3 Hamburgs

I am really sad that there is no more half-naked dancing in my Tuesday dance class. When we have our final exam in two weeks, male students from another class will come to dance with a class of nearly entirely girls (there are two boys, but like half the class they never show up.) Entonces, there is still hope.

Tuesdays are one of my help the artists days. As I made my way to the ascensor, I was distracted by quite the ruckus on just past Plaza Victoria. (sabes que ruckus= ruction+rumpus?look what you learned today.) A protest, but on a grand scale. An epic protest, not like the animal rights one. The street was packed solid, one side to another. I walked and walked to find the end, and after 8 blocks I found it, but I expect it grew in size from when I saw it. In total, it was estimated that 14,000 municipality workers of all sorts marched in the first of three days of protect, common before the presidential election. The current population of my hometown of Hamburg is 4,167. So picture 3 Hamburgs marching through the port of Valparaíso. Not just marching, it was way more than marching. It was at times so well-organized that it seemed like a happy parade. Groups had matching flags and shirts and costumes, matching signs, coordinated routines, and every sound-making device imaginable. At other times, people ran at random, chanting in unison or otherwise shouting lots of things I did not always understand. If you picture just the horns and flags, and the surrounding streets with haphazard colorful houses and winding stairwells, the result is a Dr. Seuss-like image. It was not like that at all. There was an urgency here, a desperation. Carabineros, police, watched silently. They were surprisingly few and far between, and very collected. They had seen this before. Lines of drummers passed, tons of them. Other instruments too. Leaders shouting into megaphones, people in costumes dancing. A parade. Then more workers, dressed up as what I perceived to be as zombies, pushing garbage cans in a well-choreographed routine down the street, stopping to reform, yelling, repeat. I was mesmerized by the trash can dance, and actually stood for a while watching only that. I wonder how much the government listens to 14,000 protesters, if anything changes. The article in the newspaper was not until page 6; that many people, and the article is not on the front page, just a preview picture. This happens before every presidential election; it is not as big of news as I think. I wonder what the workers that are still at their jobs think. Some are always left behind so no one seeking job happens upon the vacated vicinity like a gold mine.

Quillota

I am not sure how I ended up on a solo trip to Quillota, a small town in the interior, an hour from Viña and very close to Parque Nacional la Campana. This is not a popular destination, which in my opinion was even more reason to go there, as I hate being the same as the annoying English-speaking exchange students. I sought the Expo 2009, essentially a massive carnival with rows upon rows of stands selling almost anything, rides, and music. I had not traveled by myself on bus before. Not once. On micros yes, short trips, but to be honest, this was my first ever real bus trip. Hooray. I boarded an obnoxiously purple micro on Avenida España and was on my way. I have gathered the basic actions I need to survive a trip. My first was to ask the driver to tell me where to get off, as I had not a clue. Plan executed. Next was to get to the expo. Too far to walk: colectivo. Where do I find those? Asking. Luckily, I am good at this, and successfully found my way in.

I was fascinated by the many many cheap earrings, delicious junk food, and the vendors. I spent a ridiculous amount of time talking to whoever would listen, after all, I was alone, and they were interesting. The lady who sold me the copper earrings was fantastic, and obligingly explained the process, the origin of the wood, the meaning of the copper symbol, etc.

There was a guy selling old coins. This interested me for a number of reasons. There were old Chilean coins and coins from all over the world. I was well aware of my infinite lack of knowledge of how much these were actually worth, so I only bought really cheap ones for fear of getting ripped off. After my purchase, The vendor pulled out a massive and ancient-looking one from somewhere and proceeded to explain to me that it was from 84. What? The year 84. Does it actually say that? He showed me, and I could not read it. Year 84 antes cristo, AC. He showed me that too. Wait a minute, nothing from that time period actually reads AC antes cristo or BC before christ. Yes readers, you can be proud of this gringa for picking up on this so fast. I told him that it was not real, but he continued anyway. I don't remember the price, but it was something astronomical. Do people really believe that? This was the first time I had encountered someone who wanted to rip me off, or at least the first time I had picked up on it. Even though I bought the cheapest coins, I still walked away feeling a little ripped off. I think the ones I have are real, but maybe they are worth nothing, probably. That is ok, I would not have found them elsewhere and they are cool.

Then there was miel!! How grand! And how long I had been searching! It was weird looking though, darker than normal. I risked it anyway as it was inexpensive. Later on, I found it was rather liquidy and semi-processed, not quite the miel I had wanted. Hmm. I felt ripped off again despite my precaution. Does this only happen when I am by myself?

I had a moment of panic as I looked for a micro back to Viña. Where were they? I asked and walked and asked and walked. I turned around and saw a sign directing me to Quillota. I was outside city limits. Oops. It was getting dark, what time did they stop running? What if I got stuck? What if I was robbed right now and no one knew where I was and had no means to buy a bus ticket or make a phonecall? Then I found them. My bus, and it was a true bus, probably had 60 people on it. Really. I can't believe they let me on. The ticket guy smashed his way through to collect payment. It took him half an hour to make it to the back of the bus and return. I have never seen people have to stand for a long bus ride before, but at least 20 did, probably more. On short commuter micro rides yes, but not on long bus trips. It was intriguing though, but after the hour, by which time a seat finally opened and there was no one else to whom I could give it, my legs were not thrilled. The seat for those last 3 minutes was divine. Trip successful. And I didn't even get lost. Well not completely. As long as your definition of being lost is not being able to find your way back, in place of not knowing where you are, which are two very distinct things, then I am in good shape.

undercover Chilean

I want to go under cover as a Chilean. I am not sure where this idea came from, but I think it would be fun to see how different life would be, to see how different normal human interaction would be, to understand people's perceptions of me as a different person, not as a visitor/tourist.

Now to think how I would do that I have to have an idea of what a Chilean is. First of all, Chileans speak Spanish. I'm working on that, but still can't shake the accent or pronounce the 'rr' or 'll.' My efforts to improve my production of these sounds have resulted in no improvement whatsoever. Next, customs, everything from eating with your non-fork hand on the table to knowing where to catch a micro. I think I would do ok in this department, but this one has the most potential to actually be done well I think.

Lastly looks. This gets complicated. What does a Chilean look like? Well, first of all, they are not all of the same descent, indigenous, european, wherever. So of course there is a tremendous variation. Here are my perceptions, from my extremely limited observations during a short period of time and in limited locations. I perceive Chileans as having darker skin than me. Usually. Many also have lighter skin, but most slightly darker than mine, but not as dark as closer to the equator in more tropical countries. Next, hair. I think that most Chileans have darker hair than me. Some have the same or lighter, but generally it is dark, thick, and gorgeous. I love the black black black hair a lot. Eyes too, most have brown eyes, and very few, at least in central Chile, have light eyes. And they seem to prefer contacts in place of glasses as well. Finally, I think Chileans are shorter in stature than [north]americans. I am really tall for a girl here, and fairly tall in the US. A lot of Chilean boys are shorter than me, but of course not all. By boys I mean adult men. Hmm, I forgot clothing, but this is not that different than the US I don't think. Tight jeans and dark colors seem to be trendy, but really I am crap at judging this.

In conclusion, I could dye my hair, put in [color-change prescription??]contacts, improve my Spanish, and dress better, but I would probably not seem any more Chilean. Do I stand out a lot now as obviously not Chilean? Very much, if I open my mouth. If I am not talking, I still come across as gringa for my light hair and eyes, but there are Chileans that look like me. More interesting probably is the concept of wanting to "go undercover."

respeto

Juan Jose and I had an interesting conversation about those places so fascinating to me; the forbidden places. Where I can't walk by myself, even during the day. These are generally the poorer areas, on the edges of the city, many of the higher places on the hills. Some hills are entirely safe even at the top, but others are entirely flaite. Before I get more descriptive, know two things: 1. that these places exist all over the world, yes, even in the developed nation of the United States of America, and 2. I have never been to where I am about to describe, so know that this is a highly skewed view which was formed on the basis from many conversations with people who have seen or live near places like this. Therefore, I will not claim to "know" much about which I am talking.

