The mother of the family with which I live (a doozy of an English sentence....should it be "with whom?") ..has just come home.
She has been living with their eldest daughter for 2.5 months in order to take care of her granddaughter. Why? A terrible accident? A desperate job situation? No attachments back here in Valpo? No. It was winter. Therefore, the baby would die if taken from home to day care. You see this every day here. When babies are taken outside in the winter months, they are wrapped in fleece blankets so that not even one baby finger is sticking out. When my mother saw this for the first time last Saturday, she was quite concerned because she thought the bundled-baby-shape must have been on its way to the hospital. A few days later, we passed another fully wrapped baby...while both of us were wearing tank tops and sweating.
My German grandmother apparently had similar concerns when I was born. My birthday is in the beginning of August, and I was born in Boston, Massachusetts, USA. So the temperature on an average day in my first month of life was about 90 farenheit (high 30s celsius, I think, but anything with numbers loses me). However, my grandmother was extremely concerned about what was known as The Draft. My parents would find her lowering all the windows to a crack, because the dreadful draft was sure to suck away my life energy if I wasn't protected by being sealed in an airless room.
Anyhow. So Host Mom went to save the baby, in a manner after my maternal grandmother's own heart. I saw her today for the first time after her return a day ago. After berating me for my frequent absence from the house, she asked me: "How did you parents find you?"
That is a completely direct translation. You know what she means. However, think about it. We have no comparable question in English. I was rather confused when trying to respond in the immediate pace of a conversation. Did she mean, "were they happy to see you?" or "was it easy to meet them?" etc. Of course she wanted to know what they thought of me after 6 months (an obscene amount of time in this half of the Southern Cone). But really, what does one say? "They don't love me anymore"?
So I went with my steadfast, "Fine!" (en espanol...forgive my tilde-less keyboard)
And she responded, "Gordita?" ("a little fat?")
As a statement to my acclimatization, I was not entirely thrown off by this. When picturing seeing this woman again, I had thought perhaps she would comment on my Spanish (which gets better every month). "You speak so much better than when I left!" was a possible comment in my imagined world. I had not even really delved into the past tense when she left. I had a vague notion that she might get onto less positive subjects, given the cultural tendency towards the utterly blunt, but I was still rather put off (despite understanding its normalcy) by the weight comment.
This is impossible for a gringa to talk about without falling into either exxageration or dimunition, but to try to be fair, I would say I've gained about 10 pounds in Chile (due mostly to the incredibly unbalanced diet, which will be featured in another post). However, due to the fact that I'm constantly exercising by walking up and down hils, my body in general form hasn't changed too drastically. It's me, plus a widening here or there. I'm not all that interested in any of it, given its small proportions, but at the same time it's not exactly something I'm thrilled about. Being a Northamerican woman, I am pretty well conditioned to think that any change in my body is something to worry over. I don't endorse it, but there it is.
However, I went with the flow. "Yes, a little, I guess," I said.
"Yeah," she said, nodding, "You're definitely fatter than when I left."
Thanks!
From there we moved on to my parents being tired from so much walking, which was attributed to them probably being lazy and used to driving everywhere. Finally we rounded off the reunion with yet another chat about whether or not my volunteer program was going to pay them more rent.
It was truly heartwarming. Honesty is certainly not lacking in our relationship, I can say that.
On a totally and completely unrelated note, I am apartment hunting at the moment...
Yes. It's time to be an isolated, antisocial gringa adult once more.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Touristing Valparaiso (with a cameo by Santiago)
I have my first visitors here in Chile....my lovely parents. On Friday night I pulled an accidental all-nighter and was on the first bus out of Valpo to pick them up at the airport at 7:30. We spent the day in Santiago, where we watched the changing of the guard at La Moneda, which seems to be based off the British ceremony with the addition of as much fanfare as possible (something that can be said for many things in Chile)
We also went to the Museo de Arte Precolumbino, wandered around the Plaza de Armas and the Mercado Central, and had a very nice lunch in Bellavista. At this point neither my parents, who had been on a plane all night, nor myself, who had been drinking tea and not planning ahead all night, were the least bit coherent. We grabbed their luggage out of storage and were back in Valpo by 6.
Today we set out to explore the city. They are staying in the very luxe Zero Hotel on Cerro Alegre, which I can say is a dream to freeload in (as I sit in an easy chair looking out across the bay). So to get started I decided we should take a look at the city from another angle.
We started out at the Sunday feria in Plaza O'Higgins, which is part flea market, part antique fair.
From Cerro Polanco we headed to the neighboring Cerro Baron, which can share in most of the descriptions of the former. The view from the top has great views back over the basin of the city, and down onto the plan. The houses opposite the Universidad Catolica reminded my mother of Dr. Seuss houses with trufula trees (reference: the Lorax).
On Cerro Baron we also found the alternative to Jumbo (a gigantic supermarket that might be compared to Wal-Mart, although it only sells food):
Just paces away: Jumbito!
We also went to the Museo de Arte Precolumbino, wandered around the Plaza de Armas and the Mercado Central, and had a very nice lunch in Bellavista. At this point neither my parents, who had been on a plane all night, nor myself, who had been drinking tea and not planning ahead all night, were the least bit coherent. We grabbed their luggage out of storage and were back in Valpo by 6.
Today we set out to explore the city. They are staying in the very luxe Zero Hotel on Cerro Alegre, which I can say is a dream to freeload in (as I sit in an easy chair looking out across the bay). So to get started I decided we should take a look at the city from another angle.
We started out at the Sunday feria in Plaza O'Higgins, which is part flea market, part antique fair.
We poked through the spin-wheel sewing machines, cabinet record-players, brass doorknockers and ancient magazines until my father looked like he was going to fall asleep on his feet from boredom. We livened things up with a puppet show.
Afterwards we took a walk that merged on body-surfing through the Sunday feria on Avenida Argentina. This fair is approximately five blocks long and four stalls deep. Here you can buy just about everything imaginable: shaving cream, underwear, t-shirts, baseball caps (NY Yankees, but no Red Sox--unpardonable), masking tape, bolts, valentines, empanadas, chapstick, furniture, and pretty much anything else that someone managed to buy in bulk and lay out on a blanket. The place is thronged from mid-morning to mid-afternoon.
From there it was a very quick walk to the Ascensor Polanco, which opened in 1916. It is the only ascensor in Valparaiso that runs entirely vertically. It is accessed through a long stone tunnel, and it takes you to the top of a wooden tower with gorgeous views of the city.
You walk from the tower to Cerro Polanco by means of a long walkway, which is also an excellent place for flying kites, as a group of kids demonstrate below (not pictured: kite, as it was about a kilometer above us).
My parents brightening up the scenery.
Then we walked around the hill. Cerro Polanco is not in your guide book (if its any guidebook I've come across), but it should be. It is a quiet hill with small, colorful houses, corner markets, and great views. It's Valpo, in other words, but a particularly nice example of it that comes without the touristy feel of Cerros Alegre and Concepcion. Don't mistake me; I live on Cerro Alegre and I love the area. However I think the common practice of restricting tours of Valparaiso to those two hills, or even starting with them, is not the best way to see the city. Those hills should be loved for what they are, which is a great artistic enclave with some of the nicest (and most expensive) houses in town. They shouldn't, though, be taken as representative of, or the only interesting part of, the city. Every neighborhood has its own character and you don't need the mansions of shipping barons to enjoy a walk in Valparaiso. On Cerro Polanco, you'll find a very tranquilo jumble of color, parks, and stairways.
