In approximately 9 hours, I will welcome my beloved parents and sister to Chile! Having 10 days of crazy family vacation to finish up my Chilean semester means that serious blog-writing will have to wait. Don't worry, dear readers (if any of you remain!), a novel detailing my adventures in the south of Chile is forthcoming. For now, I leave you with a few things that I've grown fond of here...
-Seeing the ocean every day...and the ships...and the sea lions who chill in the ocean...and the sunset over the ocean...
-Riding the micro, aka living dangerously
-Coffee in small glass mugs with a cookie on the side
-Sleepy dogs...everywhere
-The ascensor on Calle Villanelo and the funny guys who run it
-Great folk music...
-The words flaite...and pucha...and guagua (the equivalents of "ghetto" and "dang" and "baby")
-Going to the Jota Cruz, infamous alley dive restaurant and home of the chorillana
-Food that comes in pouches (marmalade, olives, mayonaisse, ketchup, etc.)
-An abundance of avocados! For breakfast, lunch, onces, dinner...in salads, on bread...
-Having cups of tea show up on my desk...courtesy of my Chilean mom
-Everything coming on a plate. Cups of tea. Bowls of soup. Even other plates. Everything must be served on an extra plate.
-Old men and their Pablo Neruda sailor hats and Ernest Hemingway beards
-My Tuesday night Baha'i study group and salsa dancing friends
-Toasters that require a stove
To be continued...
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Cambiante
The weather's been quite cambiante as of late. Changeable. Fickle. Doesn't know what it wants. We'll have days of pewter dull clouds that linger, merging with the brooding waves, dampening plans and moods. Then de repente, out of nowhere, a sparkling sunny day sapphire sky sailing wisps of white appears, a day that lends itself to long meandering walks just to soak up the warmth you've missed for so long or maybe some yoga on the beach with friends you've only known for four months and who are probably leaving soon.
And then there are the temporales, the fierce ocean winds that bring walls of relentless water from the clouds, indifferent to your daily routine. Those are the days that mostly lend themselves to huddling up under all six blankets on your bed in front of the gas heater to drink hot tea while listening sleepily to the rain lashing at your window. All day.
Unless of course, you have an early morning literature class. Which I did, up until about two weeks ago. Indeed it was our last day of Practices and Discourses of the Modern Latin American Short Story when I experienced my first temporal. My host dad gleefully watched me bundle up in boots, scarf, coat, grab my umbrella and face the rage outside. Que te vaya bien!! Chao, chao! he called as usual as I headed out. Have a good day! Bye! Except today, considering the conditions outside, it sounded a little more like, Good luck with all that. Not in a mean spirited way, just in a tone of extreme amusement. Luckily, I was late enough leaving so that the ascensor was already opening up. I was more or less soaked by the time I got to the bus stop across the street. That's alright, I thought, once I get to Valparaíso I just have to make it to the university building and then I'm totally good.
The plan of Valparaiso, the level downtown area home to the university, government buildings, and Valpo's infamous nightlife, was created in the 1800s by when authorities began filling in the bay with dirt, claiming hundreds of yards of ocean to build up the port city. The ocean hasn't forgotten what is Hers, however, and that was instantly apparent as I rounded the corner.I had pondered all semester what drainage in Valpo would be like, and turns out my imagination wasn't far off. "Making it to the university" involved wading through a perpetual path of puddles several inches deep, followed by a final dash across the newly formed lake that had engulfed the sidewalk leading to the only entrance to the building housing my class. When I finally straggled into class, thirty minutes late, I was completely drenched, despite my knee high boots, long hooded raincoat, and umbrella (along with everyone else, who also arrived late). We spent the last lit class all huddled around a space heater before venturing out again to return home...
My mind's been cambiante too. Mostly I can't decide what to think about this semester or where to go from here. Much like the rest of my liberal arts education, it's left me with more questions than answers, more doubts than certainties. But in this last few days I've found myself suddenly able to see beauty in my experiences, in the friendships I've begun, in the sparkly sunny days like today and even in the many sad and cloudy and lonely days. Here's to possibilities.
And then there are the temporales, the fierce ocean winds that bring walls of relentless water from the clouds, indifferent to your daily routine. Those are the days that mostly lend themselves to huddling up under all six blankets on your bed in front of the gas heater to drink hot tea while listening sleepily to the rain lashing at your window. All day.
Unless of course, you have an early morning literature class. Which I did, up until about two weeks ago. Indeed it was our last day of Practices and Discourses of the Modern Latin American Short Story when I experienced my first temporal. My host dad gleefully watched me bundle up in boots, scarf, coat, grab my umbrella and face the rage outside. Que te vaya bien!! Chao, chao! he called as usual as I headed out. Have a good day! Bye! Except today, considering the conditions outside, it sounded a little more like, Good luck with all that. Not in a mean spirited way, just in a tone of extreme amusement. Luckily, I was late enough leaving so that the ascensor was already opening up. I was more or less soaked by the time I got to the bus stop across the street. That's alright, I thought, once I get to Valparaíso I just have to make it to the university building and then I'm totally good.
The plan of Valparaiso, the level downtown area home to the university, government buildings, and Valpo's infamous nightlife, was created in the 1800s by when authorities began filling in the bay with dirt, claiming hundreds of yards of ocean to build up the port city. The ocean hasn't forgotten what is Hers, however, and that was instantly apparent as I rounded the corner.I had pondered all semester what drainage in Valpo would be like, and turns out my imagination wasn't far off. "Making it to the university" involved wading through a perpetual path of puddles several inches deep, followed by a final dash across the newly formed lake that had engulfed the sidewalk leading to the only entrance to the building housing my class. When I finally straggled into class, thirty minutes late, I was completely drenched, despite my knee high boots, long hooded raincoat, and umbrella (along with everyone else, who also arrived late). We spent the last lit class all huddled around a space heater before venturing out again to return home...
