The Gringo's Guide to Confusing, Quasi-Homophones

In order to spare you from some blunders I have already stumbled upon, may I present:
The Gringo's Guide to Confusing, Quasi-Homophones.

In this installment:
-how to talk about hair, onions, and horses, and know which one you are talking about
-the subtle differences between your father, the potatoes, and the Pope

Now the Spanish words for hair, onion, and horse are very similar in spelling.

hair = cabello
onion = cebolla
horse = caballo

For obvious reasons, conversations mixing and matching any of those three words can quickly rise above my head.

Por ejemplo, I am being told a recipe, but then I think I hear something about hair.
I wonder, does this soup really require hair?
If so, hair from which animal?
From the horse?
Should I also add eye of newt?

Thus, when in doubt, I propose charades.
For hair, rub your head (and pat your tummy, if you are so coordinated).
Want to talk about onions?
Call forth the tears.
Horses?
Whinny or neigh, according to preference.

It's as simple as that.

Now, onto the matter of "papas."
The Spanish words for father, potato, and Pope all hail from the same word, "papa."

el papá = father
la papa = potato
el Papa = the Pope

As you can imagine, dinnertime conversations can involve all three of these words, perhaps even in the same sentence.
What if you need to ask your father whether or not he thinks the Pope would be able to stomach mom's potatoes and mayonnaise combination?

Charades will definitely help here, too.
Just be careful not to call the Pope "the big baked potato" or something less than sacred.

That's all for now.

May you have a great cabello-day, may your food be spiced nicely with cebolla, may the caballo-cop leave you to nap in peace in the park, may your dad serve you potatoes, and may the Pope lend all non-native speakers a bit of grace.

Good luck, gringos! May you ride on swift onions!

How did I get here?

Today= time-travelling.
(accidental)

Didn't sleep very well last night and was supremely groggy this morning.
Woke up later than usual, ate breakfast dazedly, left the apartment in a tizzy, ready for school, albiet looking very rumpled.

Boarded the metro and sat beside a fellow university student, Maria Jesu.
Promptly fell asleep, listening to the IPod my wonderful sister Michelle just sent through the mail (Thanks again, sis! And thanks, Chilean Customs, for not confiscating it/marking the package contraband).

Continued to sleep blissfully for at least forty minutes.
Maria Jesu got off at our stop, Republica.
Vaguely recall her motioning for me to disembark from the metro, but at that point, walking around was not on my agenda.
Apparently I had a sleep cycle to cycle through.

Metro stops came and went, and still I slept, head lolling languidly, spittle creeping from one corner of my mouth.
Awoke with a start, finally.
The stop looked unfamiliar and uninviting.
Scurried off the metro, convinced I had traveled through time and space, worm-hole action, something strange.

How did I get here?
Too bad I wasn't listening to Talking Heads.

Approximately 8:45 a.m.
Crossed the bridge to the other side of the tracks, greeted by the faces of at least a hundred disgruntled, nattily-dressed businessmen, waiting to board.
My bandana-ed head/backpack combo stuck out sorely.
Metro came and went, each car impossibly full.

So, of course, the business bros tried out some contortionism, willing their bodies to squeeze in there.

Watched metro attendants shoehorn more people into each car.
Legs and arms dangling freely out the squealing doors.
Boarded after four unsuccessful attempts, now fully awake and fully aware of the life being squeezed out of me by the crushing wall of bodies.

Whew.
Arrived at the correct stop.
Walked to school, thankful for the fresh air and the room to swing my arms, if I so pleased.

Metro-riders, have vigilence. This could happen to you. One minute you are dozing, the next minute, the conductor forces the metro into hyper-drive, and you find yourself in a strange land where people will risk life and limb to get to work on time.

That is why I always leave my apartment a little early.
Gotta allow room for sci-fi situations.
You just never know...

The Twilight Zone

And so we return from the beach, back to the Soggy-Taco for another week of school.

We went to Algarrobo, which is about an hour outside of the city.

The town was quite quiet, like Twilight Zone quiet, as many tourists won't start touring for another month or so. It's barely spring here, but the chilly weather did not hamper our motley crew of thirteen. There were probably only fifteen people in town, us plus the grocery store owner and maybe someone who got lost.