In the words of my mother, "It feels like a neighborhood. It feels like the kind of place where you could just walk down the street, knock on the door to see if anybody is home, and spend some time chatting on the stoop. There's sort of a peace to it, I guess, not frenetic. I loved all the kids running around just enjoying themselves, playing games, flying kites. Some places you go don't feel like a neighborhood--but on Cerro Polanco you see people walking around, beating rugs, just going about their business. It felt very villagy even though it wasn't that scale, because villages to me feel very community-focused in a way that the word 'town' or 'city' doesn't get across."
From Cerro Polanco we headed to the neighboring Cerro Baron, which can share in most of the descriptions of the former. The view from the top has great views back over the basin of the city, and down onto the plan. The houses opposite the Universidad Catolica reminded my mother of Dr. Seuss houses with trufula trees (reference: the Lorax).
On Cerro Baron we also found the alternative to Jumbo (a gigantic supermarket that might be compared to Wal-Mart, although it only sells food):
Just paces away: Jumbito!
Friday, August 22, 2008
More on Berry Breene, Mural Maven
So a while back I mentioned my friend Berry. Check her out on the ever-sophisticated local news from Erie, PA. In this clip you can see the gigantic mural that she just finished, and her fine self sounding very articulate. I used to think Berry was short, but watching this video I realized that she's just Chilean-sized.
Some more Valpo murals in her honor:
Some more Valpo murals in her honor:
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Chilean men--or lack thereof
This post is part of a multi-blog blog (like that? an English teacher using a made-up word as both a noun and a verb in one sentence?). Essentially there are masses of us gringos blogging away here in Chile (there it is again). Why? Inexplicable. Maybe it's because you can't throw a stone here (if you were inclined to) without hitting one of Pablo Neruda's houses. Or maybe we're all just exhibitionists. Can't really say. I for one was entirely against the concept when I moved here (see post numero uno for proof). I like to write, though, and as I seemed unable to put pen to paper without going on for pages about emotional ups and downs, I figured measures needed to be taken to ensure that I would have some writing of value to represent my Chilean Years (as the book of my life will label them).
That's fab, Meredith, you may be thinking, but what's this multi-blog business? Or, you may be thinking, are you capable of writing a sentence without a parentheses in it?
To the point. A woman who writes a really interesting blog in Santiago has organized a project of having various Chile bloggers writing on the same subject all at once, then inter-linking the results. I think this could yield some really interesting results, so I'm jumping in and hoping to see more of this in the future. You can check out the other posts through her blog.
The topic for this particular post was set as "Chilean men." I sat down to think about what I had to add to this discussion, at first I thought, "not much."
I slowly realized though that that, in and of itself, is a bit of an oddity.
I came to Chile alone. I've been here for over six months and I am single. None of this is particularly shocking to me, other than the fact that I've managed to avoid starting a pointless relationship simply out of boredom (a vice of mine). Everyone else in the country, though, seems to be completely blindsided by my manless-ness.
It is apparently very difficult to stay single in this country. Walk into any park and you are in danger of tripping over a tangled couple. When my students talk about themselves, if there is a girlfriend or a boyfriend in the picture, you know about it by sentence number two, because every free time activity involves him or her. (sample conversation: Me: "What did you do last weekend?" Student: "I went to visit my boyfriend. I watched a movie with my boyfriend. I went walking with my boyfriend....") People's significant others call them and ask simply, "Where are you?" This is not a simple request for information...this is shorthand for "disclose your location, because I'm coming, and I don't intend to ask what you think about that because we are dating and therefore you want me present at every moment." Basically, codependency, like awkward, is not a word that would make sense here. It would translate roughly as "in a relationship."
In a climate like this, it makes sense that everyone who is not in a relationship tends to be actively seeking one with the intentness of a job hunter. I once had someone explain to me that he had recently ended a two year relationship, but he was ready to get back on the market because it had been over two weeks since the big break up. Plenty of alone time to think things over.
So when I say that I'm not really looking because I "recently ended a relationship," and then am pushed into disclosing that "recently" means six or seven months ago, people just think I'm out of my mind.
I should mention that one of the myriad of benefits of living in a machisto culture is that everyone I meet, particularly men, asks about my relationship status on first encounter. Even if I work with them. Even if I work for them, for that matter, or if I am their teacher. So this topic comes up pretty frequently.
Explaining that I am a disaster in the Spanish language (see: title bar of this blog) doesn't help me out much either. In the roughly translated words of one well-meaning interrogator (with whom I have a professional relationship which would have precluded this conversation in other countries): "What are you talking about?! You're very pretty! You don't need to be able to speak well!"
I actually prefer to be able to communicate with romantic partners, thanks. I'll leave my response at that because I'm sure you can imagine what the rest of it would be.
I had one private lesson that pretty much consisted of me spending 90 minutes, three times a week, explaining all of the ins and outs of my relationship status. No joke. I'd tell him to practice asking questions in the simple past, and the first one he'd come up with would be, "Why did you break up with your ex-boyfriend?"
The unintelligible quality of my single status comes from two main angles, as I see it. First, I'm 25, which means I should be husband-hunting based on common logic. A friend told me that she was recently reading a women's magazine which had conducted a survey in which Chilean women were asked what they were most afraid of. One of the top ten was not getting married. So when people hear that I'm not dating anyone, they go into a bit of empathetic panic. Some people I've talked to seem to equate my current state of mind as the equivalent of a near-suicidal giving-up on life.
Secondly, I'm a gringa. Living in Chile. But not because I am dating or married to a Chilean man. I've touched on this before: this is totally incomprehensible to 99% of people that I meet. To be fair, I myself know very few foreign women who are living in Chile for reasons other than a Chilean partner. Many came for other reasons, but stayed for a relationship. So the fact that I don't have a departure date OR a boyfriend is just an unreal combination.
Well, Chile, get used to it. I spent a whole bunch of years being completely undiscerning in my choice of men. The old criteria was pretty much: you're here, you like me, let's date. In short, when I was living in the United States, I dated like a Chilean. Now that I'm in Chile, I am planning to be picky and date like a gringa.
That's fab, Meredith, you may be thinking, but what's this multi-blog business? Or, you may be thinking, are you capable of writing a sentence without a parentheses in it?
To the point. A woman who writes a really interesting blog in Santiago has organized a project of having various Chile bloggers writing on the same subject all at once, then inter-linking the results. I think this could yield some really interesting results, so I'm jumping in and hoping to see more of this in the future. You can check out the other posts through her blog.
The topic for this particular post was set as "Chilean men." I sat down to think about what I had to add to this discussion, at first I thought, "not much."
I slowly realized though that that, in and of itself, is a bit of an oddity.
I came to Chile alone. I've been here for over six months and I am single. None of this is particularly shocking to me, other than the fact that I've managed to avoid starting a pointless relationship simply out of boredom (a vice of mine). Everyone else in the country, though, seems to be completely blindsided by my manless-ness.
