Farwells and Fur Walls

We gringos just had our last she-bang, carrete, shin-dig, fiesta, blow-out, whatever you want to call it, we did it.

I am writing this at 6:30 A.M., and words fail me.
Or perhaps my brain is failing me.
Or maybe the Spanish has finally squeezed out all the English skillz from my cerebro.

But that won't stop me from trying to express what's about to come.

As I sit here, the sun rising behind me, my ears pounding, my clothes reeking of bar, and my breakfast waiting in the wings, I could not be more thankful for mis amigos, mis experiencias, o mi vida. Those were some fuerte goodbyes we just gave, but the friendships are todavía más fuertes.

But I will try not to dwell on the mushy stuff.

I love you all very much. And you know it.

So.

Allow me to describe the scene of our farewell.

Primero, as I was riding the bus last night, I counted at least twelve people cracking open beers as we tooled along in public transit.

I took this to be a good omen. And it was.

So we met at the firestation to kick off the party. Yes, the firestation. Through friends of Chilean friends of Chilean firemen, over the semester we became good buddies with the men of the First Company of Firemen of Santiago.

FYI, these bros really know how to get down. If it's four in the morning, these sonofaguns are just getting started, pleading for the sleepyheaded gringos to keep the spirit alive and shoving drinks in hands like it was their job.

But seriously, they do have a job to do, as we found out last night. We were so used to hanging around with the firemen, we forgot they actually fight fires. At the beginning of the night, two of our friends had to scramble from the station to answer a call; a building down the street was in flames. Meanwhile, we gringos were setting up camp in the hang-out room of the station, playing pool, chatting it up, and starting to realize that this would be our last night all together.

Now this firestation. Consider it more of a frat house. A very nice one. Very clean (Did I just negate my first comparison?). Anyway, this place has bunk beds and video games and pool tables and a schnazzy bar. And so we partied.

From this firestation, the brave-hearted proceeded to a club (less than a block away).

Now this club. It's called El Tunel (The Tunnel), and it was a former strip joint. The walls are covered in fur. Dwell on that for a moment.

Many stripper-poles still remain for those so possessed by the demon water as to need to self-exorcise (exercise, also).

The music was funktastic. Think "Jungle Boogie" and "Robot Rock."

The scene was a little Shady-McGrady, with oodles of ogling chileno-bros, who looked as if they half-expected El Tunel to still be a strip club instead of a regular club.

Regardless of the creepy drullets that seemed to be lurking closely behind us every time I turned my head to pull off another stylish dance more, I had the time of mi vida, dancing, grooving, boogieing, and saying all those things you say in a farewell that you have been meaning to say for a long time.

After a wonderful night in El Tunel, I saw the sun come up this morning, over the mountains whose faces I feel like I know as well as my own, from the 25th floor of an apartment, from the right side of the clock.

I live a blessed life.

Thanks for the love, the friendship, the adventures, the laughter, the support, the readership, the everything.

This experience has truly changed me. So thanks be unto you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, aaannnddd you.

And now, I guess I will stop delaying the inevitable.

This is my final post from Chile. I promise to continue blogging about the reverse-culture shock/about the holidays/about random adventures/about Crunkle Mike/etc.

Ya me voy, y a Chile, te echo de menos ya.
No es adiós para siempre.
Volveré.

And to the gringos, expect to come around the corner of your abode one fine morning and see a redhead drooling on your couch cushions. 'Cause I'm coming for a visit!

Whoowhee!!!

Haiku

Now I need to pack.

For real.

In the meantime, enjoy this haiku inspired by the Chilean affinity for adding eggs to every dish, showcased in last night's dinner (lump o' mush with corn bits, topped with an egg, sunny-side-up):

Throw an egg on top.
Fried or hard-boiled: call it done.
Chilean dinner.

Packing

This morning I awoke from a nightmare.

A "packing" nightmare.

In the dream, I was late for my flight, and I was careening down the street, loose socks trailing behind me, strapped down with more weight than a Mexican mule on moving day.

I had waited until the last possible second to pack my suitcase.

I suppose my subconscious is telling me to get to work.

And so I will blog.

As I survey the contents of my room, I realize my stuff has multiplied like a room full of fourth graders studying for a math quiz.

And yet my luggage remains unchanged.

Although I can fit into my own suitcase (Yes, I tried. In the name of scientific discovery. And curiosity. I had to know, ok? What if I needed to be smuggled home?), it still looks painfully small in comparison with all the things I am about to shove into it.

I guess this is problem to be solved logically and spatially:
Cram what you can, and when all else fails, cut your pants into shorts.

