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
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Thursday, 26 June 2008
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!
Wednesday, 25 June 2008
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.
Tuesday, 24 June 2008
"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 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.
Monday, 23 June 2008
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
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
Sunday, 22 June 2008
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?
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?
Thursday, 19 June 2008
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....
Monday, 16 June 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 14 June 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 13 June 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
¿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.
Has it really come to that? I have to lie about these things?? Yeesh.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
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?
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?
Friday, 6 June 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 4 June 2008
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.
(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.
Sunday, 1 June 2008
La ti da
I'm back.
I'm moving in to a new apartment today. Or am I? I don't know. How should I know? Why are you asking me?
The landlord is a bit like the cable guy who says, "I'll be by between 9 and 6." Only, in this case, he is saying, "I'll come to Santiago on Sunday, and take a look at the apartment to check out the condition. And then I'll give you a call, in the afternoon, I imagine." I imagine. He said those words. I imagine. I hope he's feeling imaginative today.
Speaking of creativity, mine is blocked right now. Check back later (if you want).
I'm moving in to a new apartment today. Or am I? I don't know. How should I know? Why are you asking me?
The landlord is a bit like the cable guy who says, "I'll be by between 9 and 6." Only, in this case, he is saying, "I'll come to Santiago on Sunday, and take a look at the apartment to check out the condition. And then I'll give you a call, in the afternoon, I imagine." I imagine. He said those words. I imagine. I hope he's feeling imaginative today.
Speaking of creativity, mine is blocked right now. Check back later (if you want).
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