It is apparently very difficult to stay single in this country. Walk into any park and you are in danger of tripping over a tangled couple. When my students talk about themselves, if there is a girlfriend or a boyfriend in the picture, you know about it by sentence number two, because every free time activity involves him or her. (sample conversation: Me: "What did you do last weekend?" Student: "I went to visit my boyfriend. I watched a movie with my boyfriend. I went walking with my boyfriend....") People's significant others call them and ask simply, "Where are you?" This is not a simple request for information...this is shorthand for "disclose your location, because I'm coming, and I don't intend to ask what you think about that because we are dating and therefore you want me present at every moment." Basically, codependency, like awkward, is not a word that would make sense here. It would translate roughly as "in a relationship."
In a climate like this, it makes sense that everyone who is not in a relationship tends to be actively seeking one with the intentness of a job hunter. I once had someone explain to me that he had recently ended a two year relationship, but he was ready to get back on the market because it had been over two weeks since the big break up. Plenty of alone time to think things over.
So when I say that I'm not really looking because I "recently ended a relationship," and then am pushed into disclosing that "recently" means six or seven months ago, people just think I'm out of my mind.
I should mention that one of the myriad of benefits of living in a machisto culture is that everyone I meet, particularly men, asks about my relationship status on first encounter. Even if I work with them. Even if I work for them, for that matter, or if I am their teacher. So this topic comes up pretty frequently.
Explaining that I am a disaster in the Spanish language (see: title bar of this blog) doesn't help me out much either. In the roughly translated words of one well-meaning interrogator (with whom I have a professional relationship which would have precluded this conversation in other countries): "What are you talking about?! You're very pretty! You don't need to be able to speak well!"
I actually prefer to be able to communicate with romantic partners, thanks. I'll leave my response at that because I'm sure you can imagine what the rest of it would be.
I had one private lesson that pretty much consisted of me spending 90 minutes, three times a week, explaining all of the ins and outs of my relationship status. No joke. I'd tell him to practice asking questions in the simple past, and the first one he'd come up with would be, "Why did you break up with your ex-boyfriend?"
The unintelligible quality of my single status comes from two main angles, as I see it. First, I'm 25, which means I should be husband-hunting based on common logic. A friend told me that she was recently reading a women's magazine which had conducted a survey in which Chilean women were asked what they were most afraid of. One of the top ten was not getting married. So when people hear that I'm not dating anyone, they go into a bit of empathetic panic. Some people I've talked to seem to equate my current state of mind as the equivalent of a near-suicidal giving-up on life.
Secondly, I'm a gringa. Living in Chile. But not because I am dating or married to a Chilean man. I've touched on this before: this is totally incomprehensible to 99% of people that I meet. To be fair, I myself know very few foreign women who are living in Chile for reasons other than a Chilean partner. Many came for other reasons, but stayed for a relationship. So the fact that I don't have a departure date OR a boyfriend is just an unreal combination.
Well, Chile, get used to it. I spent a whole bunch of years being completely undiscerning in my choice of men. The old criteria was pretty much: you're here, you like me, let's date. In short, when I was living in the United States, I dated like a Chilean. Now that I'm in Chile, I am planning to be picky and date like a gringa.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Valparaiso finally gets it together
Check out Valparaiso's new tourism website.
After the gorgeous intro, you can toggle into English on the right middle of the page.
The English translation is choppy in bits but overall I'm thrilled with this site. It is comprehensive, and more than that, it represets Valparaiso more or less accurately. It has been an unending frustration to me that most of Valparaiso's marketing is led by people who seem to think that what the city is is not worth visiting. Instead, they take a picture of something that makes the city look like a resort and then gloss over everything that makes the city amazing and unique. It is really exciting to see a website that embraces Valparaiso's identity. There are still overtones of the same old apologetics...but in general, this website is a solid effort to connect the city with the people who are interested in it for what it really is.
Bravo.
After the gorgeous intro, you can toggle into English on the right middle of the page.
The English translation is choppy in bits but overall I'm thrilled with this site. It is comprehensive, and more than that, it represets Valparaiso more or less accurately. It has been an unending frustration to me that most of Valparaiso's marketing is led by people who seem to think that what the city is is not worth visiting. Instead, they take a picture of something that makes the city look like a resort and then gloss over everything that makes the city amazing and unique. It is really exciting to see a website that embraces Valparaiso's identity. There are still overtones of the same old apologetics...but in general, this website is a solid effort to connect the city with the people who are interested in it for what it really is.
Bravo.
Spring: sprung.
Valparaiso, being an old city, a pre-car city, is built the way I like a city to be. That is, human proportioned. Small buildings leaning over small roads, tightly curled in upon itself like a knot of the strings that trail behind us as we live our lives. I could see this being a claustrophobic place for some. For me, though, it is a perfect mix of warm and cold. It is perched, practically falling into, the huge empty horizon line of the sea; a satisfyingly precarious openness. Against the strange and impersonal depths of the ocean, the city feels like a warm buzzing fortress of the quotidian.
It is, perhaps, the most detailed city I have ever seen. This is difficult to explain sight unseen, so I will relay my typical parable on this topic. A month or two ago, a friend had a picture on her camera of this little piece of awesome:
"That is," I said, predictably, "awesome! Where is it?"
"Almironte Montt," she told me, with a 'what is your deal' look....fairly, because Almironte Montt is a street that I walk down, on average, 3 times daily.
So I kept my eyes open the next time. And...I didn't see it. I was actively looking for a 4 foot high stack of televisions with a command printed on them (shut off the television, live your life...I'm sure you figured it out without my brilliant translation aid). Anyhow, not what every average person has in their front patio. Nonetheless, I could not find it. I actually had to call my friend and ask where exactly I could find the televisions on this 4 block stretch of the road that I walk. Why? Because there is just so. much. to look at.
"Did you ever notice," said a Chilean who has lived here for years, "that the upper windows in Plaza Victoria are painted? I never noticed before." And this doesn't make this person spacy. This is just Valparaiso. Every day I notice something that I have been blind to for months simply because I was always distracted by something else just as attention-absorbing (if you happen to prefer trees to forests..although I'll say that the forest here is perfectly worthy of its trees).
So. Going back to the build of the city. In a mostly cement, brick and mortar world, one wouldn't expect too much of a big deal for spring. Furthermore, the winter here is the equivalent of a chilly September day in New England. Having lived in Northwestern Pennsylvania, where spring explodes in a way that makes you fall backwards into a nearby chair (before fading within a week into unbreathing summer), I can say that it's certainly not a fireworks show here. Nonetheless, though, it is an unmistakeable change in the atmosphere of the city that swept in with unexpected force.
The first hint was two weeks ago, when I met friends for dinner and Emma stopped for a minute. "I smell flowers," she said, and we all sniffed around, shrugged, and went off for a jug of fruit wine.
Then, a few days later, all of the cherry trees bloomed. It must have happened overnight. And it didn't knock me over like a NWPA spring does. But it made me catch my breath. Because spring here, like everything else seems to be, is a slow creeping in of details, a subtle colored pencil taken to the edges of the pen and ink sketch.
It's still chilly. And there was a downpour last Friday. But spring is here, and it is brightening the already bright city.
For those who are concerned about me personally, and are noting the timestamp yet again, I can explain that the reason that I am blogging at 2:30 in the morning is because I need a break from this:
Yes, being a Professional English Speaker is not always as glamorous as you never assumed it was. Sometimes I get to stay up all night plotting grids that by all rights ought to be designed by a computer-person, all so that I can ask strangers earnestly if there are any "large changes going on in their life that might be affecting their skin."
Thanks to begrudgingly generous friend Matt for providing me with a surface on which it is possible to do work, and a tasteful environment in which to do so.