My mind's been cambiante too. Mostly I can't decide what to think about this semester or where to go from here. Much like the rest of my liberal arts education, it's left me with more questions than answers, more doubts than certainties. But in this last few days I've found myself suddenly able to see beauty in my experiences, in the friendships I've begun, in the sparkly sunny days like today and even in the many sad and cloudy and lonely days. Here's to possibilities.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Respuestas a Pablo Neruda
A creative writing exercise for class that I did weeks and weeks ago. Neruda wrote The Book of Questions in 1973. My attempts at answering a few of them...
I. Where did the moon leave its nocturnal sack of flour?
The full moon got tired
in her long traverse across the sky
The sack of flour she carried broke
and the flour scattered across the sky
and the full moon realized
that the flour
wasn't flour
but stars
That shine in the darkness of the universe
and of my soul.
II. Tell me, is the rose naked or does she only have that dress?
The rose could change her dress
if she wanted
But her Mother gave it to her
as a gift
upon her birth
And she likes it too much
to take it off.
III. How many churches does heaven have?
Heaven has only one church,
where all are welcome and all are holy,
and the wounds of earthly life are lost
among the clouds of the divine imagination.
IV. Why do trees hide the splendor of their roots?
Some say it's because they're shy
but the truth is
That they want to share the elation they feel
just to be alive
with the worms and the ants
and all that exists in the most hidden
spaces
They like to stand with their feet sunk
into the wet soil
and wiggle their toes
Among the secrets of invisible life.
V. What did the rubies say to the pomegranate juice?
How delicious our blood
that runs over expectant tongues
from spherical veins
of humble orbs
Jewels dug up from the mine of the orchard.
VI. How old is November?
November is so ancient doesn't remember
his age very well, he only knows the he has seen
the passing of the years, dawn and death
in tones of gray and pale light, and that
he will be waiting for us forever.
VII. How did the abandoned bicycle set itself free?
It was an impulse that started
so slowly
that at first it hardly seemed
that is could happen.
But the idea grew until
there, at the top of the hill,
The call of liberty
and the demand of gravity
Couldn't be ignored any longer.
VIII. Is there anything sadder in the world that a train, unmoving, in the rain?
There is nothing sadder
than a train, unmoving, in the rain.
Except of course for the people seated in the train
who had dreamed of extravagant journeys
to far and exotic lands
and who now find themselves detained, trapped,
The journey confined to a dream.
IX. How many bees does the day have?
The day has enough bees
to make all the honey
that I need
for my three cups of tea.
X. Why does night's hat have so many holes?
They're portals to other spheres
that speak to us of belated light
and centuries of curiosity
Always tempting us with unreachable promises
Why can't night just take off its hat?
XI. How many questions does a cat have?
Cats already know all the answers
and they're just waiting for us
to ask.
But in the meantime, they'd like to know one thing--
When are we going to feed them?
XII. Is peace the peace of a dove? Does the leopard make war?
If peace were the peace of a dove
we would all have wings to fly
and there would be enough crumbs,
scattered by children,
so that everyone could eat.
As far as the leopard goes,
no doubt he is a consummate warrior.
But having the camouflage
and the stealth
necessary for war
is never a good excuse for killing.
XIII. Why couldn't Christopher Columbus discover Spain?
He preferred to dream
of a continent, Her scents of elusive treasures
and Her murmurs of rich dark blood.
He preferred to extinguish
the fire with the light of that Crown
dominate the detour
that distracted him from far eastern mysteries.
And, it turns out,
he wasn't very good with geography.
XIV. How long will everyone else speak if we have already spoken?
Everyone else will speak
until we realize
that the voices that matter
aren't just our own.
XV. What will they say about my poetry, those who did not touch my blood?
They will praise you
They will critique you
They will analyze you.
They will search for you in boats that never left the shore and
They will imagine you, the impassioned lover of supreme conscience
And even then they will not know your real name.
For us, your poetry
will have to be your blood.
I. Where did the moon leave its nocturnal sack of flour?
The full moon got tired
in her long traverse across the sky
The sack of flour she carried broke
and the flour scattered across the sky
and the full moon realized
that the flour
wasn't flour
but stars
That shine in the darkness of the universe
and of my soul.
II. Tell me, is the rose naked or does she only have that dress?
The rose could change her dress
if she wanted
But her Mother gave it to her
as a gift
upon her birth
And she likes it too much
to take it off.
III. How many churches does heaven have?
Heaven has only one church,
where all are welcome and all are holy,
and the wounds of earthly life are lost
among the clouds of the divine imagination.
IV. Why do trees hide the splendor of their roots?
Some say it's because they're shy
but the truth is
That they want to share the elation they feel
just to be alive
with the worms and the ants
and all that exists in the most hidden
spaces
They like to stand with their feet sunk
into the wet soil
and wiggle their toes
Among the secrets of invisible life.
V. What did the rubies say to the pomegranate juice?
How delicious our blood
that runs over expectant tongues
from spherical veins
of humble orbs
Jewels dug up from the mine of the orchard.
VI. How old is November?
November is so ancient doesn't remember
his age very well, he only knows the he has seen
the passing of the years, dawn and death
in tones of gray and pale light, and that
he will be waiting for us forever.
VII. How did the abandoned bicycle set itself free?
It was an impulse that started
so slowly
that at first it hardly seemed
that is could happen.
But the idea grew until
there, at the top of the hill,
The call of liberty
and the demand of gravity
Couldn't be ignored any longer.
VIII. Is there anything sadder in the world that a train, unmoving, in the rain?
There is nothing sadder
than a train, unmoving, in the rain.
Except of course for the people seated in the train
who had dreamed of extravagant journeys
to far and exotic lands
and who now find themselves detained, trapped,
The journey confined to a dream.
IX. How many bees does the day have?
The day has enough bees
to make all the honey
that I need
for my three cups of tea.
X. Why does night's hat have so many holes?
They're portals to other spheres
that speak to us of belated light
and centuries of curiosity
Always tempting us with unreachable promises
Why can't night just take off its hat?
XI. How many questions does a cat have?
Cats already know all the answers
and they're just waiting for us
to ask.
But in the meantime, they'd like to know one thing--
When are we going to feed them?
