If you will allow me, a touch of sentimentality

("...aren't you always overly sentimental...?")

("...shhh, Imaginary Blog Reader, that can't be true, sometimes I'm sparklingly witty!")

Several years ago I went on a study tour, with my university, to Greece. It was a travel writing course. Needless to say this was completely fabulous....20 creative types running around looking at things, writing about them, and then rewarding ourselves with amazing food and drink. In a gorgeous country. And at one point, as I recall, we rented mopeds.

I remember very vividly having my first run in with a solo traveler. We were having a lecture session at the foot of the Acropolis in an olive grove. If anything can beat that sentence, it is: he was sleeping at the foot of an olive tree, head on his pack, on a mild afternoon in May (at the foot of the Acropolis, let's not forget). Anyhow now I realize that he was probably some random backpacker who had stayed up all night on a cheap train and couldn't get into his hostel until 12. However, at the time, I was absolutely and immediately jealous. I went off into the Parthenon and wrote a long bit about how wonderful it would be to travel alone.

I read my piece later and at dinner had a conversation with one of my professors, Kerry Bakken. I was bitter and angry because I thought that I would never be able to sleep at the base of the Acropolis with a backpack because I am a woman and that brings with it dangers. In the midst of this irritation and frustration, I said that I would never be able to travel alone because of the state of the world and the general dangers associated with being the 'wrong' gender (and hurled a string of abuse at the universe in general).

And Kerry gave me a hug and said, "You're going to have to get over that idea and do it anyway."

While I was walking home last night I was thinking about that day and I felt very satisfied. So, ok, I'm not quite changing the world yet (although if you are ever in Chile and run into an aquaculturist or blood bank technician with passable English conversational skills, perhaps you can thank me). In any event, though, my world has changed quite drastically and that has got to be the first step.

La niña es loca!!

Yesterday I left my house at 7:30, running late, as you may be aware depending on your interest level in this blog (I do not blame you if that is Low). I failed, in this state, to remember that it was meant to rain all day. As such, I left without my umbrella, wearing a dress and "teacher shoes."

At lunch, I went to a very interesting lecture about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict at the U. de Valparaiso put on by the Unión General de Estudiantes Palestinos de Chile. Afterwards I had to run back to give 4.5 more hours of midterms. As such, I had been out of my house for about 12 hours when I emerged from my last class with an open-topped bag stuffed with my computer, a folder full of uncorrected homework papers, and approximately 60 midterms to grade.

And it was pouring.

So I holed up in the Sala de Profes (my second home) to see if it would let up. 2 hours later, I had to accept that it would not.

Being the fabulous teacher that I am, I sacrificed my outer garments (jacket and scarf) to stuff on top of my tests in the hopes that they would not disintegrate during my 20 minute walk. And then I hit the streets.

Water can kill, here in Chile, much like bare feet, so I believe I looked like a complete madwoman. I was walking at my Boston-paced clip, in a wrap dress, makeup running down my face, hair plastered to my head, clutching a bag to my chest as if it were a baby. Meanwhile I was constantly being trailed by a flock of umbrella salesmen who would fairly chase me down, given the state I was in. It probably resembled the scenes in suspense movies where the woman breaks into some office or other and then excapes frantically with the incriminating documents that will bring down the corrupt administration....this way! No this way! And obligingly every bus that passed by sprayed me with water so as to heighten the dramatic effect.

Needless to say, I arrived at the home of my Chilean host family looking like a mess. At home this would be met with laughing and pointing. Here, it was shouts of horror.

"La niña es loca! Loca! Loca!"

I explained my situation regarding the forgotten umbrella, the midterms, etc. In fact it was not very cold out, but given that I am expected to wear a down jacket for all temperatures below 70F, showing up soaking wet in a dress with no jacket was just out of this world.

This morning I got up and got myself ready with the intention of attending the second lecture in the series (which lasts until Thursday, if any of those who live in the area are interested I can share schedule details). As I ran for the door (late, of course) I stuck my head in the kitchen to tell the family that I would not be eating lunch at the house. They took one look at my fleece jacket (which is not a jacket, in their opinion), and literally both chased me out of the kitchen and hollered at me in what was (to me) and incoherent jumble of Spanish.

"Paragua...!!! Loca....!!!! Chaqueta..!!! Cobres....!!! Refria....!!!"

"It's ok!" I assured them in equally incoherent Spanish (but that's the norm). "It's not cold, it's just raining! This jacket is warm, it's just not big! The other is too warm! I have my umbrella in my bag, it's small but when you push the button it gets to be the right size, I promise! I am LATE!!"

"La niña es loca!!" they yelled to each other, yelled after me as I slammed out the door.