Oh yeah, and watch this video of the great philosopher Mr. Bean as he packs his suitcase.

Moving Pictures

I have now seen my first Chilean flim: Post Mortem.

It was... strange.

But good.

And it was in Spanish.

Thank goodness it was one of those modern films that has five-minute scenes dedicated to silence, broken only by the sound of an egg frying or some other mundane thing.

So I understood most of it.

The lead role had a haircut like John Paul Jones at his finest. Or Prince Valient.

There were gratiutious sex scenes, albiet the awkward kind.

The plot took place right around the time of the rise of the dictatorship. The lead with the tragic haircut participated in the autopsy of Salvador Allende.

The film was impresionante, especially because the theater was full of older citizens who likely lived through the time of chaos portrayed on the big screen.

It ended with a ten-minute single shot of the lead stacking chairs against a door.

I left feeling confused.

The movie was distinctly Chilean: less-than-sexy actors, depressing ending, bland food prominently featured, and ridiculous amounts of Chilean slang.

Needless to say, I enjoyed it.

And I recommend seeing it for yourself; it was the only Chilean movie playing in the theater. The rest were Disney knock-offs or dubbed-versions of Harry Potter #7.

This feels like the end of a Reading Rainbow segment, where the kids tell you a bit about the book, then they say something like "But don't take my word for it. See for yourself!"

But seriously. Lamar Burton aside, "See for yourself!"

Learning

My semester abroad is drawing to a close - approximately five days until I fly out of Santiago.

What have I learned? Lots.

What do I have yet to learn? Lots more.

Algunos ejemplos.

I am still a complete dunce at the metric system.

• Is a liter of beer equivalent to a 40?
  
• Are we really suppoesd to be travelling down this road at 100 km/h?


• I am two kilometers away from school; three minutes until class starts; will I make it?

I don't know what I am eating 79% of the time.

• ¿Cómo se dice "mush" en español?


• Does mayonnaise really belong here?


• What's the word for "goat" again?

I still get lost on the bus system.

• The 427 goes right by my apartment, right?


• Or was it the 421...?


• Crap! This is not the road I wanted to turn down! Hey Bus-Driver, can we pull over?!
  

Things I have learned?

• To cross a busy street, follow the lead of the stray dogs because they know when start walking, otherwise they would be dead dogs.


• Avoid the completo.


• "Sin mayonesa" or "without mayonnaise" is a useful phrase.


• The Simpsons are shown at 7 p.m.


• The metro is faster, but the bus is more fun (fun in the way of a rickety carnie-ride at the country fair).


• The omnipresent voice of the metro is saying, "The doors are now closing."


• During mass, Catholic priests are hard to understand, even for native speakers.


• Avocados can be sliced with house keys.


• Don't look too interested in anything a street vendor is vending, lest you want to be wrangled into buying it.


• When you don't know what is going on in a conversation, smiling and nodding is the safest bet.


• If you mention that you are sick to a chileno, they will launch into a dissertation about home remedies.


• Kissing on the cheek is a must.


• Chileans dress drably; to fit in, dress like you are attending a funeral. Every day.


• The food can be as bland as a chileno's outfit; for a country shaped like a chile pepper, this nation certainly detests spiciness.


• Chileans will give you directions, even if they don't know how to get there. Beware.


• The only way to become really intimate with a city is to get lost. A lot. I have. And I do.

That's all for now.

I will continue posting about life in Santiago in the following days.

Today I was just feeling pensive.

And now I am off to learn some more!

More Kissing

And now, to reflect upon another, more palatable, family-friendly type of kissing: the cheek-greet.

Before I journeyed to this land, handshakes were my default "Hihowareya, mynameisHannah."

Pero ahora, I greet with a kiss on the right cheek.

At first, I found this incredibly awkward.

Should I kiss everyone?
Which cheek do I kiss again?
Does my breath smell?
Should I make the kissy noise?
Where do my arms go?
Does this person have the swine flu?
What are my odds of incubating a contagious disease?

My most awkward cheek-greets?

A mouth full of kiwi at the breakfast table

Missing the cheek and performing an "air-kiss"

Kissing an extremely short host parent on the eye

Now that we are in December, this form of greeting has become second-nature.
Of course I am going to kiss everyone I meet on the cheek.
And I will kiss everyone on the cheek as I leave, too.

Sometimes the cheek-greet does get cumbersome or time-consuming or over-whelming.

"Great. I just walked into a room of 40 strangers.

Now I have to introduce myself 40 times and kiss 40 cheeks.

By the time I am done with those tasks, I should be leaving.