XII. Is peace the peace of a dove? Does the leopard make war?
If peace were the peace of a dove
we would all have wings to fly
and there would be enough crumbs,
scattered by children,
so that everyone could eat.
As far as the leopard goes,
no doubt he is a consummate warrior.
But having the camouflage
and the stealth
necessary for war
is never a good excuse for killing.
XIII. Why couldn't Christopher Columbus discover Spain?
He preferred to dream
of a continent, Her scents of elusive treasures
and Her murmurs of rich dark blood.
He preferred to extinguish
the fire with the light of that Crown
dominate the detour
that distracted him from far eastern mysteries.
And, it turns out,
he wasn't very good with geography.
XIV. How long will everyone else speak if we have already spoken?
Everyone else will speak
until we realize
that the voices that matter
aren't just our own.
XV. What will they say about my poetry, those who did not touch my blood?
They will praise you
They will critique you
They will analyze you.
They will search for you in boats that never left the shore and
They will imagine you, the impassioned lover of supreme conscience
And even then they will not know your real name.
For us, your poetry
will have to be your blood.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Hasta Mañana, Shilena
A couple of nights ago, I was lying in my bed under five blankets pulled up over my nose and tucked in tight around me, wearing two shirts, a jacket, pants, two pairs of socks, and a winter hat, curtains drawn tightly, willing my body heat to hurry up and make things toasty. And I thought to myself, if I were at home right now, how would I be sleeping? With the windows open, ceiling fan going full blast, thin sheets flung to the end of the bed, in shorts and a tank top. I never thought I would miss the humid misery of a South Carolina summer, but here in the chilly, gloomy, coastal fog capital of the world, where no one has heat and you can't get warm without some serious effort, I find myself fantasizing about just that. I can almost feel that wall of sticky air that hits your face as soon as you step outside and the spikes of grass that poke at your bare feet as you flee the scorching pavement, hear the comforting chirpy drone of frogs and crickets from my spot on the screened porch, taste the sweet tea and the homemade peach ice cream and the ripe, juicy tomatoes from my grandfather's garden...
The last few weeks have been brought extreme ups and downs. One sunny weekend afternoon, I was stunned to hear the tragic news that a friend of mine here, Ramon, had committed suicide. I learned to know Ramon at a weekly Baha'i study circle I've been attending with friends, where he shared his insight with us in his quiet way. For me, it is saddest to realize that I had only begun to know Ramon when his life ended far too suddenly. Numb and baffled, I gathered with our friends, helped Ramon's roommate move into a different apartment that he would be sharing with a cousin and several friends, then spent the evening cooking dinner and just being together. Thankfully, I had never before experienced the suicide of someone close to me, but in many ways it felt almost more difficult to suddenly be confronted with such a situation with a group of friends that I am still very much in the process of getting to know. It was hard to know what to say, how much to say, whether to say anything. So we didn't talk too much specifically about what had happened, but I felt that just the act of being together was important. At dinner, we took a moment to remember Ramon, to wish him peace and answers to all the doubts and frustrations that troubled him. I wish I had had the chance to know him better--he seemed a kind and thoughtful soul, and he is missed. I am thankful for the thoughts and prayers you all have offered for Ramon, his family, and our group of friends over the last several weeks.
There have been happier moments, of course. A picnic and professional soccer game with the group of foster children I'm helping to mentor. A unit on Chilean poetry in my culture class. Countless outings with friends to see movies, eat sushi, go dancing. Asking our dryly witty history professor to have class outside...which turned into him inviting us out for coffee instead of having class...which turned into him buying us all a beer instead of having class. An entire weekend spent holed up in my room for hours at a time writing nine pages of literary analysis (wait...maybe that doesn't belong here).
This week I got to meet the boyfriend of my good friend Erin. Kyle was visiting from California, and Erin and I decided to show him the real Valparaiso. So we headed to the Jota Cruz Casino Social. The Jota Cruz, one small-ish room tucked away down an unassuming alleyway in downtown Valpo that you have to be careful not to miss, is claimed to be the birthplace of the infamous porte
--> On a happier note, I recently got to meet Kyle, my friend Erin's boyfriend from California. The three of us started out at the Jota Cruz, a legendary Valpo hang-out, to indulge in a snack known as the chorrillana--a large pile of french fries covered with sauteed onions, scrambled eggs, and meat, and served with bread (don't ask me why) and Chilean pepper sauce on the side. Yes, it sounds strange. Yes, it is a nutritional nightmare. But believe it or not, it's actually pretty delicious. Wash it down with a Del Puerto Barba Negra (a dark beer brewed locally in Valpo) and happiness ensues. Just be sure to share it with at least two other people. The charm of the Jota Cruz is accentuated by its decor--practically every surface in the restaurant is plastered with mementos left by customers, names and messages scrawled on walls, tablecloths, and even bathroom mirrors, photos stuck to shelves. One of the owners offers nightly entertainment, singing and playing Chilean guitar music. Kyle, Erin, and I had a great time chowing on our chorrillana (I eat the fries and the onions and leave the meat for everyone else) and talking.
Afterwards we decided to stop by our favorite little cafe and nightspot, Ritual. Kyle, a cigar aficionado, was eager to find a puro to complete the evening, and serendipity led us to a small tobacco store close by. And so it was that I smoked my first Cuban cigar (no worries, this will not become a habit) as we continued our delightful conversation well into the evening. As usual, Ritual was fun and relaxing, with small doses of the unexpected sprinkled throughout the experience. First of all, my cute little tiger-striped kitten friend was there and we had some quality cuddle time before he resumed his random freaking out all over the place, jumping on tables and into laps, chasing things across the floor, and generally creating feline madness. Later, an unassuming-looking guy with a guitar on his back walked in. And when he started to sing, his voice blew us away--loud, full, clear, and rich. He charmed us with some Chilean folk tunes and then finished the set with "Stand By Me" in perfect English.
