Painted Walls and Poetic Streets — Getting Lost in Valparaíso

I didn’t come to Valparaíso with a plan. It was never on my itinerary.

A local in Santiago had told me, “Go to Valpo. It’s messy, but it sings.” That’s all it took. The next morning, I boarded a rattling bus toward the coast, chasing a song I hadn’t heard yet.

Two hours later, I found myself standing in front of a city that looked like it had been splashed with paint by a rebellious artist and forgotten by time. Valparaíso is not pretty in the traditional sense. It’s raw. Gritty. Uneven. But my God, is it alive.

Colors That Speak, Streets That Sing

Buildings in faded pastels leaned against each other like tired friends. Narrow stairways climbed steep hills, turning into open-air galleries with every step. Graffiti wasn’t vandalism here—it was conversation, emotion, resistance. Every wall had something to say.

And in between the colours and cracks, I could hear it—the city’s hum. Not a sound exactly, but a pulse. Like an old man telling stories on a windy pier. Like a poet who writes in sighs.

I checked into a modest guesthouse run by a woman named Teresa. She had wild curly hair and a laugh that filled the room. “Valpo doesn’t ask for love,” she told me. “It demands it.” Then she handed me a hand-drawn map with scribbles and arrows: her version of the city.

Forget Google Maps. This was how you see Valparaíso—by getting lost in its layers.

I wandered through Cerro Alegre and Cerro Concepción, the city’s most iconic hills, where cafes clung to cliffs and stray dogs walked beside you like old companions. One wall had a mural of a woman with galaxies in her eyes. Another had the words “Nos quitaron tanto, que acabaron quitándonos el miedo.” (They took so much from us, they ended up taking our fear.)

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Every few streets, I’d pause and just… stare. At the view. At the art. People were dancing in the street for no reason other than the sun was out. I hadn’t felt this present in months.

Discovering the Soul of Valparaíso

Later, I found my way to the home of Pablo Neruda—La Sebastiana. Perched high above the bay, his house was as strange and beautiful as his poetry. Narrow staircases, uneven floors, ship-like windows overlooking the sea. I stood there, alone in his study, imagining the weight of words written here. You could almost hear him whispering through the walls.

“I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

Suddenly, Valparaíso wasn’t just a city. It was a verse. A long, winding poem written on hills and hearts.

That night, I joined a street gathering. Locals, travellers, musicians, drunk poets—all circled a guitarist playing folk tunes beneath flickering streetlamps. Someone passed around wine in a reused Coke bottle. Someone else lit a fire in a tin can. We sang songs I didn’t know, but sang anyway.

I remember leaning back, feeling the cobblestones beneath me, the night air on my face, and thinking—this is the kind of freedom no itinerary can offer.

Travel, I realised, is not always about beauty. Sometimes it’s about rhythm.

Valparaíso doesn’t try to impress you. It just invites you in, messy and loud and unapologetically human. And if you’re lucky, it changes how you look at imperfection—not as something to fix, but as something that breathes.

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The next morning, I took the creaky funicular up to one of the oldest neighbourhoods. From the top, the city unfolded like a carnival—clotheslines stretched across windows, birds circling the docks, fishermen shouting in Spanish, the sea glittering like a spilled secret.

I didn’t take many photos. It felt too sacred for that. Some places are better kept in your memory, unfiltered, untamed.

As I packed my bag to leave, Teresa smiled at me and said, “So? Did you fall in love?”

I nodded. “But not the postcard kind.”

She laughed, “Good. That kind never lasts.”

Valparaíso isn’t for everyone. But if you like your cities a little wild, your days a little unscripted, and your walls covered in truth, then maybe—just maybe—you’ll find a piece of yourself on those crooked streets.