The poor sectors are most dangerous because they house not only the poor, but the flaite as well. The flaite live there, and their activities originate there. Drugs are rampant. They are not nice places to visit I imagine, nor are they remotely safe for me, but they fascinate me. Why are they like this? How did they form and why don't they get better?

The most interesting aspect for me is the following. Flaite knife and shoot each other and will attack you for your stuff, but this depends on who you are. If you are poor, they have no reason to attack you. If you are Chilean but from another neighborhood, that is reason. If you are a 'blonde' green-eyed gringa, that is very good reason. But if you are Chilean and live close to this place, and have entered sufficiently that your face is known, you are respected. I could not believe that this could be the case. But often it is a respect out of fear. Flaite know that you have family that can find them and retaliate, so they don't touch you. You don't touch them because, well, they are dangerous. I can go to some of these sectors by day, to know and seek and understand the reality, but only some, by day, and accompanied by a Chilean which I have described. But there are some places exist which I absolutely cannot go. This idea fascinates me, that a place can be so dangerous.

How can these places exist? Why don't the police go in there and arrest people? They can't. They would be killed, just because they are police. They can enter most places by day, but by night no, they would go in vain. And so, these places will continue to exist. Luckily though I gather that they are relatively contained; I am not going to find myself caught in a shootout because I won't be in the place where it happens, and they don't have reason to hurt me.

I want to understand this phenomenon. I can't though, because I don't live there. But I want to understand more than I do now, know why it is the way it is, know the people and the places that know one visits. Don't worry, I won't go wandering about seeking drug lords, nor will I really go to these places at all, only safer ones with Chilean guides. I promise.

asado halloween

I finally made it to an asado, a BBQ, my first in Chile. Considering the popularity of the asado, and the fact that I was in Chile for 18 de septiembre (for independence day) it is remarkable that I never made it to one before. And ridiculous. Nevertheless, I made it, on my first trip into cerro Placeres. It was not incredibly different from a [north]american BBQ, except we ate choripanes with mayonnaise, which are sausage-hotdog things on bread. And potatoes, with mayonnaise. And rice, molded into a... cake. With mayonnaise. Ok so the food and language was different, but the idea was essentially the same. Apparently Chileans are not fans of spicy food; I was the only one who was able to comfortably eat the spicy pebre. I was blown away by the welcome I received, when I knew only one person in the entire group, especially since I did not know the owner of the house, and everyone already knew each other because they were in the same band. It didn't matter, Chilean hospitality still reigned. They wouldn't stop feeding me even though they had no idea who I was.

Oh yeah, it was halloween. It in no way seemed like halloween. I didn't think about it all day until the I got a card from my family in the US, with my rabbit and a pumpkin and transparent ghost. Then I forgot again until the asado, when trick-or-treaters started making their rounds. It was much the same process, but they said "dulce o travesura?" instead and it sounded different, a different tone or inflection or something, but the same idea. Somehow this warm oceanside palmtree environment with a sunset after 8:00 did not seen anything like halloween, and it didn't seem like we should have it here. It is something I missed celebrating, the middle of my favorite time of year full of running and hawks and cold wind and holidays, ending with Christmas as the big finale, but I am here right now celebrating different things, and it is still awesome.

I kind of don't like the idea that Halloween is in Chile at all. It is a gringo holiday celebrated by gringos in gringolandia. But it has caught on in Chile, not as strong, but it's here. I have this sense of my culture spilling over, and I don't like that because I want Chilean culture to be Chilean culture and not [north]american culture. We're in Chile! It seems that younger Chileans like it. Many kids dress up, and my generation hosts parties. It is a fun time. So I have... mixed feelings on Halloween in Chile. I understand if Chileans do not want to celebrate it though. I have talked to many who like it and many who don't. Well, I can't really understand, I am not a Chileans watching a [north]american holiday infiltrate, I am a [north]american who normally celebrates the holiday with gusto, so I can't speak from understanding, only from observation and the knowledge that my point of view will always be a little different.

ruido subterraneo

They say whenever their is strange weather the next big earthquake will happen. And by they I mean the Chileans who remember the 1985 earthquake. The weather that day was unseasonably warm, and everything was strange; the clouds, the wind, the heat, none of it made sense. The last two days were exactly like this. Everything about the weather was out of the ordinary, for one, the fact that it reached 30 degrees C (86 Fahrenheit) in the spring was odd. Everywhere I went anyone over the age of 25 was talking about earthquakes.

They talked not just for the weather but for the tremors. Oddly enough, during these two days we had several tremors, a couple fairly strong ones. Only those two days, the ones with the weird weather, then they stopped. There was an earthquake in Japan.

I want to understand what it is like to experience an earthquake. I want to know the sensation that everything is chaos, that the ground is fluid energy. Of course I would never wish for the death and destruction and fear that an earthquake causes. But I still want to understand what it is like. When someone tells me about it, I can't relate to it at all. They ask me what we have in Pennsylvania alone these lines (tornadoes, etc.) I answer that we have nothing remotely dangerous at all. We don't feel any of the tremors in Recreo because it is built on solid rock, and so this hill is more stable and less sensitive to tremors than others. Some hills are much more unstable, especially in Valparaíso, where cerro Yungay is not even a natural hill, but created from artificial materials. It will literally slide in the ocean during a large earthquake. Many of the houses in Valpo are not very stable either. Ironic, as I am the only one that wants to feel them and I can't because my hill is too solid; I only feel the really strong ones, or rather I only felt the one strong one a while ago.

The noise. I want to hear the noise, the subterranean grinding of the earth and the energy waves that flash to the surface. Every natural disaster has a distinct noise, tornadoes, hurricanes, volcanoes. I want to know what it is like to hear that terrible yelling from within the earth and understand why it is so horrifying.

el weon de gas

There are these trucks, carts too, that drive around the cerros of Valparaíso with canisters of gas, for use in kitchens, to heat the califont, etc. Estadounidenses, remember the ice cream man? He drives around playing music so everyone knows he is the neighborhood, and those within earshot run over to the truck. Well, this is the same idea, but with canisters of gas. They bang a wrench or something against the canisters, and so attract customers with their incessant rattling. I have heard the sound before but never understood why until one drove by at the mosaic pilars and I bothered to ask what the noise was for.

el motemei porteño

A motemei is a vendor of the cerros of Valparaíso, who sells tortillas and mote de huesillo, a baked bread of some kind. He walks roughly the same route around the hills with his homemade breads, yelling "motemei," keeping alive this old tradition. This is a very porteño tradition, only found in Valparaíso. They surprisingly sell a lot more in the hills than they do in the plan; you won't encounter them in the central plazas.

The man I met while making mosaics is known as "el motemei," or "el motemei porteño." He is well-known for his work, not only as a vendor but apparently for some areas of the fine arts as well. His name is Carlos Martinez. He is very porteño, quite the friendly and energetic spirit of the city. I am as of now unsure if he is the only motemei in the city. He comes from 5 generations of motemeis and amazingly is able to continue this work.