Well, unfortunately I was not successful in my attempt to attend the talk. Instead I ended up with an unintentional walking tour of Cerro Playa Ancha in a steady rain. I defy stereotype: I refuse to ask for directions. I don't know why. I think it's due to being raised by a woman from the Bronx who drilled into me that the second one looks like a lost tourist one will be immediately mugged and/or beaten. I don't mind walking in the rain, in fact I rather like it, as mentioned last week. However, teacher shoes plus this:



means that 2 hours later my feet are STILL soaked through. If teacher shoes are anything like rock-climbing shoes (and they are, a bit--they PINCH) then I am consoling myself with the idea that they will fit much better after drying molded to my foot. And praying I can change my socks before the family sees me and has me committed.

While I'm thinking about it....

I have been unable to find adequate Spanish equivalents for the following two absolutely essential words from my vocabulary:

awkward

random

I have no idea how to survive being this awkward without being able to say the word awkward. How terribly awkward.

Pingüinos, street cleaners, jumbled thoughts and photographs

I have mentioned how Valparaíso me encanta in the morning when I am all fuzzy in the head and the city seems to match. Today I was running late (on midterm day....I never realized that teachers have the same slumps as their students) and didn't get out of my door until 7:30. As such, the street cleaner from the original post, who I see every morning, had made his way from the bottom of the stairs to the landing to which my door opens. So I stepped out to find him at my morning lookout spot, holding onto the iron railing looking out at the port as I do every morning. I feel rather more attached to this street cleaner now.

So, yesterday I woke up rather late after inexplicably deciding that Sunday morning, 3am, is the perfect time to drink a beer and listen to music for the next, oh, 3 hours. I am not sure if I have mentioned, but the family computer is directly outside my door. This leads to all kinds of interesting things, but in this case it lead to me being awakened to a Spanish language version of Frank Sinatra's "My Way." On repeat mode. At full volume so as to be heard in the kitchen at the other end of the house.

I don't think I've ever left the house so quickly after waking up on a weekend.

Anyhow so I went for a bit of a wander. I photographed a few things I've been meaning to, and explored some new streets. So to begin, allow me to introduce you to the Big Tree:

In Pennsylvania we had a Big Tree that was a frequent destination, at Woodcock park (please, no jokes). It was excellent for climbing, close to a very nice little river where I saw all kinds of animals that were new to my suburban-reared self, and to top it off had picnic tables and those little public grills that I would like to see in more places. So, now I have a new Big Tree. It is far Bigger than its Big predecessor. However as of yet I have not tried to climb it. It is in the middle of the Plaza Victoria, that is, it's quite public, and so far no one has expressed interest in climbing it with me. My threshold for embarassment has gone up quite a bit lately, but I'm not quite ready to be climbing Big Trees in public plazas, solo.

Here is another view of the Plaza, with the Cathedral visible in the background.


And here is a random photo of one of the many gorgeous buildings within the plan:

From there, I climbed up Cerro Bellavista and wandered a bit in the Museo a Cielo Abierto, a series of streets bearing murals from a number of artists (notably Matta). In general though they were not nearly as interesting as many of the murals I've seen throughout the city. I did like this random scribble, though:

One of those statements that inspires the thought, "Oh, that's poetic," which is shortly thereafter followed by "Well, no, actually, I guess it's not, particularly." But somehow I still like it. It might be the little bird-fish.

I did also like this plaza, the name of the artist escapes me but it was actually part of the official art:

There is a statue on top of Cerro Bellavista that can be seen from Plaza Victoria. It is some religious figure, arms out to the city. I was frusturated to find that from the hill you can only see the back of the statue, because it's gated off. So I'm not clear yet on who exactly is watching over the Big Tree.

I was also interested by a number of sheets hanging out of windows with the slogan "Cerro Bellavista--Sin vista?" I am going to try to find out what proposed or actual development this is in response to.....said the girl detective.

On the way back this fellow invited me into the Natural History Museum:

It was a national holiday dedicated to cultural affairs, so the museum was free. Despite the promising beginning, however, the museum was generally odd.

Why?:

Why?:

Well, ok, this is cool:

`God save thee, ancient Mariner !
From the fiends, that plague thee thus !
--Why look'st thou so ?'--With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS. :

And then I settled into something quite my style:

Excellent. To finish off this completely rambling post about nothing in particular, I present you with a photo from last Wednesday's military parade:

Aren't they dashing and.....armed....

Til the next time, when I will attempt to keep a steady line of thought going.

Further dispatch regarding rain

Today I spent most of my time hanging out with the family, which has been very enjoyable and restored some of my Spanish confidence. They are incredibly patient people. Further plus: two of them are teachers, so they are completely capable of listening to and understanding my garbled language without making me feel in the least embarassed. They are the only people in Chile with whom I can sit down and talk in Spanish about politics, feminism, books, art, culture, history and........drum roll, please......make jokes. That are funny. That make people laugh. Shock and awe. In short, they are the only people, at the moment, with whom I can feel somewhat normal while speaking Spanish.

