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.