Volaré. OoohOoh.

I've done the goodbye rounds. Didn't get plastered by an earthquake. Bought more books than I know how to carry. Brought more luggage than I'm allowed to carry. Woke up late and considered going back to bed...but I had a fuzzy idea in the back of my head that there was something important I had to do today. Lugged my luggage to the door--first step--to the elevator--in the elevator--out the elevator--to the portería--to the sidewalk--to the cab. I'm getting strong. And here I am in the airport, savoring precious friendships that I can't really bear to surrender to Good Memories quite yet, carrying the Chilean essence that managed to seep inside my veins, and absolutely giddy for change.

So this is it.

Woke up to the gentle swaying of the apartment building today. And after questioning whether it was an earthquake or if my heart was beating abnormally fast, the gentle swaying of the apartment building rocked me back to sleep. It's hard to stay sleeping for long, however, when the sun is already up and anxious to get things started at 6:36 in the morning. The days are long in Chile in December.

As long as they are (25 hours, in the southern-most parts of the country), I catch the sand in my hourglass streaming faster and faster every day. According to my records, I have exactly 72 hours to:

-avoid being plastered by earthquakes
-say goodbye to dear friends, dog friends, friendly acquaintances, and nod once more at the familiar faces that faithfully guard doorways and observe activities in the barrio
-learn Spanish
-convince people to pay me, now
-take one last promenade through the book shops
-confirm an elusive airline reservation
-hail a taxi to the airport

It's the press of time that makes my heart beat faster and faster and makes the apartment rattle its bones. And what happens when the sand runs out? If all goes as planned, I turn it over in English and it all starts again, north of here, where the days are shorter but the sand runs more slowly.

Paseando

[Sea Lions
Biting Animals
Keep Your Distance]

TRIVIA: Who can remember the names of both the continents on Earth?

Look! Here I am on a bike ride through Chiloé!
My what big pebbles. Oh MY what big hills!

About 15 km into the gravel, and 35 km from home ... Uh ... oh ...


Sometimes when your plan goes all wonky and your muscles start cramping and you run out of water and you have the sudden urge to sit down and cry--if you keep telling yourself that it'll work out alright because it always works out alright, and if you refuse to sit down and cry because you still have a 2.5 km race against the bus to the bus stop--sometimes you can just barely catch the last bus back to town just in time, and it all works out alright.

2.

1. I do not understand the logic behind hitting a child or an animal and saying, ¨TRANQUILO!!¨ (i.e. Settle down! Calm down! Hold still! Shhhhh!) ... If one day you and I are together and I get a bit anxious or unsettled, I'll let you know in advance that your hitting me and saying, ¨TRANQUILA!¨won't pacify me.

2. I hate travelling. Mira. I don't hate travelling. I hate being a tourist. The travelling that entails extended months and years in a place--I like that. But being a tourist is about the most boring thing I can put my mind to.
I thought I would be taking advantage of being in Chile if I took a couple weeks to travel. So on Tuesday I headed down to the island of Chiloé. Everybody goes on about Chiloé--the magic of Chiloé! It's beautiful. It's haunting. It's the Puget Sound.
It's a terrible way to think about things, but ... Punta Arenas, Alaska. San Pedro de Atacama, Mojave Desert. The central region, Napa Valley. The Chilean coast, the California coast. My Appreciation of The New has been spoiled by fresh snow in the Sierra Nevadas and sleeping under brilliant stars in Death Valley, by burning my feet on the Great Sand Dunes. I've been ruined by peering over the cliffs of the Grand Canyon and nestling into the porch to watch the afternoon thunderstorms rip across the plains of the San Luis Valley. If I had never touched the ice at Mendenhall Glacier or explored the Puget Sound, maybe I would be enchanted.
Instead I'm bored. Bored and lonely. Yesterday I left my friend Brittany in Chiloé while I continued on to Valdivia--a small town with a lot of German influence. I arrived, bored, in the afternoon after 6 hours of a day-wasting bus ride. Needing to escape my stuffy and overpriced hostal room without windows, I went walking and began ruminating my situation. Do I call it a day and head back to Santiago? When I walk around Santiago, I run into people I know. When I go out in Santiago, I know where I'm going. When I'm in Santiago, I'm not lost. And I'm not a tourist.
With those thoughts weighing my gaze down to the ground, I suddenly noticed a man behaving very strangely--sort of jumping around like a monkey in front of me. And then I realized that he was a poet friend of mine from Santiago, attending a literary conference in Valdivia this weekend. We stopped and talked for a while and then he went his way and I went the other. But it was enough to convince me that travelling alone doesn't have to be lonely if I don't want it to be.

And that's where I have to stop and get out of this underground internet café because there's life out there but not in here. Chau.

¡La locura de todo!

It's ending. But what's ending? I'm just moving. Moving on now to the next. Next Friends, Next Job, Next Adventures, Next Good Books, Next Cafés, Next Home.

My skin and everything inside it is absorbing the expressions, the antics, the inexplicabilities of all the people and places that I love in Santiago. I've even taken to taking pictures with friends, fearing that they'll be forgotten too soon.


Tomorrow, if I can pull myself away, I leave for Chiloé. The temptation to stay and soak up the locura all around me is strong. But a week and a half of rest from the city should do me some sort of good. Right? It'll be a trial Leaving.

let's get ethical

Look, you can't just bring a broken bird home and hand him over to a cat who's never learned to play nice with the other kids on the playground. Differences are sometimes hard to understand, and this one time, I can excuse a certain amount of ignorance (feline ignorance being easy to dismiss). But most adults should know this one: Bring a bird home only when 1) You intentionally plan to captivate it and take care of it forever; 2) You can take it to a zoo today; 3) You're going to eat it.


Next time I sign up for roommates, we're going over the No Birds Overnight rule first thing.

This is Coming Clean.

I have a habit of falling in love with mangy street dogs in the early morning hours. I’m fond of dingy bars where you have to make an effort to get a server’s attention. I prefer public over private transportation. I’ve had a falling out with big cups of coffee and fallen in with inexcessively small ones. I like small living spaces. I underpack when I travel. I buy grilled and deep fried food stuffs off dirty carts on the street. And I like it. I don’t respect your time; I’m sorry; it’s not personal. I don’t think “15 minutes” was ever meant to be taken literally. I look forward to disagreeing with people. I read several books at once—which could mean that I’m very intelligent, or that I’m very unwilling to commit. I don’t make commitments. (That may help you divine an answer to the previous conundrum.) I make friends anywhere but at work. And I stay up late on school nights. Dangerous. But now I've come clean. Now you know. And if I turn around and flee things like over-sized cups of coffee and quiet city streets, I hope you'll understand.

*

"I'm not going to be an Englich teacher much longer if I start talking like that."

An interesting note (I think it's interesting, anyway--does that even need to be said? Obvious I'm the one who finds it interesting if I say "An interesting note"....right? Enough redundancies.) An interesting note. On Chilean English. It's Englich. Do you speak Englich?

Shhhhhhh.

It's English.

Yes, Englich.

I'm teaching English in Shile.


It's CHile.

Yes, in SHile.

It's flaite to pronounce any word with "shh" in Chilean Spanish. Which means, it's bad. The poor people use "Shhh" in their speech. Outside of the dregs of society, DON'T SAY SH. It's CH CH CH CH CHile.

And so, it's also EngliCH CH CH CH.

Interesting? I thought so.

pretend i had an internet connection and posted this last thursday

I woke up this morning wondering if it was actually raining – it isn’t. But the weight in the clouds and the chill in the wind are deceiving. A nice treat from the powers that be on this fourth Thursday in November.

It’s still not the same.

The same as what?

(Forgive the externalization of what should be an internal monologue.

Please.)

Thanksgiving is never the same. Was never the same. Always is never the same. So what’s not the same? It is the same. It’s as the same as it always never has been.

What’s different this year—different from any other fourth Thursday of November that I’ve experienced—is that it’s not a holiday. No one is thankful. For nothing. No one is thankful for nothing. Dear god. I’m not going to be teaching Englich* much longer if I start talking like that.

I worked this morning[when I should have been sleeping because it’s a holiday where I’m a citizen]. But I should clarify, because these things are relative. When I say “I worked,” I mean I got up and, half asleep, found my way to the army’s headquarters where I have class. I arrived about 10 minutes late, because the students are prohibited (by their better judgement) from showing up less than 15 minutes late. So I settled in, made myself a coffee, and broke open my latest lost cause, La Insoportable Levedad de Ser. I don’t mind it. At about half past, my squarest student scuttled in, set himself down in the chair next to me, issued his greetings, collected a practice test to do for homework, and left.

Excuse me please. I was reading.

At about 8:45, Cristian. Long time no see!! Where have you been? What have you been up to? Care for some coffee?

And we so it went—and so it always goes, just not usually on the fourth Thursday in November.

And later, I think I’ll re-mend a bed that breaks quite often. And stroke a feisty cat that sometimes draws my affection, and sometimes draws my blood. Then I’ll try cook something that won’t turn out the way it would if Dad were making it. And then I’ll go bed with “same as it always isn’t” memories of Thanksgiving 2008.

Medical Update:

My throat is sore and it makes me want to die every time I swallow. Maybe, if I can avoid eating food for long enough, things will all go to plan.

If I never see you again, I love you! Thank you for being so great.

