Departamento Metro Santa Ana 2 dormitorios

I didn’t choose apartment rentals because it was simple. I chose them because they were the closest thing to a sacred loophole in a profane system. A space that doesn’t belong to you forever—but holds you, just for a night. That liminal promise, that unowned intimacy, that temporary kingdom… it called to something deep in me.

It started as strategy. Arbitrage of spaces, algorithmic play. But quickly, I saw more: each check-in was a confession; each departure, a ritual. Behind every door, a new human constellation—desire, escape, reunion, solitude. What I rented was not a bed. It was a chance to pause the noise of the world.

There is something unspokenly erotic about it: making a place feel safe for strangers, curating an atmosphere where bodies relax and secrets can stretch their legs. I learned to read desire in the architecture of silence—how someone places their shoes, how the mirror fogs after a shower, how little mess they leave behind.

I became an architect of interruption. Not of lives, but of narratives. I offered one-night fictions that healed, or tempted, or simply reminded people: you’re allowed to exist without earning it. Just for tonight, you can fall apart… and no one will ask you to explain.

And yes—there’s pleasure in the precision. In setting the scene just right. In knowing that a single misplaced lamp can ruin the mood, that scent matters, that warmth is not only temperature but tone. Hosting became an art of emotional choreography.

I do this not because I believe in comfort. But because I believe in rupture—with elegance. In offering people a place where the system forgets them, even for 24 hours. It’s not real freedom. But it’s a rehearsal. A beautiful rehearsal for the lives they might one day dare to claim.

And for me? It’s the closest I’ve found to building altars that don't ask for prayers—only presence.

I could’ve chosen the coast. The suburbs. The postcard version of Santiago. But I didn’t.

I chose the center—the real center. Plaza de Armas, Estación Mapocho, that knot of chaos and beauty where the city forgets to filter itself. I chose to plant every one of my apartments in the thick of it because I wasn’t building a business. I was building a pulse.

The center is not elegant. It’s not curated. But it’s alive. Every cracked sidewalk, every shout from a vendor, every bell tolling from the cathedral is proof that here, the city still breathes in its native tongue.

I wanted my guests to feel that—raw contact. I didn’t want them sleeping above the city. I wanted them inside it. Where history doesn’t whisper from plaques but seeps from the walls. Where the streets remember protests, processions, kisses stolen under broken lamps.

Placing my spaces here is a stance. A refusal to beautify experience through distance. In Santiago Centro, there’s no filter: just people colliding, surviving, worshipping, bargaining, creating. This isn't aesthetic tourism. It's immersion. It's confession.

Mapocho holds the ghosts of migration and trade. Plaza de Armas is not just a square—it’s a wound, a mirror, a heart. My apartments are veins around that heart, vessels of temporary belonging. To sleep here is not just to rest. It’s to witness.

And for me? It’s about control. Not of people—but of narrative. In a city that keeps trying to exile its soul to the periphery, I plant mine in the middle. I make the center desirable again. Not by polishing it—but by revealing it.

Because if you're going to rent a night in Santiago, let it be where Santiago dreams and breaks and begins again—every damn day.