So that you know:
I've been journaling on paper during my traveling, and am trying to type some things up and slowly get the online journal up to date. Blogs will be coming up in bits and pieces, with photos coming along at some other point.
In the meantime, if you want some photos, there are some at our flickr accounts, which are:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/cabraschicas/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/andacata/
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
27 October, 2009—Arequipa, Peru
We made it, with some luck, across the border and up six more hours by bus to Arequipa, Peru's second largest city, the “white” or “shining” city. Awesome.
It was not an eventless day. Boiled down, it went something like this:
At 8:35, we go downstairs for some breakfast at the hostal. There is bread (mm, Chile) and coffee (or nescafe? There was enough milk in it that I couldn't be sure) and lots of people sitting around trading travel tips and stories. One girl really bothers me: she came to Sough America on a whim, and instead of being open to anything she is seeing, is totally judgmental from the getgo. Of everything. The language (which she doesn't speak), the food, the people (if you can't speak the language, how can you form an opinion of the quality of individuals?), the sights, the cleanliness... I think to myself, if you're only here to judge, why bother?
Our ride (a colectivo—shared taxi—to Tacna, the town on the other side of the border) is supposed to leave at 11:00, so we get to the bus terminal at 10:30. We change our pesos for soles (Peruvian currency), and head out to the taxi, where Christian rock is blaring while the driver takes our documents to photocopy them for the crossing.
While we're waiting for what seems like forever for the driver to get back, the Carabineros (police) drive a couple of cop cars into the parking lot; people start milling around. Traffic builds up all over the parking lot, we're confused.
The taxi driver comes back, leaves to check up on the situation. She is short and wiry, brunette, capable of doing ten things at once. She laughs a throaty laugh and has a mole in the dent above her lip, left side. She walks quickly away, and then hurries back.
“There's a strike,” she says, “they're saying it's the truck drivers.” The border is blocked.
Information warps: new word gets out that maybe it's the truck drivers in league with the teachers. I start to get nervous—my tourist visa expires today. If I don't leave, even if it's only for fifteen minutes, I'm facing a heavy fine (“you've been infected with the Chilean bug,” says the driver, “waiting to the last minute like that.”) The driver crosses her fingers against the teachers (profesores are public employees; if they strike, the aduana workers will strike with them in solidarity, and we won't be able to cross until it's resolved) and we decide to try our luck, just in case the protest gets broken up (and also because the taxi driver has to do some shopping in Tacna—her 21 year old son totalled a parked car).
When we get close to the border, around 12:45, there's a ton of traffic, all stopped. Drivers are milling around, and protestors up ahead are waving banners and shouting. The taxi driver, Sarah, goes to see what's happening, and comes back with good news. “It's the plomeros (lead workers),” she says, “the pacos should be here with the guanaco any second.”
Sure enough, the police bring an armored vehicle, and within ten minutes, traffic is moving. Sarah warms up the engine (“these old cars are like us ladies—you have to get them hot first!”) and we head to the border, where we cross without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Once in Tacna, Sarah takes Catalina and I to buy our bus tickets to Arequipa, and then takes us to a little restaurant where, for two dollars, we eat some of the most delicious cazuela (soup with potato, meat, corn, and pumpkin) and arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) of my life. While we eat, she gives us a series of tips to avoid trouble, from “don't book the whole trip from beginning to end with one company, scout around for deals,” to, “keep your camera around your neck,” and, “only change money indoors and MAKE SURE nobody follows you when you leave.”
She is an amazing woman—she's quick and funny, capable and bawdy, single with a twenty-one year old son and a four year old daughter and more good humor than should be allotted to one person. She leaves us in the restaurant with her share of the check and tip, and goes back to work with another firm set of directions from the restaurant to the bus terminal, and a warning not to dally or wander.
We finish lunch and head to the terminal, but first make a stop so Catalina can change money. Unfortunately, like a couple of freshmen, we have forgotten how to get back to the money changers (who are located right by the ticket vendors). A pusher asks if we want to buy weed, I laugh and say no. We ask a security guard where to go to get money changed; he points us to a different set of changers, and rattles of a more extensive list of tourist advice while Catalina changes her money. His list seems to border on paranoid, but is also fatherly, well meant and well taken: don't take things from strangers, make sure nobody is following you, NEVER show all your money to a vendor, don't change money outdoors. He is extremely nice, overly concerned for our safety, and points us in the direction of our terminal once again. And off we go.
At 12:30 PM Peruvian time (conveniently two hours behind Chilean time), we board another bus for our ride to Arequipa. The trip isn't noteworthy, except for some gorgeous views, and some ridiculous passengers praying passionately the whole ride or narrating the particularly bad movie (“August Rush”) to their husbands.
We have Lonely Planet's guide to South America on a shoestring; we've been following it pretty closely in terms of safety precautions and telephone numbers. It had a long, serious warning about taxis in Arequipa: you're supposed to always call for a taxi, never hail one off the street. If you're going to take one off the street, you're supposed to be certain it has a registration sticker in the window and a telephone number (the radio taxi company's number) on the hood.
The book is apparently a little out of date; it said nothing about the security guards and police officers who have been installed at the station to stop foreigners from getting mugged. We arrived at the terminal shortly after sunset, and were immediately approached by two (apparent) police officers, who told us they would get us safely to our hostel. Nervous (there are fake police scams in Bolivia, and we really don't want to find ourselves in one of those), we follow them to a pay phone and call a hostel; we take down the address while the police fend off taxi drivers (who respect their authority, lending credence to their uniforms), and then follow the police to a taxi. They write down our names and snap the driver's photo; he shows his credential, and we see the sticker on his front window. Nervous anyway, we get in. The hotel he takes us to (the hotel Arequipa Center) was recommended by some travelers at breakfast, and pays him commission for bringing passengers. It's not the hostel we really wanted to stay in, but it's clean, not expensive, close to downtown, and safe. And here we are.
A funny thing or two: the notes the hotel has left for customers ask us to kindly not use the bedspread or curtains as a towel, and to walk to the front desk to request things rather than telling from the rooms. I am dying to meet the person who did either one of these things. Really, excellent.
I am exhausted. Will e-mail home (with the free internet!! downstairs) and then sleep. Ugh. Travel days hurt.
It was not an eventless day. Boiled down, it went something like this:
At 8:35, we go downstairs for some breakfast at the hostal. There is bread (mm, Chile) and coffee (or nescafe? There was enough milk in it that I couldn't be sure) and lots of people sitting around trading travel tips and stories. One girl really bothers me: she came to Sough America on a whim, and instead of being open to anything she is seeing, is totally judgmental from the getgo. Of everything. The language (which she doesn't speak), the food, the people (if you can't speak the language, how can you form an opinion of the quality of individuals?), the sights, the cleanliness... I think to myself, if you're only here to judge, why bother?
Our ride (a colectivo—shared taxi—to Tacna, the town on the other side of the border) is supposed to leave at 11:00, so we get to the bus terminal at 10:30. We change our pesos for soles (Peruvian currency), and head out to the taxi, where Christian rock is blaring while the driver takes our documents to photocopy them for the crossing.
While we're waiting for what seems like forever for the driver to get back, the Carabineros (police) drive a couple of cop cars into the parking lot; people start milling around. Traffic builds up all over the parking lot, we're confused.
The taxi driver comes back, leaves to check up on the situation. She is short and wiry, brunette, capable of doing ten things at once. She laughs a throaty laugh and has a mole in the dent above her lip, left side. She walks quickly away, and then hurries back.
“There's a strike,” she says, “they're saying it's the truck drivers.” The border is blocked.
Information warps: new word gets out that maybe it's the truck drivers in league with the teachers. I start to get nervous—my tourist visa expires today. If I don't leave, even if it's only for fifteen minutes, I'm facing a heavy fine (“you've been infected with the Chilean bug,” says the driver, “waiting to the last minute like that.”) The driver crosses her fingers against the teachers (profesores are public employees; if they strike, the aduana workers will strike with them in solidarity, and we won't be able to cross until it's resolved) and we decide to try our luck, just in case the protest gets broken up (and also because the taxi driver has to do some shopping in Tacna—her 21 year old son totalled a parked car).
When we get close to the border, around 12:45, there's a ton of traffic, all stopped. Drivers are milling around, and protestors up ahead are waving banners and shouting. The taxi driver, Sarah, goes to see what's happening, and comes back with good news. “It's the plomeros (lead workers),” she says, “the pacos should be here with the guanaco any second.”
Sure enough, the police bring an armored vehicle, and within ten minutes, traffic is moving. Sarah warms up the engine (“these old cars are like us ladies—you have to get them hot first!”) and we head to the border, where we cross without incident. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Once in Tacna, Sarah takes Catalina and I to buy our bus tickets to Arequipa, and then takes us to a little restaurant where, for two dollars, we eat some of the most delicious cazuela (soup with potato, meat, corn, and pumpkin) and arroz con pollo (chicken with rice) of my life. While we eat, she gives us a series of tips to avoid trouble, from “don't book the whole trip from beginning to end with one company, scout around for deals,” to, “keep your camera around your neck,” and, “only change money indoors and MAKE SURE nobody follows you when you leave.”
She is an amazing woman—she's quick and funny, capable and bawdy, single with a twenty-one year old son and a four year old daughter and more good humor than should be allotted to one person. She leaves us in the restaurant with her share of the check and tip, and goes back to work with another firm set of directions from the restaurant to the bus terminal, and a warning not to dally or wander.
We finish lunch and head to the terminal, but first make a stop so Catalina can change money. Unfortunately, like a couple of freshmen, we have forgotten how to get back to the money changers (who are located right by the ticket vendors). A pusher asks if we want to buy weed, I laugh and say no. We ask a security guard where to go to get money changed; he points us to a different set of changers, and rattles of a more extensive list of tourist advice while Catalina changes her money. His list seems to border on paranoid, but is also fatherly, well meant and well taken: don't take things from strangers, make sure nobody is following you, NEVER show all your money to a vendor, don't change money outdoors. He is extremely nice, overly concerned for our safety, and points us in the direction of our terminal once again. And off we go.
At 12:30 PM Peruvian time (conveniently two hours behind Chilean time), we board another bus for our ride to Arequipa. The trip isn't noteworthy, except for some gorgeous views, and some ridiculous passengers praying passionately the whole ride or narrating the particularly bad movie (“August Rush”) to their husbands.
We have Lonely Planet's guide to South America on a shoestring; we've been following it pretty closely in terms of safety precautions and telephone numbers. It had a long, serious warning about taxis in Arequipa: you're supposed to always call for a taxi, never hail one off the street. If you're going to take one off the street, you're supposed to be certain it has a registration sticker in the window and a telephone number (the radio taxi company's number) on the hood.
The book is apparently a little out of date; it said nothing about the security guards and police officers who have been installed at the station to stop foreigners from getting mugged. We arrived at the terminal shortly after sunset, and were immediately approached by two (apparent) police officers, who told us they would get us safely to our hostel. Nervous (there are fake police scams in Bolivia, and we really don't want to find ourselves in one of those), we follow them to a pay phone and call a hostel; we take down the address while the police fend off taxi drivers (who respect their authority, lending credence to their uniforms), and then follow the police to a taxi. They write down our names and snap the driver's photo; he shows his credential, and we see the sticker on his front window. Nervous anyway, we get in. The hotel he takes us to (the hotel Arequipa Center) was recommended by some travelers at breakfast, and pays him commission for bringing passengers. It's not the hostel we really wanted to stay in, but it's clean, not expensive, close to downtown, and safe. And here we are.
A funny thing or two: the notes the hotel has left for customers ask us to kindly not use the bedspread or curtains as a towel, and to walk to the front desk to request things rather than telling from the rooms. I am dying to meet the person who did either one of these things. Really, excellent.
I am exhausted. Will e-mail home (with the free internet!! downstairs) and then sleep. Ugh. Travel days hurt.