We rented two cabanas a few blocks from the beach, so we were able to cook for ourselves.

Our fare consisted of:

pasta and rice

apples and oranges

tomatoes and corn

eggs and sausage

cheese and crackers
cookies and milk

avocado and bread

bread and avocado

avocado and avocado

bread and bread

Oh yeah, and two jars of crunchy peanut butter.

All of those staple items were definitely mixed together at some point.

As a starter, avocado and anything.

Main course? Bread, por supuesto.

For dessert, might I suggest the whoops-I-ruined-this-pot-of-rice-let's-turn-it-into-rice-pudding?

We ate like queens and kings.

Yesterday we lazed about by the beach, read a short story out-loud (coincidentally about a silent city), told the obligatory "my-family-is-crazy-how-about-yours" stories, and luxuriated in the fresh sea breeze.

I come home today with shells in my pockets, sand in my hair, beachy-stank on my clothes, and a grin on my face.

I also just realized, I have some photos to share.

From the looks of my photos, we are all severely under-medicated narcoleptics.

But surely we walked around, explored the beach, sampled ice cream, empanadas, and gypsy pants...

Or did we?

Was it all just a dream??

(Cue dramatic music: dun, dun DUUUUNNNN!!!!)

The Gringo Olympics: Bicentennial Edition

After this long weekend, the whole nation of Chile breathes a small sigh of relief, mixed with satisfaction and mild gastro-intestinal distress.

The bicentenario has come to a close, after four straight days of partying.
This also means the end of the Gringo Olympics: Bicentennial Edition.

Check it, the events:

First, test your navigation/deep-breathing skills in a crowd of 60,ooo at La Moneda.

Dance the cueca, Chile's national dance (a.k.a., trip over your own feet while waving a white handkercheif over your head - how ironic, that an integral part of the dance looks very much like waving the flag of surrender...)

Distend your stomach after eating an empanada as big as your head.

Walk a straight line after a few glasses of chicha, a potent grape-cider.

Cram yourself into a metro car approximately twenty people over capacity in order to get to the next party.

Strain your brain while learning to play a complicated card game in Spanish at a get-together.

Fine-tune your hearing aid while listening to a ninety-year-old tell her life story in a muddled, circuitous language, unintelligible to both natives and foreigners.

Dodge low-flying (possibly malevolently-flying) kites in the field of Parque O'Higgins.

Avoid grease popping from chicken being fried in a shopping cart on the street.

And finally, return to school, well-exhausted, well-satiated, and well... not quite ready for a midterm.

I think I deserve a medal of some sort.

Listening exercises

The Bicentennial is rocking my North American socks off. Chileans really know how to celebrate a birthday.

Yesterday I went to Jess's house for a family bar-b-que. There were thirty red, white, and blue balloons festooning/exploding on the patio and, of course, lots of great food (including the legendary "choripan," which is sausage in bread, imbued with the power to convert vegetarians to voracious meat-a-tarians).

I then accompanied Jess and the far-reaching branches of her host family to a "fonda," which is kind of like a community fair. We had doughnut-esque things as soon as we walked through the gate, and after that, I just tagged along with the family, slack-jawed at all the dancing and food and music.

Jess and I rounded out the night by visiting with some friends of her host brother. We talked until the wee hours of the morning and played round after round of cards. So much practice in Spanish!

And somewhere along the way yesterday, I suddenly felt very lucid about all I am learning. I am completely immersed. This is the Chilean bicentennial, and I am here! And I can almost speak the language!
I can understand most conversations, song lyrics, and news reports, although the words of metro attendants and mumbling grandmas still escape me.

I feel like a baby, processing new words and appropiating them into my own speech.
And I think I may be to the point where I can make a joke in another language - intentionally. Quantum leap, eh?

So my brain is fit to burst.
My whole world is one long listening exercise.
And I love it.

200.

This weekend is Chile's Bicentennial.

Most students (exceptin' us gringos, d'ere) get a whole week off from school, and nearly all workers get Friday and Monday off in honor of Chile's 200 years of independence.