I spent the weekend in Mendoza, Argentina.

I love Argentina. Argentina has been a viable option, and will probably return to be a very viable option one day in the future, after I get some things sorted out.

I went to Mendoza with a friend and we did nothing, and that was lovely. We walked [a lot] from plaza to plaza, and back through the same plazas again and again. We tried to see a classical music concert, and spent half an hour talking to a sweet and semi-crazy old lady in line, only to hear that the pianist was ill in the hospital. We thought about searching out the thermal baths that are in the mountains close by, but in 90 degree heat, that starts sounding less appealing. And so we walked. I bought some apricots, and when the man didn't have change, I got LOTS of apricots. We ate apricots. And drank coffee and ate ice cream and sat on the steps of beatiful buildings. We made street-dog friends on every block. Took some photos, read some articles, laid in some parks and got bug-bitten, oh well.

Argentina is a peach.

Time is running out!

We all know that Sara doesn't like "time" and schedules and all that business about being "on-time" places. Time is just a medium we're in and there's nothing you can do about it. ... I have never felt the press of time more than right now. There are a million and seven things I want to do, people I want to spend time with, hours I want to spend sleeping ... and there isn't enough time to do it all. I find myself choosing between sleep and seeing friends. And the choice is clear, to me. And every week I'm finding myself feeling more and more tired.
Saying good bye is wearing me out.

Mowgli goes to the coast...

I have to say

I'm glad I don't get excited about things like the terrace that the posh café down the block is building. I have nothing against terraces. I don't have much against posh cafés, either. It's just that you have to be really comfortable in a place to get excited about something like that. It seems that, after a while, any change in scenery calls your attention in disproportionate ways.

Calls your attention? ... Can I say that in English?

I get abnormally excited about things in disproportionate ways, too. For example, I made friends with a street dog the other night. She was nice. Hungry. A little timid. But nice. I got pretty excited about her. But when a puppy (One of hers? I think so. It seemed so at the time.) came wriggling through a gate and bumbled around the sidewalk in that puppy "I'm so lost and happy" sort of way -- Oh, I lost it. I lost it without warning, without excuse, without recovery. (You see--I'm still thinking about it. I'm still wishing I had brought him home with me.) He would have fit in my purse, but I had enough sense to suffice myself with picking him up and pretending he were mine for just a minute. I get excited about things like that.

But terraces? And concrete slabs of to-be-malls? ... Chucha. Me aburre pensar que podría pasar a mi algun día.

For the Image-Deprived: El Canelo

Oye. Quiero compartir contigo muchas experiencias. Pero me cuesta poner en frases comprensibles mis pensamientos, mis ideas, mis observaciones sobre Stgo, sobre el fuerte olor de orina que pica las calles, sobre la carnicería grotesca de polillas debajo cada farol que encuentro al caminar por Parque Bustamante en la mañana, sobre la sangre Chilena. Sabes? Pero -- te cuento esto:

I was in class this evening, and my funny bone was tickled. But not just tickled: Sprained. And when a tickle becomes an injury, there's no apologizing. Which is trouble.

The class, honestly, was boring me to tears. We're talking phrasal verbs and car vocabulary. Wow. And I was just starting to get annoyed with the bird twirpedly chirping away outside. "He's awfully loud," I though to myself. "He's awfully loud." But I maintained my concentration... tailgate, rear end, fender bender, yield, pick up, drop off, buckle up ... And just then, here comes his sing-song voice, in full stereo, belligerently interjecting his Ode to Spring into the classroom.

"HE'S AWFULLY LOUD,"

I thought, loudly, back. I couldn't help but glare at the window-- not out the window, but at the window morbidly covered in half-broken blinds that are only half-broken enough to be ugly, yet still functional enough to continue blocking out the glory of daylight. Irritated by defeat, fueled by paranoia, I glowered at those ugly blinds, half full of annoyance--at ugly blinds, at little birds, at boring books, at phrasal verbs--and half empty of the beautiful sunshine our little friend was so vocally enjoying. When I absently tried to bring my attention back to the class, and they all started laughing, I realized -- That little bastard. He did that on purpose! He's just rubbing it in! And I wasn't the only one who noticed! ... That's not nice. At the very least, my classmates joined me in the oddity of the moment. But it tickled my funny bone in a way that was irreparable. Which is trouble.

Later, everything was funny:

Focus. This is the seventh time I've heard it in a week. No-- it's FO-CUS. Do not say "Fuk-use" or I'll take offense.

"Jump out" isn't a phrasal verb. ... Wait. Yes. Yes it is, because you can jump out of a cake, or a closet. But this is weird for visual learners.

What does "get off" mean? ... Emmmmmmmm. ... Opposite of get on.

And then, on a "How Good of a Driver Are You" quiz, I definitely scored the lowest. And when they asked if it was easy to get a driver's license in the U.S. (obviously, it must be), all I could think about was how I smacked the tester when I put the car in reverse. It was an accident.

Me complicas, pájarito. Me complicas. That was difficult.

the most miraculous miracle of all

Something I hope not soon to forget:

Me-- Do you know what a 'caterpillar' is?
Student-- Yeah.
Me-- What does a caterpillar turn into?
Student-- ......a cat?
Me-- No.

A lesson learned

I don't mind working until nine or ten at night. Doesn't bother me. But 8am--or 5, 6, or 7am, for that matter--I complain about. And having to work at 8am every morning hasn't gone well for me.

Generally too discombobulated upon waking to manufacture--or give a rip about manufacturing--new outfits, I arrive to class bathing in the smoke of last night's outing, with the wrong class materials, toothpaste inexcusably far down my blouse, shirt buttons incorrectly matched, and sweating from the hustle from apartment to metro to institute--convinced that the 'warning' I received about tardiness to class wasn't a joke. Time ... is something that kills me.

What I'm saying is: I don't work well with 8am.


But my Mon-Wed-Fri 8am class ended today! Hallelujah and good f,ing riddance, my friends. This class has been brutal.


And now I'm free free free . until I start my new class on Monday at 7:30am. ...

Intelligence Tes:

Which one don't belong?

The waterfront. Discovery Park. The Ballard Locks. Ivar's. UW. Capitol Hill. Vegans. Essential Baking Co. The park below the park below Kerry park. Transantiago. B&O Espresso. Easy Street Records. Compline. Recycling. Cycling. Mount Rainier. Chianti. Those Damn Liberals. Snoqualmie. Alkai. Golden Gardens. Joe Bar. Lenin. Roxy's Deli. International District. Bubble Tea. The Elesyian. Market St. The Montlake Cut. The arboretum. Barnes and Noble. Elliot Bay Books. Pies & Pints. Sip & Ship (<3<3<3). Lake Washington. The Stranger. Aurora. SAM. SBOC. Hundreds and hundreds and HUNdreds of parks. Ferries. Tolerance. Men. Plans. A canal. Man-made water basins. Crooked teeth.

Wherein we find that the interior decorating card isn't in my hand

Welcome to my room. Make yourself at home. ... I still haven't.

The spring has never been more necessary

Un retrato de la Plaza de Armas

They may not be as quaint as the original plazas dotting every city in Spain, but Chile does what it can to ensure every town is equipped with a Plaza de Armas (as well as an Avenida Alameda, and a Bernardo O'Higgins, and an Independencia, and a San Martín, and an Estado...o sea, all the streets have the same names, laid out in different patterns in each city...or lain out? I never know.).

In any case, I wish I could take you on a walk through Plaza de Armas on a weekday afternoon. Everytime I walk through the plaza, I can't help but laugh to myself (and sometimes, embarrassingly, out loud) at all the silly antics of the plaza patrons. And, if you were with me, I'm certain we would make our way blindly through the caricatures and amateur paintings of every picture-postcard scene that exists in Chile until that strange stone sculpture caught our eyes with its stature so disproportionate--as if it were trying to look more important than it actually is, than is actually ever was. Who made that decision, anyway? But there's no reason to dwell on any one pecularity for too long.

A mime draws a crowd of families and lunch hour passers-by.
There are ponies that look awfully similar to brooms with bits of wig on them.
There are llamas wearing miniature hats--which I still think is criminal. Llamas were never meant to wear hats.
And the local pigeon brigade flocks in for a feeding frenzy sponsored by a heartful niña--sending a plaza dog cowardly into refuge beneath the nearest park bench, where he peers out apprehensively between the feet of a bench-sitter, perhaps considering how to send the pigeons exploding off into the overcast afternoon but, perhaps, too overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the little bastards--I know I am.
A man standing by a tree with a large amp splays irreverant decibels into the overcrowded air--an incomprehensible geyser of good intentions, but pitifully little creativity.
Ice cream. Mote con huesillo (stranger, to me, than the mysterious "red bean drink" that you might find in an East Asian restaurant)--it's a summer drink with peach nectar, a dehydrated peach (pit intact), and wheat berries in the bottom. Cotton candy. Roasted nuts that, anyone will proudly boast, are sold in New York by the now-famous Chilean who launched the company, Nuts4Nuts. The whole plaza smells like fair grounds.
And at twenty collapsable card tables men play chess as the church clock absently chimes the hours away.

The Plaza was a good idea.

I felt old for the first time the other day when I asked a student what he would do if he won a million dollars, and he said he'd use "those check things" to share his money with family.