27 October, 2009—Arica, Chile
It's morning and, as always, I've woken up an hour and a half before the alarm, totally restless at the prospect of traveling. I don't know why this always happens—the night before any big trip, I sleep restlessly and wake up in the dark before the alarm can even consider ringing. Full of nervous energy, I just lay motionless or sit still, running down the time until I'm allowed to wake up.
This morning, I just sucked it up, though; got out of bed, showered, packed up a bit. Three more hours until we leave for Arequipa. I am so excited!
This morning, I just sucked it up, though; got out of bed, showered, packed up a bit. Three more hours until we leave for Arequipa. I am so excited!
Monday, October 26, 2009
26 October, 2009—Arica, Chile
After 30 hours on a tour bus (in semi-cama seats, the most economical choice, with partially reclining seats and an abundant selection of bad movies), Catalina and I arrived yesterday afternoon at Sunny Days, which is quite possibly the cutest hostel in the Southern Hemisphere. The owner showed us to our room; we did some quick vegetable shopping, made dinner, and crashed into our beds. After 30 hours on a tour bus, though, I slept surprisingly restlessly and woke up feeling a little foggy.
This morning, we got out of bed around nine, donned some athletic gear and, barefooted, went to the beach for a jog. It wasn't the world's greatest jog, but sustained activity after so much time sitting so still felt wonderful. After, we went on a brief city tour.
Arica is the northernmost city in Chile, population ~185,000, and the site of an important Chilean victory in the War of the Pacific—the 1880 Chilean-Peruvian-Bolivian war in which Chile doubled its territory and cut off Bolivia's access to the sea. It's a small, semi-urban beach town that is loomed over by El Morro—the huge rock on which this huge battle was fought—and doesn't have an awful lot of sights to see. The sights it has, though, it has in spades: some of the world's oldest mummies live in a museum here, and a church and an old customhouse designed by Gustave Eiffel sit in the middle of downtown.
We didn't see everything. In Santiago's pre-colonial art museum, we'd already seen Chinchorro mummies (which are actually really cool: the Chinchorro people mummified everyone, from the youngest miscarried fetus to the oldest old man, regardless of gender and of social class, by taking out all of their organs, replacing them with plant matter, reattaching the skin, and covering their faces with ochre-painted masks and wigs), so we decided to skip the museum at the outskirts of town where they are the main showpiece. We also decided not to climb up on El Morro; it's a bit of a ride out there, and the thought of more car rides was sickening. Instead, we stuck to the city center.
We did see both Eiffel designs, the Iglesia San Marcos and the ex-Aduana (currently a cultural center). Both are pretty, if small and relatively unassuming. The church is constructed out of all metal, and covered with a thin layer of paint. The taller outside turret is rusting; it's a vague greenish color, while the rest of the building is painted white and copper. The inside looks oddly mechanical—the balustrades have flower details in them, and the roof arches up steeply and dramatically, but the lines are sort of too clean. Inside is the bell from the original church (Eiffel was brought in by the Peruvian Viceroy to design the new Church after a tsunami destroyed the old one), and one strange detail: the only part of the building NOT made of metal is the thick set of double doors that stand guard at the entrance—who knows why? (I don't. That's not a dare, but an open question.)
The second Eiffel construction is the former customhouse (aduana), which is made out of brick and currently houses pictures of Arica from its time as a Peruvian city to now, and also has art brought in from the school of fine art in Cuzco, Peru. Out front, there's an amphitheater, where we sat for a while and watched a kindergarten class practicing a dance for some kind of exhibition. Inside, there's also some cool history: a flirty (and therefore chatty) guide took us through the building. He showed us the original tiling where Peruvian workers, angry that they hadn't been paid for constructing the building, turned a patterned ceramic piece around 180 degrees to mess up the pattern, and expected nobody to notice. He showed us the original Peruvian coat of arms that adorned the outside of the building, but was taken down when Chile won the War of the Pacific. And he took us up a rickety, beautiful spiral staircase for an amazing view of El Morro. It's interesting how El Morro is a constant in the cityscape, sort of like the Cordillera in Santiago: always there as a reminder of some history or other.
A brief thought: Arican identity must be a little odd—at the same time that the city is Chilean and has been for 130 years, there seems to still be a lot of Peruvian influence/ pride/ memory. I wonder what the interaction is between ex-Peruvian and Chilean identities.
After our busy morning, we stopped off for some heladito (ice cream is always delicious) and decided to head to fisherman's wharf for some seafood (and to see the sea lions. As though we'd never seen them before.) We did see the sea lions, and at a surprisingly short distance: they were sleeping, fighting, chilling about five feet away from us, across a fence, totally indifferent to our presence. They were very stinky, and only a little cute—one animal that gains from distance in the bay. The rest of the plan got sidetracked when we met The Boxer.
The Boxer was a seventy-eight year old man who approached us with the normal series of questions—where are you from? What are you doing here? How long are you here for?--and made some uncomfortable insinuations—going into great detail about sea lion sex, and inviting us for some cartonet (boxed wine) and sandwiches in his apartment (we politely refused.) He thought Abraham Lincoln was black. Also, he was a former boxer; the country retired him at 21 and he's been living pensioned ever since. “I've never worked a day in my life,” he said, smiling yellowly, “because I was an athlete.” I told some convenient lies (“We're staying with a friend,” “I have a fiance,” and “I don't drink,” among others) to get us out of a tight spot or two, and we escaped unharmed, as politely as possible.
Another side note: I'm glad that I've learned to be appropriately wary here. Although I think I go overboard sometimes, I'm glad that the gypsies in the park this morning couldn't cajole us into getting our fortunes read (“they speak good Spanish, let's go”) and that we didn't go to have boxed wine with the ex-boxer. I'm glad to be a little bit jaded, even though I sometimes wish I would calm down and be open to more experiences. I guess the city has done some weird things to me. Or maybe, I've always been cautious and now am just savvier. Or maybe this is all part of that “growing up” thing—learning to say no when you don't want things.
Tomorrow, we're in for another long haul on a bus (although nowhere near as long as the last one—only seven hours this time!), scheduled to make it to Arequipa at 4:00 PM local time (that's 6:00 Chilean time, 2:00 California time). I'm excited for the canyons and the sparkling buildings! We'll be there a few days before we head off to Cuzco, to blaze the Inca Trail (or, more likely, an alternative) and see some seriously amazing ruins. I'm SO EXCITED!!
For now, though, I'm going to re-organize my pack, throw a couple of tarot cards, stretch thoroughly, and head to sleep. And remember to write down everything so as not to forget.
This morning, we got out of bed around nine, donned some athletic gear and, barefooted, went to the beach for a jog. It wasn't the world's greatest jog, but sustained activity after so much time sitting so still felt wonderful. After, we went on a brief city tour.
Arica is the northernmost city in Chile, population ~185,000, and the site of an important Chilean victory in the War of the Pacific—the 1880 Chilean-Peruvian-Bolivian war in which Chile doubled its territory and cut off Bolivia's access to the sea. It's a small, semi-urban beach town that is loomed over by El Morro—the huge rock on which this huge battle was fought—and doesn't have an awful lot of sights to see. The sights it has, though, it has in spades: some of the world's oldest mummies live in a museum here, and a church and an old customhouse designed by Gustave Eiffel sit in the middle of downtown.
We didn't see everything. In Santiago's pre-colonial art museum, we'd already seen Chinchorro mummies (which are actually really cool: the Chinchorro people mummified everyone, from the youngest miscarried fetus to the oldest old man, regardless of gender and of social class, by taking out all of their organs, replacing them with plant matter, reattaching the skin, and covering their faces with ochre-painted masks and wigs), so we decided to skip the museum at the outskirts of town where they are the main showpiece. We also decided not to climb up on El Morro; it's a bit of a ride out there, and the thought of more car rides was sickening. Instead, we stuck to the city center.
We did see both Eiffel designs, the Iglesia San Marcos and the ex-Aduana (currently a cultural center). Both are pretty, if small and relatively unassuming. The church is constructed out of all metal, and covered with a thin layer of paint. The taller outside turret is rusting; it's a vague greenish color, while the rest of the building is painted white and copper. The inside looks oddly mechanical—the balustrades have flower details in them, and the roof arches up steeply and dramatically, but the lines are sort of too clean. Inside is the bell from the original church (Eiffel was brought in by the Peruvian Viceroy to design the new Church after a tsunami destroyed the old one), and one strange detail: the only part of the building NOT made of metal is the thick set of double doors that stand guard at the entrance—who knows why? (I don't. That's not a dare, but an open question.)
The second Eiffel construction is the former customhouse (aduana), which is made out of brick and currently houses pictures of Arica from its time as a Peruvian city to now, and also has art brought in from the school of fine art in Cuzco, Peru. Out front, there's an amphitheater, where we sat for a while and watched a kindergarten class practicing a dance for some kind of exhibition. Inside, there's also some cool history: a flirty (and therefore chatty) guide took us through the building. He showed us the original tiling where Peruvian workers, angry that they hadn't been paid for constructing the building, turned a patterned ceramic piece around 180 degrees to mess up the pattern, and expected nobody to notice. He showed us the original Peruvian coat of arms that adorned the outside of the building, but was taken down when Chile won the War of the Pacific. And he took us up a rickety, beautiful spiral staircase for an amazing view of El Morro. It's interesting how El Morro is a constant in the cityscape, sort of like the Cordillera in Santiago: always there as a reminder of some history or other.
A brief thought: Arican identity must be a little odd—at the same time that the city is Chilean and has been for 130 years, there seems to still be a lot of Peruvian influence/ pride/ memory. I wonder what the interaction is between ex-Peruvian and Chilean identities.
After our busy morning, we stopped off for some heladito (ice cream is always delicious) and decided to head to fisherman's wharf for some seafood (and to see the sea lions. As though we'd never seen them before.) We did see the sea lions, and at a surprisingly short distance: they were sleeping, fighting, chilling about five feet away from us, across a fence, totally indifferent to our presence. They were very stinky, and only a little cute—one animal that gains from distance in the bay. The rest of the plan got sidetracked when we met The Boxer.
The Boxer was a seventy-eight year old man who approached us with the normal series of questions—where are you from? What are you doing here? How long are you here for?--and made some uncomfortable insinuations—going into great detail about sea lion sex, and inviting us for some cartonet (boxed wine) and sandwiches in his apartment (we politely refused.) He thought Abraham Lincoln was black. Also, he was a former boxer; the country retired him at 21 and he's been living pensioned ever since. “I've never worked a day in my life,” he said, smiling yellowly, “because I was an athlete.” I told some convenient lies (“We're staying with a friend,” “I have a fiance,” and “I don't drink,” among others) to get us out of a tight spot or two, and we escaped unharmed, as politely as possible.
Another side note: I'm glad that I've learned to be appropriately wary here. Although I think I go overboard sometimes, I'm glad that the gypsies in the park this morning couldn't cajole us into getting our fortunes read (“they speak good Spanish, let's go”) and that we didn't go to have boxed wine with the ex-boxer. I'm glad to be a little bit jaded, even though I sometimes wish I would calm down and be open to more experiences. I guess the city has done some weird things to me. Or maybe, I've always been cautious and now am just savvier. Or maybe this is all part of that “growing up” thing—learning to say no when you don't want things.
Tomorrow, we're in for another long haul on a bus (although nowhere near as long as the last one—only seven hours this time!), scheduled to make it to Arequipa at 4:00 PM local time (that's 6:00 Chilean time, 2:00 California time). I'm excited for the canyons and the sparkling buildings! We'll be there a few days before we head off to Cuzco, to blaze the Inca Trail (or, more likely, an alternative) and see some seriously amazing ruins. I'm SO EXCITED!!
