I'd smoke it anyway. For spite, for sass.

La hija del Tigre, la gordita fantastica, la primera Presidente perra, the Glorious Michele Bachelet (Bachelette, not Bachelay) doesn't want you to smoke. Neither does the city of Santiago.

Gone are the times of smoking in the change room while trying on under-priced Dior suits (they brought me a silver ashtray.) Gone are the times of the acrid miasma, flavourfully saturating pastries in cafes. Gone are the infant lungs filling with second-hand diet-juice.

I suppose it's for the best. However, it feels like this country just got a little less exotic, and a little more Yoga-latte North-Americanized. At least they have clever anti-smoking campaigns. Walking down the busy streets of neighbourhoods such as Providencia, Las Condes, Ñuñoa, even La Reina, you find fake cigarettes lying on the pavement. Pick it up, and you're confronted with this passive-agressive, surprisingly effective guilt-trip thrown in your face, which would make even the WASPiest of Chianti-soaked mothers proud.



It reads: Urban action in direct marketing, without databases. Pick up the smoke off the ground, you little street-rat, unroll it, and it says "It seems you not only need a cigarette, but also help." Burn.