So this is a big deal.
We're partying like it was 1976 in Washington, D.C., except it's 2010 and we are in Santiago.
And the preparation for this holiday has been phenomenal.

There are Chilean flags everywhere. Flags on buildings and cars, t-shirts and hats, clutched in the sticky hands of ice-cream eating three-year-olds, and probably a flag or two tattooed somewhere on your body, while you weren't paying attention. Why not a tattoo? You only turn 200 once, right?*
*Disclaimer: Mom & Dad, no, I have not gotten a tattoo. FYI.

At the supermarkers, everyone is stocking up like the apocalypse is approaching, and the supplies we will need most will be bread, empanadas, and beer.

Yesterday I walked in on my host parents cutting each other's hair, primping for the festivities.

I caught my host dad dusting the numbers on our apartment door, making sure everything is just so for Chile's 200th birthday.

My host parents also broke out the silk pajamas. Extra fancy.

This morning, I awoke to the curtains being thrown open, my host mom hustling me into the kitchen to eat breakfast. She was in a hurry because we wanted to watch the raising of the 200 kilo Chilean flag at La Moneda, the national palace.

And so I went with my host parents and our resident doctor, Lili, to downtown Santiago. All three of them are barely 5 feet tall, so I looked like a very bizarre body guard. But once we got into the middle of the crowd at La Moneda, I didn't feel so conspicuous. In fact, I felt a little like a Chilean. We were chanting and cheering as the flag rose and fighter jets flew above us (C-H-I-L-E, Chi-Chi-Chi, Le-Le-Le, Viva Chile!!)

I feel like the luckiest son-of-a-gun to be here during the Bicentennial. Happy Birthday, Chile!

But I guess we ain't seen nothing yet, as tomorrow is The Big Day, September 18th, the day Chile declared independence.
(I have been warned to fortify my stomach in anticipation of a lot of meat and empanadas.)
I'll keep you informed.

This feels like the beginning of summer.
And the 4th of July.
And Christmas morning.
And the Jerry Springer Show.

Zombie Dinner

I just got done with dinner.
Mom and Dad, you would be proud.
Not only did I eat a boiled artichoke, I also ate brussel sprouts.
Chileans are serious about the clean-plate club, and I am a proud member tonight.
As the girl who formerly hid peas beneath her plate, under her napkin, and in her nose, this is quite an accomplishment.
So I ate a lot of vegetables that I would have retched up in a previous life.

And then I ate... well I don't know what it was exactly.

But it looked like brains wrapped in corn meal.

For real.
I was intimidated by this dish, but mind over matter, I ate it.
It was warm and tasted very bland and mushy, slightly burnt on the bottom.
I hope my own brains aren't so tasteless.

My host mom's description of the dish was not very helpful; granted, foods are hard to describe.
Go ahead, try it.
What is chicken casserole?
Now try to explain that in Spanish.

Your listener will hear something like this:
Cluck-cluck
Paper shredder
Creamed cow
Mushroom babies
Crying vegetable

See what I mean?
So I don't know what I ate.
Oh well, at least in case of a zombie apocalypse, it looks like I can survive on braaaaiiiins.

(BRAAAAIIIINS!)

P.S. Today's blog brought to you by the letter Z
P.P.S. "Zombi" = Zombie in Spanish

"Ass Completo Gigante" - Insult or Edible? .

Today in the way of news, while riding/clinging to dear life on a squirrely-Santiago bus, I saw a billboard advertising:

"Ass Completo Gigante"

Now here's what I know -

The "completo" is a Chilean fast-food mostrosity, consisting of:

a hotdog as long as your forearm

on giant hoagie roll
w/ serious gobs of mayonaise

ketchup

mustard

hot pepper sauce

avocado

onion

tomato

the Chilean kitchen sink

But this "ass completo gigante," I can't be too sure about.

Possible translations:

1) If you eat this hotdog, you will have a gigantic butt forevermore.

2) While you eat this hotdog, you will look like a complete, gigantic butthead.

3) This gigantic hotdog is made completely of animal butts.