So I turn around and re-kiss and say goodbye."

But overall, I really enjoy this custom.
It is more intimate than a handshake.
It makes me introduce myself to everyone.
And in turn, I think it builds a special kind of camaraderie.
The blanket, sterile statements "Hello everyone! and "Goodbye all!" just won't cut it anymore.

I should also mention that there are different greeting between the sexes.
Women always kiss women.
Men always kiss women.
Men shake men's hands.
Unless those men are very close, in which case they fully engage in the bro-kiss.
(The latter is my favorite, especially if both men have mullets)

...

Revelation: maybe the x-rated Chilean couples think it is okely dokely for them to kiss in public because everyone around here participates in the cheek-greet!

I am here to put a stop to that false assumption.

P.D.A.

This afternoon in the park at Los Dominocos, as Ceci and I were spectating a vigorous futbol game amongst gringos, she had a lucid moment about the general state of Santiago.

"This is America, only with a few more fruit stands and parks."

And in some ways, it's true.

Lamentably, you can still find a McDonald's cheesburger in Santiago. It may go by the alias "McFiesta," but they ain't foolin' nobody. McDonald's is not Chile, even if you slap a Spanish word onto the processed slab of death.

Starbuck's, Coca-Cola, Nestle, etc. Obviously, other industrious gringos have long since invaded this place, before we gringos were even a thought. Guess that's globalization for you.

But.

I would like to return to Ceci's original statement: "This is America, only with a few more fruit stands and parks."

I would like to return, in particular, to the parks of Chile.

Around here, every square inch of grass is occupied by canoodling, kissing, slobbering, groping young couples.

And even if (North) America has significant city green-space, it certainly does not have that Chilean element of P.D.A.

In Santiago at any given moment, in any given park, there will be at least twenty couples sprawled on the grass, attempting a public rendition of the horizontal polka.

For someone who likes to play frisbee, such as myself, it can be awkward to break up the face-sucking for a retrieval.

I have heard several theories as to why these couples cannot "just get a room, already."

1) They cannot "get a room," because the majority of them still live in a room under the roof of their somewhat conservative Catholic parents, and they will probably continue to live with their parents until they get hitched. Apparently it's not uncommon to live with your family well-into your twenties and even into your thirties.
2) They come from conservative families, so they publically express their physical love as an act of rebellion.
3) They are making up for the years of sexual frustration suffered under the dictatorship. How noble of them.

As if their invasion of every park in Santiago was not enough to satisfy their cravings for a good ol-fashioned game of tonsil hockey, these couples also make-out on the metro, on the bus, in the street, in hallways, in elevators, in libraries, and anywhere else even remotely public.

It's unnerving. And I would by no means label myself as a prude.

But seriously?

Por ejemplo:
We are waiting for the bus.
It's 7:30 a.m.
Your boyfriend has a gnarly mullet.
Amiga, is now really the time for foreplay?
And is this bus stop really the place?

Otro ejemplo:
The McDonald's McFiesta eaten by a young woman;
the Nikes on the feet of her lover;
the Orbitz gum they pop in their mouths:
these brands are not Chile.

But the act in which these consumers are about to participate?
P.D.A?
Distinctly Chile.

The Kinfolk Come to Chile

My triumphant return to blogging, after a ten-day(ish) hiatus:
I was lucky enough to have my mom, Joy, and my sister, Michelle, visit me for a week in Chile.

First, we spent the weekend in La Serena, about seven hours north of Santiago.

Michelle saw a Port-O-Potty on stilts through her window on the bus ride to our first destination.

This would bode well for our trip.

Highlights of La Serena:

Tio and Abuela - loving hostel owners, fond of taking conversational hostages, who fudged our reservation, then let two of us sleep in Abuela's back-bedroom.

Dog fight - in the middle of the sidewalk, after I had just finished explaining how safe and friendly all the dogs of Chile were.

Beach - mountains and sea, white sand beach and giant sand fleas.

Skinny-dipper - a drunk, eye-patched Chilean streaking across the beach, bathing; when he was done, he put on some shorts and came to apologize for his vulgarity, explaining in muddled Spanish, "I always bathe like this... I live a few blocks away... I have sickness in my eye... I am miner... I have sickness in my eye... So sorry!"

Fish - dee-licious; found at little hole-in-the-wall pub; we sat in the middle of thirty hollering chilenos, watching a major futgol game, and we shared a table with an old lady taking her tea; we found the place at the tip of a local, who delighted in the idea of showing some gringas around his town.

We also took a day-trip to Vicuna and Valle de Elqui.