Traditionally a motemei would pass by Ascensor Polanco at midnight, yelling his name and calling his buyers out of their houses. I am not sure if this is still done, but regardless it is awesome. Carlos Martinez and any other existing motemeis have in a very short period of time developed into the stuff of legends in my mind. They are like ghosts of Valpo's hills; you know they pass by but can't always find them, it's a chance encounter, or at least it is for those who don't know where to look. They are living legends of the city's past. I want to find this guy again, talk to him, buy his work. It sounds like I am arranging a drug deal, but I assure you otherwise. I feel like I am seeking a bird of the Amazing basin which exists but more in legend than reality, but that I am the explorer that is going to find it.

mosaicos porteños and golpecitos

Today started out... slowly. I was late, again, this time probably from the antibiotics causing me to sleep even more like the dead than normal. Ahead of time, I talked to Hugo, one of the students at St. Luceo Theresa de los Andes, about helping me when I work with some of the English classes on Fridays. He came to the school today exclusively for that reason, so I was in a panic fit when I woke up an hour and a half late, and all the 205 micros, my fastest way to Miraflores, for almost half and hour of waiting, were passing by in the wrong lane. But when I arrived, he was waiting, ready to help plan the fantastic happenings of the English classes.

I arrived in the middle of the second class of the day. Today there was a substitute teacher, who was FANTASTIC! She had good classroom management, spoke really good English (but a native Chilean), and was good at planning stuff fast and keeping kids occupied. Finally!! I wish I could spend more time watching her because she had it together, and I could learn a ton. Hugo, who is a junior and one of the best English students in the school, and I planned for the next class. The results of our extreme hard work and dedication are as follows:

English is fun! English is cool!

You really should learn it, don't be a fool

[fool= rap lingo]

Time to practice in the English class

With Hugo and Ellen's rap! Yeah!!

You can travel the world without complaint

If you speak English, it's ok

England, Australia, and the USA

Are good places to practice and learn

Music and playing are good ways

You can practice it anywhere!

That's right, we're pros. Hugo had it all together though, planning games such as Bachillerato and Simon Says for English practice with the 7th grade. Bachillerato is a game with two teams, where each team is given a letter and must fill in a chart on the board with information beginning with that letter, such as Name (Ellen), country/city (England), etc, with points being given for original words and filling in the boxes that the other team missed. The boys team lost and had to put all the desks back in order. It was fantastic. Hugo and I also demonstrated the difference between North American English and British English. Yes, they teach British English in this school. And I even felt useful... my native English led to good pronunciation practice. Yay for an extremely interactive class.

In high spirits I microed my way to the camera shop, where I found that my camera was still not fixed because there are a billion tiny grains of sand in it, and continued to Cerro Bellavista, up Espritú Santo again, and found Gonzalo and Alex working on their pillars as usual. Today I worked on Gonzalo's mosaic of himself again, this time on the green shirt, of which i completed about half. Working on these mosaics is a more than interesting way to pass your time. Friends and neighbors of the artists pass by at a steady rate, commuting to the plan for work or food or otherwise. And there are tourists, lots of tourists now that it is spring. For whatever reason, I am annoyed at their presence. I should just talk to them and see where they are from and what they are doing, and I do sometimes, but I am still annoyed. Maybe because I feel to attached to this city and in a sense am getting to know it, which they cannot do by passing through. The man known as "el motemei" passed by and chatted with Gonzalo. More on him later, I will post separately. The gas man passed by too; more later. Another good thing about Chilean culture: if you meet someone and your hands are dirty, if for instance they are covered in mortar, you won't have any problems because you of course kiss them instead of shaking their hand anyway. The time spent mosaicing passes quickly with good conversation and 2 liters of coca cola. There is nothing better than spending an afternoon with two Valparaísian street artists (mosaiscos porteños.) As I left to look for a micro, Gonzalo showed me a place on the return route, a little plaza area with Aldunate and Farrari which is prettymuch entirely covered in mosaics. He showed me the sections he made, one with his shadow, others with a million designs. How cool is it that I met the person who makes some of the most well-known art in the city?

We got to talking about why I want to "ser Chilena." It's odd to want to be a different nationality. Or be from a different culture. Or language. Or ethnicity. Or is it really any of these things at all? I thought about what I like from this culture. Everything. Especially how caring the people are, cariñoso, everything is so caring. I thought about what it would be like to look different, speak Spanish, have fall without halloween and Christmas with tropical weather and beaches, to take a micro to work every day, to live in a house painted the brightest color in existence, to hang your laundry to dry in the sun. And I thought about why I like some of these things so much, probably because the are different, a more simple life? Maybe. But why does it appeal to be that different at all, why don't I still want to be gringa? Gonzalo and I discussed this for quite some time. I am highly interested in why I follow this line of thinking.

Que rico eres!!

I am 1.7m, or 170cm tall, and weigh 58 kilos. I am ashamed that I had to look up that information because I am still not familiar enough to convert anything in my head.

I just realized that sala de ventas means "salesroom." I look at these signs every day from the micro and I just now realized... I am pathetic. I also chanced on the word harto, or harta, which means "a lot or much." I thought Chileans just used "alto/a" for a lot of things. Maybe they do that too, I am not sure now because they sound so similar. It's funny how you can make the same mistakes for so long and not realize...

Another recent realization: all of the juice in my house is made from a powder that contains aspartame, which gives me headaches. I pound down probably an average of 5 10ish-ounce glasses of that every day (ok, 296ml, if that is even what I should use.) That is a lot of aspartame. For three months. Maybe this is why my body feels crappy all the time, or that I can't concentrate. I firmly believe this compound has negative effects on your brain. Yippy.

Sheridan and I videochatted last night for an hour and a half HelenKeller style, without realizing that the volume was not turned on. Probably the best video chat ever. And today Thomas el Vecino got to meet my parents over skype, which made for a good but odd German-accented English and Spanish conversation about the Amish (who I think are going to take over the world,) and that my mother's maiden name, Nothstein, literally means "emergency rocks." The family was probably named after brave men of our family who in early 1750 [north]America fought off the flaites of the day by chucking stones when they got too close. This makes me even prouder of my lineage.

This is one of the more exciting news tidbits I have. Cristian read this blog, and we were talking about me writing in Spanish. I told him I had, and he went back and read again... he had been reading my English comments and got to the Spanish part and then his mind did something really cool; it did not recognize the difference because he understands the written text of both languages equally. He didn't even realize I wrote it in Spanish, which is so cool because it means his English is really good. His mind put if all together, blended, totally bilingual but reading a non-native language while thinking in his native language, so he was reading Spanish but in English, ¿cachai? First of all, the fact that the human mind can do that is incredible. It also shows how excellent his English is, which reflects his intelligence/dedication/extra practice or something remarkable because he has never lived in an English-speaking environment. One day, maybe my mind will do this too, and I will read things in Spanish and come across English but read it in Spanish because my mind functions in Spanish, or something like that. This blows my mind. Side note: he also made a really good Pinky and the Brain reference, heard for the first time in Spanish. When I asked what are you up to tonight, he responded "trying to take over the world." I get really excited when I come across quotes and other references that I heard in Spanish and are familiar in English.

Today in m grammar class we played what is essentially "Psychiatrist." Yup, get excited. The premise is that one person leaves and everyone else decides what problem they have, then the person comes back and tries to figure out the problem. The twist to the Spanish version though is that the class gives clues through advice, which creatively utilizes various forms of the subjunctive and thus forces us to actually practice it. A truly genus idea. Jun took the cake for the best quote of the day. In one instance the hypothetical "problem" was that everyone in the class was in love with the person who had to guess their own problem (not really a problem on their part, but you get the idea.) Jun's useful tidbit was "Que rico eres!!" The entire class probably secretly wet themselves. There are absolutely no more appropriate examples of this game that I can give; this is definitely not the camp version of Psychiatrist.

forbidden fruit

Tell me I am not allowed and I want to. I have developed an obsession with Valparaíso's cerros. The problem: that I can't visit many of them. There are 40 something in the city, and I have been to about 10. If the neighborhood is moderately safe, I have probably visited there already. The higher hills, the sectors that harbor slums and flaite, where I can't go even during the day even with company, they fascinate me. I want to know why it is how it is. I want to see how people live there. I want to see the places that other exchange students and visitors don't go. But I also don't want to get hurt. What I want to see the most remains off limits.

