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*

(!)