For now, though, I'm going to re-organize my pack, throw a couple of tarot cards, stretch thoroughly, and head to sleep. And remember to write down everything so as not to forget.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Yoda: A Very Wise Man
I am getting very fed up with some of my students. I recognize they have lives, that they're busy people, that English is not their top priority. But when I assign five or ten minutes of homework for the weekend, and it's not done come Monday, I'm starting to get annoyed. Not because I care about the homework, but because it shows me just how little this student is willing to invest in learning a language. And that makes me realize just how much of a waste their lessons are--monetarily, of their time, and of my time.
One student--we'll call him "D"--is the classic example. He is a middle-aged man who takes private classes three days a week. He never does homework. He uses any and every excuse not to speak English in class. He refuses to practice by reading newspapers or watching English TV. And he's not doing particularly well as a result.
Today, he had to do a listening activity. Normally, we skip listening activities because they're frequently boring and usually stupid; this one, though, was about a homeless man in New York. I thought it would be good practice for him, since he's going to Chicago in November, and the listening exercise had lots of American money terminology.
So we listen once. He looks at me afterwords, and I ask him some comprehension questions. He says, "I don't know. I didn't understand anything."
"Okay," I say, "We'll listen again." So we slow down the speed, and start to listen again. He stops the recording halfway through.
"I don't understand anything," he says, and smirks because he thinks he's being cute. "It's Monday."
I'm not amused, in part because I'm worried that he can't understand what's going on in the exercise, but mostly because this is typical behavior from him, and I've had enough of it.
"Okay," I say, "here's the deal. You're going to have to listen to this for homework and do the exercise in your book."
He makes the usual homework excuses ('I don't have time,' to which I reply, 'Don't lie, we both know you have ten minutes to do this,') and then finally cedes with an "I'll try."
But I'm not taking his bull today. I say, "D, have you ever seen the movie Star Wars?" He has not. "Well, there's a very wise character named Yoda, and he says, 'do or do not, there is no try.' So, D, here's the deal. Do your homework or don't do your homework, there is no try. But if you don't do your homework, you will fail this level."
He thinks he has my number. "But you can't do that--there's the test," he says, and smirks.
"Yes, I can do that," I answer, knowing that he's close to failing regardless of this homework assignment. "I assign grades, and I have final jurisdiction." This is only mostly true, but I'm okay with the stretch. "If you don't do this homework, I will not pass you."
Class is over five minutes later (I spend the five minutes explaining the gist of and vocabulary words from the listening exercise), and as I'm packing up to leave, I say, "Remember, do or do not. I hope you do."
He answers, "You have a very strong character."
I respond, "Yes, and it has served me well." Then, feeling fired up and satisfied (and like I've somehow channeled my father), I leave.
Lesson learned: be not a doormat lest you be trampled on. Seriously. Reclaiming power through assertiveness feels... powerful.
One student--we'll call him "D"--is the classic example. He is a middle-aged man who takes private classes three days a week. He never does homework. He uses any and every excuse not to speak English in class. He refuses to practice by reading newspapers or watching English TV. And he's not doing particularly well as a result.
Today, he had to do a listening activity. Normally, we skip listening activities because they're frequently boring and usually stupid; this one, though, was about a homeless man in New York. I thought it would be good practice for him, since he's going to Chicago in November, and the listening exercise had lots of American money terminology.
So we listen once. He looks at me afterwords, and I ask him some comprehension questions. He says, "I don't know. I didn't understand anything."
"Okay," I say, "We'll listen again." So we slow down the speed, and start to listen again. He stops the recording halfway through.
"I don't understand anything," he says, and smirks because he thinks he's being cute. "It's Monday."
I'm not amused, in part because I'm worried that he can't understand what's going on in the exercise, but mostly because this is typical behavior from him, and I've had enough of it.
"Okay," I say, "here's the deal. You're going to have to listen to this for homework and do the exercise in your book."
He makes the usual homework excuses ('I don't have time,' to which I reply, 'Don't lie, we both know you have ten minutes to do this,') and then finally cedes with an "I'll try."
But I'm not taking his bull today. I say, "D, have you ever seen the movie Star Wars?" He has not. "Well, there's a very wise character named Yoda, and he says, 'do or do not, there is no try.' So, D, here's the deal. Do your homework or don't do your homework, there is no try. But if you don't do your homework, you will fail this level."
He thinks he has my number. "But you can't do that--there's the test," he says, and smirks.
"Yes, I can do that," I answer, knowing that he's close to failing regardless of this homework assignment. "I assign grades, and I have final jurisdiction." This is only mostly true, but I'm okay with the stretch. "If you don't do this homework, I will not pass you."
Class is over five minutes later (I spend the five minutes explaining the gist of and vocabulary words from the listening exercise), and as I'm packing up to leave, I say, "Remember, do or do not. I hope you do."
He answers, "You have a very strong character."
I respond, "Yes, and it has served me well." Then, feeling fired up and satisfied (and like I've somehow channeled my father), I leave.
Lesson learned: be not a doormat lest you be trampled on. Seriously. Reclaiming power through assertiveness feels... powerful.
Monday, September 14, 2009
11 de Septiembre
September 11th is a notorious day inside and outside of the United States. In 2001, we watched our twin towers, symbols of American capitalism, creativity and ingenuity, come crashing to the ground in pillars of ash, debris, and flame. In 1973, Chileans watched their democratic government crash to the ground. Their president committed suicide (many think he was murdered), and the military police stormed the capital, pointing guns and lighting bombs and fires. September eleventh--11/9--is an important day here in Chile, for people who were opposed to the dictatorial regime, and for people who were in favor.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
In the United States, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on American values and American power. Here, 9/11 is symbolic of an attack on democracy, of the imposition of outside ideas (including an impressively heirarchical capitalist system) by a superpower (the United States, who funded the coup) on members of a formerly free society. For the youth, September eleventh demonstrates the failings of democracy--how democracy cannot work in Latin America because the United States won't let it work. Salvador Allende, a democratically elected socialist, was under constant attack by the U.S. from the time he started running for office. They tried to block his election, and when they couldn't, funded opposition newspapers and provided money and support (training, weaponry) for the armed forces who took over and ran the government until 1990.
My September 11th was actually very calm; I went to a friend's despedida in Vitacura, one of the richer comunas, where everything was quiet and protest free. Yesterday, on the Sunday after September 11th (because the proletariat doesn't have to work on Sunday, but they did have to work on the 11th), I went with two Spaniard friends to watch a protest aimed at the military police who have not been prosecuted for crimes committed during the dictatorship. Of course, the protestors weren't all there to protest human rights abuses. The communists came out, the gays came out, the militant anarchists came out. Everyone was marching to protest something about the government; everyone had a bone to pick (even if it wasn't the human rights bone.)
Some of the signs:
"No a la Impunidad"
One of the Spaniards carrying a "No a la Impunidad" sign
"Revolutionary Socialism: Power to the Workers"
"Truth and Justice Now"
"No Discrimination: Equality in Love"
Clase Contra Clase (one of the bigger, more organized groups. website: http://www.clasecontraclase.cl/)
"Our Only Option: Fight!! Popular Protest November 10th"
It's illegal for foreigners to protest, so I wasn't protesting. I didn't carry any signs or yell any slogans, but I (and the Spaniards, particularly the one with the sign) was still worried about what would happen if things heated up. We brought handkerchiefs and lemons just in case, and started the walk from metro station Los Heroes to the cemetery.
Things started out calm. Protestors handed out propaganda, chanted their slogans, caught up with old friends. I opened one of the pamphlets and started reading. "Yanqui, go home!" it screamed across the bottom of the page. I laughed and showed on of the Spaniards, "Try not to talk too much," he laughed back. When we started walking, we saw the police, dressed in full riot gear, carrying shields and accompanied by armored cars, that lined the roads and guarded the exits. Some were holding video cameras, others had digital cameras; everything was on film.
"Me da pena," said one of the spaniards, pointing his chin at the line of policemen.
"Don't worry about them," I said, full of false confidence, "They're just blocking traffic."
We walked a few blocks without anything noteworthy happening. Then, slowly, the crowd started to get more rowdy. An old man standing next to me solemnly gave the carabineros ("pacos"; the cops) the middle finger as we passed by; young people brought out cans of spray paint and started posting messages on the walls sometimes with stencils, sometimes free hand. The farther we walked, the thicker and sweeter the spray paint tainted air got. The farther we walked, the angrier the crowd got with the police. "PACOS CULIADOS!" one man cried, giving another one-fingered salute. The police didn't respond.
It had been calm for several blocks when we ran into the Spaniards' friend from school. "Is this as rowdy as it's going to get?" one asked. She laughed. "We're at the halfway point now," she said, "it's going to start picking up real soon. Did you bring lemons?"
Sure enough, one block later, things picked up. one of the protestors started throwing stones at the police lining the road. "PACOS CULIADOS!!" he screamed, and the next thing I knew, the whole crowd was sprinting forward. I heard what sounded like a high-powered hose, and then my eyes were burning. My throat burned--I spat and retched, but happily didn't throw up. My nose burned. My ears rang. I pulled my handkerchief up around my face and ran with the crowd, trying to get away from the gas.
Finally, it seemed like the spraying had stopped. I looked around and couldn't find the Spaniards; I moved forward along the sidewalk looking for them. The protestors started setting off firecrackers in the road, far away from the police; every time I heard a noise, I jumped because I thought we were going to get gassed again.
We did get gassed again; someone let off another firecracker, and the police decided they'd had enough. The crowd started running again; I was shoving my way through rows of people, all bunched together and running too slow to get away. Finally, I saw a chance to get out from behind them--the road forked. Most people took the left fork; I took the right fork, which seemed like the fastes way to get away from the burning. This turned out to be a bad decision; One protestor was violently angry, and decided he was going to tear down a police barrier along the right side of the road as an expression of this anger. And the police made a beeline for him, and the rest of us who had taken the right fork had to hop the barrier. I'm awful at hopping fences; someone was pulling me back off the thing, someone else was trying to get leverage off me, and I was on top of the barrier, screaming frustratedly, when someone else finally shoved me over, and I kept running down the street through the gas.
It finally stopped for real, and my throat and my eyes and my nose were still burning. Then I remembered the lemon: I pulled it out of my pocket, peeled it with shaking fingers, and took a bite. It worked: my throat stopped burning, and my head started to clear. I kept moving through the crowd, looking for the spaniards. There was no way I was leaving through the line of riot police lining the road, and there was no way I was staying there alone.
I finally found them, about a block ahead, and we kept on walking to the cemetary, where there were groups of protestors posted at all the major grave sites of revolutionary figures from the '70s, giving speeches, playing music, and praising the struggle of their compatriots that day, and in years past.
We stayed for about half an hour; then the spaniard's friend found us, and told us it was time to leave. "Why?" we asked; it was only one in the afternoon.
"That wasn't anything before," she answered. "You're not from here, and you can't afford to get caught by the cops, and you're not used to the way they're going to start treating people soon," she said. "We'll walk through the cemetary so you can see it, but then you have to go."
We were all exhausted from a long night before and the morning of sprinting, so we nodded and walked back through the cemetary, towards the entrance.
When we got there, the entrance was lined with police. We were about 40 yards away from the gate when they started spraying more gas into the street. I don't know why--we didn't see or hear anything happening outside. All I know is that I saw two armored vehicles go in two opposite directions, spraying gas while the people in the street ran away. A woman next to us was holding her baby and staring out at the entrance. She covered the baby's face with a blanket, and we all stayed back from the entrance as more and more police came to guard it. About one hundred fifty police in the end, I think, with their shields raised, in groups of six or seven, stood there, some taking video of the street, others holding shields, still more with their hands over their guns. We stayed still behind them for ten minutes; when they thought the threat had passed, they started to retreat and we saw our chance to leave.
We left, very quietly, through the front gate after about half the police had retreated into the cemetary. Outside, the air was still heavy with gas. vendors lined the streets, munching on their lemons. We walked to the next metro station, passing more protestors giving speeches and standing around; finally, we walked exhaustedly onto the metro and started the long ride home.