Laundry. I like that t is hung on houses, outside of the windows, on lines below the windows. Another very "South American" custom? Why do I think that when all over the world people do this? We don't do that at my house in the US, and for that reason it gets me thinking, why do they do it? They don't have dryers. Why? They don't need them, it is a waste of space and energy. Views with colored haphazard houses and laundry, these are the ones I like the most.

no soporte cuando...

I can't stand the environment that English-speaking exchange students create. I walk outside of Casa Central and I hear English. I walk inside Casa Central and I hear English. I get on the micro, English. You are in a Spanish-speaking country for a reason! They all talk about the same things, Chilean things that are annoying, food they can't find here, and alway always always where they are traveling. This annoys me for multiple reasons. First of all, you should explore the city you are living in/next to to begin with, and most have not done so, or only know the nightlife and not any other aspect of the culture. Two, don't tell me you are going to "do" Chiloé" or La Serena or any other place you cannot possibly get to truly know in terms of the culture and the people and the place in the short weekend you are there. Three, I don't want to hear you talking because it is always in English, and you wonder why your Spanish has not improved? Four, you are living here as a student, take some time to live here as a student. Be a commuter, live as a Chilean. You can still travel, but live this way too. Nearly all do not.

I talked to one gringa today that spoke to me exclusively in Spanish, the rest responded to my Spanish with English, to which I responded in Spanish and for which they replied in... you guessed it, English. You all bore me. Any extranjero that is not from the US usually is about a hundred times more willing to speak in Spanish. Some exchange students don't even have classes with Chileans. This is an idiotic idea. I want to cry for being in the gringa classes, not for the profe or the content, I like that part, but for the gringos, I can't take much more of it.

The most atrocious thing I have heard is that the gringas are bored. Bored. Why? They have to go to class and live in Valpo and Viña. Seriously? Go outside of your house. Meet some Chileans. Practice your Spanish, which is why you are here (or why you should be here) in the first place. Get out of your comfort zone. Talk to Chileans without making fun of how they talk. Ask what something means instead of looking it up in a dictionary. Before you do that, talk around whatever you don't know how to say by using what you already know, you will then learn from a native speaker how to say it properly, and look at that, the conversation was still entirely in spanish. Learn from context. Learn from conversation. Learn from mistakes. And don't talk to me. You can talk to gringas at home all the time in English, that is not why you are here. I often arrive at home in a bad mood, sometimes angry, from hearing stuff like this, especially before, during, and after my culture class, which is great except for this aspect. I understand it is easy to relate to people like you, people in the same situation as you, people with thinks in common; it is comfortable, it is easy. This is also not why you are here. And you have a lot in common with Chileans anyway.

I am currently on amoxicillin for my ear infections. When I bothered to look up the symptoms, the list included irritability, volatile mood swings, aggressiveness, disorientation, and easy fatigue. hmm, these 5 things match exactly how my body feels right now, physically and mentally... I might be reacting too strongly as I write this. I should be quarantined from gringa classes for this week so I don't accidently explode on someone. Lara, I have a better idea/sympathetic understanding of your 'roid rage effects now :)

"hoy terminé los pantalones amarillos de Gonzalo"

Today's dance class was much less exciting than last week, no half-naked dancing professors, just cueca and other dances which I can sometimes do but for which I cannot remember the names. For how simple the cueca is, I make it into a mess every time.

But on to more exciting business. I took advantage of my procrastination and time between my classes to visit first the Darwin bio exhibit in Casa Central, then travel once again to Cerro Bellavista. Here I found Alex and Gonzalo, the mosaic artists of Valparaíso, working diligently on their pillars. I helped make Valparaíso street art!!!!! What a privilege it was. There I was, ready to help create a permanent piece of the city just outside of the museo cielo abierto. Gonzalo's pillar is an autorretrato, or a self-portrait of sorts. I was given the task of making Gonzalo himself, starting with the yellow pants. I worked for three hours on those yellow pants, and finished them in time to get to class. It's easy but tedious work, extremely fun to smash and cut the tiles, shape the pieces into something beautiful, like yellow pants. Gonzalo doesn't have any yellow pants, which makes me sad.

I am really honored to have encountered real artists of Valparaíso, to work on a part of the city's beautiful culture. It is really hard to explain how meaningful of an experience this is, to work on something as simple as a mosaic on the street, but so big that it affects the city as a whole, what it is known for, what the citizens and visitors perceive as its culture. I am enjoying my time as a mosaicista.

Right now my host mom has two friends over, and I am only catching bits of the conversation because I am in another room with the door closed, so I just get the loud bits of it. The only thing I heard was "huevona," and "una luca." I just opened the door and can understand it now, but I have no idea how to be honest. No idea how to explain it, but I can understand it.

destination detonation

I almost detonated the house.

Even now, after three months, I forget the hot water system. I am used to turning it on but during my showers in consistently forget what I turned on the hot water exclusively for that purpose. To turn on the water you open the gas line connected to the califont, the water heater. This is the second time that it has been left on all night. I am not sure how dangerous it was, but I sense that lighting the stove this morning could have been a rather hazardous activity. What a gringa mistake this was.

Eating properly, with my left hand on the table and not my lap, continues to alude my subconscious mind. I practice eating this way even when I eat alone at breakfast. Today I tried eating with my left hand, thinking it would be easier to keep my right on the table. Nope, still weird. I also secretly curl up into a ball on the chair while I am eating, but only if I am really tired, as for some reason this makes a sleepy day more bearable. I am certain that is not proper ettiquite though.

As I walked from the Sausalito campus to Libertad for a micro, content after watching Pay it Forward to use as a social responsibility study in my class, two women approached me and asked for directions to the mall. I proudly delivered, feeling useful for once. I wondered if they thought I was Chilean. I when I got to Libertad I waited at a bus stop that I was not going to use in order to talk to them again. They were from Concepción, further south, and they of course knew I was not Chilean, but they did want to know what I was doing in Chile, just like everyone else. I have an odd interest in what Chileans perceive of me, my nationality, how different I look and speak and act and eat. For this reason my curiosity took hold. All the same, what a stupid question.

I will never get tired of the micro culture. A man gave up his seat for a woman who had her hands full. He didn't have to do that, it was nice. People will let you climb over them to get out, will help you drag all of your junk into your seat, will wait for you while you count your fare. No one is impatient, even if the micro is stuck in traffic and there are 20 people standing (with 20 sitting as well.)

Thomas el vecino has returned for once! One of my new lif e goals is to write something in my blog that makes Thomas el vecino laugh so hard that he pees his pants. When Thomas visits our apartment, which is fairly often because he lives about 2 seconds away, everything in the world becomes funnier. We made fun of the maldito maricón Ariel (concha su madre) for a significant amount of time, and I marveled at his new skills as a vendor selling cuchuflis with his friend in calle Condell. "Cien pesos, cien pesos, relleno de manjar!" In case anyone wanted to know, Germans eat with their hands on the table and not in their lap.

zapos

We tried. For weeks I have been working to get people to do paragliding with me, but to no avail. There was no wind to fly. All day before we got to Maintencillo where was wind.

There is a micro to Maintencillo once every... well not very often but we found it. Two hours later we arrived, and another 2 hours later we left disappointed, but the instructor offered to drive us to Con Con and drop us off on his way home. In case you want good shrimp and cheese empanadas in Maintencillo, Barcaza is the place to go. So anyway, the trip back to Con Con was shorter because we did not take a leisurely out-of-the-way micro route, and the guy drove like a madman, 100 kilometers/hour, and illegally passed every car on the way. It was horrifying, and I would have asked to get out had the trip been any longer. Philip and I enjoyed Bravísimo ice cream for the 40 minutes we then spent in Reñaca, and then his Valpo/Viña adventure came to an end and he headed home.

