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.