Those check things? "Those check things"?! And just like that...I'm old.

An observation that I'd like to elaborate on, must elaborate on, cannot say without elaborating on, but have no time to elaborate on:

One night last weekend a Chilean friend took me to this very famous-for-being-traditional restaurant called La Piojera (which, I learned this morning means--a place where lice abound). This place is a mock 'fonda'--which is the traditional party places that spring up all over Chile during the week of the Dieciocho (the 18th of September-- Independence Day).
... Bueno. So I went to La Piojera because I missed the entire week of Dieciocho celebrations when I fled across the border to Argentina. And, obviously, I can't not experience the Fonda. It's Chile. It's what Chile was born to be.
And, in that case, Chile was maybe born drunk. I've never seen so many extremely drunk people in one place. Bakan.

And here's the bit I should not just leave off on, but I'm going to. My friend/cultural tour guide explained to me: Latin America was colonized by thieves and drunkards. And now you understand the cultural situations Latin America finds itself in.

... Así es.

A Word About Ambition

I have two long-term goals in my life, no three: 1) To be a teacher. (And I don’t mean an unqualified teacher of my-boss-is-making-me-learn English as a second language in some hoity toity South American metropolis. — In the end, this may not have been the most shining of experiences [but certainly not the dullest, either, Jena Past], but I’d like to think that it will have contributed some sort of hash mark that will probably look much more significant, in a nonchalant sort of way, only after several other hash marks have been had.) Oh Christ. What a desultory line-up of perfect tenses—ESL text books are doing a number on my syntax. Number Two. 2) To not ever have children. 3) To have one Original Thought, one time in my life. (I wouldn’t mind having two or three of them, but that seems unjustifiably selfish—seeing as (a) these opportunities are so hard to come by, and (b) I think we’ve all got enough on our minds as it is.)

I was recently accused by a roommate (Surprise! I moved!) of having no ambition. No ambition! Me! No ambition! I’m ambitious, damn it. I want things. I’m getting there. Maybe there’s no emblematic white picket fence to be accounted for; maybe my ambitions are a bit more unconventional, but shove it. I have ambitions.

And, if it’s not immediately apparent that this is actually a lofty ideal, I can at least agree that The Original Thought is an obscure ambition. (An ambition, nonetheless.) But let’s think about this: How many people do you know personally who have had some brilliant, or even very idiotic, but still a very strikingly original idea? It’s all been thought before[pessimistic overstatement]. There are a handful of protoids (that’s original!) that have the gall to call dibs on originality.

—Love, taken. Hate, taken. Every degree in between, taken taken taken. Sibling rivalry, thought of. Eternity, covered. Finiteness, covered. In betweens, theorized a hundred times over. Anything pertaining to individual or collective responsibility, free or regulated markets, personal or financial or abnormal growths; all manner of manias, every obsession, every fear has a name.— So what’s left to think? Everything is a rerun of some obtusely brilliant man’s description of what is or what may be or what should be or what was once.

My ambition is to be an inventor of an Original Thought. Just one, so as to keep an overinflated market at bay. … So that’s pretty boring. I’m going to go read a book on the metro and stew over the acheivements of others. And then I’m going to log my fourth and fifth hours of work for the day, and call it a night. I have no time for ambitions.

Engaging the culture. Changing the world.

I don't miss those banners.
I don't miss Banner.
But I just met a Peruvian man who was wearing an Emerson Hall sweatshirt from a few years ago and I felt a certain ... citizenship? That's MY school!
He had no idea what or where Emerson Hall was, but, no importa. His friends said, "Oh--he doesn't know, because he's Peruvian," -- which I found to be completely beside the point. But whatever. I explained to them what Emerson Hall was, and we all went home happy.

1) In conclusion,
I think it's a bit unfortunate that, when I finish work or any given activity in the city, I return home--as if that were the natural thing to do. It's certainly the normal thing, the done thing. ... But, in my apartment at the moment, there's no life. So why do I shut myself away from the vibrancy of the city so immediately? Given--there hasn't been much vibrancy about Santiago for the past 3 winter months or so. But now that the sun is coming out and the trees are blooming gorgeous... it's time to enjoy being nomadic again.


2) I found the books.
Sometimes, when I go into libraries, I go away without having found the books. It sounds a bit like going to Best Buy and not being able to find the electronics. But, let me tell you, it feels much more like going to bed without dinner--i.e. one of the most remorse-provoking punishments, and ... for what crime? I just wanted to read.
But now, I've learned: They keep those precious scribbly bits of quasi-tangible mind matter bound up in recycled tree under lock, key and librarian. ... On one hand, it's a relief that they're still out there. On the other hand, I'm quite fond of browsing stacks, getting lost in the Romance (languages) section, judging all sorts of books by their non-descript covers that scream 'I-am-outdated!' I love that.
But alas. For now. I'd much rather spend my afternoon in the reading room at la Biblioteca Nacional--making hand signals at the girl sitting two tables aways from me, trying to silently solve a malfunctioning reading light situation--than in my very well lit, fome apartment.


3) I'm practicaly ON the bus to Buenos Aires!

El hogarcito and other unbearable things

Eight o’clock isn’t so bad. It’s the jarring discordancy of the alarm at six; bleeping intrusively into a down-laden world called Six-O-Seven; horrifyingly insistent at fourteen-past that IT is right and I am wrong; until, at twenty-one past, I am driven to muttering good-morning curses. When I hear the traffic piling up ten flights below, the gravity of the situation settles heavily on my shoulders. The morning has again become a reality. It’s the six-o’clock-hour that makes me feel downtrodden and weary, a the beast of unintelligent burdens. But [apart from Mondays] things shape up by eight.

Generally, when my day begins at eight, I can look forward to lengthy gaps in between classes. And what do I do with that time? Or, occassionally, I’ll finish classes around ten or eleven in the morning. And then what? The temptation to go home always taunts. It’s boring, but it’s more acceptable than wandering around the streets all day. But…why?

Stalling in the middle of an unexpected five-hour gap today, and not wanting to waste a beautiful day in the confines of a psuedo-beautiful apartment, I opted for the literary café. It’s really just a library, with books that are quite easily accessible (I’ve been to libraries where this isn’t the case). And I found a book that I’ve been persuaded to read and embarked on the impossible voyage that, for me, is: Reading A Book.

They were a brilliant first fourteen pages of a book. [La insoportable levedad del ser, or The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera]

When my desire to stay on with my current employer finally, gently, nudged me towards home to collect my things and salir newly… I got to thinking about the restrictiveness of this idea of home. Certainly home incorporates several different ideas—some strictly following the architectural blueprints, others giving priority to heartstrings, and others permitting a fair bit of vagabondage. But my idea of home is usually along the architectural lines.

And how boring is that? There’s no better way to restrict myself than to encage myself in a small studio—ten stories above the bagpiper, the ultra-important business suits, the casual luncheoners—safely away from contact with Strangers. How extremely fome of me. That is a bad bad habit.

…

And because that … blessed … alarm clock is going to ring in the new day with joy and gladness in not very many hours, I will have to collect my thoughts some more and finish them later. Maybe I can put them in a nice flow chart. A nice power point whoop de doo presentation. Something very neat and tidy. That’ll be nice.


mira, no es que quiero ser vagabunda
oye, no es que soy ingrata
pero este hogarcito mio me parece un poquito fome
un poquito solitario
y un poquito más escondido del mundo que lo que sea necesario

Get your leaves on, you silly trees!

I saw them today! They’re getting all dressed up for their spring debutante!

It’s time for new things.

Hello, World!

I haven't forgotten you.

While my North Hemishpherian friends are nearly hunkering down for the winter again, I am finally (FINALLY) seeing delicate flower blossoms and wearing dresses and sandals. It's TIME! I have to say, after two consecutive winters, sunshine and new buds on old branches are my salvation.

The past two weekends, I have spent some much needed time regathering myself at the sea. I didn't exactly grow up at the beach, but it has always been within reach, and it's become a bit of a crutch for me. Life apart from very large bodies of water withers my psyche.

So, having both visited the beach (twice!!) and taken a few jogs along a budding path in the last couple weeks, the outlook is improving.

Idly focused on the billowing sky, my imagination got all tangled up and eventually captured by nothing more than swirling clusters of physical particles—puffs flattening, twisting, curling, dipping, lashing, splaying themselves across the Tuesday canvas. Not in a way to be remembered, not to be documented or commented on; just to be what is and what passes for Tuesday.


And I watched them on their spiraling journey, their life-changing tour of the Deep Deep South.
I saw una bicicleta become rat,
and rat become gator,
and gator become bird,
and birds, of course, fly away.
And I'd like to be rearranged like that.


If I were unattached [and unattachable], so extremely ungraspable and fleetingly unaware of the surroundings I was painting, coloring and shading, I could be brilliant too.
I would go collect somewhere, in the shape of something, and be seen, or unseen—but be, without stipulations.