About the only thing tasteful about this particular project....
Sunday, August 17, 2008
San Fernando: The City Where Random Blog Posts Are Born
So I am currently cooling my heels in the much-chillier-than-Valpo, VI region city of San Fernando. I am in an internet cafe rocking out to 99 Red Balloons (English, not German, version). Why am I doing this? (are you impressed by my ability to read your thoughts, imaginary blog reader?)
I am doing this because this weekend I had a mandatory meeting in Pichilemu. I was placed in my Trabajo Numero Uno by a US-based NGO. I am actually a volunteer in said Trabajo, so this was my Mid-Service....Meeting. Generally I talked way too much about teaching, culture, and Chile, and I bitched and moaned a bunch....so, it was a lot like this blog. I also, though, was able to eat burritos and walk on the beach with 17 people to whom I clung like Glad Wrap during the terrifying days of February in Santiago (otherwise known as "What-Am-I-Doing-Here? Month"). So it was a pleasant, if somewhat odd, experience. Former Only Friend Elisa (former applying to the "only" bit, not the "friend" bit) is currently being visited by her parents so I was the sole Valpo representative. Which meant that most of what I said was tangential to the main points of the conversation. In that way it was also somewhat like this blog, and like me in general.
Pichilemu is a really pleasant town on the water. It's famous for surfing at Punto de Lobos, and as such it has a very interesting vibe. Small town Chile meets surfer-world, with which I am more than a little acquainted (by proxy). So basically Rip Curl and Dakine stickers all over places with names like "Donde Jhonny" and "El Tio de los Empanadas." Also, surf-widow mini-skirts in display windows alongside your average small-store-with-an-unpredictable-assortment-of-food-items-booze-and-small-electronics. A group of us tried to walk out to Punto de Lobos, but we didn't have enough time. The rest of the beach was still gorgeous, though.
Only problem (well, biggest problem): there are no buses that go from Valparaíso to Pichilemu. A transfer is necessary, but, this being Chile, it is randomly Not Possible to purchase both of these tickets in Valpo. It is also, conveniently, Not Possible to buy return tickets in Valpo. And this is a three day weekend, which means the entire country is getting on buses to go somewhere or other.
On Friday, then, I headed off to Santiago in a pouring monsoon of a rainstorm, plastic bags around all of my possesions and borrowed boots on my feet. Yes, I strand people in rainstorms without their rainboots because I am too disorganized to have bought my own. Moving along. I was rather irritable about this, because I had no way of knowing whether I would in fact be able to get a seat on a bus to Pichilemu, or whether I was taking a random puddle-jump to Santiago and back. Luckily, there was a bus. Unluckily, there are two routes: the 3 hour route, and the 5 hour route. Guess which one our poor Spanish speaker chanced onto?
I arrived in Pichilemu after everything was closed, so I was unable to buy a return ticket. The next day, I learned that the only buses going back to Santiago that had seats available would most likely get me there too late to get back to Valpo. And I have 5 classes tomorrow.
Enter Awesome New Friend Kacy and Not-Yet-Met-But-Undoubtedly-Awesome Boyfriend of Kacy. These folks made a major trek down to Pucon this weekend (many many hours south of Valpo, nine or ten I believe). They agreed to pick me up en route, something for which I am extremely grateful. So I bought a ticket from Pichilemu to San Fernando, a town which sits conveniently along the highway.
Thanks to a bus ticket vendor who has most likely never made the trip to the big SF, I ended up here 3 hours early. So, here I am. It being dark out, I can't comment on the town. The bus station is cold and boring, as they tend to be, but equipped with an internet cafe, a major blessing.
And that, dear reader, is why this post exists. Call it a meta-post.
More on Pichilemu some other time.
I am doing this because this weekend I had a mandatory meeting in Pichilemu. I was placed in my Trabajo Numero Uno by a US-based NGO. I am actually a volunteer in said Trabajo, so this was my Mid-Service....Meeting. Generally I talked way too much about teaching, culture, and Chile, and I bitched and moaned a bunch....so, it was a lot like this blog. I also, though, was able to eat burritos and walk on the beach with 17 people to whom I clung like Glad Wrap during the terrifying days of February in Santiago (otherwise known as "What-Am-I-Doing-Here? Month"). So it was a pleasant, if somewhat odd, experience. Former Only Friend Elisa (former applying to the "only" bit, not the "friend" bit) is currently being visited by her parents so I was the sole Valpo representative. Which meant that most of what I said was tangential to the main points of the conversation. In that way it was also somewhat like this blog, and like me in general.
Pichilemu is a really pleasant town on the water. It's famous for surfing at Punto de Lobos, and as such it has a very interesting vibe. Small town Chile meets surfer-world, with which I am more than a little acquainted (by proxy). So basically Rip Curl and Dakine stickers all over places with names like "Donde Jhonny" and "El Tio de los Empanadas." Also, surf-widow mini-skirts in display windows alongside your average small-store-with-an-unpredictable-assortment-of-food-items-booze-and-small-electronics. A group of us tried to walk out to Punto de Lobos, but we didn't have enough time. The rest of the beach was still gorgeous, though.
Only problem (well, biggest problem): there are no buses that go from Valparaíso to Pichilemu. A transfer is necessary, but, this being Chile, it is randomly Not Possible to purchase both of these tickets in Valpo. It is also, conveniently, Not Possible to buy return tickets in Valpo. And this is a three day weekend, which means the entire country is getting on buses to go somewhere or other.
On Friday, then, I headed off to Santiago in a pouring monsoon of a rainstorm, plastic bags around all of my possesions and borrowed boots on my feet. Yes, I strand people in rainstorms without their rainboots because I am too disorganized to have bought my own. Moving along. I was rather irritable about this, because I had no way of knowing whether I would in fact be able to get a seat on a bus to Pichilemu, or whether I was taking a random puddle-jump to Santiago and back. Luckily, there was a bus. Unluckily, there are two routes: the 3 hour route, and the 5 hour route. Guess which one our poor Spanish speaker chanced onto?
I arrived in Pichilemu after everything was closed, so I was unable to buy a return ticket. The next day, I learned that the only buses going back to Santiago that had seats available would most likely get me there too late to get back to Valpo. And I have 5 classes tomorrow.
Enter Awesome New Friend Kacy and Not-Yet-Met-But-Undoubtedly-Awesome Boyfriend of Kacy. These folks made a major trek down to Pucon this weekend (many many hours south of Valpo, nine or ten I believe). They agreed to pick me up en route, something for which I am extremely grateful. So I bought a ticket from Pichilemu to San Fernando, a town which sits conveniently along the highway.
Thanks to a bus ticket vendor who has most likely never made the trip to the big SF, I ended up here 3 hours early. So, here I am. It being dark out, I can't comment on the town. The bus station is cold and boring, as they tend to be, but equipped with an internet cafe, a major blessing.
And that, dear reader, is why this post exists. Call it a meta-post.
More on Pichilemu some other time.
Friday, August 15, 2008
The country that never sleeps
So. It's 1:30am. Over the past week I have slept perhaps 4 hours a night (and I am a person who prefers 10 or 12, when possible). And yet, instead of curling up with my borrowed cats in my fabulously empty guest room chez amigo/caretaker amiga (how's that for mixed up linguistics....is there a spanish word for "chez"?)...I am writing on my blog.