Anyhow one of today's topics was this week's rain, and next week's expected bad weather. This was very entertaining and involved physical imitations of umbrella-weilding old ladies hell bent on taking out people's eyes, puddle jumping, and the cowering masses within the super markets. It also involved much teasing from me regarding the general mass panic surrounding the terrible menace of water, and the fact that the city seems to be designed purposefully to flood at the least provocation.

The defense: "the city is old."

And so, I offer, to any who may come up with the same argument, the following photo:

This is Pompeii. Which I visited in the rain. Which I was able to walk about in unbothered due to, as visible in the picture, the clever invention of gutters as well as convex streets (not pictured).

Now, I am aware that Valparaíso has no date of foundation, however, I am fairly confident in stating that the technology was well available at the time. This business of water spouting out unchecked onto the street is just indefensible, in terms of my ability to make fun of it.

Summary: I stand by my right to be a snotty cold-climate exile laughing at the infrastructure in broken Spanish. Just try to stop me.

And the rain came

On Tuesday, four months of dry weather split down the middle and I will tell you that it rained . It seemed much as if the ocean had sent out fingers to drag the city down off of the hills. The streets were flooded; rivers ran down the hills and pooled throughout the city center. The city was like a glacier, threaded through with water at every level. This is not an exxageration:

Why have a gutter when you can have.....any other available surface, let's say the sidewalk? I discovered that day that the city is riddled with holes and spouts and pipes, so the apparent solidity of the buildings melts into liquid and everything around you runs like a sieve. The water is in the sea, it is in the air, and it even seems to be spurting up out of the ground.



Almost everyone in the street was hiding under alcoves and under awnings, because rain here is extreme weather . Now of course some of that is due to the reality of the situation, however I will have to say that I did my fair share of, "where I come from, I'd drive 10 hours in a blizzard to get back to school after break, oh yesiree, now that's bad weather, these people don't know what bad weather is..." I received little support in this from Elisa, who went to school in Santa Barbara and contests that rain is in fact just horrible. To give her credit, though, she slogged on with me.

For those of us who did continue on with our normal movements, though, it was certainly more than a little challenging. Observe the Plank Challenge:

(Notice here the man on the right getting ready to take the leap approach):

And here another making a (barely) successful landing:

It was not a rainy day to scoff at, even for a northerner. I had to wear plastic bags in my shoes for the next few days (see previous post). It did make falling asleep under a tin roof absolutely dreamy.

Today, the sun was back. Due to an odd set of circumstances involving confusion over my presence (or not) in my house, I found myself spending the night on a friend's couch. He lives in a monster of a building that juts out of the top of one of the central hills. The sun woke me up abruptly and abrasively, but it was worth it, because from the balcony the entire city spreads out below and the light was catching all of the still-wet morning buildings. The smell of eucalyptus drifted up to me from a small stand of trees and brambles on the hill below, and it was, I think, the first time that I have smelled plants in several months. I spent the afternoon walking around rather dazed and shining. An equal balance to the pleasant melancholy of rain is the bright humidity of the next sunny day.

Meredith's Recipe for Feeling More Important Than You Are

1. Valparaíso, in a light rain, with all of the concrete holding a silver glow; pedestrians stumbling under umbrellas and car lights catching every surface like mirrors.
2. An umbrella.
3. Plastic bags inside your sneakers (so as not to be distracted by wet toes).
4. A warm wind that tries periodically to take your umbrella or push your hair into your face.
5. Something piano-based, either swelling or quiet (but not in between) on your headphones (recommended: Regina Spektor "Us," Cold Play "Warning Sign," just about anything by Eric Satie).
6. A touch of melancholy; thoughts of past and future and the scattering prism of possibility that lies in between.

Mix simultaneously, wander throughout the afternoon, casting searching, knowing glances at passers-by with an air of silent companionship.

For a richer flavor: add one ride up Cerro Concepcion on Acensor La Reina, with an old man who looks sadly out the window towards the ocean hidden in fog.

Oasis...of a rather makeshift brand

Despite being a very incompetent Spanish speaker, this week I have acquired two new plants, several new books that I am looking forward to immensely (I am finally going to finish Steppenwolf without losing it), and some fresh walnuts from a tree in Santiago.

Aaaah. Now I can get back to my stack of irregular verbs.

My Weekend and Monday of Spanish, or, Why Shy People Make Rotten Language Learners

I have taken to accepting any invitation proferred by spanish speakers (given a minimum level of non-creepiness, that is). And so it is that I have discovered a rather awkward irony. The people who are the most attentive and the most conscientious, vis a vis including me, are far more exhausting than those that are less so.