Ringing in the second half of the new year, Santiago style

The chill in the air is reminding me that it's about time for new year’s resolutions. But remember: We’re in Chile now, where things are the counter-image of United Statesian things. So, naturally, a list of irresolutions: (in no particular order)

1. Move to Spain, Colombia, India, Peru, Argentina, Panama, Brazil, England, or Italy. or Thailand or South Korea.

2. Take violin and/or piano and/or painting and/or drawing and/or photography classes.

3. Foster-house a street dog or cat.

4. Do my laundry regularly, or live out of a backpack in the mountains where it really can't be helped.

5. Humor the civilized world with "on time" arrivals,and with better excuses at the ready.

6. Take a translation course or learn French, Arabic, or Hatian Creole.

7. Let my wings dry out in Los Angeles or Seattle for a bit… Uh oh. I think this might be “Goodbye Lenin."

8. Improve overall health by eliminating stressors.

9. Read more. Finish them. [Uf. “Finish them,” sounds so brutal, so forceful. I can’t bring myself to do it.]

10. Spend less time reading and more time actualizing.

The state of things

I can’t stay put. It might border on a disability; it might border on insanity, even. Disputtedness. And I’ve got it bad.

I’m staying in South America. I’m even staying in Chile. And I’m staying in Santiago … unless I find a job in a coastal town. Buf. City-fever has struck me with serious implications for my mental health. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it.

In Santiago’s defense. There are plenty of options for late-night fun to be had. But what about the other twelve daylight hours? Fome fome fome [i.e. boring as all get out]. Santiago is all suit-and-tie. And having adjusted myself to Seattlian customs, men in suits make me nervous.

Which is why I suddenly have in my mind that, if I could find a job (teaching English, presumably) in a coastal town, maybe I could last a bit longer.. I’m committed to being in Chile through the end of the year…but who says I have to stay in Santismoggiago? Gross. I’m about ready to throw myself into the Mopocho river—but I’m afraid I’d get stuck in the mud and have the stench engulf my senses for a day or more.

If I don’t move to the coast… I’m moving in with a couple Chilean friends. They have a cat. I’m sold. Santiago isn’t a thing that should be shouldered alone. God, it’s awful. — That’s not to say I’m not having tons of fun. I am. I thoroughly enjoy myself in cafes, at shows, currying flavors with spice-friendly friends, walking in green belts, basking in the glory of blooming cherry blossoms. But when it comes down to the air I breathe, and things of that nature… Seattle tops the list, so far. And that’s just the state of things.

ay. niños. qué aprendan. qué se mejoren. qué suban a lo que se merezcan.

Chile is an interesting place. I have to begin by saying that I know I’m not qualified to judge – anyone or anything. So these are my opinions and my own unique perceptions. ¿Entendido? Ok, good.

Chile is an interesting place. And the people who live here are as diverse as the landscape. If you’re unfamiliar with the geography of Chile—the country stretches over 4000km, bordered by Peru and Bolivia in the north and Argentina in the south. In the far north, desert. In the far south, Antartica. And sandwiched in between, Southern California. (Not literally. And I suggest looking it up on a map if you still think we can get together for a coffee while you’re studying abroad in Europe. … )
Chile probably isn’t as “third world” as you think it is. Again, only my one-sided opinions here. They are very proud of themselves for being one of the most progressive South American countries. And there is a lot of progress in the cities. But outside the city—campamentos, favelas, suburbios, slums.

And classism is the new black. But, of course, it’s nothing new. The darker the skin, the more the Mapuche blood, the lower the class, the more one stinks in the nostrils of the nation. A Chilean teacher I work with once asked me how you say “flaite” in English. I had heard it translated as “tacky” but I didn’t really know how the word was being used, so she had to describe it to me: You know, like, someone who doesn't have good manners. Someone who’s … gross! Someone who smells bad and their clothes are dirty. Like… people without very much education.

...Hm. Hmmmmmm. Are you serious? You're serious, aren't you?... (Expletives are exploding in my mind.) Do you mean the people you press down because you need to make sure you’re better than someone else?

I can’t say enough that I’m not one to judge…but. People are people. Mapuche (who are the aboriginal race of people in Chile…largely interwoven with the [far better] blood of the descendants of European colonizers by now) consist of flesh and blood and a few other details, just like every other person I’ve ever met or seen or heard of. And if you find them stupid and uneducated, have you offered them opportunities for education?

It’s not uncommon to see children in the street begging for money. And when I say begging, I don’t just mean asking for money, dressed in rags, playing the pity card. Parents can take their children out of school to “work”—i.e. selling gumdrops on the sidewalk, playing instruments in the metro stations, juggling in the intersections, reciting verses (you might call it rapping) on busses. Anything to bring in money. And it’s not right. And it’s not the way forward, by any means. But, …., it’s happening. And it’s everywhere.

There were four boys on the bus I took home tonight. One of them went on (in a memorized monologue) for about five minutes saying more than I could understand about not wanting to work but needing money—and everything else that you would expect to hear from a ten year old who spends his days on Transantiago begging for money. They couldn’t be more than ten, if that. Ten year olds should be in school. Ten year olds should be in school!!!

The boys got off without much fanfare. And at the next stop another man got on with a guitar. (There are many musicians who play on the busses.) He began with a beautiful traditional folklórico song about Chile: Everyone loves you, Chile! You are the most beautiful, Chile! Everyone praises you, Chile! Chile Chile Chile! Where everything is perfect!

I can see some ducks that might need to be put in a row. And, I mean, it’s not my country or anything… but I’m a bit disappointed with myself when I head off, text books in hand, to give businessmen and the army of Chile just a bit more of the upperhand…

I went to the coast today. I haven't felt so at home in about 5 months (exactly 5 months today!). I'm going back as soon as possible. It's only a two hour bus ride from Santiago. ... Well, anyways, it's worth it.



I had the most disgusting deep-fried shrimp and cheese empanada I've ever tasted--it wasn't so disgusting as just incredibly heavy. I think I can still feel it lingering.
I almost got in trouble for feeding a dog--only because the pooch got a little aggressive and tried to take a snippet of bread right out of my friend's hand. Luckily...she didn't see me feeding the little (pretty big, actually) guy, so...I think I'm off the hook on that one.


[guardians of the city]

I also went to one of Pablo Neruda's houses. It has an incredible view. ... Apart from that, I'd rather read some dead guy's poetry than walk through his house. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that it was a guided tour with two tour guides--one official and one self-appointed. But now I can say I've been.
I met a Brazilian girl at la Isla Negra. We talked for a few minutes--she in Portuguese and I in Spanish. And I was surprised to find that i could understand her Portuguese better than I understand Chilean Spanish. I'm going to Brazil. I'm going to live on the coast and speak Spanish and listen Portuguese and sell surfboards or something.
Next. I got to watch the sunset from the beach--which is, in my opinion, the ONLY place to be at sunset. No hay prisa para nada.
It was a nice excursion. And I'm going back.

"la tranquilidad, una paz, caminamos..."

Two students from my class this morning took me home with them to Rancagua. What's in Rancagua? Nothing. Apart from an oversized (10' diameter maybe?) chupayo--which is a fancy word for a straw hat. It's on display in the cultural center if you want to see it. Don't worry--no rush. It'll probably be there for another decade.
But, no, they (the folks who took me) are really nice. Chile, according to Chileans, is famous for its warm reception of foreigners.They genuinely just wanted to take me to their city so they could walk me around the town and tell me all about the history of the place. It was one of the first cities to be colonized in Chile, as I understand it. So that's something.
I have to admit, it's nice to get away from the big, noisy, busy, dirty city for a bit. But...Even in this big, noisy, busy, dirty city, I'm getting almost slightly maybe a little tiny bit bored.

life as a focaphobe

I have self-diagnosed focaphobia. And seals aren’t the issue. I can’t focus on anything—I forget that I’m making toast until I’m burning toast; I forget that I’m supposed to be getting ready for work, not painting; I forget that I’m studying for the GRE until I suddenly find myself with a French book; I forget that I’m peeling apples, not browsing music online; I forget that I’m reading one book until I’m almost finished with another; I get off the metro at Tobalaba when I was meant to transfer to the green line at Baquedano.
In the grand scheme of things, I suppose, at least I’m uni-directional, if not entirely focused. I said I would go to college; I went. I wanted to live in a Spanish-speaking country; I’m living in Chile. I studied linguistics; I’m teaching ESL. And I want to continue studying linguistics, so I suppose I will. But life on the daily level for me is brimming with indecision and random acts of negligence. Take now for example: against my better judgement, I opted out of a night of outings with friends because I have a class early tomorrow morning. (Damn Saturday classes. Silly things, those.) And—it’s not that I’ve forgotten—but I’ve been so side-tracked by things like facebook, paperwork, cleaning out my fridge, washing dishes, compiling new playlists on my ipod, that I still haven’t planned tomorrow morning’s class. (Trouble ahead.)
Ironically, I spent several hours today sitting in one place, very focused on painting a wall (on a canvas). Several hours. That is completely out of place. My daily routine doesn’t allow for things like that. -- It’s nice. I enjoy painting. But I’m not very good so there’s nothing really to show for it in the end. Just a bunch of shades in shapes that look vaguely like something that might exist in a disproportionate version of our world. But if I could somehow bring a bit of the attention-span I have for painting into my everyday life—maybe eventually the burn smell in the kitchen would dissipate and the milk would stop going off. My cucumbers might not even get moldy anymore. I would get to class on time. And I imagine I might even get into grad school and do quite well there. But…since I don’t intend to be a mad scientist or a starving artist, I think I may have to put some afán into getting over this focaphobia in the nearish future.