Why? Why Meredith? (you ask). Well, blog reader, (I reply) apparently Chile is contagious.
There is some sort of super-human gene in your average Chilean that allows them to function perfectly well on approximately 10 minutes of sleep per night. I am absolutely dumbfounded by the hours that are kept here. Let's take a look at a Composite Sample day based on various people I know:
5:30am. Wake up. Shower. Eat breakfast.
6:15 - 7:30am. Stand in ridiculously packed micro on the way to a job in some inconvenient location.
7:30am - 7pm. Work. Or, be at your place of work, even if there is no work to be done, because butts in chairs have symbolic value.
7pm - 8:45pm. Ride home in ridiculously crowded micro through rush hour traffic.
8:45- 9pm. Relax.
9pm - 9:30pm. Eat onces (something approximately an afternoon snack which takes dinner's place, to my chagrin) and talk rapidly.
9:30pm - 12am. Study for some degree that you are working on, and/or work on your home-run business.
12am - 4am. Night clubbing, we're night clubbing...
5:30am. Repeat.
I am rather in awe of all this. Generally I leave clubs at the time when everyone else is showing up (around 2am, in most cases). I have also at times been at parties which then turn into outings....at 4am. After a night like that, I am generally out of whack and worthless for the next few days, and in need of a few weeks' rest before I'm up for another round.
However, Chile is getting to me. At the moment I have 3 jobs and a side project. I have met more new people in the last two weeks than I did in my first 2 months in Valpo...and I've been seeing both the new friends and the old regularly. My life has suddenly turned into a no-rest-zone. And yet I seem to be addicted (see timestamp on this entry).
A current composite day in the life of this chilenacized gringa:
6:20am. Wake up. Curse the fact. Reset alarm. (some things never change)
6:40am. Wake up again. Realize that lateness is becoming a threat. Take a shower. Loose showerhead falls on head at least once. More cursing.
6:50 - 7:30am. Put on clothes. Check weather. Put on other clothes. Wander around room picking up and putting away various teaching-related items, trying to clear the fog and figure out what exactly I am being paid to do on this particular day.
8 - 11am. Bounce around while speaking very slowly to 18 students who find me amusing on a good day, and crazy on any.
11am - 12pm. Ride micro to the office of distant employer.
12pm - 1pm. Have brief meeting with said employer.
1pm - 2pm. Ride micro back to Valpo.
2pm - 3pm. Have coffee with a friend.
3pm - 4pm. Spanish class.
4pm - 6pm. Get to a computer and churn out a combination of copy writing for distant employer, worksheets for evening students, and update emails for side project.
6pm - 7:30pm. Speak at a moderate rate about maritime terms with tired students.
7:30 - 9pm. Eat food that a cooking-prone friend generously proffers. Talk sh*t.
9pm - 12:30am. Go out to a bar or social gathering with some combination of friends.
12:30 -3:30am. Continue various emails, content generating, and so forth for side project. Write a bit more silly copy.
3:30am. Fall asleep with computer still on the bed.
6:20am. Wake up with even redder eyes, achier head, and incoherent mind. Cursing. And repeat.
So, I'm now rather convinced that I have somehow been infected by the prevalent Chilean motivation to be either at work or socializing at every moment that that it is physically possible to fight off gravity. I also seem to have come down with a case of the "DIY employment" entrepreneurship that is so incredibly present here (more on this cultural trait later, as it deserves a proper post).
Unfortunately I have not caught the unreal resistance to fatigue and its side-effects that most people here exhibit. For instance, I once had a woman come to an 8am class after working two shifts in a row---meaning she had been working since 3pm the previous day. All throughout class, her eyes would start to close and her head would start to drop.....and then she'd pull herself back up and conjugate some verbs.
Well, hat's off, Chile. I don't know how you all do it. I'm going to stop pretending I can, and hopefully regain some of my lost functioning ability.
Why? Why Meredith? (you ask). Well, blog reader, (I reply) apparently Chile is contagious.
There is some sort of super-human gene in your average Chilean that allows them to function perfectly well on approximately 10 minutes of sleep per night. I am absolutely dumbfounded by the hours that are kept here. Let's take a look at a Composite Sample day based on various people I know:
5:30am. Wake up. Shower. Eat breakfast.
6:15 - 7:30am. Stand in ridiculously packed micro on the way to a job in some inconvenient location.
7:30am - 7pm. Work. Or, be at your place of work, even if there is no work to be done, because butts in chairs have symbolic value.
7pm - 8:45pm. Ride home in ridiculously crowded micro through rush hour traffic.
8:45- 9pm. Relax.
9pm - 9:30pm. Eat onces (something approximately an afternoon snack which takes dinner's place, to my chagrin) and talk rapidly.
9:30pm - 12am. Study for some degree that you are working on, and/or work on your home-run business.
12am - 4am. Night clubbing, we're night clubbing...
5:30am. Repeat.
I am rather in awe of all this. Generally I leave clubs at the time when everyone else is showing up (around 2am, in most cases). I have also at times been at parties which then turn into outings....at 4am. After a night like that, I am generally out of whack and worthless for the next few days, and in need of a few weeks' rest before I'm up for another round.
However, Chile is getting to me. At the moment I have 3 jobs and a side project. I have met more new people in the last two weeks than I did in my first 2 months in Valpo...and I've been seeing both the new friends and the old regularly. My life has suddenly turned into a no-rest-zone. And yet I seem to be addicted (see timestamp on this entry).
A current composite day in the life of this chilenacized gringa:
6:20am. Wake up. Curse the fact. Reset alarm. (some things never change)
6:40am. Wake up again. Realize that lateness is becoming a threat. Take a shower. Loose showerhead falls on head at least once. More cursing.
6:50 - 7:30am. Put on clothes. Check weather. Put on other clothes. Wander around room picking up and putting away various teaching-related items, trying to clear the fog and figure out what exactly I am being paid to do on this particular day.
8 - 11am. Bounce around while speaking very slowly to 18 students who find me amusing on a good day, and crazy on any.
11am - 12pm. Ride micro to the office of distant employer.
12pm - 1pm. Have brief meeting with said employer.
1pm - 2pm. Ride micro back to Valpo.
2pm - 3pm. Have coffee with a friend.
3pm - 4pm. Spanish class.
4pm - 6pm. Get to a computer and churn out a combination of copy writing for distant employer, worksheets for evening students, and update emails for side project.
6pm - 7:30pm. Speak at a moderate rate about maritime terms with tired students.
7:30 - 9pm. Eat food that a cooking-prone friend generously proffers. Talk sh*t.
9pm - 12:30am. Go out to a bar or social gathering with some combination of friends.
12:30 -3:30am. Continue various emails, content generating, and so forth for side project. Write a bit more silly copy.
3:30am. Fall asleep with computer still on the bed.
6:20am. Wake up with even redder eyes, achier head, and incoherent mind. Cursing. And repeat.
So, I'm now rather convinced that I have somehow been infected by the prevalent Chilean motivation to be either at work or socializing at every moment that that it is physically possible to fight off gravity. I also seem to have come down with a case of the "DIY employment" entrepreneurship that is so incredibly present here (more on this cultural trait later, as it deserves a proper post).
Unfortunately I have not caught the unreal resistance to fatigue and its side-effects that most people here exhibit. For instance, I once had a woman come to an 8am class after working two shifts in a row---meaning she had been working since 3pm the previous day. All throughout class, her eyes would start to close and her head would start to drop.....and then she'd pull herself back up and conjugate some verbs.