Highlights:

Climbing the neighborhood look-out hill - seeing the brilliant contrast between the arid, brown mountains and the verdant rows of first-spring-green grapevines.

Lunch at the swankiest place in town - typical Chilean food, which includes finding a raisin, an olive, a whole chicken-leg, a wad of beef, and a hard-boiled egg in a mound of mashed potatoes; surprise!

Pisco-sours - Mom and Michelle had their first tastes of the famous Chilean drink, right in the valley where the majority of Chilean pisco is made.

After a relaxing weekend in La Serena, we boarded the bus back to Santiago.

It would have been smooth sailing, had the worst-bus-seat-partner in the history of bus-seat-partnering not sat down by Michelle. Let's just say that between Michelle and this bohemoth, there was some invasion of seat-privacy, in which a baby diaper was changed and breast-feeding became a full-contact sport.

Finally, we arrived in the big city, tired, stiff, and uncomfortable in more ways than one.

We found our hostel, La Casa Roja, which turned out to be the best hostel in which I have ever stayed. High ceilings, plenty of squishy sofas, courtyards, concrete pond (swimmin' pool, for all you Yankees out there), scrambled eggs for breakfast, and hot water. We were walking in high cotton.

In the big city, I took them to most of the obligatory gringo-tourist hang-outs. We went shopping in various markets, strolled through some parks, ate delicious ice cream, visited the musuem of visual art (which included a few exhibits that looked like someone had accidentally left out their power tools after they got off work), explored the endlessness of the General Cemetery of Santiago, and rode a funicular to the top of Cerro San Cristobal in order to see the entirety of the sprawling city.

In a day-trip adventure away from the city, we bussed over to Isla Negra to visit the house of Pablo Neruda. Of course our visit was fabulous; how can one not love a homeowner who builds rooms for his knick-knacks, throws a party for a horse made of paper-mache and wood, and owns a narwhal horn?! After our tour, we had a lovely dinner, seaside, with great seafood. I had the eel soup, to which Neruda himself once wrote an ode. I was feeling quite inspired after that dinner. But maybe that was just gas...

Aside from our sight-seeing, we visited my host family. We had planned for a quick meeting, but once my host mom brought out the tray of ice cream, we knew we were in it for the long haul. Mostly, our conversation was a blur to me. I can only imagine what Michelle and Mom were going through! But as the only bilingual speaker in the room, I had a lot of translating to do. I could barely translate one sentence to Mom and Michelle before my host mom launched into another one. Confusion ensued, but it was amazing to see the melding of two families.

Another exciting occurrence? I attended my first concert in Santiago with Michelle: Hot Chip!
We were surrounded by hipster chilenos (yes, hipsterism has migrated below the equator), most of whom probably had no idea what the lead was singing about. No matter. We were all grooving, no le importa our nationality. The funky stuff needs no translation.

During this week of family-lovin, we also celebrated my 21st birthday, "in a land that does not care," as I have been reminded over and over again. It was so great to have family and friends, gringos and chilenos, to kick-off the commencement of my next year of life.

Oh yeah, and we celebrated Thanksgiving, too!

Although, Thanksgiving can everyday, really.
I am still giving thanks for Mom and Michelle's grand adventure to Chile.
It may have been harder than I had expected; translating/ordering food for everyone/arranging transportation/planning events/still going to classes can be a little much. I kind of felt like a mother, especially when Michelle and Mom were passed out, drooling like toddlers on the bus, acting almost completely nonverbal with Spanish-speaking strangers.
But it was well worth it. Vale la pena. After all, I needed the real-life practice.

Por fin, I am glad to have shared a slice of my Chilean life with the two most important ladies in mi vida.

Thanks, Mom and Michelle, for venturing waaay down south.
Chile misses you already!
(Read: I miss you already!)

Fútbol

" Say, Chile, how about we just give up this soccer thing and start three-legged racing professionally? Look at us, we're naturals!"

"Fat chance, Uruguay. I am going to need both my legs to kick your butt."

(SPOILER ALERT: CHILE WINS 2-0! VIVA CHILE!)

Last night I attended my first Chilean soccer game, Chile vs. Uruguay.

What a blog-worthy experience.

Starting about three blocks outside of the stadium, people were vending everything from flags to jerseys to ferocious-looking sausages loaded into shopping carts.

The stadium itself was jam-packed with chilenos, clad in said jerseys, their bellies likely stuffed with those suspicious slabs of meat.

Once you passed through the gates, the hollering never stopped. I did not always know exactly what everyone was yelling, but I knew it was profane. And it was coming from the throats of 45,000 red-blooded chilenos.