Being an outsider on the inside of this kind of political action made me ask some questions that I really don't know how to answer. I observed an almost bizarre ritual, in which both sides knew that the other side would not hesitate to respond with violence, and so both sides overreacted to each others' smallest actions. The protestors reacted to the mere police presence with shouts; the police reacted to the throwing of pebbles with gas. What about either of these reactions is reasonable?
Who is right here? How effective is this kind of protest if the police do not hesitate to use force, and if the crowd is small enough and calm enough that it's unlikely to create state-wide political change? If this kind of protest is ineffective, why is it the kind most commonly seen not just in Chile, but in Latin America generally? If this kind of protest is ineffective, what kind of protest would be more effective?
And the answer is, I just don't know.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Priority Sorting
Last night, I called home to tell my parents some big news: I was offered a full time job (and a contract, and therefore papers, health insurance, and paid vacation time) at the Instituto Norteamericano Chileno, one of the biggest and most respected language institutes in the country. I was ready to accept the position due to the aforementioned benefits, but a little stressed about a couple of things--namely, signing a year-long contract agreeing to be available six days a week to work at peak hours (early mornings or late evenings), and the lack of travel opportunities this would allow me.
I didn't know why I was so stressed about this decision. I mean, I'm already working six days at peak hours, and moving to a different institute would only be good--my base pay rate would be higher, I would get a national ID card, free dental, and probably a great letter of recommendation.
I was talking to my father when I realized what it was. He always says before I hang up, "sounds like you're having the time of your life!" and I always ask myself... Am I?
No. As of last night, I was not having the time of my life.
This was an upsetting realization for any number of reasons. I came here with the specific goal of having the time of my life--I was going to reclaim happiness and experience the world anew. I was going to see new places, throw caution (sort of) to the wind and have some wild adventures. I was going to prove to myself that I could be happy and stress free, that I was capable of having, as my father puts it, the time of my life.
Getting a job was supposed to be incidental to these goals--I was going to work only to save enough money to fund some wild adventures. I would work hard for a short burst, and then leave. Totally stressless, totally calm, and totally manageable.
Except that it hasn't worked out that way. I have been working hard. Not because my job is difficult (it's actually quite easy), but because the hours are terrible--nonconsecutive and spread over the entire day. For example: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake up at 5:45 and leave home at 7:10 to make a 7:15 bus that takes me to one of EF's other campuses, where I start work at 8:00. I teach for one hour (until 9:00), then spend another hour commuting back to the Providencia campus, where I have a second class from 10:00 to 12:00. Then, I have an hour-long break to prep my next class, eat some kind of snack (not enough time to go home and make lunch), and get from the school to my next class (a ten minute walk) and through security (ten minute delay at the front desk.) At 2:30, I'm done with that class, and finally have a sizeable enough break (2:45 to 7:00) to come home, cook lunch, maybe shower, mess around online, and prep for my evening class. At 7:00, I head back for the institute where I have class from 7:30 to 9:00; then I come home, exhausted, and watch the news or call my family or do something that isn't school related for about an hour, or until I pass out where I sit.
This might seem like no big deal--after all, it's only six hours of paid work--but it's a lot of short, stupid waiting time and short, stupid travel time that adds up to 13 hours of the day thinking about work, getting to work, or not getting too far away from work.
This schedule has made it difficult to have any kind of normal daily routine. If I eat breakfast before I leave the apartment (that means breakfast at 6:30) to save money, I have to pack and carry two snacks in addition to my books, as I don't have time to eat a real meal until I get home around 3:00. I don't pack snacks because it's too much to carry and I'm not that organized; I ussually wind up buying something small and unsatisfying around noon and something else (frequently with little nutritional value) on my way home to cook lunch, because I don't think I'll be able to wait 45 more minutes while lunch cooks to get some food in me.
Add to this perpetual exhaustion (I'm not a morning person, but I work at 8 five days a week, 9 on Saturdays), and it suddenly makes a lot of sense that I'm not having the time of my life--how could I be, if I hardly have the energy to get out of bed in the morning? How are you supposed to be having the time of your life when you can't even find the strength to go for a two mile jog every couple of days?
The point of this overly drawn out illustration of my daily routine is not to complain. I've put it here as an illustration of how I automatically--and very quickly--fell into habits that were actually totally contradictory to my stated goals when I left home for a new environment.
I thought getting a job at a different institute might solve this problem; I realize now that it won't. My problem has nothing to do with where I'm working or how much money I'm making. My problem has to do with embracing insecurity, with having the guts to say "maybe I could work more hours and make more money, but thanks to the savings I've built up, I don't have to. I am allowed to take my money and do with it as I please. I don't have to stay at any institute working; I'm allowed to go exploring, to see new things, to enjoy my trip here in every way possible. That is my right, and that is my prerogative."
This does not mean I'm quitting my job today; this does mean that I went in this morning and told my boss that I refused to work early mornings and late nights after tonight. This does not mean that I'm immediately buying a ticket to Buenos Aires and leaving tomorrow to go exploring; I'll wait another month, finishing my grad school applications and adding a little more to my savings until Catalina, a friend from home, reaches the end of her contract at her current job and can come down to go with me. And if she never comes, well, I'll go it alone when my visa expires. I have enough money that I won't starve, and protected enough at home that I won't lose it all if I should get robbed. I'm smart and capable enough to board airplanes and buy train tickets, and fascinated enough by my environment that I want to see it all. And I have enough common sense to stay away from places that are really dangerous for a woman traveling alone.
This blog is not a complaint or an observation or a discussion; this is a declaration. I will do what I came here to do. I will enjoy myself. I will stop with the stress and the worrying and the unhealthy lifestyle living, and instead will have a wonderful time seeing, experiencing, and spending, rather than saving. This is an investment in myself, and I am worth it.
I didn't know why I was so stressed about this decision. I mean, I'm already working six days at peak hours, and moving to a different institute would only be good--my base pay rate would be higher, I would get a national ID card, free dental, and probably a great letter of recommendation.
I was talking to my father when I realized what it was. He always says before I hang up, "sounds like you're having the time of your life!" and I always ask myself... Am I?
No. As of last night, I was not having the time of my life.
This was an upsetting realization for any number of reasons. I came here with the specific goal of having the time of my life--I was going to reclaim happiness and experience the world anew. I was going to see new places, throw caution (sort of) to the wind and have some wild adventures. I was going to prove to myself that I could be happy and stress free, that I was capable of having, as my father puts it, the time of my life.
Getting a job was supposed to be incidental to these goals--I was going to work only to save enough money to fund some wild adventures. I would work hard for a short burst, and then leave. Totally stressless, totally calm, and totally manageable.
Except that it hasn't worked out that way. I have been working hard. Not because my job is difficult (it's actually quite easy), but because the hours are terrible--nonconsecutive and spread over the entire day. For example: on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I wake up at 5:45 and leave home at 7:10 to make a 7:15 bus that takes me to one of EF's other campuses, where I start work at 8:00. I teach for one hour (until 9:00), then spend another hour commuting back to the Providencia campus, where I have a second class from 10:00 to 12:00. Then, I have an hour-long break to prep my next class, eat some kind of snack (not enough time to go home and make lunch), and get from the school to my next class (a ten minute walk) and through security (ten minute delay at the front desk.) At 2:30, I'm done with that class, and finally have a sizeable enough break (2:45 to 7:00) to come home, cook lunch, maybe shower, mess around online, and prep for my evening class. At 7:00, I head back for the institute where I have class from 7:30 to 9:00; then I come home, exhausted, and watch the news or call my family or do something that isn't school related for about an hour, or until I pass out where I sit.
This might seem like no big deal--after all, it's only six hours of paid work--but it's a lot of short, stupid waiting time and short, stupid travel time that adds up to 13 hours of the day thinking about work, getting to work, or not getting too far away from work.
This schedule has made it difficult to have any kind of normal daily routine. If I eat breakfast before I leave the apartment (that means breakfast at 6:30) to save money, I have to pack and carry two snacks in addition to my books, as I don't have time to eat a real meal until I get home around 3:00. I don't pack snacks because it's too much to carry and I'm not that organized; I ussually wind up buying something small and unsatisfying around noon and something else (frequently with little nutritional value) on my way home to cook lunch, because I don't think I'll be able to wait 45 more minutes while lunch cooks to get some food in me.
Add to this perpetual exhaustion (I'm not a morning person, but I work at 8 five days a week, 9 on Saturdays), and it suddenly makes a lot of sense that I'm not having the time of my life--how could I be, if I hardly have the energy to get out of bed in the morning? How are you supposed to be having the time of your life when you can't even find the strength to go for a two mile jog every couple of days?
The point of this overly drawn out illustration of my daily routine is not to complain. I've put it here as an illustration of how I automatically--and very quickly--fell into habits that were actually totally contradictory to my stated goals when I left home for a new environment.
I thought getting a job at a different institute might solve this problem; I realize now that it won't. My problem has nothing to do with where I'm working or how much money I'm making. My problem has to do with embracing insecurity, with having the guts to say "maybe I could work more hours and make more money, but thanks to the savings I've built up, I don't have to. I am allowed to take my money and do with it as I please. I don't have to stay at any institute working; I'm allowed to go exploring, to see new things, to enjoy my trip here in every way possible. That is my right, and that is my prerogative."
This does not mean I'm quitting my job today; this does mean that I went in this morning and told my boss that I refused to work early mornings and late nights after tonight. This does not mean that I'm immediately buying a ticket to Buenos Aires and leaving tomorrow to go exploring; I'll wait another month, finishing my grad school applications and adding a little more to my savings until Catalina, a friend from home, reaches the end of her contract at her current job and can come down to go with me. And if she never comes, well, I'll go it alone when my visa expires. I have enough money that I won't starve, and protected enough at home that I won't lose it all if I should get robbed. I'm smart and capable enough to board airplanes and buy train tickets, and fascinated enough by my environment that I want to see it all. And I have enough common sense to stay away from places that are really dangerous for a woman traveling alone.
This blog is not a complaint or an observation or a discussion; this is a declaration. I will do what I came here to do. I will enjoy myself. I will stop with the stress and the worrying and the unhealthy lifestyle living, and instead will have a wonderful time seeing, experiencing, and spending, rather than saving. This is an investment in myself, and I am worth it.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
On Language Learning
I have done my fair share of learning languages. I have spent weeks of my life studying subjects and pronouns and indirect object pronouns. I shudder to think of the quantity of trees that died to make it possible for me to have conjugated so many verbs in so many tenses on so many charts during my time in language classrooms.
Studying language has been fundamental to my development as a person. Studying language (not just Spanish, but all the other languages that I've touched on in between, too) has changed the way that I view the world, and the words that I use to describe the world. It has altered my perceptions of big ideas like "culture" and "individualism." I think it's more than fair to say that if I hadn't spent so much of my life studying language, I would not be the same person I am today. If I hadn't spent so much of my life studying language, I'm certain I wouldn't be where I am today, trying to impart the language learning experience to Chilean students. I really, really believe that understanding somebody's native words is a huge part of understanding them, and this, for me, makes language learning more than important; it makes learning a language fundamental to learning about and understanding our fellow human beings.
Perhaps because I spend a large chunk of my time in front of whiteboards, writing definitions and verb schemas over and over again and deciphering my students' facial expressions (is that confusion or boredom?), I've been thinking a lot lately about the process of learning a language, and how different it is from teaching a language.
We all owe a lot to our teachers. Everybody has some teacher (formal or not) from some point in their life who inspired them to work just a little bit harder, or dream just a little bit bigger.
When I remember learning Spanish, there's one teacher I always remember: Señora Jespersen. Mrs. Jespersen did not inspire me. She did not particularly encourage me, either. She was not a coddler, and did not appreciate whining. She was straightforward and strict; I dreaded going to her class, because I knew it would be difficult and exhausting. But I went. Somehow, this little Colombian woman made me feel so incapable and stupid that I fought back by learning.