Well, hat's off, Chile. I don't know how you all do it. I'm going to stop pretending I can, and hopefully regain some of my lost functioning ability.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Awkward: the most gringo word on earth.
This, anyhow, is what I have concluded after months of searching for a translation for this word. On a much earlier post, I asked for ideas. Some people suggested incomodo, or "uncomfortable," but my bilingual Argentinian friend nixed this. I also agree in my limited understanding that it doesn't fit the bill. So ever since I've been pursuing a translation on and off.
Why? Well, because living in Chile is the singular most awkward experience of my life. Showing up in an isolated, Spanish-speaking country where people both do not tend to speak English and are also somewhat wary and insulated from foreigners, without any Spanish whatsoever: every day since February 7, 2008, has been a succession of awkward events. Add in trying to make new friends, learn a new profession, live with somebody else's family, and navigate a new city, and you have a host of extra (as if that were necessary) awkward moments.
As such, it's been rather frusturating to me that I am unable to express this word in Spanish. Given that I live with Chileans and also do my best to befriend others (with pretty unsatisfactory results up to this point, unfortunately) I would like to be able to describe my day accurately.
I've finally figured out why the search for this word has proved so difficult. The reason: awkward is an invention of gringos. The concept does not exist in latin culture.
I've discovered this through a series of interviews with Chileans in which I explain awkward scenarios to them in an effort to elicit the word one would use to describe them. In every instance, the Chilean in question has looked at me as if to say...."So?" Well, actually, they've said the Spanish equivalent. Consider the following example (in which I am portraying myself as far more articulate than I actually am in this language):
"So you're at a dinner party," I suggested to my host sister. "All of a sudden a guy says something kind of mean and personal about his girlfriend. So everyone gets kind of quiet and tries to pretend that they didn't hear what happened."
I looked at her expectantly. "No," she said, "if it's not too bad, then it's funny. And if the guy is out of line, then you'd be like, 'What are you saying to her?! Back off!'"
I tried again. "Sometimes it can be sort of an endearing quality. Like a friend who always says the wrong thing at the wrong time."
"Like acting autistic?" she asked. (Disclaimer: Translation! Don't blame me for lack of PCness, I'm writing about Chile here).
"No, no, not like that, just someone who always comes out with odd things or things that kind of don't fit or shouldn't be said right then, but it's kind of funny because of that."
"So it's someone who's got a good sense of humor," she said.
This is only a sampler. I've had quite a few conversations like this (and this particular one extended a good deal longer).
There are no awkward silences, it seems, because either everyone is talking at once or no one is talking because they have no interest in talking. End of story.
There are no awkward foot-in-mouth moments, because no one is going to pretend they didn't hear what you said. You're just plain in trouble, that's all.
There are no awkward people, because what we would consider awkwardness is either a sense of humor or social backwardness.
When I think about this subject I get a split screen image in my head of my dinner party scenario: on the left, 6 people with tea nervously avoiding eye contact with one another, rattling cutlery and making pointless cover-up small talk. Perhaps also some throat-clearing, and maybe the hostess might hustle the girlfriend off into the kitchen and shoot a silent reproachful look at the offender on their return. On the right: six Chileans yelling at one another with many of those long intonations that swoop from the gutteral up into the highest registers of the human voice (frequently heard in "nooooooooo, meeeentiiiiiirrraaaaaa"); with the women scolding the men in defense of the scorned girlfriend and the men raucously defending their friend's right to free speech.
So far I have managed to come upon one situation which can possibly be awkward: when riding in ascensores, people are unsure whether or not to say hello to everyone--because it's very small, but it is still public transportation. You would say hello to everyone in a small room--but not everyone on a micro. Still, nonetheless, my host sister at least does not find this to be "awkward" in the sense that I would if I were coming from her cultural perspective (of course I don't say hi to anyone, and I find that normal, but I'm an icy gringa). She just thinks it's funny that half the people say hi and half don't.
So, fellow gringos, if you find yourself in awkward scenarios and wish to explain this to the latins in your life, I suggest you do what I did: after careful explanations lasting a good half an hour, my host family now understands the word "awkward," at least in the sense that it pertains somehow to gringos becoming nervous when dealing with social situations (they call me autistic, too). Nonetheless, at least in my house, "awkward" has now been adopted into the pantheon of Chilean modismos.
Why? Well, because living in Chile is the singular most awkward experience of my life. Showing up in an isolated, Spanish-speaking country where people both do not tend to speak English and are also somewhat wary and insulated from foreigners, without any Spanish whatsoever: every day since February 7, 2008, has been a succession of awkward events. Add in trying to make new friends, learn a new profession, live with somebody else's family, and navigate a new city, and you have a host of extra (as if that were necessary) awkward moments.
As such, it's been rather frusturating to me that I am unable to express this word in Spanish. Given that I live with Chileans and also do my best to befriend others (with pretty unsatisfactory results up to this point, unfortunately) I would like to be able to describe my day accurately.
I've finally figured out why the search for this word has proved so difficult. The reason: awkward is an invention of gringos. The concept does not exist in latin culture.
I've discovered this through a series of interviews with Chileans in which I explain awkward scenarios to them in an effort to elicit the word one would use to describe them. In every instance, the Chilean in question has looked at me as if to say...."So?" Well, actually, they've said the Spanish equivalent. Consider the following example (in which I am portraying myself as far more articulate than I actually am in this language):
"So you're at a dinner party," I suggested to my host sister. "All of a sudden a guy says something kind of mean and personal about his girlfriend. So everyone gets kind of quiet and tries to pretend that they didn't hear what happened."
I looked at her expectantly. "No," she said, "if it's not too bad, then it's funny. And if the guy is out of line, then you'd be like, 'What are you saying to her?! Back off!'"
I tried again. "Sometimes it can be sort of an endearing quality. Like a friend who always says the wrong thing at the wrong time."
"Like acting autistic?" she asked. (Disclaimer: Translation! Don't blame me for lack of PCness, I'm writing about Chile here).
"No, no, not like that, just someone who always comes out with odd things or things that kind of don't fit or shouldn't be said right then, but it's kind of funny because of that."
"So it's someone who's got a good sense of humor," she said.
This is only a sampler. I've had quite a few conversations like this (and this particular one extended a good deal longer).
There are no awkward silences, it seems, because either everyone is talking at once or no one is talking because they have no interest in talking. End of story.
There are no awkward foot-in-mouth moments, because no one is going to pretend they didn't hear what you said. You're just plain in trouble, that's all.
There are no awkward people, because what we would consider awkwardness is either a sense of humor or social backwardness.
When I think about this subject I get a split screen image in my head of my dinner party scenario: on the left, 6 people with tea nervously avoiding eye contact with one another, rattling cutlery and making pointless cover-up small talk. Perhaps also some throat-clearing, and maybe the hostess might hustle the girlfriend off into the kitchen and shoot a silent reproachful look at the offender on their return. On the right: six Chileans yelling at one another with many of those long intonations that swoop from the gutteral up into the highest registers of the human voice (frequently heard in "nooooooooo, meeeentiiiiiirrraaaaaa"); with the women scolding the men in defense of the scorned girlfriend and the men raucously defending their friend's right to free speech.