Picture, if you will, four people at a table, all of whom are fluent in spanish except our hapless blogger. She is seated opposite a very pleasant colleague who is making every effort to have a conversation with her. He speaks, and then he checks for comprehension, of which there is often not much to be found. He tries to find a way around the barrier, cannot, laughs. Occasionally he asks for a translation from other corners of the table. She stirs her coffee. She memorizes her placemat. No, she doesn't understand. She feels like she is shrinking under the well-intentioned glare of attention, incapable of offering a coherent thought, incapable of responding correctly. He hesitates, searches for a topic that might be accessible. She feels guilty, wishes he would join the conversation with his friends, so that he would enjoy himself. So that she can go back to being ears with feet. Instead she stumbles through garbled responses and tries to appreciate the corrections she is offered. The light in the cafe seems brighter than normal. Her cheeks burn, she is embarassed by her helplessness and lack of personality, and then she is embarassed by her embarassment.

The thing is, you see, that I am very accustomed now to living behind this little wall of mine. It's not preferable, of course, but it no longer really bothers me in an immediate sense. I no longer feel strange sitting, uncomprehendingly, at a table of people who are conversing amongst themselves as if I were not present. I learn quite a bit that way. The family that I live with has come to know me rather well. They speak to me directly, but when I start grimacing and trying to hide my face in my soup, they know it's time to let me be quiet. New people, understandably, are not quite as accustomed. How odd would you feel having some random person trying to read your lips while you speak to someone else?

It is an interesting problem. It is probably one of the more valuable aspects of this experience, or rather will be once I've done with it. I love words. Ridiculously. My sense of humor is largely based on misusing words; I mean, really! I am articulate. I might be spacy, and awkward, and all sorts of other things, but at least that is a constant that I can fall back on. And so oddly enough this pushes me into situations (ie, say, Chile) where I find myself without the one thing that I consistently rely on to be my strength in all kinds of situations.

Well, and so, it's obviously no tragedy, I do it anyway. I go out and humiliate myself, and frankly no one really cares. It's completely internal (until I write about it online, that is, speaking of ironies). It is an incredibly strong feeling, though, physical even. I feel, at those times, as if I am far back in my eyes, disconnected from the nervous hands and the head that keeps lowering no matter how many times I remind myself to keep it up. As if I've gone from automatic to standard, I suppose. Lift head. Make eye contact. Stop staring at people's mouths. They've stopped talking, they're looking, speak.

Ah my. And so it goes, my very strange and silly silent life....when I am on my own, I am frusturated at not being able to practice my spanish. When I get the chance, I start wondering if I can climb out the bathroom window.

Marching band performance, po

Wednesday is May 21st, which is an important holiday dealing with a battle, Iquique, and, as one Chilean explained it to me, "cuando Arturo Prat murió, po." Because he was a really tough waeon. This is about all I've gathered about the specific reasons for the holiday.

There are however lots of interesting goings on related to May 21st that can be understood without even the least shred of Spanish. For instance, yesterday, all of the student marching bands from the city (perhaps region?) took to the streets for an entire day of parading. I am still kicking myself for not having had a camera with me. Imagine a ten year old trying to march, look serious, and play a harp twice the size of himself all at once. It was fabulous, and it just kept going. An all day affair. Most of the streets were blocked off. Plaza Anibal Pinto, which is the plaza closest to my house, was a madhouse. Since this blog has been photo-deficient for some time now, just for diversion's sake I'll throw in some pictures of the plaza on a normal day:

And here it is with some students putting on a dance performance:

So, that general scene, filled with an army of children with drums. I was pretty fascinated by the whole thing. It spread literally throughout the city, from the port down past the center of town. The chilean who was accompanying me did not seem to understand why I kept stopping to stare at the parades, as it's just what happens every year at this time, but for me it was absolutely surreal.

There is also a major naval parade that takes place on Wednesday itself. There is a good amount of animal rights grafiti around (of which I unfortunately have no pictures) pertaining to this holiday, because apparently all of the stray dogs are rounded up to prevent them from mussing up the parade. I have heard conflicting reports as to what happens to the dogs. Most people have told me that they kill them, some that they are spirited off to some other location and left there, and some that they simply "detain" them, so to speak, until after the parade. I'm somewhat skeptical of the canine cleansing theory. First of all, there are plenty of old grandpa dogs in my neighborhood. If all of the dogs were wiped out once a year, it would stand to reason that the only dogs in town would be quite young. Secondly, there are just so many of them that I cannot imagine that every stray dog I have met was born during the course of this year. Finally, though, based on what little I know of Chilean politics and allocation of funds, it seems a bit absurd to me that there could be some massive secret budget set aside for the euthanization of stray dogs. So, what happens to the dogs, in my super expert opinion? This I don't know. Ex-carcel? (see post from previous month RE: eerie former-prison-cum-empty-art-space).

Anyhow on Wednesday I will be sure to remember my camera so that I can provide you with pictures that are actually relevant to the topic I'm writing about. (what an idea!)

It's Friday night...do you know where your incoherent gringa is?

....why, right here at the computer, of course. It's a rather odd moment that deserves noting mainly because there is no one else here (which, as I've mentioned, is always a rare and strange happening).......except for a random person who I met about an hour ago at onces and may or may not be living here now.

