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!

HELADO/ICECREAM

Melted ice cream and dog poop on the sidewalk: this is a fairly good summation of your typical Chilean street.

As I have already written about the hairy culprits who doo-doo where I am trying to walk, I will elaborate about the Chilean affinity for all things ice-cream.

I do not know the history behind frozen treats in Chile, but from the looks of it, ice cream has just hit the scene. People are wearing brain freezes like they are going out of style.

As you walk down any given street in Santiago, 9 out of 10 passerbys will have something ice-y and creamy dribbling down their chins.
And 9.5 out of 10 fingers will be sticky.

Why?
Well for starters, apparently it's never the wrong time for ice cream.
4 p.m.?
4 a.m.?
Always ice cream to be found.
On nearly every corner, someone is slinging the cow.

Furthermore, there is the roving ice-cream-dude, who has a cooler clutched under his arm as he hollers "¡HELADOHELADOHELADO!" ("ICECREAMICECREAMICECREAM!") loud enough for the entire nation of Argentina to hear. This guy pops up on the beach, in the park, in the cemetery, on the bus, in the elevator, and in your closet. Inescapable.

But usually, soft-serve is the weapon of choice.
FYI fellow travellers, Chilean soft-serve tastes like plastic at first, until your tongue goes numb and you really start to enjoy the experience.

You go to the nearest carwash, and I can almost guarantee somewheres around the establishment will stand an ice cream machine.
Want an ice cream with your haircut?
You got it.
An ice cream with your watch repair?
You betcha.
Ice cream with your ice cream?
No problemo.

I do not pretend to understand why the entirety of this nation seems to be screaming for ice cream.

But I will go hoarse among them trying.

T.V.

I interrupt this program for a word about Chilean television:

Bizarre.

And now a few more words:

Usually I don't choose to watch very much T.V. (the exception being in the morning, when I watch at least half an episode of Scooby-Doo en español. For practice, of couse).

However, my host family turns on the T.V. during dinner, perhaps to save both parties from any more grammatical blundering than absolutely necessary.

Thus, at the discretion of my host parents, my exposure to primetime Chilean entertainment can be sorted into three categories:
1) News
2) Soap Operas
3) Fishing

First, the news.
Most of the anchors speak as quickly as your average Loud-Mouthed-Luis standing on the street corner hawking ice cream. Thankfully, I am able to follow the gist of most reports, as almost every single news item has something to do with the trapped miners in the North.

This just in!
The five-year-old nephew of one of the miner's second cousins just lost his first tooth!

The Chilean news crews attack every minute detail of the miners' lives, channeling the dramatic spirit of the soap operas that typically follow their programming.

Now these soap operas, or telenovelas, are a sight to behold.
You want drama?
You got... something.

Picture it:
Your local public channel has the budget of 4000 pesos (about $8 USD).
The show is filmed in your hometown.
The actors are your neighbors.
And everyone retains their thick accent.

For all you folk back home:
UCTV cancels Ronnie, Lonnie, and Jenkin's Hour of Praise and Swap Shop.
They replace those shows with a soap opera set in Chickamauga, Georgia.
Furthermore, they encourage every Fanny and JoJo to audition for a part.
Oh yeah, and Larry the plumber/audio-visual "expert" will edit the forthcoming masterpiece.

Possible soap opera names:
"My Family Tree Don't Fork"
"Three Ex-Wives and a Pick-Up Truck"
"While Peepin' Through the Neighbor's Winder"

Try showing this hillbilly-telenovela to a visiting Chilean.
Their reaction?
Suprise!
Intrigue!
Confusion?!

This has been my soap-operatic experience in Santiago thus far.

And now for the most fascinating genre of show, fishing.
Nearly every night, we watch something akin to "Frank and Bob's Bass Huntin' Bonanza," except it's in Spanish, so I guess it would be more like "Fredrico y Guillermo's Bonanza de Pescado."

During the course of the thirty-minute montage of flopping fish, my host mom rotates among the phrases:
¡Qué guapo!
(How handsome! - I still wonder whether she is referencing the fish or the fishermen...)
¡Qué grande!
(How big!)
¡Qué enorme!
(How enormous!)

You'd think she'd get tired of it, but no.

Maybe I just look like the kind of girl who would appreciate fishing on T.V.
(I am. And I do.)

Or maybe my host mom is an avid, though closeted, fisherwoman.
(If that is the case, then she is the Clark Kent of the fishing world, lurking dumpily in her pink checkered apron, waiting for the right opportunity to strike at all the unsuspecting fish of South America.)

I now return you to your regularly scheduled gringo-programming.

Photos and Hairnets from Mendoza, Argentina

The cellar of AltaVista Winery - very Cask of Amontillado-esque.

The view over the vineyard.

My trusty steed for the bike/wine tour.

Las chicas bonitas y un arbol bonito tambien.

A tiny part of the gigantic, man-I'm-going-to-get-lost-in-here-and-never-emerge park in Mendoza.

The view from the bus - otherworldly.

The charter bus had T.V.s - notice the reflection in the photo.

Holy. Moly.

Kind of like Montana. And Wyoming.

And Heaven.

Can you spot the road?

Life goal you never knew you had = drive over Andes in a bus.

Check.

So Mendoza, Argentina is incredible. O increible, depending on your language preference.

The bus ride over the Andes? Superbien.

It reminded me of Going-to-the-Sun Road, for all you Montuckians out there.

Except it wasn't a national park.

It just was.

On a photographic sidenote, our guide for the bike/wine tour told us to smile for the camera and say something that sounded like "hairnet."

I still don't know what he wanted us to say, but I like the idea of smiling and saying "hairnet!" for a picture.

We should try it sometime.

Hairnet!

Argentina, Chile´s next-door-neighbor, or the magical land beyond the mountains

I am writing this from a hostel in Mendoza, Argentina.

Before I left, all I heard about was how great this country was going to be.
My first impression?

It really is great.
Today, we explored streets lined in blooming trees and sampled chocolate oddities.
Tomorrow, we take a bike-and-wine tour of the many vineyards surrounding the city, which sits nestled up against the mountains.

And I must say, thus far, I feel like Dorothy stepping into the colored world of Munchkinland.
Allow me to draw a few comparisons:

Chile = NesCafe, instant coffee, everywhere
Argentina = free coffee-coffee in the Andes Mtns at Argentinian customs

Chile = mangled gibberish, parading under the guise of the Spanish language
Argentina = Spanish, understandable in the style of listening exercises you had to complete in Spanish I

Chile = mullets, drullets, skullets, and everything in-between
Argentina = hair sanity

Chile = subpar attractiveness for both genders
Argentina = unfettered beauty, the mention of which prompts swooning across the continent

Chile = passion for the many different variations of "empanada"
Argentina = the same passion, but for chocolate

Chile = where I live
Argentina = where I don´t

So maybe the grass is greener on the other side of the Andes.
At any rate, Chile seems to have some serious issues keeping-up-with-the-Argentinians.

I am nonplussed.
I just love the fact that I am able to exist on either side of the Andes.

Don´t cry for me, Chile. I promise to come home from Argentina!