A tranquil Monday evening gave way to a wild Wednesday night as I joined a group of students organized by the university, bound for the World Cup qualifying match between the national teams of Chile and Bolivia! As expected, rabid fans of La Roja were crazy with anticipation--we spent the two hour bus ride to Santiago learning various chants and songs for the game, including a few with quite pointed and rather ugly political comments aimed at the Bolivians that I chose not to repeat. I spent the evening with Lindsay and Jon, two fellow exchange students, Carlos, an English professor at la Catolica who's just come back from a year spent teaching at Oberlin College in Ohio, and Philippe, who recently graduated from la Catolica and is now employed by the International Program while he writes his thesis in geography.
We arrived early, got painted up (colors of the Chilean flag on our faces), and then waited with bated breath in our gallery seats as La Roja dallied around for twenty or thirty minutes before scoring the first goal of the evening. After that it was a downhill slide, and they scored three more times to beat Bolivia 4-0. A stadium full of 60,000+ Chileans watching their team win a World Cup qualifier is a sight to behold! I don't know if I've ever received so many hugs from strangers in my life. Triumphant and satisfied, we were safely back on the bus before the celebratory rioting started in downtown Santiago, and went out to do a little bit of (much calmer and less violent) celebrating in Vina del Mar before heading home to go to bed around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. Our housekeeper, Mari, laughed at me the next morning when I stumbled bleary-eyed but happy into the kitchen for breakfast...at 11:00 am. "Looks like you celebrated more than the Chileans!" she said with a smile. My Chilean mom, dad, and brother eagerly pressed me for details when they arrived home from work last night. Chile is now one step closer to South Africa in 2010!
The second day of June marked the end of my third month living in Chile, and I'm now nearly halfway through the fourth. I am currently finishing up my classes at the university and working on the final projects and papers that will be due in a few weeks (a political science analysis of gender equality and Chilean democracy, a final paper on Latin American short stories, a presentation on Chilean folk music and its queen, Violeta Parra). The semester officially ends during the first week of July, but many of my classes will probably finish before that. I'm hoping to spend the first two weeks of July traveling to a few spots in the south of Chile (Punta Arenas, Chilo
--> é, the Lakes District, etc.) with friends before welcoming my family towards the end of the month. When they arrive, we'll be spending several days around the Valparaiso area and traveling to northern Chile to visit the Atacama Desert. It is unreal to think about how fast the time seems to have gone, but at the same time I'm feeling ready to move on...to get back to school...to see familiar faces...to think about what comes next...to stop eating so much bread!
It's been both a trying and a wonderful semester, and I'll try to keep you updated with plenty of reflections in the days to come.
The last few weeks have been brought extreme ups and downs. One sunny weekend afternoon, I was stunned to hear the tragic news that a friend of mine here, Ramon, had committed suicide. I learned to know Ramon at a weekly Baha'i study circle I've been attending with friends, where he shared his insight with us in his quiet way. For me, it is saddest to realize that I had only begun to know Ramon when his life ended far too suddenly. Numb and baffled, I gathered with our friends, helped Ramon's roommate move into a different apartment that he would be sharing with a cousin and several friends, then spent the evening cooking dinner and just being together. Thankfully, I had never before experienced the suicide of someone close to me, but in many ways it felt almost more difficult to suddenly be confronted with such a situation with a group of friends that I am still very much in the process of getting to know. It was hard to know what to say, how much to say, whether to say anything. So we didn't talk too much specifically about what had happened, but I felt that just the act of being together was important. At dinner, we took a moment to remember Ramon, to wish him peace and answers to all the doubts and frustrations that troubled him. I wish I had had the chance to know him better--he seemed a kind and thoughtful soul, and he is missed. I am thankful for the thoughts and prayers you all have offered for Ramon, his family, and our group of friends over the last several weeks.
There have been happier moments, of course. A picnic and professional soccer game with the group of foster children I'm helping to mentor. A unit on Chilean poetry in my culture class. Countless outings with friends to see movies, eat sushi, go dancing. Asking our dryly witty history professor to have class outside...which turned into him inviting us out for coffee instead of having class...which turned into him buying us all a beer instead of having class. An entire weekend spent holed up in my room for hours at a time writing nine pages of literary analysis (wait...maybe that doesn't belong here).
This week I got to meet the boyfriend of my good friend Erin. Kyle was visiting from California, and Erin and I decided to show him the real Valparaiso. So we headed to the Jota Cruz Casino Social. The Jota Cruz, one small-ish room tucked away down an unassuming alleyway in downtown Valpo that you have to be careful not to miss, is claimed to be the birthplace of the infamous porte
--> On a happier note, I recently got to meet Kyle, my friend Erin's boyfriend from California. The three of us started out at the Jota Cruz, a legendary Valpo hang-out, to indulge in a snack known as the chorrillana--a large pile of french fries covered with sauteed onions, scrambled eggs, and meat, and served with bread (don't ask me why) and Chilean pepper sauce on the side. Yes, it sounds strange. Yes, it is a nutritional nightmare. But believe it or not, it's actually pretty delicious. Wash it down with a Del Puerto Barba Negra (a dark beer brewed locally in Valpo) and happiness ensues. Just be sure to share it with at least two other people. The charm of the Jota Cruz is accentuated by its decor--practically every surface in the restaurant is plastered with mementos left by customers, names and messages scrawled on walls, tablecloths, and even bathroom mirrors, photos stuck to shelves. One of the owners offers nightly entertainment, singing and playing Chilean guitar music. Kyle, Erin, and I had a great time chowing on our chorrillana (I eat the fries and the onions and leave the meat for everyone else) and talking.
Afterwards we decided to stop by our favorite little cafe and nightspot, Ritual. Kyle, a cigar aficionado, was eager to find a puro to complete the evening, and serendipity led us to a small tobacco store close by. And so it was that I smoked my first Cuban cigar (no worries, this will not become a habit) as we continued our delightful conversation well into the evening. As usual, Ritual was fun and relaxing, with small doses of the unexpected sprinkled throughout the experience. First of all, my cute little tiger-striped kitten friend was there and we had some quality cuddle time before he resumed his random freaking out all over the place, jumping on tables and into laps, chasing things across the floor, and generally creating feline madness. Later, an unassuming-looking guy with a guitar on his back walked in. And when he started to sing, his voice blew us away--loud, full, clear, and rich. He charmed us with some Chilean folk tunes and then finished the set with "Stand By Me" in perfect English.