I was not under the impression that she was living here. However, suddenly everyone had left except her, and now she's hanging out in one of the bedrooms. Odd? Odd. I'm sure that at some point during onces I was told both where everyone was going and whether or not this person is my new roomie. It was probably one of those times where I give up on understanding and just nod and mimic whatever facial expression the speaker is making. Smile for smile, grimace for grimace, eye roll for eye roll.....this works surprisingly well. I might start doing it in English as well.

So, me and my new buddy are just chilling. I potentially have plans tonight, but they are Spanish-speaking plans, so I'm not entirely sure if I'm hoping to get a call....or hoping to be able to get into my PJs and not spend the evening imitating people. Although from all the buzz, it seems that the entire crew of the George Washington navy ship is running around Viña, calling people "mamacita" and ordering tequilas. People watching, anyone? For once feeling like there's someone more clueless than me at the bar? Yes, please...

On Being Ill, Part 2

As an interesting follow-up to yesterday's post on chileno v. norteamericano concepts of health:

While laid up yesterday I sent out a document to my school's English department. Our students have no workbook, which of course makes language learning next to impossible when many of said students are highly unmotivated (ie. not about to go out and find their own ways of practicing). So I've taken to writing up exercises for each Unit and sharing them with the rest of the teachers. The most recent was the Midterm Review sheet. I wrote the instructions in hackneyed but passable Spanish, but then I was able to enlist another norteamericano teacher--who is fluent in Chilean Spanish, having lived here in Valpo while in school--to rewrite them for me. I sent them out yesterday with due credit to both parties involved.

Today I received a concerned message from a very sweet Chilena teacher in the department. She is most certainly the mama bear for all of the extranjeros. She has put in an astonishing amount of extra time making sure we settled in well and is generally very sweet. Anyhow, she wrote that she was very happy that my co-author and I could team up for work, but maybe it would be better if we teamed up to go party? After all she sees me working all of the time, and the guy who was here last year (who also lived with my family) worked half the time and was sick the other half. So she is very concerned that I am working myself sick, and should let my hair down a bit.

The first reason that this is funny is that my hair is very much down, and I am surprised to find out that at work I'm seen as a little worker ant. It's true that I work a lot at school, however I do so in order to have no work to do on weekends and at night so that I can be irresponsible and hedonistic (family members: exxageration) (others: sort of). More on work perceptions of me in another post though, because I have more interesting stories about that.

The related reason why this is funny is once again the difference in perspective. As I wrote before, my immediate reaction to getting sick was, "I shouldn't have stayed out so late on Saturday." Paulina, meanwhile, reacts with, "that girl must not be partying nearly enough, poor thing."

This all ties in with something that amazes me about Chile. Nothing really gets going until around 1 or 2 in the morning. At 6am, the clubs are so full that you have no idea that it is, technically, not your night out anymore. When people say you should meet them early, they mean 11. This includes weekdays. And then, the next day, these same people get up 2 hours after getting home and go to work for 9 hours. Now, I'm pretty nocturnal, but I still get in my 5-8, one way or another.

I'm telling you the country does not sleep.

Maybe Bónicula is more culturally relevant than I presumed?

Anyhow, based on my week's experience of illness (I am feeling just about better now), I would guesstimate the Chilean recipe for health as follows:
1. As many socks as will fit in your shoes.
2. As many pairs of tights and long underwear as will fit in your pants.
3. As many sweaters and jackets as you own.
4. Absolutely no contact whatsoever with the floor.
5. No showers at any time when the temperature is not above 70F.
6. When in doubt, take a pill--any pill!
7. Party until 6am as often as possible, and don't work too hard.

On Being Ill

So. I am down with tonsillitis and have been for 2 days now. It's not a bit fun. For one thing this is supposed to be "midterm prep" week, which was technically supposed to be last week, so my unsuspecting students have now been pushed back 2 weeks and will have some unpleasant cramming towards the end of the semester. For another I have been in bed for 2 days straight, plus every break I had on Monday. Qué fomé. I have only 4 short stories left in English before I start having to read in French, and only 2 short French books left before I have to go to Spanish, in which I have only Bunnicula (yes, Bunnicula). And let me tell you I am having trouble with Bunnicula, deep literature that it is. It also troubles me that it has been translated as Bónicula, since "bunny" is not a Spanish word and so the whole point seems to be lost. I suppose the high-quality translators are not dispatched for children's books about monster rabbits. However, I digress, which as Bónicula has taught me can also be said as....me voy por las ramas.

The most interesting aspect of this bout of sickness has been the clashing of cultural medical views within the casa. In my opinion, I most likely got ill because I stayed out all night on Saturday drinking far too much and hanging out with half a million people. Low immune system + high exposure to germs = why did I do that, cough cough. However, from the perspective of my family, I am way off the mark. First of all, I do not wear adequate footwear while in the house. Socks alone do not cut it. If they are socks, they better be layered and fluffy. If not, slippers at all times. Because the second your foot touches cold floor, you are done for. Along those same lines, not wearing my sub-zero northface jacket that I brought from home on days when the temperature is below 60F is just asking for it. Finally, the wild oscillations in temperature from somewhat-chilly to not-so-chilly are enough to make any rookie sick. As I have been warned about all of these things for weeks on end, I should not be surprised that my careless behavior has landed me in bed.