In retrospect, Sra. Jespersen was never mean. She never told me that I was incapable or stupid; she was actually a very nice lady. But it was her mission to make us learn Spanish and learn it well.
When people ask now where I learned my Spanish, I usually say Chile, because studying abroad here taught me to express myself fluidly, without particular mental strain. But this isnt entirely fair: the teacher who really taught me how to manuever in the language, which tenses should be used when, how to read a paragraph without a dictionary, and where those damn accent marks went, was Sra. Jespersen. Her class laid a foundation that I didn't really build on until I got here in 2007, but which served me extremely well until then, and which continues to serve me well today.
Sra. Jespersen recently had her leg amputated; she had cancer that had sunk into her marrow. So it goes.
I am no Sra. Jespersen. I do not make my students repeat verb conjugations endlessly on pieces of lined and labelled paper, and I certainly don't test their spelling unless the curriculum calls for it. My students will never love me the same way I love Sra Jespersen--with a grudging, grateful admiration--because I don't make their brains hurt the same way she made mine hurt. I wasn't hired to teach the same way she did.
When I stand in front of the whiteboard, repeating iterations of the verbs "to sing" and "to dance," I can't help thinking about her, though. Did the words melt together into nonsense for her like they do for me? After the third person singular, I stop believing that "sing" is actually a word; it starts to look like garbled nonsense script on the board, rather than a series of words. I start to lose track of the parts of speech and their meanings. My own language becomes disjointed and nonsensical.
I don't remember this when I was learning language. I remember conjugating the verb "hablar" in all sixteen forms and being acutely aware that the word I was conjugating meant "to talk". I wasn't just writing disjointed letters, I was writing and learning meaning.
It's just so very, very odd, feeling like you're losing your grip on your own native tongue through the endless, mindless repetition of... your native tongue.
Studying language has been fundamental to my development as a person. Studying language (not just Spanish, but all the other languages that I've touched on in between, too) has changed the way that I view the world, and the words that I use to describe the world. It has altered my perceptions of big ideas like "culture" and "individualism." I think it's more than fair to say that if I hadn't spent so much of my life studying language, I would not be the same person I am today. If I hadn't spent so much of my life studying language, I'm certain I wouldn't be where I am today, trying to impart the language learning experience to Chilean students. I really, really believe that understanding somebody's native words is a huge part of understanding them, and this, for me, makes language learning more than important; it makes learning a language fundamental to learning about and understanding our fellow human beings.
Perhaps because I spend a large chunk of my time in front of whiteboards, writing definitions and verb schemas over and over again and deciphering my students' facial expressions (is that confusion or boredom?), I've been thinking a lot lately about the process of learning a language, and how different it is from teaching a language.
We all owe a lot to our teachers. Everybody has some teacher (formal or not) from some point in their life who inspired them to work just a little bit harder, or dream just a little bit bigger.
When I remember learning Spanish, there's one teacher I always remember: Señora Jespersen. Mrs. Jespersen did not inspire me. She did not particularly encourage me, either. She was not a coddler, and did not appreciate whining. She was straightforward and strict; I dreaded going to her class, because I knew it would be difficult and exhausting. But I went. Somehow, this little Colombian woman made me feel so incapable and stupid that I fought back by learning.
In retrospect, Sra. Jespersen was never mean. She never told me that I was incapable or stupid; she was actually a very nice lady. But it was her mission to make us learn Spanish and learn it well.
When people ask now where I learned my Spanish, I usually say Chile, because studying abroad here taught me to express myself fluidly, without particular mental strain. But this isnt entirely fair: the teacher who really taught me how to manuever in the language, which tenses should be used when, how to read a paragraph without a dictionary, and where those damn accent marks went, was Sra. Jespersen. Her class laid a foundation that I didn't really build on until I got here in 2007, but which served me extremely well until then, and which continues to serve me well today.
Sra. Jespersen recently had her leg amputated; she had cancer that had sunk into her marrow. So it goes.
I am no Sra. Jespersen. I do not make my students repeat verb conjugations endlessly on pieces of lined and labelled paper, and I certainly don't test their spelling unless the curriculum calls for it. My students will never love me the same way I love Sra Jespersen--with a grudging, grateful admiration--because I don't make their brains hurt the same way she made mine hurt. I wasn't hired to teach the same way she did.
When I stand in front of the whiteboard, repeating iterations of the verbs "to sing" and "to dance," I can't help thinking about her, though. Did the words melt together into nonsense for her like they do for me? After the third person singular, I stop believing that "sing" is actually a word; it starts to look like garbled nonsense script on the board, rather than a series of words. I start to lose track of the parts of speech and their meanings. My own language becomes disjointed and nonsensical.
I don't remember this when I was learning language. I remember conjugating the verb "hablar" in all sixteen forms and being acutely aware that the word I was conjugating meant "to talk". I wasn't just writing disjointed letters, I was writing and learning meaning.
It's just so very, very odd, feeling like you're losing your grip on your own native tongue through the endless, mindless repetition of... your native tongue.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Santiago: city of _______
Big cities are loud, smelly, and crowded. All big cities. It doesn't matter if you're European, North American, South African or Chilean; if you come from a capital-c City, you come from a place that emits sizeable quantities of stench and clamor ("flavor" and "life" when you're feeling more poetically inclined) into the atmosphere.
Santiago is, naturally, no exception. Like all big cities, it is seething with people (6.5 million people live in Santiago, proper; its population density is 8463.7 persons/kilometer^2), which means it's also seething with smells (both delicious and disgusting: today, I was walking down the block and caught a whiff of freshly baked empanada so delicious it nearly stopped me in my tracks; a few feet later, I nearly stopped again, this time affronted by the noisome mixture of marijuana and human urine) and sounds (traffic horns blare non-stop; dogs bark at passing breezes; babies cry; car alarms shriek).
Just like people from other big cities, Santiaguinos walk down the streets in the city center guardedly. Women hold their purses firmly, one hand covering the zipper, while men walk with their hands in their pockets. People look down at the ground, or straight ahead; they rarely make eye contact. It's winter, so everybody is dressed for work in their warm formal wear. In the morning, they bury their noses in their scarves, and walk hurriedly down the sidewalk, not paying attention to (or trying to draw attention from) their fellow walkers. Just like any other business people in any other big city in the world.
In a lot of ways, Santiago is like any other big city. Not in every way.
Writing a blog about Santiago's quirks would be somewhat akin to writing a blog about the quirks of humanity, both in terms of the actual project (cities, built by people and populated by people, are a lot like individuals themselves, I think), and in terms of pointlessness. It is impossible to chronicle a city in a blog, just as it would be impossible to encapsulate humankind in a blog (except by way of pithy axioms that say everything by saying nothing at all). So I'm not going to try.
That said, there are some things that I would be remiss in not mentioning, even in passing. They're mostly small things, easily overlooked things, things that take a while to notice. But things that, when you do notice them, make you stop, cock your head like a confused dog, and think to yourself, "...really?"
There's no way that I can talk about all of these things in one blog, so any discussion of them is going to be random and episodic. There might be repeats--after all, I'm going to be here for a while, and some things take time to really see and wrap your head around. But just so anybody reading this knows: more about the quirks is, indeed, forthcoming.
Today's small thing: bureaucracy.
I know that it might seem a little like the pot calling the kettle black, an American criticizing the universal implementation of the most Rube Goldbergian bureaucratic policies in Chile. I know, I know--we're not so great at cutting down on paperwork ourselves. To get things done in the States, you have to call five people, wait on hold for three hours, and fill out half a dozen forms with your Social Security Number, your birthdate, and your mother's maiden name, then cross your fingers and wait a month for "processing." I know.
Here's the difference: our bureaucratic tendencies are, by and large, confined to social services and moneylending. If you want to get insurance or pay off a loan, you can expect to spend several days filling out forms. HOWEVER, we are actually very good at cutting down the amount of time it takes to perform day to day tasks, like withdrawing money from the bank, mailing a letter, or going to the grocery store.
Chileans are not, so much.
Allow me to illustrate. On Monday, I wanted to mail a letter to a friend of mine in the States. There was one small problem: I didn't have an envelope. So, on my way home from work, I stopped by a bookstore (where you buy envelopes here) to buy a box of envelopes. I shoved my way through the crowd of people milling around in circles in the middle of the store and asked a sales clerk where I could find envelopes. He pointed across the store, to a different counter, where I was to go wait for another clerk.
I waded back through the crowd of people to wait at the other counter, where a sales clerk eventually came up to me and asked, "What can I do for you?"
Me: (Motioning moronically with my hands, to signal right away that I'm an idiot) "I'd like to buy some envelopes."
Sales Clerk: (Pulls out some small envelopes from the shelf behind him) "Like this?"
Me: "Sure."
Him: "How many?"
Me: You mean I can't just buy a box? "Uhm... I guess three?"
Him: (Looking at me as though I were insane) "...Three?"
Me: (Uncertain now, and feeling like I must be committing some huge faux pas) "Yes... three."
Him: "...Right."
He proceeded to ring up a receipt for my purchase of three envelopes--sixty pesos, which is something like 8 cents American--and then point me to the cajero (cash register) at the back of the store. I took the receipt (but left the envelopes) and went to wait in line behind a woman who, for some reason, decided to pay with a credit card (never pay with a credit card if you are in a libreria in Chile. It takes forever because the stores really aren't set up to perform credit transactions in a short time frame--this particular transaction took, no exaggeration, ten minutes to complete.)
When it was finally my turn, the old lady at the register took my receipt, and grumpily read out "sesenta pesos." I handed over the necessary cash, and she printed out a new receipt, which she then stapled to the old receipt and a third piece of receipt paper (a proof of purchase, perhaps) before handing me the whole bundle and grunting at the next person in line. I took my new triple receipt back to the sales clerk who sold me the three envelopes, who walked me (with the envelopes) to the front of the store, where there was another man waiting in another booth to check my triple receipt and hand me the envelopes so I could go.
Let's review: it is a four step process to buy envelopes (or anything else, for that matter) from bookstores in Chile.
The economic crisis has only recently begun to make Chilean unemployment levels rise; I'm convinced that this is due, in large part, to the huge number of people who are hired to perform mostly unnecessary tasks. At the supermarket, there is a person whose job is to weigh fruits and vegetables and label their prices; there is an equivalent in the bakery who weighs bread. At the pharmacy, you have to request your aspirin and pregnancy test (as well as your antibiotics) from the pharmacist behind the counter, instead of grabbing it off the shelf. Then you take your receipt to the cajero, before a third party walks your medicine out to the front so you may go.
There are any number of potential explanations for the multi-step process involved in purchasing just about anything. Petty theft and pickpocketing are the two most frequently committed types of crime in Santiago; by keeping all merchandise behind counters with sales clerks standing watch, posting security guards by all the doors, and involving so many verifying steps in the simplest of purchases, stores make it more difficult for would-be criminals to come in, grab something off a shelf, tuck it in a shirtsleeve, and sneak out unnoticed. Also, there's the employment explanation: the more people you have working in extraneous positions, the fewer people are unemployed nationally, and the less discontent you have to fend against. Keeping people employed, even in pointless jobs, keeps people fed and mostly happy and quiets protestors and malcontents.
But enough about the why. Just be aware: if you come to Chile and go to a pharmacy, don't forget to take a number and wait in line to see the pharmacist to buy your aspirin. If you want to mail a letter, expect to run a few loops around the store to get your envelopes. And if you want a job, bring photos of yourself, and photocopies of your diplomas (all of them), any teaching certificates, and any other paperwork you can think of that they might possibly want to see ever, because chances are that they'll want to see it all.
...Bureaucracy.