The more interesting piece of the story was waiting for the micro. The man with the clipboard was there, writing down times and micro numbers, yelling to the micro driver and receiving monedas in return. I wondered what this was all about. So I asked him. They are called zapos, and they have a symbiotic relationship with the micro drivers, as well as a very specific set of hand signals and manner of communicating that I can't understand. The zapo keeps track of the time between the arrival of the same number micro so the drivers can form a sort of schedule, to space out the same number micros in order to pick up more passengers at each stop and utilize their route to the fullest extent. The zapo rushes to tell the driver the times, and the driver sometimes pays him in return. It is highly interesting to watch. I also chatted with the heladero, the ice cream man, but all I really learned was that he always works the same spot, but then he got on a micro and rode it away, so the same spot might actually be a rather large area.

Philip's Valpo

Philip, my Chinese friend whom I met in San Pedro de Atacama a month ago, made a weekend trip to Valparaíso, where it was my turn to serve as Valparaíso tour guide. Disturbed after watching the dog get run over 20 minutes before, rushed to meet him at Plaza O´Higgins. Immediately I made him put his camera, strapped around his neck, underneath a zipped jacket, and wear his backpack in front. We stopped to admire the dizzying mirrors in Tres Palacios and the equally dizzying effect of the floor of Plaza Victoria, where the tiles have wavy lines that appear 3D if you walk perpendicular. Or at least as perpendicular to a wavy line as one is able to walk.

We started at ascensor Espiritu Santo, taking the same route I had the day before, through Museo Cielo Abierto to the Mosaic Pillars of Alex and Golzalez, and back down another street of the museum. Though I have been here multiple times, I never have seen the stairwell with the murals painted directly on the front of the steps. We started up towards Avenida Alemania when who did we meet but Alex and Gonzalez, on their way to buy fish from the port!! You don't get any more Valparaísian than that! ¡Qué entretendio! Needless to say I was overly excited for our second reunion. We moved on, to Avenida Alemania, on the route I took with the Cristian Valparaíso tour. I peered longingly up the high hills, wondering how a micro could get up there. One went partway up, stopped where it got steeper, and turned around. I have my answer. Though I wonder if it was for safety or for the steepness or neither.

We continued the Cristian-tour route to Cerro Concepción, where I could not remember the route so we diverged a bit and found more graffiti, including one with rabbits! We found the paseos and dined at the restaurant/hotel with the checkerboard floor, which was good but did not serve me nearly enough food. More wandering, into Cerro Alegre, where we found more graffitis and... Alex! Again! The mosaic artist of Cerro Bellavista. He also works at a restaurant in Cerro Alegre. Paseo Yugoslavo, then el Peral, one of my favorite ascensores. From there the port, where a man put his hand on Philip's chest and asked for 20 pesos, and I freaked out unnecessarily. At ascensor Artillería I heard my name yet again. It was Ana, a Chilean I know through the Mentirosos and have not seen in over a month. It is an odd sensation to hear your name wherever you go in Valpo. From paseo 21 de Mayo we explored a bit of Playa Ancha but turned around luckily before the higher part of it, which I found out after is rather dangerous, so dangerous that all of the surrounding hills are dangerous because they are close to Playa Ancha arriba, or so they say. We took the windy and slightly shady route back, passing below a slum, in what was for me a new sector of Valpo. This story is getting really lengthy.

I paid my first daytime visit to the Ex Carcel, or old jail, which is now a cultural park. There was a group practicing drums there, in a big dancing singing joyful circle. Also school kids rehearsing... something under the watchful eye of the artfully-graffitied defunct watchtower. kids played fútbol in the field, the higher hills in the spectacular backdrop. We pounded back to the Plan, eager to get to el Polanco before sunset, catching Casa Central and Avenida Brazil on the way.

At ascensor Polanco (another fav) there was a pleasant gray cat perched on a wall in the stairs leading to the tunnel entrance. I only ever pet them if they look healthy, with fur intact, eyes that are not oozing, and if they don´t look like they want to bite me. I put my hand on it´s back but encountered instead of nice soft fur an enormous patch of gray scabby skin, crusted and falling off. I had just petted the most infectious cat in the entire city. Great. Scabby cat disease here I come. I am not sure if I was more disturbed by the expectation of soft fur and instead enountereing flaky crustiness, the fact that the cat was sick, or the idea that whatever it had was likely contageous. Upon returning later to the Plan, I doused my hand with an obscene amount of hand santizer, twice, then santized both hands, then watched them in a restaurant multiple times.

On the Polanco stairs we found a group of people crowded around a tv, with cord extended across the alley, the men cheering and shouting and drinking together. This is another very "South American" thing in my mind, the neighbors coming together to share the game.

We finished up with chorrillana at Renato, which I was recommended for a more "real" Valparaíso dining experience. We were the only ones younger than 60, but it was nevertheless an excellent meal. After traversing for the day, Jun's apartment and birthday party were calling. 5 days later I am still not caught up on sleep.

los perdidos

Los perdidos, the lost ones, perros callejeros.

I watched a dog get mowed over by a car today. Not just hit, completely run over. The front then the back tires on the right side of the car rolled overtop of the back half of the dog's body. I was walking to estación Recreo to cross Avenida España and grab a micro, when this dog appeared in the 60mph (95kph) traffic. I could do nothing. Remarkably, it was still alive and able to drag itself to the side of the road. It's back was flattened, and it's hind legs flipped backwards so that the paw pads were facing up. The legs were shattered and warped, but remained whole, without drastic blood loss. I could not get to the dog, the traffic was rather heavy and there is no crosswalk to the median, which is larger in order to harbor the metro platform. A lady who was for some reason in the center part ran towards the dog and held it. She tried to flag down a car, without success, then talked to another passerby briefly. She was crying, trying to get help, distraught after watching this happen, unable to get help; the dog was suffering. I considered calling the police, like I would at home if i hit a deer with a car for instance, but here it is not the same, it would not have helped. I had no idea who to call. There was no one to call actually. There is a deficit in the support system for wounded animals. Some groups exist to help animals in these situations, but I did not know who to contact, who knows if anyone would have come. I stood on the platform above the dying dog and the distraught lady, unable to get to them for the traffic, unable to do anything. I left. It was a bad feeling, like I abandoned someone I could have helped, but there was nothing more to be done. If someone picked up the dog, it was probably put down. If it was left, it would have died of injuries almost definitely, or starved. I can't get over the way the dog was mutilated, running, and two seconds later it's lower half crushed. It was a yellow lab, large, well-fed, healthy-looking.

Many of them limp. I expect a lot get hit by cars. Most can get still run on three legs, using the maimed one for balance. I saw another one today in Plaza Viña, with only it's front legs functioning. It drug itself across the plaza, following a man who was emptying the trash, just like the other dogs follow people around. I watch the dogs a lot, where they sleep, where they look for food, how they wait in the sidewalk with the crowd and cross the street just like everyone else.

meet the artists

After a morning of crazy kids at St. Luceo Theresa de los Andes and an afternoon of bandaid-vendors, micros, and homework I headed to Católica´s medical services to regain my hearing. As I searched for the right building, I walked past twice, entering a semi-shady door that was made safer in my mind by the presence of a guy in a PUCV jacket who was cleaning the patio. Up a tight three-story spiraling staircase, I found myself in the office, wishing I had looked up medical words previous to my visit, like "appointment," "prescription," "dizzy," things I should probably know how to communicate. I got by ok anyway, and the doctor thankfully gave me a prescription for 10 days worth of antibiotics. He looked in my ear and said "you have sand!" Fantastic, it´s still packed in there.

I use any excuse to spend my free time exploring Valparaíso, so looking for a pharmacy was just as good as any, though of course they are everywhere and I had no real need to explore at all. My wanderings took me past a small mall called Tres Palacios. This was noteworthy for two reasons: the walkway extended in a coninuous ramp in a fairly tight spiral all the way to the top, and it was lined with mirrors. There were mirror panels all over the place, anywhere there was wall space. The back stairwell was lined entirely with small rectangular mirrors. It was an odd place, one which I have never seen before despite passing it all the time.