To be or not to be has never been a question for me. So long as I’m breathing, I’ll be. And when I stop, I won’t be anymore. But what really gives me troubles is—to be polite, or to be honest? When it comes down to it, I always choose the honesty bit over the politeness bit. And I believe I’m leaning that way again. -- Sorry, Chile. Don’t take it personally.

I started this blog in an effort to … well, honestly, to avoid sending multiple email updates to various interested persons. And I think I did a pretty good job at the start. But now it’s devolved into a daily battle [exaggeration] between The Truth and The Lie. The Truth has something to do with how much I hate being in Chile; and The Lie has something to do with how much I LOVE!!! being IN CHILEEEEEE!!!! No. So I opt not to write. But tonight I’ve decided—perhaps at the insistence of mulled wine; perhaps against my more sensitive judgement—to write, and be truthful.

Chile. Let me tell you a little bit about Chile. If we can narrow it down to “My Version of Chile” and even further to – “My Weekends in Chile” – we’ll begin there.

My weekends, in Chile, are ugly. After Saturday classes finish, they threaten to be completely devoid of human interaction. Of course, Julio-the-Delightfully-Curious doorman is always at the desk to send me out with care and welcome me home with joy. But sometimes that’s not enough. … There comes a point every weekend where I cease being interesting, and I cease being interested in being, because everything is dull. I hate weekends.

But before I close the clam shell and retreat—last Saturday, for example.

On Saturdays, I have a class at la Universidad de Santiago. The class is with the beginnerests of beginners. They are… incredible. Four hours of class goes by in a flash. I say one thing

What do you want that you don’t have?
What do you WANT? …..What do you WANT….that…you DON’T….have?
What do you want that you don’t have?
WHAT? do you WANT? that you DON’T… have?
WHAT DO YOU WANT? that you don’t have?
What do you want THAT YOU DON’T HAVE?

and I repeat it several times, slowly, with much emphasis, until I see that the semantics have been sufficiently worked out.

I thorougly enjoy this class. But it’s after this class—at least last weekend—that things go a bit south. I didn’t think things could go any farther south, but there’s always Antartica.

I have a private class after USACH. Private, one hour, no problem. Except this one itty-bitty thing:

The problem begins when I get in the car, and he says, “You know what we want to do?” [….No. Dígame.] “We want to go to Cajón del Maipo. ¿How does that sound to you? [Miserable. Can I tell you that sounds miserable? … I don’t think ‘Miserable.’ is an option. … Wow! ¿Cajón del Maipo? ¡¡What a WONDERFUL idea!! Geeeeezus. Why didn’t IIIII think of that???]

Background: I had this “private class” last week for the first time. It consisted of me going to a man’s house to speak with his family for one hour [i.e. one hour of paid ‘class’ time plus two and a half hours of gratuitous lunch, in English] so they can have some English exposure. In addition to going to his house, also listening to him correct his wife every time she made any sort of grammatical error—even if it wasn’t one. “Hahaha! She talks likes a caveman!” he says. “Hahaha! I know. My English is so bad!” she agrees. “It is?” I question. …

This past weekend, on the way to Cajón del Maipo, I literally considered jumping out of the car at a red light, running to the metro, and never contacting this man again. The entire two hours of arriving at Cajón del Maipo were full of ragging on how terribly women drive [“Look at her! Watch! She’s going too fast! And now look! She’s going to slow! Women!! … Look at that! UH! It’s because she’s a woman.”] And that’s not the father talking anymore. That’s the 13 year old son. Congratulations, Pops. You’ve razed them very very well.

Enough about women. I’ll just say that from 1-6pm on Saturday was the longest hour of my life. Low points included running over a cat—at which the children laughed, splashing mud on pedestrians in a very small town—at which the father didn’t flinch, and listening to the entire family relate to me an obscure rendition of a comedy sketch they had seen the night before about “dance in my…” … better not. My sketch of Chile may be scathing, but it’s not going to be X-rated.

It may not be the polite way about being a foreigner, but there’s my most honestly colored painting of Chile. And also the conclusion of my private Saturday classes. I’m not so desperate as that. I’d prefer the solitary solitude of my own home, women’s and cats’ dignity unobstructed.

Perfection is Something

Perfection is Something

It’s easy enough to imagine; much more difficult to come by. My elementary, junior high, and high school years were plagued by an exhausting strain of perfectionism. The one day I ever played hooky, I had the proper parental permission slip in hand. Thinking back on tears shed—over the “C” I got in singing in kindergarten [if you’ve ever wondered why I refuse to sing in front of you], over getting OUT! in an identity-shaping game of four-square, over losing the spelling bee, over botching a quartet performance on the bassoon, and later, over parabolas and nameless varieties of equations predetermined by me to be impossible, and stupid—I can’t imagine that many of those tears were worth the emotional energy they cost me. And all for what? Just so many salty droplets dribbling their way through the pages of an imperfect autobiography.

Okay okay. Before this turns into too much of a sob story…

Somewhere around University Junction, I decided to embrace imperfection. It was hard to stomach until I realized that it’s such an easy excuse: Why didn’t I finish the homework? I’m not perfect! Why are you late? __________! Did you remember that thing…? No, sorry, ___________! Why weren’t you at the mandatory meeting? Oh, pucha, sorry! __________, you know! And that’s when I started playing hooky without a parent’s note. It was exhilarating.

At first. And then things got a bit out of control, etc etc and here I am in Chile, seeking Latin American perfection—eso lo que no existe en Chile, pero estoy aprendiendo aceptarlo. I’m realizing that, considering my own faults and shortcomings, I have no authority to demand that Chile be perfect. And so, when it rains and streets flood, and when the metro closes early on weekends, and when the food is bland, and when no Chilean can resist a strike, I understand. Perfection is hard to come by.

But, here it is folks. Listen up. I found it, tonight. And it started with just a bit of water in a pan, on an electric burner that still wreaks of burning milk from another bit of imperfect judgement I had a couple days ago. Add a couple good shakes of miscellaneous black tea leaves, cinnamon stick bits, cumin—hand crushed, cloves—also hand crushed (not recommended), some pepper, some anise, a bay leaf, a small dose of tandoori masala, a bit of sugar for good measure, and a couple splashes of milk from the box (still a questionable milk-storage method). A few minutes to simmer. And voilà! I didn’t realize it was perfect until the flawless transfer from pan to French-press, from press to pour, from ‘looks about right’ to JUST enough for one brimming cup, from cup to mouth to stomach. Incredible. No more tears, because now I know perfection is something you drink.

WuhOh!

Where have I gone?? I haven't been sooo busy. I haven't left the country...recently. And I haven't been run over, beat up, robbed of my computer, or fallen into a coma. I'm just realizing that original promise that I wouldn't keep up on a regular basis, because soy floja.

My life, café to café

Day to day, my life isn’t much different than it was 6 months ago in Seattle. I sleep late. I go to coffee shops. I take long walks. I take pictures of ugly things that I find incredibly beautiful, or oddly entertaining.

exhibit 1

exhibit 2

exhibit 3


I read. I think incessantly about the things I should/shouldn’t be doing. The one big difference is that, in Santiago, I can go all day uttering a maximal minimum of words, if you know what I mean. (Sorry, I have to make up in verbosity what I lack in personal interaction.) I’ve worked out that I won’t speak in Spanish if I go out with English-speaking friends. But I haven’t quite figured out a formula for striking up conversations with strangers, other than pretending to be lost and asking for directions. Okay, maybe it's not always pretend. In any case, a successful conversation is a bit of a crapshoot.
Today was a quiet day. (And that was alright.)

Parakeets on Holiday!:

And in addition to that, our situation becomes less sustainable every day. But what are you and I supposed to do, surrounded by an increasing concentration of greenhouse gases, soaring tensions between men who hold enormous amounts of power, rising inflation, falling stocks, insidiously persistent racism/classism/sexism/your favorite or most applicable form of hatred? What is there to do? The diplomats can’t save us. Our arsenals have served us equally as well.


In a tremendous funk today, I stumbled upon a charming literary café (i.e. a place where they sell coffee and have an incredible selection of books—some for sale, some for borrow) where I read an article called, “¿Cuánto vale una idea?” in a periodical called El Periodista. The article more or less proposed that there are a few creative people in our midst who have brilliant outside-the-box ideas, who might possibly be able to help us out of our downward-spiraling predicaments. But these people, the creative sorts, tend to be unconcerned with money and are satisfied just to create and experience creation. They aren’t the executive types, the world-leader types, or the two-plus-two-is-four types. And, consequently, they don’t merit much praise in our forward-thinking Western society.

But, in reality, where has our linear thinking brought us? Okay, there’s a lot to be said for the orderliness of institutions. But is it really the end-all be-all? …Mmmmmm, not sure. Not sure about that one.


On a similar, but different, note: I was giving an oral examination (with more of a linguistic than dental persuation) to a teenage student the other day. The question I proposed was this-- “Technology has changed a lot in the past 50 years. 50 years from now, what do you think technology will look like?” And her answer was—“I don’t think the world will exist in 50 years. I think we will destroy ourselves by then.”

Qué lata.

It’s got to be bad when the ones who are supposed to be ambitious have already surrendered to defeat.


As a disclaimer-- I’m not proposing a solution to the problems at hand here. Just a solution to the lack of acceptable solutions.