A tranquil Monday evening gave way to a wild Wednesday night as I joined a group of students organized by the university, bound for the World Cup qualifying match between the national teams of Chile and Bolivia! As expected, rabid fans of La Roja were crazy with anticipation--we spent the two hour bus ride to Santiago learning various chants and songs for the game, including a few with quite pointed and rather ugly political comments aimed at the Bolivians that I chose not to repeat. I spent the evening with Lindsay and Jon, two fellow exchange students, Carlos, an English professor at la Catolica who's just come back from a year spent teaching at Oberlin College in Ohio, and Philippe, who recently graduated from la Catolica and is now employed by the International Program while he writes his thesis in geography.
We arrived early, got painted up (colors of the Chilean flag on our faces), and then waited with bated breath in our gallery seats as La Roja dallied around for twenty or thirty minutes before scoring the first goal of the evening. After that it was a downhill slide, and they scored three more times to beat Bolivia 4-0. A stadium full of 60,000+ Chileans watching their team win a World Cup qualifier is a sight to behold! I don't know if I've ever received so many hugs from strangers in my life. Triumphant and satisfied, we were safely back on the bus before the celebratory rioting started in downtown Santiago, and went out to do a little bit of (much calmer and less violent) celebrating in Vina del Mar before heading home to go to bed around 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. Our housekeeper, Mari, laughed at me the next morning when I stumbled bleary-eyed but happy into the kitchen for breakfast...at 11:00 am. "Looks like you celebrated more than the Chileans!" she said with a smile. My Chilean mom, dad, and brother eagerly pressed me for details when they arrived home from work last night. Chile is now one step closer to South Africa in 2010!
The second day of June marked the end of my third month living in Chile, and I'm now nearly halfway through the fourth. I am currently finishing up my classes at the university and working on the final projects and papers that will be due in a few weeks (a political science analysis of gender equality and Chilean democracy, a final paper on Latin American short stories, a presentation on Chilean folk music and its queen, Violeta Parra). The semester officially ends during the first week of July, but many of my classes will probably finish before that. I'm hoping to spend the first two weeks of July traveling to a few spots in the south of Chile (Punta Arenas, Chilo
--> é, the Lakes District, etc.) with friends before welcoming my family towards the end of the month. When they arrive, we'll be spending several days around the Valparaiso area and traveling to northern Chile to visit the Atacama Desert. It is unreal to think about how fast the time seems to have gone, but at the same time I'm feeling ready to move on...to get back to school...to see familiar faces...to think about what comes next...to stop eating so much bread!
It's been both a trying and a wonderful semester, and I'll try to keep you updated with plenty of reflections in the days to come.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Que Los Cumplas Feliz
Highlights of my birthday week(end). The party lasted for five days straight!
- Going to my weekly Baha'i discussion/study group and once (like an afternoon tea--we usually have eggs and toast) with friends on Tuesday evening, followed by salsa dancing and a big glass of strawberry juice.
- Hearing live blues in the Salon Rojo (the Red Room, scarlet walls adorned with posters of Communist leaders, ha!) at La Piedra Feliz club in Valparaiso. Downstairs we got to see Congreso, a legendary Chilean folk rock band.
- Having a long weekend due to the celebration of the Naval Glories of Chile on Thursday. A national holiday, it celebrates the sacrifices of heroes like Arturo Prat in the Battle of Iquique in 1879, and all branches of the armed forces march through the streets of Valparaiso. I braved the crowds to watch the parade.
- Seeing Michelle Bachelet (president of Chile) in person as she arrived at the parade! Just so you know, she rides in a Honda.
- Dancing the night away at el Huevo and meeting a great new friend and salsa partner, who is just confused by salsa turns as I am and did not react with the usual disdain of Chilean men at my mediocre yet earnest dancing.
- As the club prepared the close, they started playing cueca and Valparaiso de mi amor and other Chilean folk music and we all danced like crazy people. It was one of those wow-I'm-actually-in-Chile-and-loving-it moments!
- A glorious afternoon on a perfect clear day at the botanical garden with my language exchange group. Two gringos + four Chileans + Uno + hiking + ducks + a picnic.
- The arrival of my cousin Sarah on Friday for brief yet awesome visit! I got to show off my new cities, celebrate with her, and convince her that Chile is superior to Argentina.
- Finally meeting my host brother's girlfriend, Marcela, who is adorable and very sweet.
- Having pizza with friends at Cafe Journal, followed by a showing of The Number 23, a Jim Carrey thriller that we all agreed was stupid, but which was chosen especially for my birthday--May 23.
- A Skype party with family and friends in SC! Thanks for the cupcakes, guys!!
- An unexpected phone call from my host brother (out of town for the weekend) to wish his hermanita a happy birthday.
- Eating seafood at a seaside restaurant on a foggy Saturday afternoon, followed by a visit to Pablo Neruda's house and a brief shopping jaunt, followed by once at my favorite cafe in Cerro Alegre and fruit wine at Ritual, an artsy little nightspot made artsier by live Chilean folk music (guitar, clarinet, and accordion) and an impromptu theatre performance by wandering actors in which a sailor-clown dealt with the consequences of knocking up his two girlfriends, Javiera Maria and Maria Javiera. A perfect evening and pure Valparaiso!
- A restful Sunday spent catching up on homework, emails, and, of course, blogging.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Photo Essay #1
The following is adapted from an essay I wrote recently for my culture class, with some editing. We were each assigned old photographs of places in Viña or Valpo and instructed to the find the spot, photograph it, and compare its current state to its past condition. The original essay was written in Spanish, and I'm translating it here, so some parts may sound a little awkward. It's one of my first attempts at creative writing in Spanish and it's actually very strange to translate your own work...
I.