Onward to Ascensor Espiritú Santo, in Cerro Bellavista. I sought only to pass through here to visit new places in other cerros, but I was detoured by the museo Cielo Abierto once again, the open museum in the streets. Past the mosaic benches and murals, I came out of the museum onto calle Héctor Calvo Jofré. Here I encountered two artists working on mosaics, on lamp posts. There names were Alex and Gonzalo, locals of cerros Alegre and Bellavista. They were exceptionally friendly, which led me into two hours of conversation. Real people, a more real Valparaíso for me. After a while Gonzalo motioned me over to the entrance to one of the museo streets, and I followed back to the mosaic benches. Alex's work. More mosaic benches, his work. I had just met some of the finest street artists in the city!! He showed me one that he made, with a background of the same colored tiles and several colorful ones in the middle. He pointed to the houses to the right. Those colorful tiles were the houses, and the ascensor was Espiritú Santo. These guys are my heroes. How honored I am to have met them! Another fantastic chance encounter. I will be back to see their progress on the mosaic lamp posts.

From there I explored in Cerro Yungay and made my way back home for some quick skyping (both with the US and within Chile), and then met up with Rodrigo, my long lost friend from Dani's birthday party who I do not see nearly often enough. We made plans to explore Cerro Castillo en Viña, walked on the beach until our legs ached (which took all of about 10 minutes,) and then I finally got my Sibaritico experience. This is Viña's famous completo eatery. Completos remember are hot dogs served traditionally with avocado, tomato, and mayonnaise, among other delicacies such as sauerkraut, ketchup, ají, and who knows what else. This place is well know not for its glamour (you can't even eat inside, there are no seats,) but for its massive completos. Mine was no kidding about 4 inches high (sigh, ok, 10cm) and included about a cup and a half of condiments (sigh, 236ml, if that is what they even use) and two hot dogs. My intake of cholesterol has easily quadrupled in my time here, due in part to the 5 completos I have eaten since my arrival. When they make the completo, they put a slab of mayonnaise and a slab of palta, easily half a cup of each, probably more. It was fabulous. By the time I met up with my conversation group in cafe Baúl I was ready to fall over from ear pain and fatigue.

In conclusion, today was packed as full as my ears: 4 hours at the school, entertaining micros, hw/chatting with Jun and Nelson in the PIIE office, the doctor, walking around Valpo, meeting street artists, lunch (5pm), walking with Rodrigo, and meeting my conversation group at midnight. By the midnight meeting in café Baúl, I was so tired/unable to hear anything/nauseous that I barely made it to a micro to get home.

HAO-DI and the micro game

I still can't hear anything. Communicating is hard enough, let alone with a disability. Now I am truely Helen Keller-ing. I don't understand half of what anyone says, not for the language but for the sand or whatever it is. Also I can't even hear myself talk well, which is an odd sensation because I don't have the ability to talk as normal. In other words, I guess what everyone says and respond with slurred words at a large volume. At least it's funny.

I love the micro game, the waiting and watching for the right micro to pass by on Avenida España, hoping it is not in lane 4 when I need it to be in lane 1, the only place where I am able to board. I am pretty good at the signal needed to flag down the micros. It´s kind of like the signal for hitchihhiking but only with your index finger. I always feel like I am flipping off the drivers, but they stop regardless of what it looks like I am doing. It´s a strong motion, you use your entire arm, if you want a micro at Avenida España that is, because those micros are barreling down the highway at double the velocidad máxima, remember? In order to get them to stop when they are going so fast, you have to mean it; they won´t always stop for your half-hearted hand gestures like in other slower-moving streets. Then there is the time factor. You have to signal with enough time for them to stop, but here´s the catch; if you are looking for any micro to a certain place, and not just a specific number micro, you generally have to read the 10 or so signs in the front window to see if it says the destination of your choice. So you have to read it as soon as it comes into the extreme end of your vision and then signal fast enough to catch it before it passes by. I am getting a lot better at this game, though I occasionally signal a micro I don´t need and miss some I could have taken. In other places it is way easier; at a stop for example, where the micro has obviously ceased motion and you have a bit more time. Also, if you have a specific and familar route to follow, you can just look for the correct number. I am probably the only person in the whole world that thinks it´s funny when five #201s pass in a twenty minute time period, but only one 205 passes, which of course is the one that I need.

I have a new outlook on the 8th grade at St. Luceo. If you split the class in equal halves, they are great to work with. They pay attention and ask questions and get a ton of work done, and they respond when I speak English to them (the only time today I used English, when I had to, and it was not even much, I promise.) Perfect. However, 5th grade is a logistical nightmare. I have a new theory that the chaos in this room is due to the lack of classroom management and accountability rather than being a result of some other deficite in school and Chileans school system policies. I have no idea how to get their attention, at all. If you sounded an airhorn in that room, it would not get their attention. They can sit wherever they want, so you have the boy group and two girl groups, one girl group that wants to learn and the other at the opposite end of the spectrum. The interaction between the groups is always the same; the same teasing. They throw things and run around screaming at eachother. It is just about impossible to teach in this particular classroom; I walked into a situation that is out of control. It is one thing to have a few kids talking or acting out in a classroom, but to have a class of 40 kids where 25 or more are totally out of control and the rest are trying to listen or have just given up, this is something quite different. I can´t make a noise loud enough to be heard. They know what work they have to do though. As soon as something is written on the board, they know they have to copy it in their notebook. When class ends, they know to move their seats back to the original positions and line up. Weird seeing such order after an hour and a half of mayhem. Constantly I work to make this situation better, but I am in no position to chance anything; it´s not my class, and I can´t change in one day a week the habits that have been in place the whole year. Nor can I change whatever authority-respect themes between the students and teacher exist here, and it is defintely not my place to do so. I don´t think this is a typical example of a Chilean classroom. But again, I have a lot more observing to do before I draw conclusions.

I don´t know what the ¨ç¨symbol means, but it is the key next to the backspace on the Chilean keyboard and I keep hitting it by accident. IfçI did not coçrect my çworkç it woçld looçk like ç this becçause I hit the ççç key so ofçten sincçe it çç is qçuite inconçvenitenly plççaced on theç sçpanish keyboardç next ç to çtçhe most çfrequentl uçsed key.

A bandaid salesman got on my micro today on the return trip. Yes, a vendor that sold only bandaids. A few minutes previously a different one boarded that was selling clay action figures, but the band aid guy was more interesting, for two reasons. 1. have you ever heard of anyone selling bandaids on the street before? just bandaids, nothing else. 2. they are HAO-DI brand, and all of the writing except for the name is in Chinese. I bought the strip of 14 bandaids for $100 [pesos; the dollar sign is used, but they were not $100 USD, more like 19 cents.] And I had intended on buying some anyway, as I constantly pick around my nails as a nervous habit. This is my first micro-vendor purchase, and I am oddly proud of it.

Jun: in response to my obnoxious sneezes as I am typing this; he is sitting at the computer next to me as I write this: ¨por favor [demaciado] tranquilísate!! As he translates his homework that is ¨demaciado difícil.¨ (half an hour later now, and he just got up, said ¨demaciado clase¨and headed off to his class).

A good time to segway into who Nelson is. Nelson is a teacher of English/professor/doctoral student at PUCV who I routinely run into in the PIIE office in Casa Central. He is Jun's private professor, for practice with a different accent. He is my only Columbian contact, and has convinced me that the country is safe enough to visit (much to the dismay of my family who is reading this I am sure.) Another friendly face that makes me feel more at home in PUCV :) He is indirectly responsible for my inability to do homework while at the PIIE office computers, because every time he is there I am just like oooo, tell me about Columbia and help me practice conversation.

la caida libre/ bridge over troubled water

Cristian had once with my host mom and myself today, after some prime picture viewing of course (I am going to keep the word once in italics so as to ease the transition between thinking "once," like once upon a time, to thinking the meal once, like the Spanish numeral 11.)

