The Impossible Bill: A Week in Portillo for $100 | Skiing Chile

That winter, we decided to treat ourselves to something special. My girlfriend at the time and I—we were living together in Argentina—went to Portillo for a full week. we stayed at the hotel as regular guests: room reserved, everything by the book. No invitations, no special arrangements. At least, that’s what I thought.

I already had a history with that hotel. A long one. Since I was a child. The first time I stayed there, I must have been about eight years old. It was New Year's Eve. My family was accompanying someone who had to spend the holidays in Portillo, and since we didn’t celebrate, it didn't matter to us where we were. I went back many times after that. At eleven, twelve, thirteen. Portillo was part of my formation as a skier and, without knowing it then, as a person.

But that week was different.

In Argentina, something truly tragic was happening. I won’t get into it now, but those who were in Portillo that week—sharing tables, the bar, and conversations—will remember it perfectly. The contrast was surreal: outside, a national tragedy; inside, a bubble of snow, skiing, and camaraderie.

My girlfriend didn't ski. On the first morning, I taught her the basics: how to step into the bindings, how to glide, how to stop, and how to let go of the fear. Later, she took lessons at the ski school and, to my surprise, ended up skiing confidently and smoothly, really enjoying herself. She found her own rhythm: the spa, the pool, long walks, and rest. Portillo allows for that.

I, however, did not.

I was the one opening and closing the runs. From the moment the lifts started turning until five in the afternoon, when the Ski Patrol began their final sweep. We had the timing down to a science. We knew exactly which was the last possible chair to catch so we wouldn't get stranded. Sometimes we’d descend with the patrol practically right behind us. It was almost a mission.

That week, I dedicated myself to skiing like I did when I was a kid. To skiing hard. To skiing well. To perfecting my technique. I went back to something I had done since my early years: following the U.S. Women’s Olympic Team. Literally. I’d watch them, observing how they set their edges, how they balanced through the apex of the turn, how the movement flowed. I’d copy. Learn. Polish.

The runs that used to command such respect were now familiar ground. I skied Garganta del Diablo with style, taking my time. The "Escuela" runs felt too small. I finished each day exhausted, but with that good, deep fatigue that only a full day on the mountain can give you.

The nights were a different story. Portillo has something few other resorts have: true community. In the bar, languages, ages, and stories all blend together. We met people from everywhere. The late-night conversations were memorable. Then, the hotel’s modest disco, where we’d dance and have a blast. I don't drink alcohol, but I was happy to keep company with those having a beer or a Tom Collins. The atmosphere did the rest.

Honestly, it was a perfect week.

Finally, the day came to depart. We went down to the front desk to settle the bill. I had a number in my head. I don’t remember exactly how much, but something like 300, 400, or 500 dollars per person for the week. It was expensive, yes, but it was worth it.

In the lobby, I heard someone say: —"Don Henry, here he is..."

That’s when I knew something was wrong. Or rather, too right.

Don Henry. Henry Purcell.

I didn't know him well as an adult. But he had known me since I was about twelve. Long before.

Our relationship had started in the simplest yet strangest way. One day, in a common area, he asked me if I liked to read. Back then, I devoured books. I named them all—the local classics, Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn. He looked at me and said: —"When I was a boy, I read Tom Sawyer, too."

He asked if I skied. I told him I did. And then he proposed we go out and ski together sometime. He said he had always wanted to get into some mischief like Tom Sawyer, but he had never found his Huckleberry Finn. And that maybe I could be him.

He asked my mother for permission. She gladly accepted.

He was an incredible skier. And the "mischief" we got into—if you can even call it that—was skiing slalom through the surface lifts, those platter pulls that tug you up. We’d chute straight down, weaving between the people going up. He told me never to do it again, that they’d kick me out. We did it a couple more times anyway.

After that, every time we crossed paths, it was hall chats and brief, always kind conversations. Later on, my family even had business ties with him.

Back to the bill.

The staff told me: —"Everything is ready. Don Henry gave you a small discount." —"Perfect," I thought, "a little less to pay." —"It’s 100 dollars." —"Per day?" I asked. —"No. Total."

I thought it was a joke. I asked them, please, not to do that. That it wasn't right. That I couldn't accept it.

It was no use.

A full week at Hotel Portillo. Two people. 100 dollars.

I walked out of there with a mix of gratitude, humility, and emotion that stays with me to this day. It wasn't a discount. It was a gesture. A massive, silent, elegant gesture. The kind you never forget.

Many years have passed since then. But every time I think of Portillo, of that week, of that impossible bill, I think of Henry.

You are missed, Henry.