We also disagree somewhat on treatment. I remember a couple of months ago some other norteamericanos were going on about how other cultures are so much more holistic, naturalistic, yada yada. I disagreed. Now we may be pill happy at home but I see no evidence of healing-women running around in Chile. At the moment, for instance, I am hanging out in bed, drinking lots of water and tea, and waiting for the virus to get lost. This sort of thing is generally not more than 4 or 5 days; I'm 3 days in. I'll survive. However, 2 days ago when I told my housemates about it, I was told to go down the street to get an injection right away. When I demured, I was offered some random antibiotics. I've been fighting off both options ever since and am somewhat concerned that the next time I fall asleep I might be dragged physically to a doctor. In Chile, from experience and from hearsay, they tend to go to the doctor for everything. So the fact that I have let this drag on for several days is something akin to insanity to them. The other interesting thing is that I am not allowed to take showers. Well that's a bit harsh. I am allowed to take showers at the peak of midday as long as I then get right back into eight layers of clothing. Otherwise there is a huge fuss because I am changing my temperature, which as you recall is what does you in.

The family has, however, been extremely sweet to me, and after accepting that I intend to be stubborn about the injection/antibiotics issue, the mother has started mixing me a very helpful lemon juice and honey drink. It is interesting though. Medical believes are one of those things that are simply immovable, because every culture thinks that they are referring to high scientific fact. The idea that no one is entirely sure about these things, particularly not English majors or retired elementary school teachers (in my present case) doesn't matter. We will not budge. It was the same in France--every morning, whatever the weather, I would be forced to crush my then short-and-styled hair into a hat. To do otherwise was near suicide. So in France, it's hats. Chile, socks. The US? We have our own myths and superstitions. But I can't tell you what they are because I believe them wholeheartedly. I would guess that one would be orange juice, because since taking sick I have been in a near panic over the fact that juice as I know it does not exist in Chilean supermarkets. Who knows what other bizarre ideas I have, though.

I could ask if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that having a head-and-throat illness has made me incapable of communicating in Spanish.

Back to bed, then!

Tear gas = no biggie

As mentioned in yesterday's post, Chilean protests often come with a bit more drama than seems necessary. So today, I was walking to work, when my phone rang.

Elisa asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm on Prat, walking to work," I answered. "Where are you?"

"I'm at work. I just got tear gassed, and they just set off another one--people are all running into the building--so if you get onto Avenida Brasil and see people covering their mouths.....just turn around!"

Interesting. This is not the sort of phone call I normally receive. So, I proceeded on my merry way with a bit more precaution. As I got near my building, I saw several carabineros. One had his helmet off, so I continued on while keeping an eye on him. If that helmet went back on, I would make a break for the building. Luckily, all was calm and I made it to work with my sinuses unmolested. Only 8 students showed up for my class, but I decided to teach anyway, as that's twice the turnout I had for anything yesterday. When they came, I asked if any of them had been gassed.

Oh, yeah, a couple had. "Miss, can I go brush my teeth and wash my face off?" Um, yes. Yes you can. We might have been talking about whether or not they had been caught in the rain for the level of concern they were expressing. I can tell you there would have been a bit more hysterics if I had showed up any earlier. None of the students knew why the gas had been set off--there hadn't been a protest or any noise that they heard. This did not seem strange to them.

Later I got Elisa's story. She was walking and saw a few people with cloth over their mouths but didn't think much of it. Then all of a sudden she walked right into the gas. It had been set off before, so she didn't see it, all of a sudden her eyes and nose were burning and she had to sit down on a stoop and cover her face until it stopped. She was not pleased. Then, as she approached the building, another one went off. She ran with all of the students to our building, got inside and gave me the much appreciated warning call. According to her, a few students were holding hands in the street in some sort of gesture, but no one was being rowdy. The second gas bomb seemed completely random from her perspective.

For those of you who are reading from a distance, this probably all sounds terribly dramatic and frightening. It's rather not. This is no major civil unrest, there are no mobs with pitchforks. There are just a lot of students and a lot of police, and all of them seem to be a bit overvigilant in their roles. So I'm about to walk home, and I can hear what sounds like a protest going on. I'm not concerned for my safety, but I can tell you it feels a bit strange to be thinking along the lines of, "Oh, darn. Well, I just hope I don't get tear gassed, for pete's sake."

If I do, though, you can bet I will make a huge deal of it and award myself no end of small comforts to recover from my great ordeal, while my students will just wash their faces and get on with it.

The day the micros died...