I leave my dance class with the project on my mind, the mind that's still dancing cueca (1), preoccupied with the new steps that I've been struggling to learn, the movements that only confuse a class full of North Americans who picked the course because it seemed easy and fun. I'm walking with friends, other exchange students, but I'm not paying much attention to the conversation. They're speaking English, and I didn't come to Chile to speak English. I start thinking about the project again. I've spent a couple of weeks trying to convince myself to get started, and I finally have a plan. Tuesday is a flexible day: just one class in the morning and a few hours free afterward, so I have all afternoon to work. Nothing can keep me from it but my own thoughts.
I'm sitting on the metro on my way to Viña. I don't think about it so much now, this aspect of my daily routine, but there's a part of me, the girl from the rural South who's always had her own car, that isn't used to public transportation. I can't quite get over the discomfort of traveling every day with strangers. By the window an elegant older woman in a nice coat and jewelry is taking a nap, her head bobbing softly with the motion of the train. Next to me a man in a business suit is reading a law book. In front of me a young man with an angry face concentrates intently on the floor. I put on the serious, disinterested face of an urban girl, the one that says I don't matter to anyone and no one matters to me.
I usually don't leave things to the last minute. I've always liked the satisfaction of a job well done. It's not because of laziness, then, that I've avoided starting this project; it's just that I'm tired of being the gringa with the camera. This is my existence this semester, that of perpetual outsider. At first, when everything seemed fresh and exciting, every minute detail caught my attention. But the novelty of taking photos of my new surroundings gradually diminished, lost in my attempts to get used to things, to fit in. It's a process that's lasted longer than I expected, and sometimes I just wanted to scream so that everyone knows, "I live here too! I'm not a typical tourist! I don't want the English menu!!" What I want is authenticity, some kind of entrance into this culture that still shuts me out.
All of that occupies my mind as I emerge from the metro, getting my camera ready. I step onto the platform and contemplate on the fact that the graffiti here in Viña doesn't have the same character as the works of art that decorate the streets of her crazier sister, Valparaiso. There's an old, red, messy stain that barely shows on the wall, the faint memory of a tag painted by some daring hand. Someone has tried to scrub it away, erase it, eliminate it as if it were a spatter of blood left at the scene of some terrible crime that everyone wants to just forget already. It doesn't belong here on the wall of this modern metro station, where everything is square and orderly. Here there's no space for anything different. Here you have to hide it.
I climb the stairs and my eyes confront the sun that shines above, heating up the afternoon. I try to convey a casual attitude, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand by the street and take photos of supremely mundane things like buildings and cars and signs. I convince myself that no one is watching me, even though I feel the questions in the eyes of the people who pass me. I start to look for the perfect angle to recreate the old view of Calle Alvarez and Estacion Miramar. It's not difficult to find examples of transculturation and globalization, as we've been instructed. But I'm confused about the specific view that has been assigned to me to photograph. Nothing I see looks like the photos. My efforts are frustrated: the place has escaped me this time. I'll have to try again.
II.
I leave my literature class, determined today to finish the project, which will be due very soon. This time my mind is full of Borgesian images. Today in class we've traveled to El Sur in a gaucho dream (2). "Or was it reality?" the professor inquires, provoking us to challenge his interpretation. The point is that nobody knows and that's the way it should be. Sometimes I feel like I too am dreaming here, reality just beyond my grasp outside my meditative mind. I walk in the direction of the train and the fog descends on the port, a ghost of rain. It comes in from the sea, this fallen cloud, penetrating every corner and hiding the sun.
The station smells like gasoline and cement: the smell of progress? The music they play in the metro always makes me laugh, those instrumental versions of North American pop hits that sound strange--all cleaned up and way too happy. I ask myself what Madonna and REM would think if they knew their songs had been converted into this daily rhythm of arrivals and departures.
I've been told there's a way to walk up the hill close to the station, where I'll be able to get the perspective I need to reproduce the old photos. I find the way up near Cafe Journal, the favorite bar of "all the gringos." All the gringos except for me, it seems, at least the crowded dark room downstairs where beer sloshes and the chairs are too close together and you have to push your claustrophobic way through the dance floor that expands annoyingly throughout the night as bottles get emptied and chairs get pushed aside. I prefer the laidback atmosphere upstairs, where the music is calmer, the art relaxing, and the chairs comfy. I've never walked up this street before, but I pretend to know exactly where I'm going. Walking up, walking up, my eyes search for the images from the photos. Once again I've made a mistake. I realize that the photos were taken from the other side of the street. Luckily, a hidden staircase offers me an escape route and I cross the street to walk up the right way.
They're building something new on the corner and I have to walk by a construction site, where the workers whistle at me when I pass. I know enough not to respond to their comments, but this flagrant machismo still bothers me. The feeling of being conspicuous returns. At least I have dark hair, I think, although here some people consider it blonde. My pale skin, my green eyes, the freckles sprinkled liberally across my cheeks--all of this betrays me, and even more when I open my mouth. The camera I'm carrying doesn't help anything, although I've tried to be discrete and nonchalant.
I wander around the streets of Cerro Castillo, where I've climbed. There's a park here instead of the empty plot of sandy real estate where three proud men stood posing in the old photo. Now there's only one man, a gardener, watering grass and trimming plans. A black dog accompanies him. They pay me no attention. I approach the place where surely they must have taken the old photo, and pause: the plants are obstructing my view, same goes for a school building, some houses, the new construction. I take what photos I can, trying to capture the scene in a way that's faithful to history.
III.
Another class, another story, another dream. Is it that the moteca is dreaming that he's the motocyclist or is it the other way around (3)? I keep dreaming in the past, trying to find a trace of this place as it was in the old days. I climb again up to Cerro Castillo, walking, walking: it's my last attempt at finding the perfect image. The sun is blinding but standing in the shade makes me cold. The same gardener is working in the park, and this time, as the last, our relationship is one of indifference. I don't stay long, just long enough to take the last few photos that I need for the project. It's calm and quiet here, an island of green in an ocean of concrete.
The mansions on Calle Alvarez all seem to be restaurants, cultural centers, hotels, and schools these days. Some aren't even there anymore, others simply abandoned, the majority hidden between the identical towers of luxury that are the new hills here in this city where the developer is king. 1, 2, 3 bedrooms! Sales center! Open house! The most common trees that you find here now are the skinny palms that tell everyone this is a tourist destination. Fitzgerald wrote of those all-seeing eyes keeping watch over the Wasteland, but here the presence of Coca-Cola watches over us from above, a nearby apartment building crowned with a red billboard and blinking lights that keep the time every night.