Alls I know is, I am not looking to try an "ass completo gigante" anytime soon.

I am simply reporting. Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts.

This has been a public service announcement, brought to you by the Organization of Confused Gringos Trying to Find Sustenance in Chile.

Fo-to Journal Entry

Picture taken by my buddy Kirsten, during lunchtime at a little restaurant in Pomaire. We had empanadas de queso and Coca-Cola from glass bottles. !Que delicioso!

Here we have the sunset over the streets of Vina del Mar (and a slideshow terribly out of chronological order). You can't really see it here, but the hills are full of colorful houses piled on top of one another.

We were walking back to the hostel when we saw a young grafiti artist painting this. We asked if the cops were cool with his work, and he said the owners gave him permission. Pretty good job, eh? If anyone needs an alien-dog painted on the front of their establishment, I've got a connection for you.

These dogs slept in a row outside of the hostel. All day.

View of the Pacific Ocean, taken from the sidewalk.

A very big water with a very small Lisa-friend, bottom left.

The view from Pablo Neruda's casa at Isla Negra.

The back of the pottery-factory.

Two pots freshly (and perfectly) slung by some maestros of clay; if you look closely, you can see the feeble attempts made by a few of our fellow students, center photo.

A very colorful door in Pomaire, with the phrase "Here is not Pomaire..." The rest is illegible/I am illiterate.

And I guess that phrase is true for all tourists. You see only the surface.

And you make a photographic representation of that with the help of a machine. Then you share those photos with the help of another machine. How strange.

From my machine to yours, hope you enjoyed a few views from my travels.

Trippy

What a weekend, my first away from the big city Santiago (or Soggy-Taco, whichever you prefer).

Our program took a trip to Pomaire, a tiny village famous for its clay pottery/clay pigs/clay aliens (?!) / clay everything.

After we rambled around the two streets of Pomaire, we went to Isla Negra, where Pablo Neruda had a house right beside the Pacific Ocean.

That man's collection of stuff was staggeringly diverse - Amazonian butterflies, figureheads from ships, pipes, stones, ships in bottles, medieval instruments, narwhal horns, giant clams, and the list goes on and on (and he has three other houses in other parts of Chile!).

Talk about quirky.

After our formal tour of Pomaire and Isla Negra, a smattering of us went to Valparaiso/Vina del Mar for the weekend (they're twin cities by the ocean - btw, I had my first feel of the Pacific Ocean - brrr!)

Our odyssey to the hostel/our stay in Vina del Mar was incredible.

The brief bus ride alone from Valpo to Vina merits description.

Fifteen or so of us board a tiny micro bus for the ten minute ride to Vina. We all have backpacks, and our appearances shout "gringo." With no real idea as to where we are going, we have maps unfurled and bamboozled looks on our faces.

The bus is, of course, blasting electronic dance music.

And the locals range from mildly amused, to neutral, to eating bread, to surly.

Meanwhile, the bus driver is training for the day when Nascar allows buses to race the track. We are standing, barely clinging to bars, experiencing several units of G-force around every turn. Apparently, Valparaiso is the place to go for astronauts training to go into space.

Perhaps I will catalogue more of the trip later.

I'll post some photos, too.

For now, I am going to put the finishing touches on my application for astronaut-hood and mail that sucker to NASA.

Metro Etiquette

The days grow warmer here in Santiago.
The metro rides grow sweatier.
And questions of metro etiquette go unanswered.
Por ejemplo, when do you give up your seat?

I live at the last stop on the red line of the metro, so when I board in the morning, I am almost always assured a seat. This would be just dandy, except that immediately after I get on the metro, so do jillions of other people. And some of those other people need a seat.

From my observations, if you are old, someone will give you their seat. If you are pregnant (or may become pregnant?!), you get a seat. If you have a screaming bundle of joyous mush, you get a seat. If you are on crutches, you get a seat. If you are missing toes, you probably get a seat.

But honestly, the seat-getters are not clearly catergorized.

So that lady on my left looks pregnant, but she could just be fat.
Do I give up my seat?
If she's not pregnant, would she beat me up?
That lady on my right looks kind of old.
Will she be offended if I ask to see her AARP card?
The man standing in front of me is way too close.
Should I give up my seat as a way of escaping his intrusiveness?