Santiago is, naturally, no exception. Like all big cities, it is seething with people (6.5 million people live in Santiago, proper; its population density is 8463.7 persons/kilometer^2), which means it's also seething with smells (both delicious and disgusting: today, I was walking down the block and caught a whiff of freshly baked empanada so delicious it nearly stopped me in my tracks; a few feet later, I nearly stopped again, this time affronted by the noisome mixture of marijuana and human urine) and sounds (traffic horns blare non-stop; dogs bark at passing breezes; babies cry; car alarms shriek).
Just like people from other big cities, Santiaguinos walk down the streets in the city center guardedly. Women hold their purses firmly, one hand covering the zipper, while men walk with their hands in their pockets. People look down at the ground, or straight ahead; they rarely make eye contact. It's winter, so everybody is dressed for work in their warm formal wear. In the morning, they bury their noses in their scarves, and walk hurriedly down the sidewalk, not paying attention to (or trying to draw attention from) their fellow walkers. Just like any other business people in any other big city in the world.
In a lot of ways, Santiago is like any other big city. Not in every way.
Writing a blog about Santiago's quirks would be somewhat akin to writing a blog about the quirks of humanity, both in terms of the actual project (cities, built by people and populated by people, are a lot like individuals themselves, I think), and in terms of pointlessness. It is impossible to chronicle a city in a blog, just as it would be impossible to encapsulate humankind in a blog (except by way of pithy axioms that say everything by saying nothing at all). So I'm not going to try.
That said, there are some things that I would be remiss in not mentioning, even in passing. They're mostly small things, easily overlooked things, things that take a while to notice. But things that, when you do notice them, make you stop, cock your head like a confused dog, and think to yourself, "...really?"
There's no way that I can talk about all of these things in one blog, so any discussion of them is going to be random and episodic. There might be repeats--after all, I'm going to be here for a while, and some things take time to really see and wrap your head around. But just so anybody reading this knows: more about the quirks is, indeed, forthcoming.
Today's small thing: bureaucracy.
I know that it might seem a little like the pot calling the kettle black, an American criticizing the universal implementation of the most Rube Goldbergian bureaucratic policies in Chile. I know, I know--we're not so great at cutting down on paperwork ourselves. To get things done in the States, you have to call five people, wait on hold for three hours, and fill out half a dozen forms with your Social Security Number, your birthdate, and your mother's maiden name, then cross your fingers and wait a month for "processing." I know.
Here's the difference: our bureaucratic tendencies are, by and large, confined to social services and moneylending. If you want to get insurance or pay off a loan, you can expect to spend several days filling out forms. HOWEVER, we are actually very good at cutting down the amount of time it takes to perform day to day tasks, like withdrawing money from the bank, mailing a letter, or going to the grocery store.
Chileans are not, so much.
Allow me to illustrate. On Monday, I wanted to mail a letter to a friend of mine in the States. There was one small problem: I didn't have an envelope. So, on my way home from work, I stopped by a bookstore (where you buy envelopes here) to buy a box of envelopes. I shoved my way through the crowd of people milling around in circles in the middle of the store and asked a sales clerk where I could find envelopes. He pointed across the store, to a different counter, where I was to go wait for another clerk.
I waded back through the crowd of people to wait at the other counter, where a sales clerk eventually came up to me and asked, "What can I do for you?"
Me: (Motioning moronically with my hands, to signal right away that I'm an idiot) "I'd like to buy some envelopes."
Sales Clerk: (Pulls out some small envelopes from the shelf behind him) "Like this?"
Me: "Sure."
Him: "How many?"
Me: You mean I can't just buy a box? "Uhm... I guess three?"
Him: (Looking at me as though I were insane) "...Three?"
Me: (Uncertain now, and feeling like I must be committing some huge faux pas) "Yes... three."
Him: "...Right."
He proceeded to ring up a receipt for my purchase of three envelopes--sixty pesos, which is something like 8 cents American--and then point me to the cajero (cash register) at the back of the store. I took the receipt (but left the envelopes) and went to wait in line behind a woman who, for some reason, decided to pay with a credit card (never pay with a credit card if you are in a libreria in Chile. It takes forever because the stores really aren't set up to perform credit transactions in a short time frame--this particular transaction took, no exaggeration, ten minutes to complete.)
When it was finally my turn, the old lady at the register took my receipt, and grumpily read out "sesenta pesos." I handed over the necessary cash, and she printed out a new receipt, which she then stapled to the old receipt and a third piece of receipt paper (a proof of purchase, perhaps) before handing me the whole bundle and grunting at the next person in line. I took my new triple receipt back to the sales clerk who sold me the three envelopes, who walked me (with the envelopes) to the front of the store, where there was another man waiting in another booth to check my triple receipt and hand me the envelopes so I could go.
Let's review: it is a four step process to buy envelopes (or anything else, for that matter) from bookstores in Chile.
The economic crisis has only recently begun to make Chilean unemployment levels rise; I'm convinced that this is due, in large part, to the huge number of people who are hired to perform mostly unnecessary tasks. At the supermarket, there is a person whose job is to weigh fruits and vegetables and label their prices; there is an equivalent in the bakery who weighs bread. At the pharmacy, you have to request your aspirin and pregnancy test (as well as your antibiotics) from the pharmacist behind the counter, instead of grabbing it off the shelf. Then you take your receipt to the cajero, before a third party walks your medicine out to the front so you may go.
There are any number of potential explanations for the multi-step process involved in purchasing just about anything. Petty theft and pickpocketing are the two most frequently committed types of crime in Santiago; by keeping all merchandise behind counters with sales clerks standing watch, posting security guards by all the doors, and involving so many verifying steps in the simplest of purchases, stores make it more difficult for would-be criminals to come in, grab something off a shelf, tuck it in a shirtsleeve, and sneak out unnoticed. Also, there's the employment explanation: the more people you have working in extraneous positions, the fewer people are unemployed nationally, and the less discontent you have to fend against. Keeping people employed, even in pointless jobs, keeps people fed and mostly happy and quiets protestors and malcontents.
But enough about the why. Just be aware: if you come to Chile and go to a pharmacy, don't forget to take a number and wait in line to see the pharmacist to buy your aspirin. If you want to mail a letter, expect to run a few loops around the store to get your envelopes. And if you want a job, bring photos of yourself, and photocopies of your diplomas (all of them), any teaching certificates, and any other paperwork you can think of that they might possibly want to see ever, because chances are that they'll want to see it all.
...Bureaucracy.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Santa Lucia on a Smoggy Day
After work this morning, I had nothing to do. It was a cloudy day, threatening rain, and I really wanted to get out of the house. So, I thought, what better than to go for a walk?
Jus over three miles away from my house is Cerro Santa Lucia, a municipal park on a cerro--hill--whose centerpiece is a flambouyant castle built with steep, slick rock stairs leading up to it. The walk there is loud and urban (Santiago is a metropolis, after all), through Providencia, into Santiago Centro, along streets full of bundled up Santiaguinos, walking briskly from wherever it is they've just left to wherever it is they have to be next.
(This is Santiago: I walked from the rightish side of the middle to the middle of the middle)
Along the way, I passed through the Parque Forestal, a park that stretches for blocks through downtown, and is filled with statues of national heroes and Greek gods, and with couples smooching intensely everywhere. On the benches, in the grass, against trees, on the statues: Santiaguinos are given to public displays of affection, and parks are prime affection-displaying real estate.
I got to the cerro around 4 in the afternoon, and walked around in the greenery at the bottom of the hill for a while, taking it in. Then, I gave the security guard my passport number (you have to if you want to go up to the vista point), and started climbing.
(The last set of stairs to get to the vista point--already most of the way up by now)
(Views of the city from halfway up the cerro. Already impressive.)
Cerro Santa Lucia is a surprisingly quiet place in the middle of a very loud city. From the hill, you can still see the city, the cars, the people walking too quickly. But the cerro is somehow totally separate from all of that, a little haven right in the middle of the ruckus. The path that leads up to the top of the Cerro was lined, of course, with smooching pinguinos (high school students, so called because of their black and white suitlike uniforms), out of school and with nowhere to go but home or the park. It must be terribly romantic to bring your pololo to the cerro to make out after school; I suppose that's why so many couples do it.
[as a sidenote: I recognize that I have no right to judge the pinguinos for making out in all the parks--after all, at home, high schoolers faced with the same dilemma used to trek down to the creek and hide in the bushes there. It's the total lack of shame about it that is different here--at home, when you heard someone coming down the path, you jumped apart as soon as possible, putting at least three feet of space between each other, and pretended that you were just, you know, chilling by the creek in the brush after school totally innocently. No funny business there. No hanky panky. Here, that's totally different--the couples are totally engrossed in one another; groups of friends go out together, and the couples lie around kissing while their single friends talk. This, for me, is totally confusing--have you no shame?!]
Aside from the smooching pinguinos (whose photos I did not take, because it would have been rude and more than a little creepy), there was the gorgeous view from the top. You can see the entire city up there, and the mountains. Even though the day was smoggy, the tops of the mountains peeked through--the smog actually gave the mountains a floating effect, like they were other-worldly, and floating in the clouds above this manmade monster of a city.
I stayed up top for a while, taking in the view and the peace, thinking about how big it all seems (and is) sometimes. Then I climbed down, perspective gained, and made my way back home.
Jus over three miles away from my house is Cerro Santa Lucia, a municipal park on a cerro--hill--whose centerpiece is a flambouyant castle built with steep, slick rock stairs leading up to it. The walk there is loud and urban (Santiago is a metropolis, after all), through Providencia, into Santiago Centro, along streets full of bundled up Santiaguinos, walking briskly from wherever it is they've just left to wherever it is they have to be next.
(This is Santiago: I walked from the rightish side of the middle to the middle of the middle)
Along the way, I passed through the Parque Forestal, a park that stretches for blocks through downtown, and is filled with statues of national heroes and Greek gods, and with couples smooching intensely everywhere. On the benches, in the grass, against trees, on the statues: Santiaguinos are given to public displays of affection, and parks are prime affection-displaying real estate.
I got to the cerro around 4 in the afternoon, and walked around in the greenery at the bottom of the hill for a while, taking it in. Then, I gave the security guard my passport number (you have to if you want to go up to the vista point), and started climbing.
(The last set of stairs to get to the vista point--already most of the way up by now)
(Views of the city from halfway up the cerro. Already impressive.)
Cerro Santa Lucia is a surprisingly quiet place in the middle of a very loud city. From the hill, you can still see the city, the cars, the people walking too quickly. But the cerro is somehow totally separate from all of that, a little haven right in the middle of the ruckus. The path that leads up to the top of the Cerro was lined, of course, with smooching pinguinos (high school students, so called because of their black and white suitlike uniforms), out of school and with nowhere to go but home or the park. It must be terribly romantic to bring your pololo to the cerro to make out after school; I suppose that's why so many couples do it.
[as a sidenote: I recognize that I have no right to judge the pinguinos for making out in all the parks--after all, at home, high schoolers faced with the same dilemma used to trek down to the creek and hide in the bushes there. It's the total lack of shame about it that is different here--at home, when you heard someone coming down the path, you jumped apart as soon as possible, putting at least three feet of space between each other, and pretended that you were just, you know, chilling by the creek in the brush after school totally innocently. No funny business there. No hanky panky. Here, that's totally different--the couples are totally engrossed in one another; groups of friends go out together, and the couples lie around kissing while their single friends talk. This, for me, is totally confusing--have you no shame?!]
Aside from the smooching pinguinos (whose photos I did not take, because it would have been rude and more than a little creepy), there was the gorgeous view from the top. You can see the entire city up there, and the mountains. Even though the day was smoggy, the tops of the mountains peeked through--the smog actually gave the mountains a floating effect, like they were other-worldly, and floating in the clouds above this manmade monster of a city.
I stayed up top for a while, taking in the view and the peace, thinking about how big it all seems (and is) sometimes. Then I climbed down, perspective gained, and made my way back home.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Did I mention I found a job?
