shared accommodation for three. Viña is an active city with much traffic and pedestrians. It was also touristy; there were many people speaking English, and we saw some Korean sailors in the post office. We had a lunch of pasta and tried unsuccessfully to look for a pastry shop.

We caught a public bus to Riñaca beach. The driver engaged in some fast and furious driving and set us down, somewhat relieved, at the water's edge. The day was overcast but mild. The waves were large, good for surfing, I imagined. People were strolling on the sand. Dogs were chasing pigeons and the pigeons didn't seem to mind either. There were holiday homes, condos and hotels facing the water. It was still the slow season; I imagined it would be more crowded in summer.

Some dogs trotted around looking for attention. One black dog laid down behind M, for the company I suppose. I decided to cover it with sand to see what it would do. Using my feet, I heaped sand on top of it until it was covered almost from head to toe. It didn't object in the least, and in fact seemed to enjoy the sensation. When I had finished I took a picture. D and M laughed when they saw what I had done.

The dog stayed put after we got up and left. Some concerned Chileans went up to it to check that we hadn't done anything dastardly. I wonder if that dog went around for the rest of its life looking to be buried in sand after that experience.

We found a gelato shop and I bought a tasty round for all. Back at the hotel, D and M got stuck into the cable TV channels. While channel hopping we came across the end credits of a film. I wonder what channel that is, mused one of them. The Credits Channel, I said, impishly. I managed to tear them away from the TV to take dinner. We had some table wine. I decided not to add coffee to the mix as that would dehydrate me even more. Fortunately I didn't wake up with a sore throat.

Santiago 2

Some Aussies at the hostel invited me to join them for a tour of a vineyard so I dropped my plans and accepted with alacrity. One of them, A, was planning to do law at university. Viña Undurraga is a venerable and prestigious vineyard. The public relations manager met us and gave us a tour. He narrated the history of the winery and how they operated in the present day with a mixture of old and new technology. There were no tastings though.

Had you noticed, said A, after the tour was over, how good the PR manager was at his job? Did you notice that he kept tacking onto sentences phrases such as: in your country, as you our esteemed guests know, and so forth? A was certainly a sharp lad. He didn't seem to look forward to going home to the "real world". I hope that he has since found an adequate career for his intellect.

Back in Santiago, I bought a roast chicken and bottle (more likely a half-bottle) of wine from a supermarket for lunch. They went together well. My diary records 2145 + 250 pesos = $5.40 + $0.62. At that time, with the advantage of lower labour costs, Chilean wine was very inexpensive.  Chilean wines rank quite favourably in international competitions.

In the afternoon we went up Cerro San Cristóbal for a view of the city. The ascent was in two sections, first by funicular, then by teleférico (cable car). It was a bit reminiscent of the ascent of Urca, back in Rio de Janeiro several weeks ago. At the peak is a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and panoramic views.

This is one of the municipal pools at the foot of the hill.

A problem with Santiago was that there were few good restaurants in the city centre; they were mostly in the suburbs I think. A took us to an unadvertised eatery which was mainly patronised by students having drinks but also served a good cazuela. It was indeed excellent. Makes you feel like you've really eaten something, no? said A.

A French hosteller from Normandy, M, joined us for the dinner. She had traveled all over the world, including Australia and had done a working stint in London. A bit unusual for a French person.

 

Postscript: I found some wine bottle labels we were given as souvenirs.

 

As you can see from the labels, they are for 1.5 l bottles (magnum) .

This is for a standard 0.75 l bottle, but the back label indicates that it's intended to be exported to Japan.

Santiago 1

We arrived about 0900 in Santiago (de Chile). It was the morning rush hour so the metro was very crowded, but it was only a couple of stations to the hostel, which is centrally located. It was clean but the toilets and baths were very cramped. I went for a walk to change money, reconfirm my air ticket and have lunch. The city looked provincial compared with Buenos Aires which felt like a grand city, not surprising when you compare their populations.

La Moneda (The Mint) is the presidential palace. On a day of infamy, 11th September 1973 (overshadowed exactly 28 years later), aided by the CIA, the Chilean armed forces staged a coup and overthrew President Salvador Allende. During the coup, the air force bombarded La Moneda. The ensuing military dictatorship, headed by Pinochet, went on to abuse human rights including disappearing thousands of opponents. In my travels in Chile, I sometimes came across graffiti with the word pin8. In Spanish that would be read as pin-ocho so I guessed that this was a reference to him. Later Chileans confirmed my guess. By the way if Allende sounds familiar, Isabel Allende the author is a cousin of Salvador.

Pinochet's regime ruled until 1990. In 1982 Chile suffered a banking crisis then from about 1990 onwards Chile went on to achieve better economic growth than the Latin American average, which continues to this day.

I was feeling tired in a new city and had several days in front of me, so I went back to nap. My dorm mate was from Oregon and trying to decide whether to go north or south, because his friend would join him in Puerto Montt. I gave him whatever information I had. In the late afternoon we went for a walk in the city, talking and pointing out landmarks, including the mercado central. By chance we bumped into another hosteller, a German from Frankfurt. He looked like a younger version of George Michaels, was quiet and amicable. We took dinner at a pizza restaurant. I didn't like the crust, it was too soft. After dinner we walked to the Plaza de Armas where there were political speakers and evangelist singers.