By the time I am three stops away from my house, I don't even want a seat anymore.
I certainly don't need one, unless you classify lack of balance during starts/stops as a "need."
And so I stand to avoid the awkwardness of seat-exchange and negotiation.

Speaking of awkwardness, armpit-face encounters plague the metro.
I have been considering growing out my own armpit hair for metro self-defense.
It it amounts to anything, I'll take pictures.
Promise.

Gringo Boogie

I dislike self-fulfilling stereotypes.
I dislike even more the realization that I myself fulfill a stereotype.

Exhibit A: Latin American Dance Class.
Stereotype: Gringas* dance like manequins with metal rods stuck up their plastic butts.

Allow me to explain this term. Some Chileans refer to white people as gringos or gringas.
They like to give nicknames based on physical appearance.
Por ejemplo, gordita, or the little fat one.
I am told these nicknames are meant as terms of affection.
And so I am la gringa or la roja, the white girl with the flaming red hair.
I guess my nickname could always be worse (the slack-jawed one, the one with the nose like a trumpet, the pancake-butted one).

So in class, we are learning the merengue, salsa, and cueca.
The merengue is supposed to look sexy, but I only manage to look bamboozled.
My version of the salsa is saucy in the way of bad cafeteria food.
And then the cueca...
Ahh, Dios.

I am a chronic toe-stepper, directionally challenged dance partner.
In my defense, I am usually violently mismatched height-wise.
And it seems to me that every chileno o chilena emerged from the womb shaking their hips.
How are we supposed to catch up? They have years of practice!
I'm just trying to move my butt like I don't have something shoved up it.

When I am leading, my go-to move is the spin, muy simple.
When I am being led, I mostly flounder in circles until the song ends.

I guess I am learning.
But for now, I am that gringa who can't dance to save her vida.

Dogs.

Everywhere.
Big, small, skinny, fat, fluffy, scruffy, balding, smelly (mostly this one), and everything in between
No big deal.
If you're Chilean.

I'm still freaks me out when I am sniffed at four times by curious mutts on my way to the metro, greeted by three dogs at the grocery store door, accosted by two athletic dogs during a hike, and annoyed by a pack of mangy, hungry park-dwelling dogs.

In case you were wondering, the dog population of Santiago is 1.25 million.
The people population is 5.2 million.
Apparently it is fairly common for Chilean families to let their dogs wander around during the day, but about thirty precent of the dogs on the street don't have a home.

It's sad.
And also strange.
I don't know whether to pet them, start carrying ScoobySnacks in my purse, bark back, or start sniffing butts.

On another note, I think perhaps I will rename the Santiago metro "The Mystery Machine," as I never seem to be able to understand what the announcers are shouting over the loudspeakers...

Hike. Huff. Hike. Huff. Wow.

So I can't figure out how to stop underlining my words... Bear with me.
Ok, here we go.
I went for a hike this fine Sunday morning, as all of Santiago gave signs of spring awakening.
The day was very clear, little smog blanketing the city, which I am told is unusual.
Rodrigo and Francisco, native Santiago-ians (?), served as guides, pointing out the notable buildings on the valley floor.
The climb was steep (understatement).
It felt hellacious for a few hundred meters, and just when I thought I was going to morir, boom, we're at the top!
The view was spectacular.
See for yourself (this time I took pictures).

Universal Comedy

Last night was my host dad's birthday.
In celebration, we watched Kindergarten cop, dubbed in Spanish. Then my host mom served a great dinner, followed by drinks and cake.

The movie.

The Spanish "Ahhnold Schwarzeneggar" had a ridiculously meaty accent, por supuesto. Kids and car chases, bad nineties fashion, and a sappy ending to boot - needless to say, my host dad loved it. Who knew subpar American humor (with a subpar Austrian actor) would translate so well?

The drinks.

My host mom made pisco sours, a famous beverage around these parts. Pisco is a liquor made from distilling grapes, and it mixes roughly like whiskey. The pisco sour is composed of pisco, lime juice, sugar, egg white, and bitters. You'd love it. Muy delicioso.