Trabajadores en Fiesta

Wandering around downtown yesterday to the chanting of workers on strike (not unusual) I was compelled to follow my ears to see who was complaining this time. Santander, one of Chile’s major financial institutions—en huelga. ¡Qué sorpresa! The workers on strike were having a grand ole party outside the bank. Lots of dancing. Lots of confetti. Lots of loudspeaker.

I casually mentioned to some students the other day that it seems there’s always something to go on strike about in Santiago. I know this has largely to do with the fact that I work very close to the capitol building, La Moneda. But my students seemed surprised (disappointed?) to hear that this was the impression I got of Santiago. (…It’s not an impression; it’s an observation.)

I dared to ask, and my students wholeheartedly confirmed that the situation of ‘unrest’ exists because Chile has a weak woman president. Before drawing conclusions about these chauvinistic Latin Americans, I heard their arguments about the weakness of Michelle Bachelet(President)’s character. She (reportedly) gives in to every request/demand. The problem really lies in the strength of her character and not in the sex of her character. And it wasn’t surprising to hear these remarks. I’m not sure I’ve heard anything good about Michelle Bachelet from anyone in Chile.


What I can’t wait for is the day President Bachelet goes on strike. That’ll be a really good time, I bet. Hopefully they’ll stage it during the changing of the guard. The officers will feign their routines—and then suddenly break into a choir of rage against delinquent students and feisty bank tellers. Michelle Bachelet will make rounds throughout downtown in her coach-and-four screaming at all the imbeciles who don’t appreciate her like they should. … And then we’ll all be even and life can go on civilly.

Bureacracy, A Prospective Divorce, Cats, A Stroll, Cultural Rumination, A Crowded Bus, Bureacracy

One of my Tues/Thurs classes ended last week, so I had a lot of free time today. After class (or, I should say— after succumbing to bureacratic impositions by hurriedly running from downtown to Providencia, collecting papers, dropping off papers, jumping through a flaming hoop to the gratifying sound of applause from sidewalk observers, speed walking to class, and calmly recollecting papers after class) I lunched with some friends. … As a side note, these friends are a couple. However, I agreed to marry one of them in the interest of dual citizenship. When we divorce, I’m quite excited about taking the cat. In any case, it was a pleasure to see the little gatito today. I’m on the verge of illegally smuggling in a cat to my apartment. It wouldn’t hurt anybody.

Where was I…? Right. So after lunch, having ample time to do anything—or nothing—I took a long walk home. The weather isn’t SO bad. I wasn’t cold or anything. I still couldn’t see the mountains through the smog, but, that’s to be expected during the winter. As I walked, I realized that being in Chile gradually feels more and more natural. I suppose it’s just getting used to understanding their crazy modismos (i.e. things that they say in Chile and NO WHERE else) and getting comfortable with not understanding every word—as well as admitting, from time to time, that no entendí. When you parse it down, living in Santiago is just living in a big city. The only element of “developing nation” that I encounter daily is when I pass people selling bandaids for a living on the stairs of the metro. Other than that, Santiago is very well-dressed and proudly progressive.

However. Today, near the end of my walk, a bus passed me, full of people. And by “full”, I mean the doors wouldn’t shut and people were hanging out, hanging on to whatever or whoever was nearby. … I can’t picture this happening in Seattle. We’re just a bit too orderly to permit it.

On one hand—when a bus reaches its capacity and has riders hanging out the doors, safety alerts start ringing in my ears. On the other hand—no one fell out. If it gets the job done—perhaps there’s no problem?

It left me wondering if “development” is more bureacracy and less efficiency. But then again, real efficiency would probably result in everyone having a proper seat on the bus. I don’t know. It was just an observation.

And where are the groundhogs?

I’m proposing a toast to deliquent summers and forgotten 4th of July barbeques, to shorts and bathing suits (even though I hate them), and to concerts and cinema in the park. I didn’t think I particularly liked hot weather. I’ve never missed California’s sunshine since I left it (… 5?!?) five years ago. But now, in the absence of a season I swear to hate — I miss it! If I could at least have the security of a faithful groundhog’s prediction, I could bear this contaminated gray mass of perpetual cold with some amount of grace. But—is it ever going to end? I don’t know. Mr Groundhog? What say you?

Seeing Red

There’s a website similar to craigslist.org in Chile called vivastreet.cl. I’ve been keeping a watchful eye there for a used camera. And yesterday I finally reached the breaking point. I made the phone call and met the man. After examining the camera and walking all over downtown with Cesar in search of the right battery (because I’m a gringa, not an idiot, and I needed to see that it worked before I bought it), I walked home with a very heavy camera in tow. Do you (faithful blog readers) remember when I said that I would take any camera? That it could be from the year 1956 and barely work, and I’d be happy? Well—The “barely work” part, I’m sure of. [I am a bit worried that I will ‘finish’ the roll, only to discover that the advancer doesn’t advance the film. Or that the aperture on one of the lenses doesn’t adjust. – In which case, Goodbye 70mil.] But the “1956” part is also quite possible. Trying to figure out how to work this Zenit, this new style of non-Canon, I turned the camera over and discovered: “Made in the USSR.”

Which made me curious. Why is it in English? Was it made to be imported? Certainly not. … There’s no sign of Russian on the camera at all. Hm. AND, the man I bought it from told me that he bought it just 8 years ago. 8 or 9, that’s all. I thought he looked a bit Russian.

I just attempted to create a 5-year plan—something to guide me along a known, if not steady, course. Aside from being deterred by the non-motivational image of the hammer and sickle, I know my luck with these things, these "plans": They just don't work for me. What does work for me is ... let's call it, "forward thinking". Hypotheses sans commitments. My several minutes of forward thinking resulted in a possible outline for the next 20 to 40 years of my life. I didn't want to get carried away, so I left retirement entirely out of the picture.
If all goes as forwardly thought, I should be in Seattle next year for a quick rest before drifting abroad once again for training as a literacy specialist. Field work (in the Caribbean? in South America? Central America? in the Midwest?) would naturally follow. And then back to Seattle to do Masters work at the UW, concluding with more field work/research and, possibly, a 2-year PeaceCorp assignment in some undisturbed corner of the earth. After that, I could realistically consider doctoral work—which would of course include several more years of field work and research. And theeennnnnn, maybe, just maybe, I could begin thinking about getting a “real” job, “settling down”, living in one place for a while—that sort of thing. Whew. Time flies.

22

Fiction

time is like sand
in your eye
so
I close my eyes
when commitment requires
some inordinate degree of ordinary things


Inordinate Time

your degree of commitment
requires some ordinary fiction
so I eye close things
like when sand is in my eyes


Things

I like your eyes
in ordinary time
so close my eye when fiction requires
some inordinate degree of sand

is commitment


So Fiction Requires Commitment

when I close your ordinary eyes some inordinate degree
my eye is of sand
like things in time

Dog Treats

It's the new cat-call. It's the new face of sexism, reverse-machismo. It takes place when I see an attractive male. And it consists of me carrying around raw stakes in my purse and throwing them in front of aforementioned thing. I may even carry cheap beer and swagger it in front of his eyes. This is flattering, right? Don't complain or turn up your eyes in disgust! Enjoy it!

What do all these things have in common?

I have a lot on my mind.

I found myself creating this list while I awaited absentee students this evening. Suddenly I realized that I might make a prime candidate for admittance to a mental ward somewhere and that mozzarella and panchromatic emulsions probably never belong in the same list. In the end, it doesn't have to make sensitometrics; these are just the thoughts that I've been bearing in mind all day, and I needed to write them down before I moved on to the next topic of interest.


Next topic of interest: Everybody [overstatement, for effect only] warns me to be careful about everybody else. You can't trust anybody. Naturally. And the people who tell me this, I've come to trust the least.

I ventured to the Persa Bío-Bío (flea) market last weekend. I knew, before I decided to go solo, that I would be setting the scene for devious acts of thievery, for tricksters to take advantage of the unassuming gringa. Of course. It goes without saying. But the thing is, I know I'm a gringa. I know they know I'm a gringa. But do they know that I know that they know that I'm a gringa? I don't know. It doesn't matter.

The point is--people in barrio alto (i.e. the so-called "better" parts of town), thinking they are doing me a service, warn me that I have to be veeeeery careful: People will try to trick me and take advantage of me, because I'm a gringa. [Andbecauseeveryonewhodoesn'tliveinthebarrioaltoisinherentlynefarious. Thegoodpeople,thegod-blessedpeople,liveinthe nicepartsoftown. Obviously. Excuseme.Ineedtothrowup.] But then I go into these dangerous parts of town, and those tricksters and those thieves, they look at me with serious concern and tell me to be careful, to come back with an interpreter or a friend, that those tricksters and thieves are going to trick me and thieve ... thieve what? My cien pesos? My Flannery O'Conner anthology? I would be sad, for a minute.

I know I'm a gringa. I know I'm a target. But, so far, I've been targeted only to be asked for directions to streets I've never heard of and to receive unsolicited advice about who to beware.

My friends, you're all very paranoid. And it's a good thing someone is, because they are all thieves and tricksters out there. And they're gonna get you.

"Burn your chickens before they hatch," and other assorted gems of wisdom

I have decided to go with the 'proverbs' theme for this week. I'm going to willingly come forward with my nerdiness in hand: I had a pretty good time putting this exercise together...

A rolling stone gathers the worm.

