the streets are rivers

for Shriver.

It is raining . so . hard. Goodness. Whose idea was this anyway?

I decided to take the bus all the way home tonight. That sounds odd, doesn't it? Well, usually I take the bus half-way home and walk the other half. ... No. Not really. Usually--I take the metro half-way, and then the bus the other half. It's faster that way. But, if I take the bus the whole way, I end up about 5 blocks closer to where I actually live. Elementary, my dear Watson.

So I had to bus-hop a little bit, to fix myself on the right route. Waiting at bus stop #2, I watched as my 405 went sailing by--literally, tacking and jibing right in front of me. He didn't even think of stopping. At the very least, he was nice enough to spray a wall of water on me, to cool me off. I was getting a little warm. Thank you, Mr. Bastard Huevón man.

Second 405 comes along. No thought about stopping, again. WHAT. is going on here? A fellow bus-stop compatriot was hailing the same bus, with a mighty, "¡Eh! ¡Que huevón!" And then, strangely, the bus stopped about half a block up from the bus stop, taunting us to run to meet him. Ok. Good thing we've invested in institutionalized bus paradas where you can always stop, every time, every day, rain or shine. No need to make up your own route, Bussy.

So we board.

The bus driver didn't stop to pick up another passenger until we were almost to where I live. Usually we make ... I don't know... 30 stops along the way? Nope. Not today. Instead, he went about 30mph , sailing down asphalt-informed waterways. Qué huevón. At one point he rounded a corner sharply and I, very sincerely, was thrown from my seat. It was half embarrassing, half hilarious. He reminded me of the mad mailman from the movie Funny Farm. Dear Lord. Save us.

happy happy happy

It's been brought to my attention that all I ever do is complain. Oops. I have to say--there are a whole lot of things I don't like at all about Santiago and about not being in Seattle, but I'm having a fantastic time here. Well, "fantastic" sounds like a strong word. I'm enjoying things.



Well, I wasn't really enjoying being cold in the rain today, but, I generally am enjoying things.

The best part about being in Santiago is meeting all sorts of interesting people. Some of them I don't even get the opportunity to meet (like the strangely dressed man running, stumbling, through the metro today; he was amusing), but I know that I would find them interesting, if I met them.

I met an interesting Brit on the bus (an interesting place to make a friend, admittedly) and I have met lots of his interesting friends--which is a nice set up for me, because I don't have to go through all the trouble of meeting people in interesting places, like on busses and in alleys late at night.

Just the other day, he introduced me to a couple of his friends who, interestingly enough, all play jazz together. I sat in a soundproof studio and listened to them practice for hours. I sat on the floor with the pooch (who is taken care of by a man with a limp, who refers to himself as "El Cojo" ["The Lame One"] and told me that this dog, Krone, "ladra en inglés" ["he barks in English"]) in this soundproof room--which was another interesting thing, because don't dogs have particularly good hearing? And wouldn't that be quite malicious to trap a dog in a soundproof room and force him (or her) to listen for hours to four men jamming away on an array jazz standards? Well, in any case, Krone and I got on famously.



Why can't you see these people's features? That's frustrating, and interesting. And they don't know that they are on my blog. That's interesting, and strange.

Another interesting thing. Today was a holiday in Chile, to celebrate the victory of a naval battle against Peru. I went for a little excursion to Valparaíso where I walked for hours in the rain with my friend and sat on a nearly-covered bench. There was a deceptive structure constructed above the bench--which looked very much like it would shelter someone from rain. Instead, they were just slats of wood about three inches apart. Interesting.



The metro, bustling as usual.



A power outlet in the metro. It's thoughtful, really. But interesting, as well.

This is just an introduction to my interesting life in Santiago. You have my word that more happy happy happy stories will follow. ... I'm not sure that means much, because I'm not very good with words, but, there you go.



Yeah, I'd like to. But I don't know where.