Then again, how could you not cheer when your nation is battling another nation on astroturf?

It's like the Olympics, only way more often, with far more rivalry, and with way less figure-skating.

However, the security at the game was tight.

Seriously.

I bought a ticket after most of the gringos bought theirs, and so I wound up with a different section. I was thinking switching sections would be no big deal. I would just pop over to the other side of the stadium and camp out...

Wrong.

The sections were divided with fences and barbed wire. And police officers.

So I was carried into the stadium upon the crest of a wave of chilenos, completely alone.

But not really alone at all, as I was surrounded by 44,999 other people.

At first, I was quite worried.

"Me? Alone at a Chilean soccer game? This is like Where's Waldo: Gringo Edition! I hope I live to blog about this..."

But once I was swimming in the sea of red, cheering Chi-Chi-Chi, Le-Le-Le, VIVA CHILE!, I caught the contagious excitement.

Apparently others in my section were excited, too, because they set off heavy-duty, fire-spewing sparklers after Chile scored the first goal.

But the police seemed unconcerned, so I followed suit and enjoyed the spirit of the game.

My first Chilean soccer experience was a success; first and foremost, Chile won.

But second, and perpaps more importantly, I found myself in the unlikeliest

of places, in the middle of thousands of screaming, mulletted, red-jerseyed ruffians, wearing a bandana and a purple-fringe purse, feeling more out of place than ever, and yet, at the same time, feeling like a part of something beautiful and strange and right.

GOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!

(Translation: Goal!)

URGENT TELEGRAM

HOST MOM.
SHORT SLEEVES.
ABOVE-THE-KNEE-DRESS.

NOTHING CERTAIN ANYMORE.

On This Day in Chilean History

Special Evening Edition! - This Just In! - Breaking News!

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Today is a monumental day in Chilean history.
For me at least.

First, my host dad is wearing shorts.
Yes, shorts.

At dinner tonight, I nearly choked on my cabbage when I saw him be-bopping to the table in a jaunty pair of above-the-knee khakis.

My host mom remains zipped up in a down vest.
But hey, who knows what tomorrow could bring.

Perhaps a breezy blouse for ol' Maribel?
...That's probably expecting too much.

Maybe a sweater without fleece.
Maybe.

Second, on my plate tonight, there was something that looked susiciously (and tasted deliciously) like a hashbrown.
Yes, a hashbrown.

So, I did as any other self-respecting Georgia-peach would: I put a tomato on top of my hashbrown and pretended like I was at the Waffle House.

Except my host mom's name is not Flo.
And I am fairly certain there was not a cig dangling from her mouth as she cooked dinner.

Otherwise, this hashbrown was the real Waffle House McCoy.
And so, I am reminded that this country can constantly surprise.

Shorts and hashbrowns?
Shorts and hashbrowns!

And tomorrow?
Sandals and un-aspartamed juice?!

Dream big, gringos. Dream big.

Chirimoya: Fruta de Los Cielos

In my room, a chirimoya ripens

(cherimoya, en ingles).

What is a chirimoya, you ask?
Or maybe you don't ask, but I am going to answer anyway.

If you didn't ask, now's your chance to navigate to YouTube and watch pro-wrestling clips.

For everyone else, the chirimoya is a fruit native to the valleys of Chile, Bolovia, Peru, Ecuador, and Colombia.
And it is quite difficult to describe.
When Mark Twain tried his first chirimoya, he declared it "the most delicious fruit known to men."
He's not far off there.

First, the appearance.
I think the chirimoya looks like a big booger some alien hawked up.
It is very irregularly shaped.
Others maintain it is shaped like a human heart.
Only it's bigger.
And greener.
And knobbier.
And furrier.
And the inside is white, with an abundance of black seeds.

Second, the texture.
I feel like I am writing a romance novel here, but the flesh is velvety.
And like an avocado, it is ripe when squishy and green-black.

Now, the taste.
The chirimoya is very distinct.
Think melt-in-your-mouth-sweet with slight twinge of acidity.

It has been described as:
pear-like,
apple-like,
banana-like,
pineapple-like,
papaya-like,
strawberry-like,
mango-like,
and ice-cream-like.
And yet, it is none of the above.

But it is delicious.

However, I find partaking in this fruit of the heavens to be a little difficult.
Unlike a pear or an apple, the skin of the chirimoya ain't good for munchin'.
Also, the radial axis is tricky to spot, so equilateral-slicing is a crapshoot.
Meanwhile, the seeds seem to be randomly distributed throughout the fruit.
Oh yeah, and those seeds are poisonous if eaten.