I've been in Santiago for some eleven days. I've been doing so much during the days, though, that it feels like I've been here for several weeks. I'll try catch anybody who's reading up to speed now, though, so I can get the lack of updates off my conscience, and start updating tomorrow with a clean slate.
Episode the First: Mollie finds housing.
My initial plan was to come to Santiago and stay with Lucky and Ivan (the tios I lived with for the six months I studied here) for a couple of days while I looked for a job and an apartment, in that order. I thought this would be wise because, living close to work is convenient, and while you never know how long it will take to find a job, you can always be pretty certain that there will be rooms available for rent at the beginning of the month in most central locations.
I scratched that plan when I found out that they had a student living with them. No problem; I figured I would go to a hostel instead. This did not happen. My friend Pedro e-mailed and said that his family had a room that was empty for a few days, and I could stay there if I didn't have any other plans. I jumped at the offer, and a plan was made.
I didn't actually stay with Pedro's family my first night in town because, due to a series of stupid events, I missed Pedro at the airport. Instead, I wound up with Lucky and Ivan, who it turns out had written the night before I left to inform me that their student had decided to move out, and my old room was empty. The next night, I went to Pedro's where I stayed until Thursday, when his sister came back to Santiago from Spain and needed her room back. So it goes.
The good news: While there, I found a place to live. The bad news: I wouldn't be able to move in until the tenth. Which meant finding somewhere else to live for five days. Ivan had caught the flu, so I didn't go back to Lucky's; instead, I went to stay with the family Faundez--my friend's host family back in 2007. Sandra, the mother, has reformed; she gave up Catholicism to follow Christ through the Evangelical Church on Irrarrazaval, and spends almost every night there at prayer meetings. Her house is now the Lord's house. Everything that happens in it is a blessing, praise be to the Lord on high, blessed be his name. Sandra always lit candles in the evening for the saints, but I never once saw her pray before a meal, and I certainly never heard her utter thanks to the Lord on high, blessed be his name. Sandra always listened to the radio in the car and while she cooked, but it was usually cueca (Chilean folk music) or radio romantica, never religious music or sermons from the states, dubbed in Spanish. Sometimes, it's astonishing how much people change in relatively little time.
Of course, the Lord doesn't keep Sandra from charging rent, but $80 for five days of housing and food isn't particularly exorbitant, so I can't complain.
I'm moving out tonight, to Av. Holanda nº 14, Providencia, Santiago, Chile--conveniently located two blocks away from the English Institute where I'm working. It's an older apartment, but it's clean and bright, and the owner is friendly and a good human being. I'll be living with three people; the owner is Chilean, one roommate is Bolivian, and the other is French. I am stoked.
Episode the Second: Mollie finds a job
Sometimes, I wonder about karma. Since I got to Chile, things have mysteriously worked out favorably for me. Is this because I timed my trip well? Is this because I am well qualified and am reaping the benefits of my qualifications? Have I done enough penance in stress that the powers that be have decided to let things go my way easily? Is this the calm before some karmic maelstrom, or is this just dumb luck?
Whatever it is, I'm enjoying it. On the Tuesday after I got to town, I grouped together the addresses of the biggest English institutes in Chile and set out with several copies of my resume to paper the town. They say it's easiest to find work if you go in person to deliver your resume. They also say it will take at least a few weeks, possibly a few months, of walking around and leaving resumes and interviewing to get a job. Which is why I was confused when, on my first day of dropping of resumes, I was asked to come back for an interview the following morning.
Two institutes took my resume; two said they couldn't hire me until I had papers of some kind--either my visa or residency. The fifth institute sent me further downtown, where I found out that they have already filled their annual quota of teachers and wouldn't be able to hire me.
English First (http://www.englishfirst.cl/englishfirst/default.aspx) was my last stop of the day; I went in the afternoon after a cup of coffee, knocked a little timidly on the door and said in my best Castellano that I was looking for a job as an English teacher. Claudio, the Director of Education, pulled up a chair and took my resume.
"You have teaching experience," he said, skimming the page.
"Yes," I answered, "with children and teenagers."
He nodded. "And do you have your TEFL?"
"Yes," I answered, proffered the requested document so he could make a copy.
"Would you like to come in for an interview tomorrow? Around, say, eleven?"
"Absolutely."
That was it. The next day, I came back for an interview; I smiled a lot and tried to explain why a political science major would ever want to teach English. I gave broad, inane answers to broad, inane questions. I incorrectly answered a question about the zero and first conditional (riddle me this: have you ever heard of the first conditional? Until Wednesday, I never had.) I smiled more and said I'd absolutely love to be trained to teach anything they would train me to teach. And then, for some reason or other, I was asked back for a second interview the following day.
The second interview wasn't an interview, it was a teaching demo. My "student" was an upper level beginner, and I was to try to teach him the names of foods, and some grammatical concepts. I made myself sick stressing over the lesson plan; in the end, it was unnecessary. I showed up, I smiled a lot, I let the "student" talk as much as he could, and when the half hour lesson was over, was complimented on my quick spotting and gentle correction of errors, and told to work on my board work. I was immediately offered a job; after the two hours of training that immediately followed my interview, Claudio assigned me classes. "We don't hire people just to have them around when we need them," he warned me during the interview. "We hire you to give you hours." He wasn't kidding; twenty minutes after getting hired, I had a 13 hour week ahead of me.
It's not a ton of hours, but 18 per week is considered full time at the institute, and they're not hesitant to give me more. The only thing that makes me nervous is the lack of actual training--even though I've "been trained," I haven't actually been exposed to the school's teaching method, and nobody has detailed correct use of their teaching materials. But I've taught three classes, and thus far, nobody has made any complaints, so at the very least, I'm not doing anything miserably wrong.
One last note about work and then I'll move on (expect more on this later): In an ironic twist, I'm violating the terms of my tourist visa by working for a salary as a teacher. I'm trying to get my papers arranged (if I get a letter of intent from the institute, it shouldn't be too big a problem), but the irony is ever present. I'm an undocumented immigrant. I'm an illegal worker. If I don't have my visa in 79 days, I have to cross the border in Argentina so that I'm not labelled an overstayer, and do not face the risk of deportation. How funny is that?
Episode the Third: Mollie feels better
When I left the country, I had a few explicit goals: I wanted to get away from the states. I wanted to get away from stress. I wanted to prove to myself that I am capable of doing anything I put my mind to--including packing up and going somewhere new and surviving, maybe even thriving, there. I wanted to take advantage of this time when I am so gloriously free, not tied down by a boyfriend, a mortgage, debt, or even a dog by going away and doing something that was purely for me
I also had a slightly less explicit goal: I wanted to prove to myself that I have it in me to be happy. I have always considered myself a basically happy person, generally pleasant and given to laughter. But I think that a lack of challenge, a lack of direction, and a lack of novelty in the past couple of years, coupled with stress and personal crises, has taken a lot of that basic happiness out of me. I haven't felt like myself, and I haven't liked the new self I've been becoming. I don't want to be unpleasant or given to melancholy; I want to enjoy life. I want to smile. I want to laugh. I don't want to dread things, I want to anticipate them. I don't want to cry over failures, I want to be strong enough to recognize them, learn from them, and move on following them.
I don't know if I'm happy yet, but I do know that being here, facing the frigid morning air by telling myself "yes, Mollie. You can do it. You can do whatever you want." is changing something inside me. The more I tell myself I can, the more I find I can. And the more I find I can, the more I want to try to do. I don't know if I'm really happy yet, but I know that, for now at least, I'm content. And that is worth the price of a million plane tickets to Chile.
Episode the First: Mollie finds housing.
My initial plan was to come to Santiago and stay with Lucky and Ivan (the tios I lived with for the six months I studied here) for a couple of days while I looked for a job and an apartment, in that order. I thought this would be wise because, living close to work is convenient, and while you never know how long it will take to find a job, you can always be pretty certain that there will be rooms available for rent at the beginning of the month in most central locations.
I scratched that plan when I found out that they had a student living with them. No problem; I figured I would go to a hostel instead. This did not happen. My friend Pedro e-mailed and said that his family had a room that was empty for a few days, and I could stay there if I didn't have any other plans. I jumped at the offer, and a plan was made.
I didn't actually stay with Pedro's family my first night in town because, due to a series of stupid events, I missed Pedro at the airport. Instead, I wound up with Lucky and Ivan, who it turns out had written the night before I left to inform me that their student had decided to move out, and my old room was empty. The next night, I went to Pedro's where I stayed until Thursday, when his sister came back to Santiago from Spain and needed her room back. So it goes.
The good news: While there, I found a place to live. The bad news: I wouldn't be able to move in until the tenth. Which meant finding somewhere else to live for five days. Ivan had caught the flu, so I didn't go back to Lucky's; instead, I went to stay with the family Faundez--my friend's host family back in 2007. Sandra, the mother, has reformed; she gave up Catholicism to follow Christ through the Evangelical Church on Irrarrazaval, and spends almost every night there at prayer meetings. Her house is now the Lord's house. Everything that happens in it is a blessing, praise be to the Lord on high, blessed be his name. Sandra always lit candles in the evening for the saints, but I never once saw her pray before a meal, and I certainly never heard her utter thanks to the Lord on high, blessed be his name. Sandra always listened to the radio in the car and while she cooked, but it was usually cueca (Chilean folk music) or radio romantica, never religious music or sermons from the states, dubbed in Spanish. Sometimes, it's astonishing how much people change in relatively little time.
Of course, the Lord doesn't keep Sandra from charging rent, but $80 for five days of housing and food isn't particularly exorbitant, so I can't complain.
I'm moving out tonight, to Av. Holanda nº 14, Providencia, Santiago, Chile--conveniently located two blocks away from the English Institute where I'm working. It's an older apartment, but it's clean and bright, and the owner is friendly and a good human being. I'll be living with three people; the owner is Chilean, one roommate is Bolivian, and the other is French. I am stoked.
Episode the Second: Mollie finds a job
Sometimes, I wonder about karma. Since I got to Chile, things have mysteriously worked out favorably for me. Is this because I timed my trip well? Is this because I am well qualified and am reaping the benefits of my qualifications? Have I done enough penance in stress that the powers that be have decided to let things go my way easily? Is this the calm before some karmic maelstrom, or is this just dumb luck?
Whatever it is, I'm enjoying it. On the Tuesday after I got to town, I grouped together the addresses of the biggest English institutes in Chile and set out with several copies of my resume to paper the town. They say it's easiest to find work if you go in person to deliver your resume. They also say it will take at least a few weeks, possibly a few months, of walking around and leaving resumes and interviewing to get a job. Which is why I was confused when, on my first day of dropping of resumes, I was asked to come back for an interview the following morning.
Two institutes took my resume; two said they couldn't hire me until I had papers of some kind--either my visa or residency. The fifth institute sent me further downtown, where I found out that they have already filled their annual quota of teachers and wouldn't be able to hire me.
English First (http://www.englishfirst.cl/englishfirst/default.aspx) was my last stop of the day; I went in the afternoon after a cup of coffee, knocked a little timidly on the door and said in my best Castellano that I was looking for a job as an English teacher. Claudio, the Director of Education, pulled up a chair and took my resume.
"You have teaching experience," he said, skimming the page.
"Yes," I answered, "with children and teenagers."
He nodded. "And do you have your TEFL?"
"Yes," I answered, proffered the requested document so he could make a copy.
"Would you like to come in for an interview tomorrow? Around, say, eleven?"
"Absolutely."
That was it. The next day, I came back for an interview; I smiled a lot and tried to explain why a political science major would ever want to teach English. I gave broad, inane answers to broad, inane questions. I incorrectly answered a question about the zero and first conditional (riddle me this: have you ever heard of the first conditional? Until Wednesday, I never had.) I smiled more and said I'd absolutely love to be trained to teach anything they would train me to teach. And then, for some reason or other, I was asked back for a second interview the following day.