Burn your chickens before they hatch.

Don't put a book by its cover.

Every cloud has his day.

Don't throw out spilt milk.

A friend in need has a silver lining.

Don't count all your eggs in one basket.

The early bird gets no moss.

Every dog is a friend indeed.

Don't judge the midnight oil.

Don't cry over the baby with the bath water.

a rolling stone gathers no equilibrium

I'm tired. And when I get tired, I get dizzy. It's something I've gotten used to. All day long, I feel like I'm trying to regain my balance. I don't know exactly why I'm so tired, although I imagine it is a combination of several factors--one of which is the fact that I have no sense of balance in life. I have only the vaguest idea of where I am headed. I have a plane ticket that promises to take me to LAX on the 22nd of December. But, is that the thing to be done? Do I belong at LAX on December 22nd? I'm not quite sure.

I'm having second (third and fourth) thoughts about avoiding the inevitable (i.e. eating, sleeping, working, in Seattle) and staying in the south for an extended period of time. When it comes down to it, if I stay in the south, I will eat, drink, work, sleep [repeat ∞] in the south. The only real difference is that it's further south than Seattle, and that the winter arrives when it should properly be summer, and that they say "hola" instead of "hello".

So what to do? What is the "right" thing to do? ... De verdad, I have no idea.

In a class this morning, we were talking about proverbs. Gonzalo asked me what my favortie English proverb was. (I was afraid of that.) I drew a blank, of course. The first (and, subsequently, only) proverb that came to mind was, "A rolling stone gathers no moss." And I've been mulling that one over all day. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Sounds about right. I don't think I'm ready for moss.

Rollingly yours,
x

A Successful (?) Sunday: llamas wearing top hats. café à la árabe

I went this morning (afternoon) to a weekend market called Persa Bío-Bío across the Mapocho (river). There are so many markets like this in Santiago, and I tend to stumble upon them by accident/sheer luck. This one, a friend advised me about. It is only open on Saturdays and Sundays, but they sell EVERYTHING. Goodness—EVERYTHING.

Except acceptable cameras.

I am veritably hunting for a camera. When I was packing up and heading out of California on my way to Santiago, I didn’t have “enough room” to pack a camera. … For someone whose life source is creative explorations, “enough room” can always be made for things of this nature. But I didn’t make it. I don’t know what went wrong there. But wrong, it went. And I am without a suitable camera. With any luck, and a bit of diligence, this situation will not persist.

I really need to get my hands on a camera.

It doesn’t even have to work. Well, just a little. But, really, it can be from the year 1956 and on the verge of breaking down. I don’t care. Better that way, I imagine, than without. I just need a manual SLR that (barely) works. And then, I will certainly be able to continue living, no problem.

What was I thinking?

When I went to Persa Pio-Pio this morning, I didn’t find my suitable camera. But, what I found were several photographable moments: midget horses with child-riders, an old man sleeping on a cart, with a dog curled up next to him, among people bustling on errands of mock importance (because who really needs a new cell phone cover?), and a llama wearing a top hat. What has gone wrong with us all? Maybe nothing. Perhaps this is how Sundays were intended to be.

I returned empty-handed. No—that’s an equivocation. I found a … ¿cómo se llama? It’s a special carafe made out of copper that is used to make Turkish coffee. I’ve been in the market for one of these babies, but I haven’t been keen on spending 15 lucca (~$30) for a new one. The one I found is without a handle, but it really doesn’t even matter. I’ll find a stick and fashion my own grippage for it. Mil quinientos. (~$3.) That’s a pretty good deal in my book.

After Persa Bío-Bío, I passed the rest of the afternoon doing much of nothing in my apartment. It’s quite nice to do nothing, because all week long I come and go, leaving and arriving, hopping about from place to place. I get so caught up in my hopping about that it makes me nervous to stay in one place. And just as I was starting to worry that I’ve been too reclusive this week, I heard the doorbell (i.e. my friend whistling down the hall) and had to smile at the high security system offered by the doormen in the portería downstairs.

Amigo and his amigo arrived, and we went out for drinks, talk of visting India, mention of visits to Playa del Carmen, followed by more friends (should say, acquaintances, but what matter?) and platters of sushi.

All in all, a successful Sunday, I regret to say. Shouldn’t Sundays, of all the days we have, be the least successful?

Unfare Rejection

Twice today I was rejected at the turnstile when my BIP was weighed, measured and found to be lacking. There're few things more irritating than having to back out of a queue, pushing through a crowd of metro-compatriots, equally as late as me, all pressing forward with gusto. But not me. Back to the ticket-window, for another round of un mil.

Which only serves to remind me of how time is a waste of itself. We're all rushing from the start to the finish. But why? 3:00 or 3:02. The meeting is still going to be long and dull. All this rushing about makes me ill. Bof.

Un mil. I always recharge my BIP card with 1,000 pesos. TONS! No. It's good for about two rides on the metro or bus. Why do I do that? I have no idea. Partially--it is because I think paying upwards of $5 for public transportation everyday is silly. And somehow, magically, if I only pay mil by mil, it seems like I'm not forking out so much fare for a transport system that is considered unfair and is quite unloved by a fair number of Chileans.

Transantiago is a new metropolitan transportation system replacing a chaotic but familiar system of privately owned buses that raced from one destination to the next, always competing for passengers. . This transportation model makes a lot of sense to me... city planner that I am. But, so costly! And costly for all the tax payers in Chile, from the north or the south. Ouch. ... Ouch. That's all I have to say about that.

But then I have to wonder, if the friendly folks in Antofagasta weren't paying for these nice new trains imported from Spain, how much would I be paying for my fare every day? Hmmmm....

Of a Sunday afternoon

I almost didn’t go. Saturday afternoon, all afternoon, I waivered back and forth, finally deciding that I should wait to go down south until I have at least a full day (ideally, more) to enjoy the [un]Santiago[ness] of it all. But as the cold night air crept into my bones, I suddenly found myself bored and lonely in a too-lofty apartment in a too-smoggy city and I had to get out.
It’s a crime in Santiago to go out not-bien abrigado, i.e. without a heavy coat, gloves, a scarf, (etc.) wintertime accessories. And, compliantly, I triple layered, zipped up, wound round, pulled on, and snuggled into myself.

10:50pm. All set.
All set?
Am I all set?
Do I have my keys?
Do you really want to sleep on a bus?
... 10:54pm. …

Metro closes at 11:00pm.
No chance.
I’m not going to make it.
I could try.
I’m not going to make it.
I’m going to bed.

And right at that moment, my friend Andrew sent me a text message saying that he had changed his mind and ¿vamos? Fuimos.

The bus ride wasn’t supposed to be the focal interest of this trip, but it was eleven hours, each way. Breakfast was included, so…it doesn’t really get much better than that.


The bus from Santiago went to Temuco, which is a fairly large city. There was a large fería (fruit/vegetable/cheese/clothes market) close to the bus station, so we walked around for a bit. We tried some mote (i.e. about a pound of wheat berries, boiled, and then served elegantly in a plastic bag). We found a nice accompaniment for our wheat berries in a panadería close by—white bread rolls. Let me ask you a question: When you’re walking around Temuco on a Father’s Day morning with no intentions but a bag of boiled wheat and a couple rolls of bread, what do you do? We did what anyone would do—found a nice park bench, ate our grains and grains handful by handful, and then played a bird game.

The mote experiment:



The birds were more or less uninterested (dull birds). So we sought out the buses JAC to Pucón.

On the way, I caved to the temptation of a delectable dose of Nescafé from a sidewalk cart. I confidently ordered a cup of coffee…not difficult, I’m proud to say. And then Andrew came along and asked for some hot chocolate. Again, not hard. The (very nice) man selling us welcomely warm drink sputtered some sort of Spanish response that neither Andrew nor I could make out, at all. … This always makes things slightly awkward. The man asked us where we were from, and we confessed. And he said something along the lines of—“I don’t speak English. … You don’t speak Spanish.” That’s not fair!! I just told you what I wanted and you understood with no problem! No, I can’t decipher your Sputter, but that doesn’t mean I don’t make a valient Spanish effort. Geez. I just wanted something warm to hold.

Pucón, for the seven hours we were there, was nice. Quiet. Clean, more or less. We ate tasty pizza and shivered while the sun went down behind mountains behind mountains behind mountains.

Downtown Pucón:




At the end of the day—rather, at the start of the next, when we arrived back in Santiago—I was quite glad I got out of the city for a bit. I still have Santiago Lung, but I’m reminded that Chile isn’t all grey.

Just outside my window is an enormous sign that says HABITAT, just like that, all in caps. And it often makes me wonder if I'm sitting here in some insipid experimental replication of reality. Is this real? No. No, it can't be. But what an odd social experiment. Odd, but brilliant, too.

Let's see what someone does surrounded by a known language,but let's speed the language up to 3x the normal rate.

How does smog affect the human? How long does it take to completely stifle a human lung?

If we can create an avocado addiction during the summer months, how much will X pay for avocado during inhospitable winter months?

Speaking of addiction, if an item is made cheaply available (mmm....say, scarves, for example) on every street, can a human develop an addiction to an item that is not ingested?

How long will the human psyche disguise adverse conditions?

I really need to get out of this city. ... Last bus for Temuco leaves at 11:45.