But the labor is worth the fruit.

What an odd and glorious gift from the skies (whether sent from Heaven or from other benevolent extraterrestials)!

Photographic Documentation

From the South to the North, here are a few photos from the trip.

They are out of chronological order.

No matter.

They are great.

Some are mine, some are borrowed.

Check it out!

Hittin' the High Spots

On October something-or-another, at 3:00 am, our USAC group departed from a supermarket parking lot and headed for San Pedro de Atacama.

After five days in the desert, the group split.

Then, some amigas and I hopped on the next bus to Pucon.

Yesterday at 7:00 am, we rolled back into Santiago on a double-decker bus, smelly and sleepy and ready (not) for a brand-new school week.

A lot happened.

Thus, as I do with most showers, I will hit the high spots.
Armpits, face, behind the ears.

San Pedro de Atacama: Greatest Hits

1) Home-base
A hotel far fancier than any student would choose for themselves.
Also the only gas station in the dusty, two-street town.

2) La Valle de la Luna
Sunset.
The area apparently most similar to a lunar landscape.
Lots of sand and rocks.

3) Bikes and Volcanos
An open road toward the base of the volcano Licancabur.
Of course we had to ride as far as our legs/water supply would carry us.
Also obligated to climb in the lava-encrusted canyons.

4) Floating in Salt
Salt lake in the middle of the desert
"Swimming" with all four limbs in the air.
Crusty faces/hair.
Watching the desert swallow the sun over salt plains.

5) Flamingos
In the desert?
Who knew!

6) Star-gazing
A German guide, based out of his VW van.
The middle of nowhere.
In the middle of the clearest skies in the world.
More stars than you could shake a stick at.

7) The Best Juice of Mi Vida
A tiny hut thatched in grass.
Dogs coming and going.
Pineapple/mango.
Banana/peach.
Chirimoya/kiwi.

8) Inca Trail
Ancient superhighway of the Andes.

9) Geothermal Hot Springs
Desert oasis.
Can I bathe here for the rest of my life?

10) Recognizing the Santiago Sky-line
Recognizing that home is where you make it.

And now...

The Very Best of Pucon

1) Home-base
The up-and-coming hostel of the wiley brothers, Marcelo and Caesar.
The door on the second floor that opened out into air.
The best nights of sleep a few mil can buy.

2) Horses
Mortal fear, reaffirmed.
Finicky horse.
75 year old guide who gargled Spanish like it was Listerine.
Spectacular (and unexpected) descent down to a waterfall.

3) Black-Sand Beach
Napping in volcano-territory.

4) Villarrica Volcano
Looming above the town.
Still quite active.
Glowing red at night.
An attempted summit at 4:00 am, thwarted by bad weather.
Got to carry an ice-pick just the same.
Saw the sunrise over the Andes Mtns.

5) Fellow Gringos
Spotted in the market.
An adventure to a thrift store.
Sweaters your grandma would covet.
An adventure to make guacamole and rice.

6) Geothermal Hot Springs (Part 2)
Fairy woodland.
Water hot enough to boil a chicken (or a gringo, whichever the recipe specifies).
Light drizzles.
Brisk scurrying to get out of the rain.

7) Day Trip to Valdivia
A town surrounded by three rivers.
A hostel hole-in-the-wall.
Murals covering everything.
A duck and a bunny in the backyard.

8) Kuntsmann Brewery
Legit German beer.
A rainy afternoon.
The epiphany that maybe Germans drink because the weather isn't good?
Still doing field-research on this one.

9) Sealions
Big smelly beasts.
Skeezing around the fish markets.
Fighting with neighborhood dogs.
Basking.

10) Night Bus
Back to Santiago.
Via a double-decker.
The urge to stuff a sock into a snoring mouth, repressed.

Ten days of travelling, from the deserts of the North, to the lakes and volcanoes of the South.
The landscapes could not have been more different. Or more breathtaking.
What a thin slice of geographical diversity is Chile.

Por fin, I am glad to be back in Santiago.
Free bed.
Hot showers.
Good food (i.e. not my own cooking).

Yesterday I told my host mom her cooking was the best in the nation.
I meant it.

But I fear my compliment may have backfired.
She has started serving me Paul-Bunyan-sized portions.
At dinner tonight, I was served enough lentils to fill Paul's great big ol' shoe.
Sheesh.

All gastrointestinal distress aside, I am happy as a Valdivian sealion.
I'll try to post some pictures soon.

Until then, take 'er easy.

