If you’ve ever walked the chaotic cobblestone streets of Santiago at 6 PM, you’ve experienced the city not with your eyes, but with your entire body. It’s an orchestra of honking collectivos, street vendors yelling prices for avocados so ripe they practically demand guacamole on the spot, and the occasional out-of-tune guitar attempting to charm metro commuters into spare coins. Santiago isn’t subtle—it’s all-in, overwhelming, unapologetic. And to be honest, it taught me how to love.

No, I’m not here to romanticize the smog or pretend I didn’t silently curse the infamous Transantiago bus schedule more often than I’d like to admit. But I will say this: Santiago gave me the blueprint for how to navigate relationships by first forcing me to wrestle with myself.

A City of Firsts

I fell in love for the first time on a Santiago balcony, cheap red wine swirling in mismatched mugs, the Andes looking over us like disapproving chaperones. I was 19, foolishly poetic and completely unaware of what heartbreak can do to a person. My barely-boyfriend recited Pablo Neruda like he’d discovered the words himself, quoting “Love is so short, forgetting is so long” with Emilio Estevez-level intensity. I thought it was magic.

It was magic—until it wasn’t. One week later, I found that same Neruda-slinging boyfriend swiping lipstick off the cheek of a classmate so glamorous she could’ve starred in a telenovela. Heartbroken in the most melodramatic teenage way possible, I stomped through Bellavista that night, tears staining the same cobblestones I praised earlier. In a city full of stories, mine felt utterly cliche.

But Santiago doesn’t give you time to wallow for long. Life in the capital constantly moves—whether it’s a chaotic outdoor protest chanting for equality or a Saturday market buzzing with merchants and flirtation. Santiago sits you down, pours you a mote con huesillo, and says, “Well? What now?”

Chaos as a Lesson in Patience

Santiago is not an easy city. It doesn’t cater to you like, say, Madrid with its impeccably timed siestas or neatly pruned parks. Santiago will test your patience, much like a person learning to love themselves mid-conversation.

I see so much of those lessons in my past relationships. Rodrigo, the theatre major who couldn’t commit to summer plans, much less future ones, mirrored the stop-and-go frustration of morning traffic along the Alameda. Then there was Valentina, my passionate yet permanently busy co-worker, whose demands for space unraveled me the way Santiago’s unpredictable weather does—scorching in the morning, raining by dinner. But in loving Santiago, and these people, I learned a truth that’s embarrassing in its simplicity: love isn’t choreography; it’s improvisation.

Forged in the Parks and Pasajes

Santiago’s parks were my escape when I needed to breathe between mistakes. Parque Forestal’s manicured lawn saw its fair share of tearful journal entries (yes, I was that person) and secret kisses shared under flowering jacarandas. In Quinta Normal, I discovered art museums with quiet corners made for soul-searching. These weren’t romantic moments—they were Carmen moments, and that was revelatory.

We don’t always need the metaphorical hand-holding of a partner by our side. It took wandering the streets alone—getting lost in colorful pasajes with pastel-colored walls and window plants spilling over onto the sidewalk—to figure out how to exist without needing someone else’s validation.

Honestly, I owe as much of my romance education to Santiago’s street dogs as I do its architecture. Before you judge me, let me explain. In Santiago, stray dogs are treated like furry street philosophers, living proof that you can survive chaos with a little sass and an instinct for who has snacks. There’s poetry in their resilience—poetry that taught me to be scrappy, to keep roaming when things got hard.

Santiago’s Love Advice (Whether You Ask for It or Not)

If this city could text you unsolicited dating advice after three glasses of wine, here’s what it would say:

  • “Be Comfortable With Rhythm Changes.” Relationships, like Santiago, have unpredictable tempo shifts. Sometimes you’re the one sipping coffee at Plaza Ñuñoa without a care; other times, it’s a full sprint to catch the last metro before curfew. Adjust accordingly.

  • “Quit Waiting for Perfect Timing.” Santiago’s never perfectly ready for anything—a concert at La Piojera starts late, the empanada at your favorite stall might be sold out, or it rains when it was supposed to be sunny. But messy timing doesn’t diminish the flavor of the experience. Waiting for “ideal” doesn’t mean better; it means stuck.

  • “Passion Looks Different Every Day.” One day it’s a tango danced in a smoky Bellavista bar, the next it’s arguing over who ate all the marraqueta. Santiago showed me that passion isn’t always grand gestures; sometimes it’s showing up when it feels least poetic.

  • “Know When to Walk Away.” Just like your attachment to overpriced Starbucks in Providencia pales next to a mom-and-pop café's cortado, some things aren’t worth clinging to. Santiago taught me how to leave behind people and situations that no longer served me. (And yes, that includes the salsa teacher who ghosted me after two lessons).

The Love Story That Stays

What Santiago gave me, more than heartbreak or fleeting infatuations, was practice. Practicing self-awareness when I wanted to blame others. Practicing walking away from people who weren’t ready to show up. Practicing finding joy in small things—like the perfect sopaipilla from a hole-in-the-wall cart or a bookstore tucked behind the chaos of Lastarria.

Santiago prepared me for Madrid, Buenos Aires, and even Mexico City. More importantly, it prepared me for the nuance of real relationships. Have I managed to love perfectly? Absolutely not. But then again, Santiago isn’t perfect either—and that’s its magic.

If you ever visit, give it time. Let the traffic noise become comforting background music. Sit on a park bench and let susurrations of Spanish drift into your thoughts. Santiago will teach you about love, even if you weren't expecting it. And if you’re anything like me, you’ll leave with a softer heart and absolutely no patience for bad wine.