The snail buildings of Santiago

I’m in Chile, walking through Santiago’s General Cemetery. Three days in, it’s Monday, quiet. Light pushing everything, stones over-exposed. I was cold when I got here but now I’m carrying my hoodie in my arms and rationing water because I’m not sure how to get back out. Two eyes with no brain behind them. It’s not culture shock but it’s something, like seeing your own face mirrored. I’ve only ever known cemeteries to exist below me. Bodies pressed down under huge skies. Headstones up to thighs, hips, or knocked out flat in a storm and just never picked back up. But this place is a city. I find streets of mausoleums like houses. Family names engraved hard over front doors. Rows of tombs like personal churches. Overgrown and silent except for trees loud with bright green birds. I’m not feeling myself, and I don’t have knickers for tomorrow. British Airways didn’t bring a single suitcase on the 14 hour flight, and it’s like — I’m here for the first time, speaking a borrowed language in…