And maybe quit your day job for a gig in the middle of the Atacama Desert, living out of a van, showing gringos the best light show on earth.
Or invest in the hair-brained scheming of Marcelo and Caesar.

Or just come and visit me.
*cough, cough*
*Mom and Michelle*

(!)

Dinner

Allow me to relate tonight's dinner:

My host mom cooked lentils, hard-boiled eggs, and tacos.

I tried a salsa made of carrots and yogurt.

My host dad thinks I should open a salsa-club in Chickamauga, Georgia.
He also thinks I know the salsa well enough to teach others. Obviamente, this is erroneous.

I accidentally told my host family, "I finished writing a children's novel in Spanish today."
What I meant to say was, "I finished reading a children's novel in Spanish today."
But the time I realized my error, we were seven minutes past the initial faux-pas, and they were insisting that they read my work and that I sell it on the street.
Whoops.

My host brother told a story about the time his Morman friend, who is fluent in Spanish and English, tricked the workers at McDonalds into thinking he was a foreigner. The fulcrum of the joke pivoted on the translation of "for here or to go?"

My host mom used the mustard bottle as a microphone and proceeded to make fun of Chile's president. Apparently, he has had some verbal slip-ups recently. He used the words of the Nazis in an address to the German people, he wanted to give something posthumously to a poet still living, and he thought Robinson Crusoe lived on Robinson Crusoe Island, off the coast of Chile.
How silly.

My host family translated for me what-in-the-Sam-Hill the metro announcers are saying. The Santiago Metro only hires Mumbling Marcos for the speaking-gigs, so I am always clueless. Now I know, "the doors are now closing."

Finally, my host family and I lamented the unintelligibility of Catholic church services. They said they can never catch what the preacherman is saying either. They also said they watch each other for cues, the predominant question always being, "Can we leave yet?"

Dinner lasted for over two hours.

When I looked out the window of our 25th floor apartment, the city was orange and shimmering, like a sky full of stars fallen and rooted to earth.

I left the table very satisfied, unable to clean my plate of laughter.

Feelin' Hot Hot Hot

What's dark and drab and covered from head-to-toe?
A Chilean in the springtime.

What's bright and obnoxious and "scantily" clad?
A gringo in the Chilean springtime.

Seriously, Chile.
Lighten up. If I dressed like this collective nation, I would have a heat-stroke before I made it out of the apartment.

It's hotter than blue blazes. Meanwhile, my host family is buttoned-up to the gills.
I maintain, now is not the time for black turtlenecks.

But all you have to do to earn a disapproving look in this country is show the tops of your elbows.
Shorts? No way, Jose.

And sandals?
Whoo buddy, you're asking for a turned-up nose.

If Chileans insist upon dressing for a blizzard, there are going to be some stinky metro rides in my immediate future.

Eep!

Peoples and Places

...And for my next trick, I shall present a random smattering of photos from the last few weeks.

Crazy sand dune, outside (and rather out of place) of Vina del Mar.

Us lucky ducks on the beach for an Algorrobo sunset.

Sunset at Algarrobo.

My shoes and the sunset at Algarrobo.

Random band playing on the street a few Fridays ago; note the Jethro-Tull-esque flute tooter, second from the left; very groovy.

A very tall friend at the zoo.

The inside of the Catholic church, where I attended a service, strained my ears to translate the mumbling coming from up front, gave up paying attention, and did some up-down calisthenics with the rest of the congregation.

The funeral parlor/1980s homecoming dance floor/restaurant close to our university.

Cassie, stretching.

Shannon, sitting.

Cassie, laying, receiving the holy art of facial massage from Kirsten, criss-cross-applesauce.

Shannon, chopping.

Cess, holding a bowl of her stupendous guacamole.

The road.

The end.

The Chilean X-Files

A sampling of five unsolved mysteries from mi vida:

Why do Chileans wear shoes in the house?
This cultural difference drives me bonkers.
All I want to do is walk around barefoot.
At least from my room to the bathroom.
Anything.
Our apartment is so small, I could long-jump the length of it.
So why the insistence on shoe-wearing?
The floors aren't carpeted in nails and glass.
Sheesh.
I can't wait to be footloose back home.

Why does the pace of pedestrian traffic slow down in correlation to how quickly I need to get somewhere?
A Galopagos turtle could beat a Chilean in a foot race down Santiago's main drag.
And the later I am for class, the slower everyone seems to walk.
True, Chileans have their own "time," and it is about fifteen minutes slower than standard time.
But temporal discrepancies aside, I still do not understand why my fellow pedestrians are moving like their pants are full of molasses.