So far I have managed to come upon one situation which can possibly be awkward: when riding in ascensores, people are unsure whether or not to say hello to everyone--because it's very small, but it is still public transportation. You would say hello to everyone in a small room--but not everyone on a micro. Still, nonetheless, my host sister at least does not find this to be "awkward" in the sense that I would if I were coming from her cultural perspective (of course I don't say hi to anyone, and I find that normal, but I'm an icy gringa). She just thinks it's funny that half the people say hi and half don't.
So, fellow gringos, if you find yourself in awkward scenarios and wish to explain this to the latins in your life, I suggest you do what I did: after careful explanations lasting a good half an hour, my host family now understands the word "awkward," at least in the sense that it pertains somehow to gringos becoming nervous when dealing with social situations (they call me autistic, too). Nonetheless, at least in my house, "awkward" has now been adopted into the pantheon of Chilean modismos.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
"La calle no tiene dueno" --local grafitti
I apologize to my adoring public (consisting of my father, my grandmother, and my mother when her firewall doesn't intervene) for my slight lag in blog posting. Several things have intervened, such as The Day On Which I Get Older, The Evening In Which Essential Friend Threatens to Go Into Anaphylactic Shock, The Email Which Makes Me Worry (unnecessarily, thank god) That A Far-Away-But-More-Than-Essential Friend Has A Major Health Problem, and other such capital-case-worthy events. Also some sleeping, some Spanish-movie watching, and some general goings-on about town.
But to get to the story of today's post. Last Thursday I was walking home from work with my big lovely bag. I love this bag because it contains a computer, but doesn't look like a computer bag, so it's not quite as nerve-wracking carrying it around. And it screams, "I am a teacher." You can credit my mother, who seems to give me a new bag for every profession I enter, each one being perfectly suited to the task....without pretension. How this can be accomplished is absolutely beyond me, but somehow she makes it happen.
So this bag is very discreet. Nonetheless, it does still, on an average work day, contain my computer and everything else of value in my possession.
I am hyper-vigilant here in Valpo, but let me stop you before you decide that this is a horrifically dangerous city. Petty crime is very common in Valparaíso--to hear some Chilenos tell it, you'd think you'd be lucky to get through the day without being beaten and robbed. Note to my previously mentioned, very specific adoring public, above all, but also to the world in general: this is absolute bull. Yes, it is a port city in the lyrical sense. Yes, you are likely to get mugged at one point or another. Yes, you absolutely need to pay attention. However, you are relatively unlikely to get injured during these events, however unnerving they might be. If you think about the violent crime that occurs in most major US cities, you can hardly go around wringing your hands about Valparaíso. I grew up in Boston, a very safe city in general, but every year we have cases of children being hit by stray bullets, teenagers assassinating each other in gang fights, and random people being assaulted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The major difference, I would say, is that in the US there are "good neighborhoods": places where people have money and don't need to worry about safety; and "bad neighborhoods": places where people do not and you might very well get shot if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Valpo is different in that it has neither. There are no outstanding neighborhoods of extremes (of that sort...we have plenty of other extremes) within the city limits. This is one of the things that I love about the city. Here, people don’t wall themselves off in gated communities filled with people exactly like them. The most beautiful houses in the city are often across the road from falling-down buildings. To be sure, there are neighborhoods with less and more crime. However, I would look at it this way. Instead of having a map with red zones, as you would in Boston, New York, Washington DC, there is a map with varying shades of orange. You're never totally safe...but you're never counting on grave bodily injury, either. Don't call me naive.....I recognize that more serious crimes than purse snatching occur. But, as in the states, you're more liable to be injured or killed by someone you know, rather than a person off the streets, sadly enough. Trust is fabulous, trust is dangerous, and all this is universal to any city in the world.
In any event, the street crime here is mostly of the low-violence theft variety, and here is the story of my first encounter with the same.
I was walking home from work after a night class. This particular class obliges me to walk in the dark through a sketchier part of town, but that has never been a problem. This incident, actually, happened on top of one of the wealthiest hills in the city, and barely 2 buildings away from my pasaje.
I was trying to find someone to go with me to a local band concert (where, beyond having a good time, I was hoping to make some contacts for my Atenea project). I was very near the top of my pasaje when I called a friend, and he asked to call me back. So I walked the round-the-block way to circle around to the bottom end of the pasaje--there's no service once you're on the stairs.
About halfway around there a skinny boy--he couldn't have been more than 17--was stopped leaning against a doorway, by all appearances waiting to be let in. He had passed me a few minutes earlier but I didn't think much of it, obviously---people are always moving around at different paces. Plus, it must be remembered that this was at 7:45 in the evening....hardly the witching hour.
It is a statistical truth that the majority of motorcycle accidents happen within 5 miles of the rider’s home. Why? Because you relax too much.
Perhaps this was the case for me as well. I was certainly not thinking that this kid might be a potential thief. Luckily, I have it drilled into my head that if a bag doesn't go across my chest, one handle is always in a death grip. And this served me well this time.
I heard a quick step behind me and at that point I believe I snapped out of my complacency. Directly following, there was a hand on my shoulder where my bag strap sits and I knew immediately what was going on.
Now. You are not supposed to fight back in these instances, I know. However, in my defense, I seem to have come up against an extremely lackluster thief, and feel that given the circumstances my behaviour was absolutely reasonable.....except in the direct sense, that is, possessed of reason, which it certainly was not. This was pure instinct. Who knew that I had any? Apparently when you take a girl from the suburbs and threaten to take away her computer, you awaken the reptile brain.
Essentially my hold on the bag made it so that he and I ended up facing each other, each with one hand on either side of the bag handles (as in, each of us had both handles in hand, with both hands). All that really went through my head was "no! no! no!" which is what I actually yelled, which may have been perhaps on some subliminal, more intelligent plane, "computer! computer!". But I sincerely cannot offer more than that. We pushed back and forth for less than a minute and I managed to yank it out of his hands. I fell into the wall and took off running in what must have been an incredibly amusing manner: I think the word “flailing” would come into play somewhere.
This is the part where I offer sincere thanks to my mother for her excellent taste in luggage and accessories, because Señor Delincuento couldn’t even be bothered to follow me. I imagine he might have been a bit more devoted to his task if he’d realized that he would be walking off with a laptop.
Frankly, I think he was utterly surprised that I didn’t run off screaming the second he came near me, because I honestly do not believe that I am capable of winning any sort of physical contest. I have a friend (unfortunately now on her home continent) who had an incident with a thief. He tried to take her phone. In her way of putting it, which I like better than my own, she “roared at him.” He was so startled that he dropped the phone on the ground and ran away without it. So, if you happen to be an obvious gringa and someone tries to take something from you, I would recommend screaming at them before you give it up. Worked for me, and for my friend. Apparently blonde gringas are reputed to be delicate flowers around here. So the sheer shock value might work in your favor.
My friend called back as I was crossing the doorstep of my apartment.
“Oh I’m good, I’m good,” I said, “But I almost got mugged since I called you….two minutes ago.”
The odd thing as well is that directly before this incident occurred, I walked by a graffiti tag that said something equivalent to "steal from the rich, give to the poor." My first reaction was a sort of abstract political agreement. Then, as I was waiting for the light to change, I became unsettled as I realized....I supposed that means me, as well. I read about a year ago that to be in that fabled 1% of the world's population that controls 85% of the wealth (or some other unspeakably large number), one only needs US$60,000 in assets. Which is a pretty staggering idea. I am unsure whether this has changed recently with all the economic changes. Nonetheless. There also remains the fact that most people in the world live on less (often much less) than US$2 a day.