The second interview wasn't an interview, it was a teaching demo. My "student" was an upper level beginner, and I was to try to teach him the names of foods, and some grammatical concepts. I made myself sick stressing over the lesson plan; in the end, it was unnecessary. I showed up, I smiled a lot, I let the "student" talk as much as he could, and when the half hour lesson was over, was complimented on my quick spotting and gentle correction of errors, and told to work on my board work. I was immediately offered a job; after the two hours of training that immediately followed my interview, Claudio assigned me classes. "We don't hire people just to have them around when we need them," he warned me during the interview. "We hire you to give you hours." He wasn't kidding; twenty minutes after getting hired, I had a 13 hour week ahead of me.
It's not a ton of hours, but 18 per week is considered full time at the institute, and they're not hesitant to give me more. The only thing that makes me nervous is the lack of actual training--even though I've "been trained," I haven't actually been exposed to the school's teaching method, and nobody has detailed correct use of their teaching materials. But I've taught three classes, and thus far, nobody has made any complaints, so at the very least, I'm not doing anything miserably wrong.
One last note about work and then I'll move on (expect more on this later): In an ironic twist, I'm violating the terms of my tourist visa by working for a salary as a teacher. I'm trying to get my papers arranged (if I get a letter of intent from the institute, it shouldn't be too big a problem), but the irony is ever present. I'm an undocumented immigrant. I'm an illegal worker. If I don't have my visa in 79 days, I have to cross the border in Argentina so that I'm not labelled an overstayer, and do not face the risk of deportation. How funny is that?
Episode the Third: Mollie feels better
When I left the country, I had a few explicit goals: I wanted to get away from the states. I wanted to get away from stress. I wanted to prove to myself that I am capable of doing anything I put my mind to--including packing up and going somewhere new and surviving, maybe even thriving, there. I wanted to take advantage of this time when I am so gloriously free, not tied down by a boyfriend, a mortgage, debt, or even a dog by going away and doing something that was purely for me
I also had a slightly less explicit goal: I wanted to prove to myself that I have it in me to be happy. I have always considered myself a basically happy person, generally pleasant and given to laughter. But I think that a lack of challenge, a lack of direction, and a lack of novelty in the past couple of years, coupled with stress and personal crises, has taken a lot of that basic happiness out of me. I haven't felt like myself, and I haven't liked the new self I've been becoming. I don't want to be unpleasant or given to melancholy; I want to enjoy life. I want to smile. I want to laugh. I don't want to dread things, I want to anticipate them. I don't want to cry over failures, I want to be strong enough to recognize them, learn from them, and move on following them.
I don't know if I'm happy yet, but I do know that being here, facing the frigid morning air by telling myself "yes, Mollie. You can do it. You can do whatever you want." is changing something inside me. The more I tell myself I can, the more I find I can. And the more I find I can, the more I want to try to do. I don't know if I'm really happy yet, but I know that, for now at least, I'm content. And that is worth the price of a million plane tickets to Chile.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A California Girl's Guide to Surviving the Chilean Winter
Cold is relative. In San Diego, 55 degrees is freezing. We put on sweatshirts and pull up the hoods, shove our feet into socks and close-toed shoes, hunch up our shoulders, and walk quickly with our faces down to avoid any passing cool breeze.
Santiago winter is not the coldest weather I've survived in my life. The nearby mountains might be capped with snow, but that doesn't mean that we actually get snow in the city--as a matter of fact, Santiago hardly even sees rainfall during the winter. That doesn't mean it doesn't get cold: nights run between 2 and 4 degrees celsius (that's a high of 39 degrees, for our slow calculators), while daytime temperatures have been between 14 and 22 degrees celsius (between 57 and 72 degrees fahrenheit). Sometimes, daytime is actually quite pleasant; with long sleeves, a coat, an undershirt, and a scarf (and leggings under your pants just in case you should be out after dark), even California girls can find themselves comfortable--perhaps warm--during the day in the Santiaguino winter.
Nighttime, of course, is a different story. 2 degrees celsius is no laughing matter, especially in an apartment that is poorly insulated and does not have central heating. That is why I have compiled a list of things that should help other girls like me, California girls, survive the Chilean winter.
First, your bed must be appropriately equipped: You will need several wool blankets (2 shown), a comforter (1 shown), and sheets (1 set shown). You will also need a hot water bottle, called a "guatero" in Chile (this is exactly what it sounds like, girls: you fill a silicone bottle with almost boiling water, and cuddle it as though your life depended on it, because honestly, it's so cold that it just might.)
Next, you must have the proper heating equipment. There is generally not heating inside of Chilean homes; instead, Chileans use seemingly old fashioned gas-fueled space heaters, "estufas," to keep themselves warm. Don't worry, if you follow the instructions on the label and don't leave the estufa running while you sleep or in poorly ventilated areas, you won't suffocate.
Finally, of course, is your actual clothing. In San Diego, maybe you sleep top naked in the winter. Maybe you sleep all the way naked in the winter, if your blankets are heavy. Your nakedness in Californian winter is none of my business; however, your nakedness in the Santiago winter would be tantamount to wishing brutal death for yourself, which would, indeed, concern me.
Dress for bed can be simplified into several fundamental pieces of clothing: Booties (worn over socks, not over bare feet), long underwear (not pictured, worn beneath full pajamas), gloves (the thicker the better), a pañuelo (neckerchief, a scarf for bedtime), and a hat (preferably crocheted with thick wool.)
Follow these tips, California girls, and you just might survive the Chilean winter. Make sure you sleep with your nose under the covers so you don't breathe in the chill night air, and, if you can, try to get a pololo (Chilean boyfriend) as a bed partner--rumor has it they're warmer than any guatero.
Santiago winter is not the coldest weather I've survived in my life. The nearby mountains might be capped with snow, but that doesn't mean that we actually get snow in the city--as a matter of fact, Santiago hardly even sees rainfall during the winter. That doesn't mean it doesn't get cold: nights run between 2 and 4 degrees celsius (that's a high of 39 degrees, for our slow calculators), while daytime temperatures have been between 14 and 22 degrees celsius (between 57 and 72 degrees fahrenheit). Sometimes, daytime is actually quite pleasant; with long sleeves, a coat, an undershirt, and a scarf (and leggings under your pants just in case you should be out after dark), even California girls can find themselves comfortable--perhaps warm--during the day in the Santiaguino winter.
Nighttime, of course, is a different story. 2 degrees celsius is no laughing matter, especially in an apartment that is poorly insulated and does not have central heating. That is why I have compiled a list of things that should help other girls like me, California girls, survive the Chilean winter.
First, your bed must be appropriately equipped: You will need several wool blankets (2 shown), a comforter (1 shown), and sheets (1 set shown). You will also need a hot water bottle, called a "guatero" in Chile (this is exactly what it sounds like, girls: you fill a silicone bottle with almost boiling water, and cuddle it as though your life depended on it, because honestly, it's so cold that it just might.)
Next, you must have the proper heating equipment. There is generally not heating inside of Chilean homes; instead, Chileans use seemingly old fashioned gas-fueled space heaters, "estufas," to keep themselves warm. Don't worry, if you follow the instructions on the label and don't leave the estufa running while you sleep or in poorly ventilated areas, you won't suffocate.
Finally, of course, is your actual clothing. In San Diego, maybe you sleep top naked in the winter. Maybe you sleep all the way naked in the winter, if your blankets are heavy. Your nakedness in Californian winter is none of my business; however, your nakedness in the Santiago winter would be tantamount to wishing brutal death for yourself, which would, indeed, concern me.
Dress for bed can be simplified into several fundamental pieces of clothing: Booties (worn over socks, not over bare feet), long underwear (not pictured, worn beneath full pajamas), gloves (the thicker the better), a pañuelo (neckerchief, a scarf for bedtime), and a hat (preferably crocheted with thick wool.)
Follow these tips, California girls, and you just might survive the Chilean winter. Make sure you sleep with your nose under the covers so you don't breathe in the chill night air, and, if you can, try to get a pololo (Chilean boyfriend) as a bed partner--rumor has it they're warmer than any guatero.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
some nothings in chunks
Today, I arrived in Santiago, Chile.
I woke up just as morning began to break, and looked out of the airplane window to watch the sun rise. The land started to glow red; slowly, a horizontal rainbow grew out of the horizon. The mountains glowed red, the sky glowed green and purple and molten, glowing orange. The rainbow started to stretch itself, arcing upwards in the middle, turning newer, more vibrant colors. The rainbow inverted itself: green was now followed by white, which was followed by purple, which was followed by cerulean. And then, I saw Homer's rosey fingered dawn stretch her arms out over the world and watched the world glow egg yolk yellow as the sun peeked its way through the clouds to illuminate the snow covered mountains.
We arrived two hours late due to some nebulously defined “mechanical issues” and I spent less time than expected dealing with the rigmarole of customs. And then, more time than anticipated dealing with the rigmarole of finding my ride, getting phone numbers, calling my mother, and making my way to my old apartment via taxi instead of Pedro's via his car. But in the end, all was well: I arrived, I hopped in the cab, and before I knew it, was in a place that almost hadn't changed since I'd left, my old room.
Flying in across the mountains, crusted with old snow that I somehow convinced myself was sand, I didn't quite realize where I was. When we exited the plane, we were greeted with the familiar smell of winter in Santiago: cold, with the distinctive overtone of largely ineffectual but quite smelly gas estufas, a smell that I recognized immediately as one tied to “novelty” and “adventure” (and sub-zero temperatures). Standing at a public pay phone, typing in the twenty digits required to call home with my calling card was so familiar a task that it was performed subconsciously, via muscle memory. But it wasn't until I was in the taxi cab, listening to the driver chatting away and watching the low-built shops, painted brightly but now peeling, pass by out the windows that I really realized where I was. I was right where I wanted to be: in this marvelous city where you're never far from a world class view of the Andes:
I woke up just as morning began to break, and looked out of the airplane window to watch the sun rise. The land started to glow red; slowly, a horizontal rainbow grew out of the horizon. The mountains glowed red, the sky glowed green and purple and molten, glowing orange. The rainbow started to stretch itself, arcing upwards in the middle, turning newer, more vibrant colors. The rainbow inverted itself: green was now followed by white, which was followed by purple, which was followed by cerulean. And then, I saw Homer's rosey fingered dawn stretch her arms out over the world and watched the world glow egg yolk yellow as the sun peeked its way through the clouds to illuminate the snow covered mountains.
We arrived two hours late due to some nebulously defined “mechanical issues” and I spent less time than expected dealing with the rigmarole of customs. And then, more time than anticipated dealing with the rigmarole of finding my ride, getting phone numbers, calling my mother, and making my way to my old apartment via taxi instead of Pedro's via his car. But in the end, all was well: I arrived, I hopped in the cab, and before I knew it, was in a place that almost hadn't changed since I'd left, my old room.
Flying in across the mountains, crusted with old snow that I somehow convinced myself was sand, I didn't quite realize where I was. When we exited the plane, we were greeted with the familiar smell of winter in Santiago: cold, with the distinctive overtone of largely ineffectual but quite smelly gas estufas, a smell that I recognized immediately as one tied to “novelty” and “adventure” (and sub-zero temperatures). Standing at a public pay phone, typing in the twenty digits required to call home with my calling card was so familiar a task that it was performed subconsciously, via muscle memory. But it wasn't until I was in the taxi cab, listening to the driver chatting away and watching the low-built shops, painted brightly but now peeling, pass by out the windows that I really realized where I was. I was right where I wanted to be: in this marvelous city where you're never far from a world class view of the Andes:
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Pa' Mexico!
The day's finally here! I've got my passport, my camera, my e-ticket, my health insurance waiver, three regulation MMFRP T-shirts (photos forthcoming) and a suitcase full of blank surveys.
I'm terribly nervous. I'm also terribly excited. I also have to go so I don't miss my ride!
--Mollie
I'm terribly nervous. I'm also terribly excited. I also have to go so I don't miss my ride!
--Mollie
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