Mister Fella

I was inhabiting the steps of the metro station yesterday, waiting for a friend, when along came a different sort of friend. One with lots of fur and a big appetite. He came right up and tried to slobber my face (I objected). I've seriously considered how I might take one of these pups home with me. Some are small enough to fit into my satchel, but I don't like those ones. Some are big and oafish, just the way I like them, but those ones would be too noticeable. I can picture the confrontation with my (wicked) land lady: ¿¿Qué?? No entiendo que estás diciendo. No hablo inglés. ….. Pero, ¿perro? ¿Cómo? No es. No sé. Eres loca.

Well, anyways. The point is: My metro friend--we'll call him Lucca--hung around the station for a while. I could tell that he knew he wasn't supposed to be inside because he was sort of cowering about, the way dogs do when they know they're going to get booted off the bed or something. This woman came along, a Good Citizen sort of woman, and began coaxing him to follow her out of the station. She held her hand out and said, "Ven!" (Come!) And then, when he didn't follow, "Venga!" (Come!) I found this interesting only because "Venga" is the more polite (Usted) way of saying "Come." I do my best to use the Ud.form in the appropriate situations. But, honestly, I don't really get it. There are people I talk to whom I refer to as tú, Ud., and tú again, all in the course of one conversation. I worry that they think I am better than them if I refer to them as tú, and they respond by referring to me as Ud. So then I try out Ud., but that's awkward because I falter over Ud. forms more than the tú. So then I default back to tú, and to hell with deference..
So...this woman really did my head in. Am I supposed to address these street dogs using Ud.? What in the world? And the janitors at work? They're tús? ... Falta algo. I don't understand.

If you were an author, and you were publishing the 66th edition of your book, might you begin to consider that it's never going to be good enough?

The nice thing about living here

(in this apartment cluttered with junk, on the other side of town, with this woman who trusts no one, under the tutelage of one who judges character quality by one's hour of arrival at home nights and choice of Sunday morning activities) is knowing that I won't miss it.

El Diablo is in Seattle

I’m going to try to play devil’s advocate against myself here. Wish me luck!

I have Santiago weeks. And I have Seattle weeks. I’ve had Peru, Colombia, and Spain days. I, occassionally, have ‘on a sailboat in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle’ hours. This is a Seattle week.



I’m not one to make a decision and stick with it. – I remember once in a heated tiff with my mom (Hi, Mom. ¡Felíz día mamá!), while we were gallivanting across Europe, saying, “JUST BECAUSE I SAY I’M GOING TO DO SOMETHING DOESN’T MEAN I’M GOING TO DO IT!!!” Geez! Who do you think I am?! (Sorry, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day. I love you. And I mean it.) Well, I’m not saying it’s a nice thing about me. It’s just something I’ve become accustomed to. I reevalute my decisions, with greater frequency than most, and then I make adjustments when I deem them necessary. For example, I say, “I’m going to go downtown today,” but then I reevaluate the decision and realize that what I actually want to do is take a train to the country. So I do. … What? Sue me.

Okay, before I start getting defensive – I go back and forth between wanting to be in Santiago and wanting to be in Seattle. At first, I really didn’t think I would last through December in Santiago. At this point, I’m determined to stay at least that long. But I still don’t know what comes next. One week (a Santiago week, perhaps with a smattering of Peru and Bermuda Triangle), I convince myself that I am an expat through and through. The next week (a Seattle week), I catch myself daydreaming up a cold lunch on a long-distance flight.

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing? Are you my mother?? (Happy Mother’s Day!, if you are.)

So, there it is: I change my mind. Today, I was thinking about how lovely it would be to work at El Diablo, a Cuban coffee shop near my alma mater. My beloved Seattle (más) espressoneerism (más) Cuban flare (más) Cuban fare (más) un poquito de Español scrawled across the walls (más) a local book shop next door…sounds like a beautiful thing to me. I’ll be home first thing next year.