I walk down slowly from the hill and head home on the other side of the street, walking toward the ascensor that I take to reach my apartment. The chemical smell of fresh paint emanates from a recently constructed building, offending my nostrils. I still don't know what exactly I will take away from this semester, but at the very least it seems I've found a place whose identity has been changing just as fast as my own. While the city of Viña del Mar continues to conquer the past, I'll keep fighting with the present.
(1). cueca: national dance of Chile
(2). El Sur: a work by the Argentine short story master Jorge Luis Borges, in which a proud porteño from Buenos Aires travels to his ancestral homelands in the southern countryside of Argentina and finds his death at the hands of knife-wielding rural thugs. A mysterious gaucho eggs him on. Or is he just dreaming all of this in his hospital bed after a nasty bump on the head? Borges loved to mess with you.
(3). La noche boca arriba: another short story, this one by Julio Cortazar, whose style is similar to Borges. A modern man is injured in a motorcycle accident and has a creepy dream while in the hospital that he is actually an indigenous captive from the Precolombian era on his way to be sacrificed by the priests of an enemy tribe. Turns out in the end that the dream is the reality, and the reality the dream. Got it?
I.
I leave my dance class with the project on my mind, the mind that's still dancing cueca (1), preoccupied with the new steps that I've been struggling to learn, the movements that only confuse a class full of North Americans who picked the course because it seemed easy and fun. I'm walking with friends, other exchange students, but I'm not paying much attention to the conversation. They're speaking English, and I didn't come to Chile to speak English. I start thinking about the project again. I've spent a couple of weeks trying to convince myself to get started, and I finally have a plan. Tuesday is a flexible day: just one class in the morning and a few hours free afterward, so I have all afternoon to work. Nothing can keep me from it but my own thoughts.
I'm sitting on the metro on my way to Viña. I don't think about it so much now, this aspect of my daily routine, but there's a part of me, the girl from the rural South who's always had her own car, that isn't used to public transportation. I can't quite get over the discomfort of traveling every day with strangers. By the window an elegant older woman in a nice coat and jewelry is taking a nap, her head bobbing softly with the motion of the train. Next to me a man in a business suit is reading a law book. In front of me a young man with an angry face concentrates intently on the floor. I put on the serious, disinterested face of an urban girl, the one that says I don't matter to anyone and no one matters to me.
I usually don't leave things to the last minute. I've always liked the satisfaction of a job well done. It's not because of laziness, then, that I've avoided starting this project; it's just that I'm tired of being the gringa with the camera. This is my existence this semester, that of perpetual outsider. At first, when everything seemed fresh and exciting, every minute detail caught my attention. But the novelty of taking photos of my new surroundings gradually diminished, lost in my attempts to get used to things, to fit in. It's a process that's lasted longer than I expected, and sometimes I just wanted to scream so that everyone knows, "I live here too! I'm not a typical tourist! I don't want the English menu!!" What I want is authenticity, some kind of entrance into this culture that still shuts me out.
All of that occupies my mind as I emerge from the metro, getting my camera ready. I step onto the platform and contemplate on the fact that the graffiti here in Viña doesn't have the same character as the works of art that decorate the streets of her crazier sister, Valparaiso. There's an old, red, messy stain that barely shows on the wall, the faint memory of a tag painted by some daring hand. Someone has tried to scrub it away, erase it, eliminate it as if it were a spatter of blood left at the scene of some terrible crime that everyone wants to just forget already. It doesn't belong here on the wall of this modern metro station, where everything is square and orderly. Here there's no space for anything different. Here you have to hide it.
I climb the stairs and my eyes confront the sun that shines above, heating up the afternoon. I try to convey a casual attitude, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stand by the street and take photos of supremely mundane things like buildings and cars and signs. I convince myself that no one is watching me, even though I feel the questions in the eyes of the people who pass me. I start to look for the perfect angle to recreate the old view of Calle Alvarez and Estacion Miramar. It's not difficult to find examples of transculturation and globalization, as we've been instructed. But I'm confused about the specific view that has been assigned to me to photograph. Nothing I see looks like the photos. My efforts are frustrated: the place has escaped me this time. I'll have to try again.
II.
I leave my literature class, determined today to finish the project, which will be due very soon. This time my mind is full of Borgesian images. Today in class we've traveled to El Sur in a gaucho dream (2). "Or was it reality?" the professor inquires, provoking us to challenge his interpretation. The point is that nobody knows and that's the way it should be. Sometimes I feel like I too am dreaming here, reality just beyond my grasp outside my meditative mind. I walk in the direction of the train and the fog descends on the port, a ghost of rain. It comes in from the sea, this fallen cloud, penetrating every corner and hiding the sun.
The station smells like gasoline and cement: the smell of progress? The music they play in the metro always makes me laugh, those instrumental versions of North American pop hits that sound strange--all cleaned up and way too happy. I ask myself what Madonna and REM would think if they knew their songs had been converted into this daily rhythm of arrivals and departures.
I've been told there's a way to walk up the hill close to the station, where I'll be able to get the perspective I need to reproduce the old photos. I find the way up near Cafe Journal, the favorite bar of "all the gringos." All the gringos except for me, it seems, at least the crowded dark room downstairs where beer sloshes and the chairs are too close together and you have to push your claustrophobic way through the dance floor that expands annoyingly throughout the night as bottles get emptied and chairs get pushed aside. I prefer the laidback atmosphere upstairs, where the music is calmer, the art relaxing, and the chairs comfy. I've never walked up this street before, but I pretend to know exactly where I'm going. Walking up, walking up, my eyes search for the images from the photos. Once again I've made a mistake. I realize that the photos were taken from the other side of the street. Luckily, a hidden staircase offers me an escape route and I cross the street to walk up the right way.