All of Chile has been in a bit of a tangle over the micros, or city buses, during the last few weeks. I am a bit unclear on the situation in Santiago, short of the fact that there have been major student protests. This is always rather interesting in Chile. Just as at home, protests generally follow a certain formula. However, here in Chile, no matter what the issue may be, the formula usually includes protesters throwing themselves against cops dressed in full riot gear, people being tossed into massive paddy wagons, tear gas, fire hoses..... It never ceases to amaze me that I will turn on the news and see some horrific-seeming scene of someone being tackled by armed guards, or I will look out my classroom window and see carabineros jumping out of a van with torso-length bulletproof shields on their arms....and then I'll ask my host family and they'll say, "Oh, I don't know, some protest." A friend in Santiago told me she got the same reaction when she asked a friend why they smelled tear gas: "Oh, some demostration." Although I've come to realize that in general it's not really to be taken too seriously, it's just part of the show. It just wouldn't be a heartfelt protest without some rocks being thrown! And the police just wouldn't be doing their job if they didn't come dressed for armageddon! In some ways it reminds me of soccer players over-dramatizing their injuries to get a foul.

I digress. I don't know the specifics of the Santiago situation, as I said, but in Valparaíso the disagreement is over a student-fare hike from 130 to 210 pesos. The buses here are independently operated, something which I would like to write more about later. It's something to get used to. In many ways, they feel like giant taxi cabs--stuffed animals hanging from the rearview, stickers and photos all over the dashboard. What's more, because they're private, they are far more laissez-faire than the buses I am used to. To begin with, you flag them down. This is something I have had to adjust to. At first it felt exceptionally rude to be stopping a vehicle with 20 other passengers just because I felt like getting on. Same goes for getting off. There are stops, of course, but in general you can just jump off anytime they slow down. Most interesting of all, though, you can usually bargain with the driver if you have a special request. In Concón several weeks ago, several friends and I essentially chartered a micro to take us to the street we were staying on, although it wasn't on the normal route. The bus was empty, there were seven of us, why not? Since the micros operate like small businesses, each fare is important. Which is why the drivers are so insistent on the fare raise for students. They are also asking for government subsidies, which are provided to the transportation system in Santiago. Their argument is that the machines are so expensive to maintain that the current fare system is not sustainable.

For their part, the students clearly do not want their fare to be raised. On their side, the perspective is that students of lower income will be penalized by the price hike. They are also claiming that the government is not supporting the education system adequately. So, here in Valpo, the students have been on strike for 3 weeks. Not my students...that you would have heard about. But at the U Catolica the strike is at 3.5 weeks now, unless something has changed in the last few days.

So, up until this point, I generally followed the situation. The prices were set to be raised, and so the students went on strike. This makes sense.

Today, though, the micros also went on strike, because the drivers are angry at not being included in negotiations. It was meant to be a 50% strike, but in reality the micros are not running. I've seen only 3 or 4.

So, as I understand it, the price of the student fare has not gone up, has not gone down, and has not been definitely decided in any way.....and yet both sides of the argument are now on strike. No students, no micros. I'm a bit baffled. How on earth does one resolve a situation in which everyone goes on strike whether they are winning or losing the argument?

Anyhow, this is, as always, from behind the language barrier. I am not getting any of the detail of the situation, and my students seem to be generally disinterested in the matter so I haven't been able to get a clear answer from anyone.

So what does all this mean for my life? Eight out of eighteen students this morning, four out of eighteen this afternoon. I am willing to bet that half of those that didn't show up don't even have to take a micro to school, but hey, if I were a student I'd take the excuse too.

And we were singing....bye, bye miss american pie....

The fickle nature of TurBus, and other stories

This weekend I went to La Serena. I will post on this soon, but the wireless connection is down at work and I'd prefer to wait until I can add pictures (from my own computer, of course). So for now I'll just share an anecdote, or two.

The first spins off of my last post, in parts. La Serena is about 7.5 hours away from Valpo by bus. Elisa and I went by TurBus, the company that I've used most often while in Chile. In general they've been quite good. They turn off the lights at night, they don't play music, the reading lights work, they usually give you a little sandwich or something on the long trips, and the semi-cama (half-bed, a.k.a. normal reclining bus seat with a little foot rest) is somewhat possible to sleep in. For some reason, one of the jobs of the auxillary driver is to shut and open your curtains for you at pre-determined times, which I find annoying, but if you protest he'll leave you be.