Temuco

By morning I felt that I had solved all the problems of the world. It was simple, everyone should take 2 months holiday every year. That would mellow everyone and reduce aggression. In fact I was so mellow that I was bored. I took my clothes to the laundry and while waiting took another portrait of Villarrica volcano and wrote in the diary. (The sky wasn't really that dark, it's due to the polarising filter I used.)

It was 2 hours by bus to Temuco. It was a dusty and hot day. I had several false starts looking for the train office. Next I looked for the residencial I had in mind. Neither it nor the city looked interesting; the city is just a large regional centre; so I decided to not stay but skip the city and take the overnight sleeper to Santiago. At the time Temuco was the southern terminus of the service. I deposited my backpack at the station and went sightseeing.

At the mercado municipal I had a delicious lunch of corvina a la plancha (grilled on a hotplate). I didn't know what fish this was but I now know that corvina is croaker. Chileans market sellers were very persuasive. I was cajoled to buy fruits, shoes, even a shoulder bag. More Spanish words I picked up: plantino = plantian (cooking bananas), palomitas (de maiz) = popcorn. Palomitas literally means little doves. It's just one of a horde of Spanish terms for popcorn.

I found a dessert of gelato near the centre, on Bulnes, and rested at the central plaza. There were lots of young people in the city. Chileans doted on kids and I sometimes winked at the cute little kids. I didn't wink at the cute "big kids" though, they can get upset if you do that, hahaha.

In the evening, I found myself waiting for the train with an artistic looking Italian couple. We ended up in the same carriage. They had been to the north and south of Chile and were returning to Milan the next day. The sky was streaked with red at sunset. By and by a railway employee came along to pull down the beds. The carriage was ancient, with dark wood paneling. Only the toilet looked modern. (It seems that at the time of writing that this sleeper service is in limbo.)

Pucón

Nobody was awake in the hotel when I left at 0900 so I just left the key in the door lock. I took a minibus about 20 km east along Lake Villarrica to Pucón. It's particularly popular with ecotourists. I checked in at the ¡ecole! hostel and what do you know, there was the tour group from the Andean crossing again. One woman was leaving for Santiago that evening, but the rest were staying on.

I was looking for a soak at a hot spring (terma). This being volcano country, there were several to choose from but they were out of Pucón. So I let myself be talked into a two hour hire by a taxi driver at the coop stand for 12,000 pesos (about 30USD). I suspect I could have bargained harder. The thermal facility has both a communal swimming pool and cabins. There were different mineral waters available and this was the potash cabin. It was good to soak the old skin off.

The Villarrica volcano is a much more visible manifestation of geothermal activity. It's highly active as you can see from the fumes. It is possible to climb it, but I had not the desire, time or money.

After that lovely soak, I napped very soundly in the afternoon. The comfy bed and the cool breeze filtering in helped. I think the lunch I had of cazuela, steak and mash was another factor.

In the evening I took a walk by the lake. By now the breeze had strengthened to a dusty wind. The beach was of dark volcanic sand. There was construction in progress, probably more holiday apartments being built. I tried to visit the peninsula which sticks out into the lake, but it was off limits.

Back at the hostel a couple of USAns from San Francisco who had been on the Inca trail were regaling the group with tales. Perhaps it interested them because they were headed for Peru next. The group went out for dinner while I updated the diary.

When they returned I joined them for a drink on the hostel patio. I didn't enjoy the company much. Everyone seemed to fit their respective national stereotype. I think it was more a symptom of my growing homesickness. I thought one of the petite British girls resembled Joely Richardson.

That night the strong winds shook the windows noisily. But because of the thermal bath, the alcohol, the moving air and the very comfortable doona, it was one of the best nights I had on the trip.

Valdivia-Villarrica

The lodgings were a bit run down but the bed was comfy and I slept very well. Fortunately there was hot water for the shower in the morning though the taps were fiddly. The landlady was Germanic, and served Kuchen for breakfast.

I walked to the river to wander through the feria fluvial (riverside market). The woman in the picture was selling bundles of dried kelp called cochayuyo. I knew they were a kind of seaweed but didn't know what variety and what it was used for until I looked it up for this blog. It is reconstituted with water and used as a vegetable in salads and soups.

Colourful fruits and flowers.

Pelicans hanging out for scraps from the fishmonger.

The day had started off overcast but brightened up as it wore on.

I decided not to bother with Isla Teja, a fluvial island, but to press on to Villarrica. The bus stopped everywhere, but I was in no hurry. We passed fields of yellow hops. It was All Saints' Day and people were in the cemeteries tidying the graves. The food vendors were there too doing business.

At Villarrica, I had a lunch of lomo a lo pobre (poor man's steak) in Café Chito. It is similar to Portuguese steak. If this is poverty cuisine, then I'll be happy to be poor. Not your meal if you need to avoid cholesterol but tasty and filling.

I took a room at the Hotel Fuente. It was in the attic, rather basic with a low ceiling. In retrospect I should have proceeded to Pucón, but I was less spontaneous in those days.

Villarrica is on the shore of the eponymous lake and the shore comprises brown sand and pebbles. A Chilean was talking to some USAns in English as he pulled his boat out of the water. Luckily for him it was fresh water. Turned out he had lived in Miami.

Villarrica was a tourist resort with a couple of streets and not much else. It seemed that Café-Bar 2001 was the place to hang out. Not much was happening because it was still out of season, though I heard some disco music in the vicinity that night.