I reached the threshold again, my mind in Spanish, where my mind changes into its highest possible functioning mindset in Spanish, where I can think completely in Spanish fairly easily and quickly, using my current abilities to the fullest, ¿cachai? I will stick with what I said before; the only way I can get to this point (subir) is after a long time of conversation, like an undetermined number of hours. Not from class, not from listening, not from being my myself, not from talking to gringos. Real active conversation where I respond and listen and respond, that's the way. It's the most fun way too. It is a natural high to get to this point, an incredible joy of accomplishing the seemingly impossible. It is hard to get there, and there are so many ways to fall back along the way... if I am interrupted, if there is a lull and I start unconsciously and unwillingly thinking in English, if someone talks in English, if I am tired and can't pay attention, if I just can't pay attention, which is part of my personality and always a persistent problem. But there I was, understanding, reacting, speaking, thinking, in SPANISH. The endorphins that you feel after exercise, the "runner's high," are similar experiences this same process. This is one of the most interesting aspects of my Chile experience. The language mind transition is incredibly interesting.

I have successfully conveyed what the "downward spiral" is. In English, it is the rapid degradation of my mental stability into almost a panic. It is set off by something that I can't do, like use the subjunctive for instance. From there I get to the point where I think I have the ability to do just about nothing. This is called caida libre, free fall. Since being in Chile I have gained confidence of course, enough that I appear much of the time to not be shy. That is odd, because as much as I like to try new things and push myself, I still have to force just that, force myself to be comfortable, not with everyone, because there are many people with whom I am very comfortable. I have to push certain aspects sometimes, confidence to gain opportunities. "nunca estás sola." nunca. Bridge Over Troubled Water came on the radio. How true it is that there are people there to carry you. siempre. Solo necesitas buscarlos.

Where the heck did they come from?

Now I know why I see school kids walking home both at 1:00 in the afternoon and at 7:00 in the evening. They are not in school for 9 hours; the day is split. In St. Luceo Theresa de los Andes for instance the equivalent of middle and high school kids the day ends at 1:30 for most. I stayed for the senior English class for the first time today. I was startled to see tiny kids running amuck in the courtyardgymatorium (the courtyard which serves as a gym which serves as an auditorium.) I am really proud of that word. Anyway, as the weenie kids lined up, I found myself asking where the heck they had originated. They came for the second shift, coming at 1:30 and leaving at 7. Up until this point I had no idea that there were kids here younger than 11. I wonder if this is done to conserve space. It is not done to conserve teachers, because different ones come in at this time.

Rubia

Soy rubia.

I'm blonde.

At least in Chile I am rubia. I never thought of myself as rubia before, but I get called just that all the time. My hair is not 'chilean;' it is not black and long and pretty, it is brown and brittle, so it breaks before it gets long. Some Chileans are rubio of course. Every great once in a while someone will say "oh, I thought you were Chilean!" but that does not happen too often. If I had long pretty Chilean hair I would braid it all the time and decorate it like the cueca dancers do.

There is this guy on the metros sometimes, I call him the recharge guy. He wears a bright orange vest, like a construction worker, that says RECARGA on the back, and walks around with a sign on a stick that says RECARGAR AQUÍ. You can put minutes on your phone by talking to him, for as little as 100 pesos. Just signal him over and he will whip out his phone to send minutes to yours. So if you want to buy minutes to your phone, ice cream, pocket calendars, other candy, pens, or other assorted oddities, just take public transportation. My favorite thing that I saw for sale on the street? Toilet paper.

Procrastination: my presentation is tomorrow

I can´t hear anything. Well I can, but not like normal. Sand keeps coming out, and I am congested to begin with. There is still some wedged under my eyelids, I can feel it grinding around and it gives me a headache. My sore from the blister I drained last week was black... you guessed it, I cut away the skin and scraped out all the little sand grains.

Today´s dance class was infinitely better than my bad-tempered one of last week. Another profe joined ours, and they both dressed in traditional clothes, different for each dance. It seemed a lot more real now. Then our profe walked out almost naked, with what was essentially underwear with long feathered strings. This was the oldest of the Rapa Nui dances. One poor embarrased girl was pulled from the audience to dance with our nearly naked profe. I flashed back to the first day of our orientation, when I saw this dance for the first time, I believe with the same dancers. The strangest things happen in these classrooms. Oh, and we got out syllabus today for this class. jaja, the class started in August.

My language exchange group, which meets once a week to converse half in English and half in Spanish, actually talked in English today. Normally we all opt for Spanish. Maca and Carolina heard me speak English for the first time. They were blown away by how different I sounded when I spoke English. How awesome though that it is halfway through the semester and they for the first time heard my English voice!

Thomas el vecino arrived from his grand adventures abroad today. Adventures abroad abroad. He went through Argentina and Uruguay and apparently had the time of his life. Poor guy though, he was attacked again, this time in Buenos Aires, but his attackers only got some money and tourist information. I don't think the flaites will be needing tourist maps of Uruguay, but I could be wrong. Thomas' reaction was great: "the malditos flaites were stupid and didn't see my cellphone, concha sus madres!!"

While I continue to procrastinate practicing my presentation again (yes, I have work to do...) let me add photos from Recreo that I took on another procrastination day. It's getting really bad... I am chugging tea (my 5th one today? maybe 6th) and eating spaghettini with ahí in my stress-induced calorie fit. You can only practice it so many times...

Eat like a Chilean!

I blew my nose today and sand came out. My ears too, I think my hearing is reduced from particles that settled in there. Great.

The miel is gone! I scraped out the last of it today. It's out of season, so it will be hard to come by now. I guess I just have to stay here until it is in season again (March). Oh well.

Today I ate: cereal, yoghurt, and eggs for breakfast, sopaipilla and pebre for a lunch-snack, artichoke along with an avocado-tuna-mayonnaise-lettuce with lemon salad, two breads with marmalade and the last of the miel for once, and am on my second tea. Sound Chilean? AND I ate with my left hand on the table... comfortably, without thinking about it. Because that is what Chileans do. It is a hard habit to develop, but I am finally getting there.

Speaking of Chilean food, check out the market:

that is a mountain of strawberries.

I can't decide if it feels like fall or spring. The weather is both, alternating days. The season is both, depending on the hemisphere of home or here. The feeling is... confused. And the sun set after 8:00 this evening. Everyone in PA wants to inflict bodily harm after hearing that. It is not good for my study habits though; I wander around outside for any excuse not to be confined to a building when there is a whole Chilean world to explore before sunset, when I finally feel obligated to study something.

In the crosswalk

The day I went kayaking/to the Science Tunnel I also wandered to Plaza Victoria (bored? go wander in Valpo, there's nothing better). Here there was a nice crowd, at least 200 people lining the streets of a T-intersection. There was a clown in the middle of the road, harassing every vehicle that passed by. This was done in varied ways; by chasing them, throwing shoes at them, climbing on top of them, directing traffic the wrong way. When a police van came by he laid down alongside the road, and they did nothing. My favorite was when he used his whistle to make that 7-tone song-thing that everyone always does when they knock on doors, except he omitted the last two notes and left these to the driver he was harassing. The driver didn't get it, so he got out and let the clown do it. He then drove the car away. He brought it back eventually.

One afternoon I walked home from Sausalito (an hour and 45 minutes by the way) and at the Journal intersection there was a man on a unicycle, the seat of which was, no kidding, over my head. He juggled three bowling pins, rode the unicycle with one foot, balanced a soccer ball with the other, and actually scratched his back with the pins as he juggled. I marveled. He fell. I was still impressed.