The cake.

It's called "mil hojas," or a thousand pages, because it has many thin layers of phyllo dough. Apparently this was to be another installment in the comedic offerings of the night, as I was given a teaspoon with which to eat it. Everyone else got forks. Strange, eh? Probably not as strange as I looked trying to navigate a very stubborn piece of cake. It was like using a small, dull spoon to eat pieces of paper glued together with sugar and brandy. Don't get me wrong, the cake was delicious. I just didn't have the proper implements. As I laid waste to the beauty that was my piece of cake, I would glance around furtively, wondering if anyone else noticed how awkwardly I was eating.

I strongly suspect they gave me the spoon for a good laugh later. But the question remains, am I as funny as a bodybuilder surrounded by six year olds? Well, I think I could give Arnie a run for the money.

So far my Chilean experience bodes well for a career in bone-headedness/universal comedy...

Drullet

You know when you see a beautiful scene, something rare are striking, and you want - no, need - a camera?

Today.
I needed a camera.

I saw the dreaded, dreaded mullet - a "drullet," if you will - on the metro.
So exquisite was this coif, words can do no justice.
The dreads were nicely waxed, the rest of the hair slicked down like Sunday morning.

Ahh Dios, I had nothing capture the moment.
Even if I had a camera, I couldn't take a picture.

We americanos have been warned time and again not to stand around slack-jawed, taking pictures of the city, as chilenos take this as an invitation to a) ridicule, b) whoop ass, c) steal., d) all of the above.

I guess I have to learn to conceal my marvel at the wonders of Chile, the mountains, the skyscrapers, and the many astounding variations on "business up front, party out back."

Adventures in Blunderland

Time: 10:30 a.m.
Setting: Level Three Composition
Language: Spanish (translated for your convenience)

The professor asks one of my classmates,
What do you put on when it is cold outside?

He responds with tangled nouns and adjectives.

What he meant:
I wear a big puffy jacket.
What he said:
I wear a fat coat made of cats.

The professor corrects him, first making sure his coat is not actually made of cat fur, then calls on another luckless student.

Her question:
Do you shave in the morning?

What he meant:
Yes, I shave my throat.
What he said:
Yes, I shave my "gargantua"/ "tarantula" (?!)

So, in our class we have a confirmed cat-wearer and someone with either a hairless spider or a medical problem below the belt.

I'm trying to keep my trap shut, lest some dark secret be revealed about me during class...

The Fast and the Furious? The Slow and the Curious

Chilenos speak really fast.
In fact, they are famous for their unintelligibility.
Infamous.

I have been trying to translate what I hear into my linguistic code, English.
Obviously, some errors are bound to occur.
Key information will surely plummet through the cracks - no, let's be serious - canyons -between Spanish speaker and English speaker.

I think I am following along just fine during lecture, conversation, what have you, then BOOM! I have no idea what we are talking about. I think I can pick out a few words, but they seem out of place, and I don't know how we got to this point in the conversation.

Por ejemplo, in Survey of Latin American Literature, I think we are talking about theory, aesthetics, reception, blah, blah, blah, then out of the blue, I hear something about el sexo. Unmistakable, right? My attention perks. Sex, eh? I stop doodling in the margins, stop nodding off, but the professor has moved on, and whatever she was talking about, however interesting it was, has long faded into the rest of the PowerPoint written in all capital letters.

Por otro ejemplo, today in a local college bar, four amigas and I were having a few beers after classes. Five chilenos rolled up to our table, ready to chat our ears off. Too bad none of us are fluent. We tried talking to them in pairs, two on one, but their Spanish was so garbled, so fast, two brains struggled to translate.

Did they ask us where we lived or what we liked?
Do they like our earrings or do they want to order another beer?
Do they want to know where we are from?
Where are we from?

A muddled mess, words and beer spilled all over the table, all over our laps.
We eventually had to communicate through hip-hop and liqour lingo.

50-cent!
Vodka!
Snoop Doggy Dog!
Rum!

These were the words we had in common.

If only my Literature professor shared the same vernacular...