On the way there, all was as it should be. But on the way back, there were some issues. It was a very early bus, leaving at 6:15am. So after getting on board and eating some fruit, I went to sleep for 3 hours or so. When I woke up, it was to the sounds of.....a blasting music video medley! As noted in my previous posting, tastes here tend towards the nostalgic, so I was treated to hits from such artists as the Spice Girls, Coolio, Ace of Base, and Natalie Imbruglia. However, being a medley, only about 15 seconds of each song were played. I don't think I've touched on the popularity of the medley here, but it is kind of an issue. Imagine those little commercials they play on radio stations where you hear bits of songs you like before heading into a full length version of some other random song. Or the equivalent with music videos. Teasers, in their most common usage, designed to keep you listening or watching with the hope that they will eventually play the whole song that they have now gotten stuck in your head. Well, apparently someone afflicted with ADHD had the opposite reaction to those teasers one day. Instead of thinking, how annoying, I wish I could hear that song, he or she thought, "This is great! Why don't they do this all of the time? Why bother spending 2 and a half minutes listening to a musical progression when you can just hardline the catchy refrain and move on?"

And so the extended medley was born, or so I imagine it. And now it is not uncommon to spend 45 minutes at a club without hearing one song in its entirety, or even moeity. I cannot say if this is a Chilean invention or not, but it is new to me. Apparently, the same logic has been applied to music videos, and TurBus thought, what a nice way to wake up in the morning. Frenetic music clips at full volume.

And then they fed me a cookie for breakfast.

The rest of the trip was given over to an exceptionally obnoxious sounding comedian performing, again, at full volume. It was perhaps the first time in this country where I've thought to myself, "thank god I can't understand what this guy is saying."

Now, I've heard plenty of stories that top this. One person reported passing a 24 hour bus ride under the glow (and sounds) of a back-to-back Steven Segal marathon. So I'm certainly not claiming to have endured much. However, after yesterday, I'm going to have to conclude that there's just no predicting or preventing it. It certainly doesn't depend on the company. Call it the Chilean bus lottery (paired with the traditional bus lottery, which is who-will-be-sharing-my-armrest-and-oxygen-supply-for-eight-hours-today).

The second story involves an irritating ex-pat. This is exciting, because as you may have noticed, this blog is almost entirely devoid of characters. That is a pretty fair reflection of my life. When your language skills stop at the practical, it is rare to have any interactions that warrant writing down.

In any event, I took a tour of the Capel pisco distillery in Vicuña. Elisa and I were there, as well as three American study abroad students (who are taking a full university course load in Spanish), and assorted other gringos. One woman approached me and the other four girls and asked where we were from. We went through that spiel, and then she wasted no time in telling us that while she and her husband are from Arizona, they now live in Santiago, where they have two apartments in two of the ritziest neighborhoods. She made a big show of trying to figure out how to explain this to us, given the intense difficulties of translating "comuna" and stating that the rich folk live next to the cordillera ("oh, the mountains, I mean, the Andes"). Now, I may be a Chile newbie, but this woman managed to irritate me within the first three minutes, which is not easy to do. I only spent a month in Santiago, but I'm pretty sure that even the most clueless traveler could figure out the basic vocab in that time.

In general, I have issues with passive-agressive bragging. It is one thing to forget a word in English. It is quite another to put a great deal of effort into making it clear that you speak Spanish so well that you simply cannot remember how to communicate in English! I would much rather have had her say: "We've been living in Santiago for x amount of time, and I've become fluent in Spanish, which I'm rather proud of." That's fair. Directness, please. I will happily congratulate you on your accomplishments if you acknowledge them, but there is nothing more annoying than someone who is obviously trying to elicit a specific reaction from you....while being condescending.

Anyway, so then she turns to the students and asked them at a tortoise's pace how their Spanish is coming. She was speaking at a rate that I would find overly slow, and meanwhile these girls are taking courses in engineering in a foreign language. Then, the guide begins talking, and Ms. International turns to me and says, "Let's see if you can understand!"

Oh my. If you know me, you know my teeth were grinding. And so I tensely told her that I understand quite a lot, and given that I am self-taught and only 3 months along, I'm perfectly happy with that, thankyouverymuch.

But, this is not the point of the story--the rant, that is. The point, of course, is my glorious victory!

After the initial talk, we started off on our tour. Ms. International comes running over to some of the other gringos squealing, "Translation, please! I know! Don't worry, I'll explain what she said." So she went over the basics and then, erroneously, told them they could not take photographs inside. They were confused, and said they thought the guide had said the opposite. Oh, no no, the woman assured them, no photographs.

And so, walking alongside, I was able to lean over and say with a smile, "actually, she said there were absolutely no restrictions on photos as long as you stay with the group."

No better cure for passive-agressive bragging than passive-agressive one-upmanship, says I.

In any event, there is actually a larger reason I wanted to tell this story. Everywhere that I have travelled, I've encountered this problem: there is a certain type of person who simply cannot rest until he or she has proven that they are The Best Global Citizen In The Country And/Or World. Depending on who this person is and what their situation is, the form of the bravado can vary, but it is a very common problem. The fact of the matter is, everyone's experience in a foreign country is different. We all travel or live abroad for different reasons. It's apples and oranges.

If living globally is very important to you, as it is to me, it can be hard to resist getting into these little boxing matches about travel philosophy. So, ok, I was only half successful in this case....I took a jab and ran away. But, well, she started it!