Now, $60,000 is not something that I have. However, given the second number there ($2 a day) plus the savings and assets I do have, and the fact that I am very (very! despite recent events!) young.......well, essentially, I don't think I'm loaded, but globally speaking I certainly am. And that is rather unsettling, in terms of ideals and justice and all of those things.
However, this kid looked like he was doing ok for himself, to judge by apparel, so, although I might be the rich from whom one ought to steal, I still don't think I needed to give my computer to some delinquente.
And that is the story of Meredith and the Thief.
But to get to the story of today's post. Last Thursday I was walking home from work with my big lovely bag. I love this bag because it contains a computer, but doesn't look like a computer bag, so it's not quite as nerve-wracking carrying it around. And it screams, "I am a teacher." You can credit my mother, who seems to give me a new bag for every profession I enter, each one being perfectly suited to the task....without pretension. How this can be accomplished is absolutely beyond me, but somehow she makes it happen.
So this bag is very discreet. Nonetheless, it does still, on an average work day, contain my computer and everything else of value in my possession.
I am hyper-vigilant here in Valpo, but let me stop you before you decide that this is a horrifically dangerous city. Petty crime is very common in Valparaíso--to hear some Chilenos tell it, you'd think you'd be lucky to get through the day without being beaten and robbed. Note to my previously mentioned, very specific adoring public, above all, but also to the world in general: this is absolute bull. Yes, it is a port city in the lyrical sense. Yes, you are likely to get mugged at one point or another. Yes, you absolutely need to pay attention. However, you are relatively unlikely to get injured during these events, however unnerving they might be. If you think about the violent crime that occurs in most major US cities, you can hardly go around wringing your hands about Valparaíso. I grew up in Boston, a very safe city in general, but every year we have cases of children being hit by stray bullets, teenagers assassinating each other in gang fights, and random people being assaulted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The major difference, I would say, is that in the US there are "good neighborhoods": places where people have money and don't need to worry about safety; and "bad neighborhoods": places where people do not and you might very well get shot if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Valpo is different in that it has neither. There are no outstanding neighborhoods of extremes (of that sort...we have plenty of other extremes) within the city limits. This is one of the things that I love about the city. Here, people don’t wall themselves off in gated communities filled with people exactly like them. The most beautiful houses in the city are often across the road from falling-down buildings. To be sure, there are neighborhoods with less and more crime. However, I would look at it this way. Instead of having a map with red zones, as you would in Boston, New York, Washington DC, there is a map with varying shades of orange. You're never totally safe...but you're never counting on grave bodily injury, either. Don't call me naive.....I recognize that more serious crimes than purse snatching occur. But, as in the states, you're more liable to be injured or killed by someone you know, rather than a person off the streets, sadly enough. Trust is fabulous, trust is dangerous, and all this is universal to any city in the world.
In any event, the street crime here is mostly of the low-violence theft variety, and here is the story of my first encounter with the same.
I was walking home from work after a night class. This particular class obliges me to walk in the dark through a sketchier part of town, but that has never been a problem. This incident, actually, happened on top of one of the wealthiest hills in the city, and barely 2 buildings away from my pasaje.
I was trying to find someone to go with me to a local band concert (where, beyond having a good time, I was hoping to make some contacts for my Atenea project). I was very near the top of my pasaje when I called a friend, and he asked to call me back. So I walked the round-the-block way to circle around to the bottom end of the pasaje--there's no service once you're on the stairs.
About halfway around there a skinny boy--he couldn't have been more than 17--was stopped leaning against a doorway, by all appearances waiting to be let in. He had passed me a few minutes earlier but I didn't think much of it, obviously---people are always moving around at different paces. Plus, it must be remembered that this was at 7:45 in the evening....hardly the witching hour.
It is a statistical truth that the majority of motorcycle accidents happen within 5 miles of the rider’s home. Why? Because you relax too much.
Perhaps this was the case for me as well. I was certainly not thinking that this kid might be a potential thief. Luckily, I have it drilled into my head that if a bag doesn't go across my chest, one handle is always in a death grip. And this served me well this time.
I heard a quick step behind me and at that point I believe I snapped out of my complacency. Directly following, there was a hand on my shoulder where my bag strap sits and I knew immediately what was going on.
Now. You are not supposed to fight back in these instances, I know. However, in my defense, I seem to have come up against an extremely lackluster thief, and feel that given the circumstances my behaviour was absolutely reasonable.....except in the direct sense, that is, possessed of reason, which it certainly was not. This was pure instinct. Who knew that I had any? Apparently when you take a girl from the suburbs and threaten to take away her computer, you awaken the reptile brain.
Essentially my hold on the bag made it so that he and I ended up facing each other, each with one hand on either side of the bag handles (as in, each of us had both handles in hand, with both hands). All that really went through my head was "no! no! no!" which is what I actually yelled, which may have been perhaps on some subliminal, more intelligent plane, "computer! computer!". But I sincerely cannot offer more than that. We pushed back and forth for less than a minute and I managed to yank it out of his hands. I fell into the wall and took off running in what must have been an incredibly amusing manner: I think the word “flailing” would come into play somewhere.
This is the part where I offer sincere thanks to my mother for her excellent taste in luggage and accessories, because Señor Delincuento couldn’t even be bothered to follow me. I imagine he might have been a bit more devoted to his task if he’d realized that he would be walking off with a laptop.
Frankly, I think he was utterly surprised that I didn’t run off screaming the second he came near me, because I honestly do not believe that I am capable of winning any sort of physical contest. I have a friend (unfortunately now on her home continent) who had an incident with a thief. He tried to take her phone. In her way of putting it, which I like better than my own, she “roared at him.” He was so startled that he dropped the phone on the ground and ran away without it. So, if you happen to be an obvious gringa and someone tries to take something from you, I would recommend screaming at them before you give it up. Worked for me, and for my friend. Apparently blonde gringas are reputed to be delicate flowers around here. So the sheer shock value might work in your favor.
My friend called back as I was crossing the doorstep of my apartment.
“Oh I’m good, I’m good,” I said, “But I almost got mugged since I called you….two minutes ago.”
The odd thing as well is that directly before this incident occurred, I walked by a graffiti tag that said something equivalent to "steal from the rich, give to the poor." My first reaction was a sort of abstract political agreement. Then, as I was waiting for the light to change, I became unsettled as I realized....I supposed that means me, as well. I read about a year ago that to be in that fabled 1% of the world's population that controls 85% of the wealth (or some other unspeakably large number), one only needs US$60,000 in assets. Which is a pretty staggering idea. I am unsure whether this has changed recently with all the economic changes. Nonetheless. There also remains the fact that most people in the world live on less (often much less) than US$2 a day.
Now, $60,000 is not something that I have. However, given the second number there ($2 a day) plus the savings and assets I do have, and the fact that I am very (very! despite recent events!) young.......well, essentially, I don't think I'm loaded, but globally speaking I certainly am. And that is rather unsettling, in terms of ideals and justice and all of those things.
However, this kid looked like he was doing ok for himself, to judge by apparel, so, although I might be the rich from whom one ought to steal, I still don't think I needed to give my computer to some delinquente.
And that is the story of Meredith and the Thief.
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