Another day, on Errázuriz, during the red light, I saw a man jump onto I don't even know, a large box thing on the sidewalk, and commence playing guitar while two others, all with suits and painted faces, ran into the crosswalk and began throwing suitcases at each other and screaming stuff. Only from the photo did I realize what this was; the suitcases had the name of a theater company; they were advertising.

I enjoy the fact that these events take place during the short span of the red light. They dash into the crosswalk, do their thing, and then run back to the side to avoid speeding micros. This happens frequently, everywhere that there is a lot of traffic. Sometimes it is just dudes doing handstands and flips. It doesn't matter what it is; I am always impressed.

dunas Con Con

I decided that I should stop sleeping in until noon on Sundays and instead try out the Lutheran church in Valparaíso. La Iglesia Luterana Alemania is located in Cerro Concepción, and I have passed by several times, even entered once, but did not make it for a service. The service itself was remarkably similar to what I am accustomed to at St. John's in my hometown, in fact almost exactly the same but for the language (I typed the word "idioma," erased it, typed it again, then remembered that I had to use the word "language" instead; this is a good sign.) The communion wafers and wine were significantly better though; the wafers are like sweet crackers, and I want more. I really liked the passing of the peace; it involved a simple "la paz" followed by much hugging and kissing. I don't know much of the service in Spanish, but I can understand it easily, and it translates to exactly what we use for my normal service. After the service there was some form of special performance by the choir. This went on for some time but I opted out early to make it back for lunch with my family. I did manage to snag Jonothan for a quick chat though- he is the dude I met the first time I checked out the church. I told him I'd be back.

After Dani's lasagna invention for lunch (ke rico!) the two of us caught the "ositos" micro to ConCon for some fun on the dunes. There is a dude at the bottom of the massive sand dunes who rents sandboards out of a van for rather cheap. They do not have foot clamp things like the ones in San Pedro did, which made them more... interesting. And harder to use, but all the more fun. My favorite aspect of this was that the dude had a megaphone and would summon all of the sandboarders whose rental time was up. The only thing I could hear the entire time was the ridiculous wind and the names of about 50 different people. Dani served as photographer, and I as novice sandboarder and extreme sledder. If you wax the board and use it as a sled, it is insane, there is no way to slow down; it ends when you run out of wax, hit something (which would be extremely dangerous as this is super fast) or roll/fall off. Same goes for the sandboarding, though I usually fall when I get to a high speed. At the bottom of the shore side of the dune is a line of tires sunken into the sand to prevent you from falling 12 feet into passing micros. I think if you would smash into that you would fly into the road anyway, or break your neck. And so, I disembarked early. The sea side of the dune was better because the harder sand sends you careening towards the ocean, though the wind pounds sand into your face like nobody's business. Other highlights included the view of ConCon, the ocean, dunes, and Reñaca all the way to Valpo, as well as the sand tornadoes. I watched a little kid that was playing in the sand get mowed over by one. It passed in about 10 second, and he looked all around wondering what just happened.

Let me tell you about the sand. It formed a film that lined the inside of my mouth, plugs in my ears (both inner and outer), crusted around my eyes so I looked like a raccoon, and I carried about a pound of it around in my pants. After I showered and shook out all of my clothes, it could still be found lurking... everywhere.

I like having a sister, and an older sibling. This too is a new experience. With an older sibling you can do lots of stuff, like taking ridiculous pictures, trekking through the inclined dunes. microing your way back to Reñaca for Sanhe Nuss Mcflurries, and watch the Sex and the City movie. Big sisters are good to talk to for just about anything. I did not have one growing up, but I want one now.

surfear

As I walked out into the street 7:00 this morning, beneath thick cloud cover and dressed in three layers, I thought, this is a less than optimal day for surfing.

I was off to Maintecello, a city an hour and a half north of Viña del Mar, for my first surfing experience. I went solo to join up with a group at Casa Central, with two Mexicans, a Spaniard, two germans, a french girl, and two gringas, from two universities. How diverse we were. An hour and a half later, by SUV and Volkswagon bus (yes!) we made it. and it was... cold. Before we even got into our wetsuits, I was shivering, in three layers, including a fleece jacket. No way was I going in that water. 1- minutes later I gave in and donned my wetsuit, for the second time in my life, and was miraculously warmer. Next we... ran. On the beach, accompanied by the street dogs of Maintecello, to warm up. During the stretching exercises, one of the instructors told me to stretch and I told him I was. Turns out I am the most inflexible person he has ever seen.

If you are cold while dry, getting wet is not the best idea. My toes were white and unusable; when I tried to walk I could only balance on my heels. Into the water we ran, through the first set of waves. It was apparent from the beginning that I was the runt student. I couldn't even paddle without falling off of my board, yes really. I found it to be significantly harder than using a rescue board, which in comparison is massive, and much easier to balance. Even when an instructor pushed my board with precision timing I still managed to mess it up every time. Once I fell into a wave, I could not recover fast enough and proceeded to be pummeled by 8 more before there was a lull and I could breath. And I mean sufficiently pummeled, rolled underwater again and again. When I popped up, another one was right there. It was great fun, but eventually I had sharp pains just about everywhere from hitting the board, or from the force of the wave smashing onto my head. I averted this by protecting my head with my arms and diving headlong into the ones I could not attempt to surf.

I did not manage to actually surf, like on top of a wave, standing up. But I learned how it works, I just can't climb onto the board fast enough. I did get on top of the board lots of times though, just not entirely standing up. Nevertheless, it was a fabulous experience. I will repeat it when it is a bit warmer, not the water but at least the air temperature. When asked after lunch if we wanted to go out again, we all were like nooooo, we wanna go home we have been out of the water for two hours and are still freezing. It was overall a fun day, but I am probably going to develop pneumonia.

Día del Profe/ Expo Admisión

I woke up late and arrived at St. Liceo 45 minutes later than planned. Probably not the best idea when you received a personal invitation from the principal to a special celebration breakfast. It was Día del Profesores, a day dedicated to celebrating the awesomeness of teachers. Right on. So back to me being late. Apparent I have the ability to sleep through 3 separate alarm clocks, all with multiple alarms. Remember though that in Chile, you can add half an hour to an hour to whatever time you are supposed to arrive and still be on time. Luckily this was the case. It was a catered breakfast, with manjar panqueques (crêpes) and cake. As I walked in there was a student line by which passed the entering teachers, and at the end, my pal Hugo. Again, not accustomed to walking into a room of students and kissing every single one of them, but I love it. The teachers were hardcore into teacher day; they made plans to meet later on for lunch at a restaurant.

After a pleasant teacher day I headed home briefly and headed back to Viña in campus Sausalito for the Expo Admisión. This was like an open house at the university. I helped at the International Programs table with two friends from my language exchange group, Macarena and Carolina, and another exchange student, Diego. Diego is from Mexico originally but now lives in the US, and in fact goes to school in Philadelphia. His accent is a very neutral Spanish, lighter than Chilean, and much easier to understand (though now Chilean is not nearly as hard as it was.) We talked with local prospective students, and then we entertained ourselves when the action died down by stealing oranges from the agriculture table. The oranges were off to the side on the ground, and in order to get them I walked around the table and started talking to one of the students running it while Diego made his move. I have to say that I am not very good at holding back the laughter in any situation, but I made a convincing accomplice. We ate the orange, pinned a note to the peel, and replaced it to its original place. Luckily the other table thought this was hilarious. We compensated by giving them our candy from ours. Diego and I caught the same micro and were in high spirits after the afternoon of fun.

I rounded out my day by heading off to Jun's housewarming party (is housewarming an actual term, or did I make that up? It should not be a real term, it doesn't make any sense) He lives in Viña in one of the massive towers with exquisite apartments, guarded by two or three separate locked gates, and including access via ascensor. The company Jun works for pays for his apartment for security reasons. It is insane; it has a terrance that overlooks Viña, distant Valpo, and the ocean.