When do Chileans sleep?
My host family is wide awake when I go to bed.
They are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I wake up.
Hypothesis: could their lack of sleep be the cause of painfully slow pedestrianism?

Who is that woman napping in the apartment?
In my experience, the Chilean web of family-friend relationships is hard to draw.
That man's name could be "uncle," but he may not be anyone's actual uncle.
And the "cousins" extend into the far corners of the earth.
Usually, I haven't the foggiest idea as to how x-person is related to or associated with my host family.
I just introduce myself and give a kiss on the cheek.

What did I just eat for dinner?
I think I heard the phrase "like cooked shoes" from my host dad.
Whatever we ate was mighty tough.
At least I know my host mom is not cooking our shoes, as they never leave our feet.
Nevertheless.
I think I'd rather allow this question to remain unanswered.

P.E.

My good friend Hennessey (Shoutout: Woo! Yeah, that's ma girl right there. Yeah.) had been talking about this kick-boxing class at our university. And she had been saying good things.

So I went.

And it kick-boxed my booty.

Imagine working out in a discoteca:

thumping techno beats

bodies covered in sweat

a basketball game going on - hey, wait a minute.

I'm in a gym.

Not a club.

And we are sharing the floor with people trying to jump rope or play soccer or basketball.

And we are also high-kicking.
To a Cher remix.

If this is how Chile teaches physical education, then U.S. has some studying to do.

Myself included.

Perhaps this class will improve my self-defense.

Though I probably won't be able to do anything more than rapidly air-punch, and that only if the the techno remix to Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" is playing in the darkened alleyway.

We got fleas

This Saturday, I stepped into a little slice of North Georgian Heaven.
The Flea Market.*

*On a sidenote, why on God's green earth would you set up shop in a market named after the carrier of the bubonic plague? Eso es un misterio para mi.

Anyway.

Who knew that the fervent belief of the flea marketeer (namely, that there's money to be made in the business of used shoelaces/doorknobs/big-lady-underwear) transcends cultural boundaries?

As I roamed the never-ending aisles of acid-washed jeans, naked Barbie dolls, scorched oven mitts, and crusty magazines, I couldn't help but wonder if I had slipped into a wormhole, transporting me back to the flea markets of Rossville, Georgia...

Say, is that Cletus over yonder by the secondhand bananner puddin' stand?
Naw, couldn't be...

Or could it?!
Them's his overalls... An' he does love his bananner puddin'...

I guess this is South America.

Chilean Miners Freed!

Los 33 have been on the news for the past seventy-one odd days or so.

I was fortunate enough to watch the rescue on the news with my host family.
The tension was incredible, as was the joyous uproar that followed the appearance of each hard-hatted head.

Fishing shows and soap operas ain't got nothin' on the miraculous emergence of thirty-three men from half a mile underground.

Vivan los mineros! Viva Chile!

A Commonality Between Ants and Dancing Gringos*

*No, the commonality upon which I am going to comment does not involve gringos dancing like their pants are full of ants. This is implied (see the use of the modifiying gerund "dancing" to the noun "gringos").

Now as I am tripping over my red sneaks, trying to keep up with the high-heeled, purple-clad, hip-wiggling instructor (and failing, mostly), I have to wonder what chaos curious passerbys are witnessing.

The music is the cha-cha-cha.

The rest? Bedlam.

However, if you zoom out on the scene, perhaps more order will appear.

So let's switch tracks for a bit: consider the movements of a single, nearly brainless, ant.

Trace his path, and he seems to have no prevailing sense of direction.

(In parallel, I seem to have no prevailing sense of salsa, cueca, or cha-cha-cha.)

Yet if you trace the overlapping paths of an entire ant colony, overall they are finding food, performing feats of construction, inviting themselves to picnics, and surviving marvellously, among their other ant-ly activities.

The collective sense of the colony outweighs the senselessness of the singular ant.

Thus, I propose that our colony of gringos knows more than the singular gringo when it comes to dancing.

While one gringo is stepping on another's toe, the next gringo is executing a turn (most likely out of sheer luck or repetition). My inability to cha-cha-cha is counter-acted by someone else's knowledge. In turn, my merengue, however immaculately concepted, saves our colony a misstep or two. By the end of class, we have hopefully arrived at status quo.

We ain't too good, but we ain't too bad, neither.

Collectively, that is.

My contribution to the survival of the dancing-gringo colony?

Apparently Latin America has its own version of the Electric Slide.

And I have taken to it like a duck to water, an ant to honey, a Chilean to mayo, or a Southerner to a modernized version of the hoe-down.

So let's boogie, gringos! For the good of the colony!

Yeehaw!