But, here it is: I change my mind. Today, I was thinking about how lovely it would be to work at El Diablo, a Cuban coffee shop close to SPU. But I went to SPU for four years, and, honestly — get me out of there. Café culture is fun, but when you work in a place like that, café culture becomes dollar bills and best-foot-forward customer service. And—I know myself, even if I don’t know what I want—and a Cuban coffee shop is never going to be a suitable substitute for Cuba. The book shop next door, that’s the part that does me in. How can I pass up an opportunity to work adjacent to Queen Anne Books? I may never have another opportunity like that one. …

And so, here I am. Still wondering what/where on Earth to go/do in December. I think I feel rushed to make a decision because winter is looming, and (obvio) December and winter, winter and December—there’s no separation between them. In fact, I have (hang on, let me count, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7) seven months before I’m going anywhere. That leaves me at least six months to come up with a “final” decision—which will be, in no way, binding.

I should clarify that I am glad I’m in Chile. I’d just rather be … in another apartment, or in another part of Chile, or in another country in South America, or safe in the Sound, o algo así.



Quote of the day: “I don't think you really know what you mean, Sara Parker...but it still sounds wonderful.”

Suddenly, this doesn't seem like such a fun game anymore...

Fighting

I find myself engaged in many battles every day. Well. "Battles" is quite dramatic wording. But, nonetheless, I find myself in a number of struggles--of one sort or another--every day. Sometimes it's expressing myself accurately in Spanish; sometimes it's expressing myself accurately in English;sometimes it's making it to work on time (damn you, Transantiago!). I don't often get into physical battles, although I'm waiting for the day that I get to throw a punch. ... No, no no.. I would lose. I've already lost. It hasn't even begun, and I've lost that one.

But what is it about a fight that is so compelling? Internal struggles aren't quite as entertaining to the eye, but those physical fights--why so fascinating? I remember in high school hearing rumors of so-and-so fighting what's-his-name after school on the quad. Ooooooohh! We'll all be there to watch! ..... Why? I don't understand the appeal in watching someone wound someone else.

This is all fairly out of the blue. Why would Sara talk about fighting? Well (glad you asked), when I was leaving my class tonight--love that class--there was a dog fight. Not with dogs that were bred to fight, just friendly neighborhood (street) dogs. In fact, I like to think they were buddies, just messing around. And, no joke, four men were standing around watching them fight. Why is a fight so compelling? I'm serious. I don't understand it.

What I've Learnt Today

One must be careful with delicate things.

Unscramble this:

I gave this task to some advanced students this morning. I'm not saying it was fair of me. I'm not saying it was good of me. Just unscramble these sentences. They are from the story 'The Little Prince," by Saint Auxpery.

1. Rightly is the only heart with one can it that see; essential is to what is eye the invisible.
(Hint: The heart sees things the eye cannot.)

2. You tamed, forever responsible, for what have you become.
(Hint: If you break it, you buy it.)

3. The time that you rose is spent so your important rose makes it have with your.
(Hint: Time IS the essence.)

It’s May/so cold.

It’s the first of May, and we are undeniably and irrevocably winter bound. I’m mildly offended that I wasn’t consulted in the matter. (Rude.) But I’m adaptable.

As I’m translating myself into this South American context, I’m finding myself at a loss for a -- well, just at a loss, I suppose. I can’t find the right word, in any language, to describe what is ‘yo.’ When I lose track of my direction in life [and I’m losing track of my direction in life], it gets more and more difficult to clutch a firm sense of who I am [I am beyond the clutches of my mismo]. It’s unnerving, this limbonic state. I wouldn’t worry about it too much (ah, and I don’t, really…this is all purely for show)--except that I’m not fond of floundering about, mutely observing bits of my self all muddled and perilously strewn here and there. I just want some semblance of security, some point of reference; and I’ll blunder merrily along. But, without direction or intentionality in my pursuits, the core of me gets shifty and morally evasive. (Well, with no direction, morality has no aims, and who am I to talk authoritatively about morality anyways?)

All that mumbo-jumbo to say: It’s getting awfully cold. My extremities are beginning to numb, and all I can feel is the winter setting in. When I push myself to think about things, I think about Seattle and all the comforts of home, until I am bored out of my mind and feel the compulsion to move again, just to spite myself for having considered it. And then I think about where I am, and--although I can find myself on GoogleEarth--I really have no idea where I am. So then I think about where I’d like to find myself, and

Ah! My toes are freezing!



¿Conoces Le Ballon Rouge por Albert Lamorisse?