Por eso tengo que irme

I have Santiago Lung. I can feel it every time I breathe, every time I swallow, every time I clear my throat--and I think of exactly what FILTH I am clearing my throat of. Bof. (Pardon my French.)

I've been told that I can go to the farmacy (I don't care. I'm combining interlinguistic spelling rules from now on.) and tell them that my throat hurts because of Santiago and they will knowingly pass me some magic pink pills that will solve all my problems. ... I'd rather go to Pucón.

Pucón is in the mountains. It's far far away. And I'm going to fly there (on a bus) tomorrow. I. Can't. Wait. Give me clean air or give me death-via-Santiago-Lung. B.O.F.

Well. So I'm either going to Pucón, or I'm going to sit in my apartment and paint a lot and read Julio Cortázar and go for long walks. I haven't quite decided. But ... let's hope for Pucón.

¿Por cúantas personas?

I ordered sushi tonight. There's nothing more disappointing than mediocre sushi with no shoyu at the end of a long day. Anyway, that's beside the point. I had to laugh at myself (only to stay the self-pity) when the waiter asked how many people I needed chopsticks for -- 2. Obviously.

Has it really come to that? I have to lie about these things?? Yeesh.

right round baby right round round round

I'm a girl who likes shortcuts. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'd rather spend my free time taking photographs or practicing Spanish or exploring this beautiful city ... or coming up with really tongue-in-cheek things to write on my blog, and thus, ensuring that I'll have things to talk about with Andrew later -- doing something other than planning my next class. I've found that when I stumble upon something that really goes over well in one class, I can usually adapt it to use in all my classes. Less work for me, and the thrilling opportunity to go round and round and round and round on one subject. Thus, alllll last week, we talked about cultural do's and don'ts. (e.g. Is it okay to blow your nose in public? ... But, is it really?) And have you ever celebrated Poncho Day? What?? You've never heard of Poncho Day?!

http://www.reuters.com/news/video?videoId=83597

This week:

http://www.reuters.com/article/oddlyEnoughNews/idUSN0936607420080609

Is he an idiot? Or did he know about a bank robbery that was going to happen the next day? ... His kids were being held hostage and this was what the kidnapper demanded. ... God told him to do it. ... He was playing Truth or Dare, and his honor was on the line? ... Or maybe he's just an idiot. In any case, I think we need people like this to remind us that we're the good people in the world. ... RIght.

Time is not precious.

Neither is it money.
Neither is it running out.

If I had my way, as I usually I do, clocks--wouldn't be. They just wouldn't. I am so bound by time constraints. And when I say "bound", I hope pictures of torture victims come to mind, because that's what I'm getting at. I'm not saying that the time system doesn't make sense, or that it isn't good. I'm just saying -- I don't like it. And I would get rid of it. Or at least amend it.

Sara's Guide to Time Approximation
(i.e. Necessary Amendments):

Please note that whenever a "time is set" for a particular event, this is an approximation, and not a precise location where our lives will coincide.

1) When a "time" is stated, the event may actually occur twenty minutes* before or after** said time

2) Replace time quotas with production quotas***

3) Time is not money. You can't save it for a rainy day; there's no need to spend it wisely; no way to waste it.

4) Time is not running out. If it must be linear, it must be andante, just like it always has been.

5) Time is not meant to be harnessed. It's just a medium. It just exists. Even in Chile. ****

That's the end of my rant, for now. But next time I don't apologize for being late, please don't be offended. I just can't be bothered to abide by silly rules.


*twenty minutes--This applies only to professional or official meetings. Friendly get-togethers may occur within two hours of the approximated time.
**before or after--but usually after.
***quotas--unless the work is difficult or otherwise personally costly, in which case, the time quotas are better
****Eso no existe. This is one of the most irritating things that I hear on a regular basis: When I ask for something that they don't typically have in Chile, I often run into this response--That doesn't exist. ...... Oh?

Buscando La Extranjería

Moving, on one hand (a very big hand), was lovely. I’m so glad to be living where I am. On the other hand, I’m presented with a small visa-related problem. My visa has been in process for quite a while now. And I moved just when my visa was ready to be mailed (to an address that I don’t live at anymore). It’s just a small problem, requiring me to visit el departamento de extranjería, and the policía international. It all sounds quite daunting, to be honest, and that is precisely why “I haven’t had time” to take care of this little issue for the past week and a half or so.

Yesterday, I finally made my first attempt. (I would have put it off longer, but…well, you see…there’s this very nice woman helping me with my visa, etc., and she gives me my paycheck every month—so, she’s not someone I want to have be irritated with me. And, what’s more, it’s so much quicker for me to pass by her office on my way to classes. But, knowing that she will ask if I’ve gone to extranjería when she sees me, I’ve been taking the long way around. Clever, eh? She’ll never know…)

First things first.
1) Ask someone at the Instituto where exactly where this formidable “Extranjería” would be located.
Check.
He told me it was located in the Moneda plaza, which is big, but close. No problem. So I go there. Things are looking good, so far. Next—ask a carabinero where “Extranjería” is. He struggles to hold back his laughter, points, “segundo piso.” Ok.
Not knowing if I just told a funny joke on accident, or if he was playing a funny joke on purpose, or if I possibly just asked where “Foreign” is…I attempt to gain access to the second floor of the building he directed me to.

Door men—“Digame.”
Sara—“Busco ‘Extranjería’? Para un visa.”
Door men—“Queda en Santo Domingo con San Antonio.”

Okay. It’s just a few (several) blocks away. And here I am, Santo Domingo con San Antonio. No. Nope. Not seeing “Extranjería.”

Sara—“Busco la oficina de Extranjería. Sabe dónde queda?”
Shop keeper—“¿Extranjería? Pero no está aca. Eso queda en Independencia. En un edificio blanco cerca al metro Cal y Canto.”
Sara—errrrrr

Okay. It’s just a few (more) blocks away. I can see Cal y Canto, crawling with cats. But no, I don’t trust this fellow. I’m going to have another consultation.

Sara—“Busco la oficina de Extranjería. Alguien me dijo que la queda en Santo Domingo con San Antonio.”
Carabinero Numero 2—“Bueno. San Antonio está allá.” (Pointing to the corner of Santo Domingo and San Antonio, where I have just come from.)
Sara—Yeah, I know that, chum. “Pero……la oficina no está allá………”
Carabinero Numero 2—[Fielding 4 or 5 consultas from other passersby, he’s figiting with his radio (doesn’t work) and his cell phone.] “Voy a llamar.”
Sara—Muchas gracias.
Carabinero Numero 2—“Hay que ir a Bañololellolamento.”
Sara—mmmm
Carabinero Numero 2—“¿Conoce esa calle?”
Sara—“Claro. … ¿¿Cerca a Cal y Canto??” It’s just a guess.
Carabinero Numero 2—mmhmm
Sara—“Muchas muchas gracias.”

Should have gone with the immigrant shopkeeper in the first place. Of course he would know. And so I bumble on over to Cal y Canto, and its cats. And then…

And then I just got tired of it all, so I got on the metro and went home.


A friend of mine in Santiago prefers to wander blindly around the city, and ask people on the street for directions. It’s a nice thing, really. You end up meeting some interesting people that way. But…it just doesn’t work so well for me. So, in preparation for my second attempt, I looked it up online. Clever, eh? Yup.

I still ended up at Santo Domingo and San Antonio, and I still have to go to the big white building at Cal y Canto on Monday, but I found my way. And I know where I’m going. And it’s all in the works. I should have my official Chilean ID card in a matter of days.

Better left unsaid, but where’s the fun in that?

I am home. Not really, because Seattle is home in my bones. But, for now, in this moment, I am home. Three months is a long time to go feeling like you’re not really ‘home,’ ever. [Does that mean I’ve been in Santiago for three months? Is that true?? Goodness; it is.] But now, and until I leave on the twenti-glorious-th of Diciembre, I am interim-home.


(This is my view from my new apartment. The hill in the background is Cerro San Cristobal, the biggest hill in the city. They have gondolas on top. ... It's on my to-do list.)



(And this is my view from the door... The apartment is furnished [obvio], which is nice.)
But what I miss the most are these folks...

And this...

(This is the room I just moved out of.)

I don’t hate Santiago. I am not miserable. I do miss Seattle, but I would be miserable, and dreaming of Santiago, if I were there right now. I have this stubborn independent streak that leads me thrills me wears me out.

Does everything always keep on changing? [It better.] Is this the fault of my own fickleness? [Yes.] Or I am just a unique scientific specimen? [If you see, in the “Science” section of the newspaper, “Girl Endures Second Puberty,” read it, because it’s about me.]

Okay, I know it’s natural. But it’s awkward as ass. I don’t mean the change—I enjoy options and a bit of varity. But not knowing what I want, not knowing where I want to be, not knowing who I want to be, not knowing who I want to be with, or if any of that even matters… Awkward. Exhausting. Thrilling. Back to awkward.

Whoa, Sara. Relax.

Okay.

But how? If I don’t think about these things, I get bored. If I think about them, I get overwhelmed.

I think any sustainable design for my life will have to include a lot of reading, a bit of writing, and a heap of photograph taking (with some amount of camera borrowing). As well as a healthy dose of Chilean wine. And a handful of southern exploration.

It’s probably a good thing I’m living alone. All these thoughts take up a lot of space.