"The people here have the best legs in Chile," a local tells me as we climb up a cobbled side street in Valparaiso. Founded in the 16th century, the port city, only an hour from the capital Santiago, was built around its bay and pastel-coloured, low-slung houses spread up its surrounding hillside. The uphill walks are supposedly good for the gams. "I'm wearing jeans today because I don't want to show off."

It's an unseasonably warm, bright day in April when I visit. Scaffolding and braces on a few government buildings are the only obvious reminders of the earthquake that struck the country in February--the Chileans most severely affected are found in the southern half of this skinny strip of a country.

"I can't imagine anyone riding a bike here," I say, trying to catch my breath. From certain angles, the city is a dead ringer for San Francisco; in other places, I'm reminded of coastal Spain.

"We have cyclists," she says. "After all, every city has its crazy people."

Valparaiso had its hey-day in the 19th century, when it was the first prominent port for ships rounding South America at Cape Horn. Wealthy immigrants from Germany and England built lavish homes, employing local architects to work around the geographical limitations. Houses, made of stone and corrugated iron, are packed in the most unlikely dips between hillocks, "densifying" the urban core centuries before that word was coined.

Much of this wealth disappeared early in the 20th century after the Panama Canal allowed ships to bypass the city, but the homes remain. A two-storey flat built on a slope is revealed to be six stories from the bottom. Pie-shaped houses occupy the spaces between two forking streets.

The city is, in fact, built like an auditorium with Valparaiso Bay as the stage. (Also, at the sea-level foot of the city, is the country's National Congress and the city's main urban square, Plaza Sotomayor.) Everyone has a good view of the water, the local tells me, but everyone gets a view of their neighbours, which is why people here are reputedly so friendly and laid back.

According to Chilean national stereotypes, the people of Santiago are the brisk, business-minded types while the Valparaisians are the bohemian party animals. The city of 1.2 million, which is home to five universities, was named Chile's cultural capital in 2003--the same year it was named a World Heritage Site by UNESCO.

In spite of these lofty titles, "Valpo," as locals call it, doesn't feel like an antique piece. The city is still an important commercial hub, with cranes and shipping containers filling the bay like toys in a child's bathtub. Elaborate street graffiti is found in almost every public space. Locals only sniff at the spray-paint art when the artistic quality doesn't meet the standards set by the best taggers.

Because of Valparaiso's geography, visitors to the Chilean coast will need to go to the nearby resort town, Vina Del Mar, to find a chain hotel like the Sheraton. (Vina Del Mar, which has a casino and a beach, is the place to lay out or play slots.)

Instead, they have to stay at boutique guest quarters like Hotel Higueras, which was once a mansion built by a wealthy British banker in the 1920s. The hotel, with 30 cozy rooms, features a spa, café and a small swimming pool.

The cultural figure in Chile who casts the longest shadow, poet Pablo Neruda, spent much of 1948 in Valparaiso in hiding after the ardent communist ran afoul of the country's right-wing president, Gabriel González. Later on, he would keep a home in the city, La Sebastian--one of three houses owned by the 1971 Nobel Laureate that are now open as museums.

Neruda's house is closed the day we visit, so we end up going for lunch at Oda Pacifico, a seafood restaurant nearby. Looking for a Chilean dish I had yet to try, I point to Caldillo con Congrio on my menu.

After sampling an appetizer with very fresh pieces of tuna, shrimp and octopus served in olive oil and salsa, my dish arrives. Like most Chilean soups, it's a thin broth with big pieces of meat--in this case, conger fish.

One of my lunch companions laughs and says something to an English-speaking friend, who tells me Neruda once composed an "Ode to Conger Chowder."

"In the chowder/are warmed/the essences of Chile," Neruda wrote, "and to the table/come, newly wed the savors/of land and sea,/ that in this dish/you may know heaven."

I can't admit I tasted heaven in my Caldillo con Congrio. But in Valparaiso, I find a place where an artist might feel as though they've seen paradise.

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