They're building something new on the corner and I have to walk by a construction site, where the workers whistle at me when I pass. I know enough not to respond to their comments, but this flagrant machismo still bothers me. The feeling of being conspicuous returns. At least I have dark hair, I think, although here some people consider it blonde. My pale skin, my green eyes, the freckles sprinkled liberally across my cheeks--all of this betrays me, and even more when I open my mouth. The camera I'm carrying doesn't help anything, although I've tried to be discrete and nonchalant.
I wander around the streets of Cerro Castillo, where I've climbed. There's a park here instead of the empty plot of sandy real estate where three proud men stood posing in the old photo. Now there's only one man, a gardener, watering grass and trimming plans. A black dog accompanies him. They pay me no attention. I approach the place where surely they must have taken the old photo, and pause: the plants are obstructing my view, same goes for a school building, some houses, the new construction. I take what photos I can, trying to capture the scene in a way that's faithful to history.
III.
Another class, another story, another dream. Is it that the moteca is dreaming that he's the motocyclist or is it the other way around (3)? I keep dreaming in the past, trying to find a trace of this place as it was in the old days. I climb again up to Cerro Castillo, walking, walking: it's my last attempt at finding the perfect image. The sun is blinding but standing in the shade makes me cold. The same gardener is working in the park, and this time, as the last, our relationship is one of indifference. I don't stay long, just long enough to take the last few photos that I need for the project. It's calm and quiet here, an island of green in an ocean of concrete.
The mansions on Calle Alvarez all seem to be restaurants, cultural centers, hotels, and schools these days. Some aren't even there anymore, others simply abandoned, the majority hidden between the identical towers of luxury that are the new hills here in this city where the developer is king. 1, 2, 3 bedrooms! Sales center! Open house! The most common trees that you find here now are the skinny palms that tell everyone this is a tourist destination. Fitzgerald wrote of those all-seeing eyes keeping watch over the Wasteland, but here the presence of Coca-Cola watches over us from above, a nearby apartment building crowned with a red billboard and blinking lights that keep the time every night.
I walk down slowly from the hill and head home on the other side of the street, walking toward the ascensor that I take to reach my apartment. The chemical smell of fresh paint emanates from a recently constructed building, offending my nostrils. I still don't know what exactly I will take away from this semester, but at the very least it seems I've found a place whose identity has been changing just as fast as my own. While the city of Viña del Mar continues to conquer the past, I'll keep fighting with the present.
(1). cueca: national dance of Chile
(2). El Sur: a work by the Argentine short story master Jorge Luis Borges, in which a proud porteño from Buenos Aires travels to his ancestral homelands in the southern countryside of Argentina and finds his death at the hands of knife-wielding rural thugs. A mysterious gaucho eggs him on. Or is he just dreaming all of this in his hospital bed after a nasty bump on the head? Borges loved to mess with you.
(3). La noche boca arriba: another short story, this one by Julio Cortazar, whose style is similar to Borges. A modern man is injured in a motorcycle accident and has a creepy dream while in the hospital that he is actually an indigenous captive from the Precolombian era on his way to be sacrificed by the priests of an enemy tribe. Turns out in the end that the dream is the reality, and the reality the dream. Got it?
Bittersweet Goodbyes and Hellos
Last weekend started with a tremor.
Literally. I was standing in the kitchen with my host brother, David, making a quick breakfast. As I stirred my (always disappointing) Nescafe and he slathered mashed avocado on a roll, everything in the apartment suddenly rattled violently for a few seconds and then stopped. I thought at first that something had happened to the gas water heater that lives on the wall in the kitchen; my host dad was taking a shower in the bathroom next to the kitchen, so it sort of made sense. But when I looked at my brother, he gave me a big grin and a shrug, and said something helpful like, "We have earthquakes here." Ah, of course. So I've now had my third or fourth seismic experience this semester.
It was 8:00 on a Saturday morning, and I was headed to Valparaiso to take an exam. Yes--I had voluntarily signed up and paid around $100 to take a four-hour exam on a Saturday. Had I lost my mind? Maybe. But I thought it would be worth a shot for the chance to earn a Spanish proficiency diploma from the Instituto Cervantes in Spain. Nice resume padding, if nothing else. I managed to roll out of bed and get to the university on time. My friend Sarah, also evidently a fan of intellectual self-punishment, met me there and we buckled down for the first three and a half hours of exam-ing: reading comprehension, writing, listening, vocabulary, grammar. It might not have been so bad (I had been practicing for a couple of weeks) if not for the monstruous headache that invaded my shoulders, neck, and head halfway through the morning. It didn't let up, either, as Sarah and I went to a cafe nearby for a lunch break. I was tempted to scrap it all to go home and sleep off the pain, but my well-honed frugality and relentless determination prevented me from doing so. I made it through the final section of the exam--fifteen minutes of preparation and fifteen minutes of conversation--and headed home to enact the previous plan. The three hour nap that followed, along with a couple of ibuprofen and lots of water, knocked out the killer headache at last.
I would have been happy to chill peacefully at home that evening, but my feeble protests of intellectual exhaustion and nap-induced disorientation did not stand up to a scolding from my host mom, something along the lines of "You're not an old woman, you are young! Go out! GO OUT!!" (She obviously doesn't understand my lifestyle as a reclusive nerd.) So I turned to my back-up plan and called my friend Jon, who had invited me to a birthday party for his Chilean host mom. I met him and another friend, Carolina, and we proceeded to hang out until the wee hours of the morning, eating yummy party food, making awkward conversation with middle-aged party guests, and dancing to everything from salsa to reggaeton to 80s pop hits (Chileans have very questionable taste in music). Afterward, Jon accompanied Carolina and me to our respective houses and I went to bed.
There were big plans for Sunday, as well. I have gotten involved with a group of exchange students from the university who have organized a Big Brothers/Big Sisters type service project. One of our professors put us in touch with Gina, a foster mom in Valparaiso who is caring for seven foster children in addition to two of her own. The children all come from homes where physical and sexual abuse and other tragic situations were the norm, and so cannot live with their own families. Gina takes care of them and makes sure they receive the medical and psychological attention they need, which is stressful for all of them and especially taxing on her. So the object of our program is to create some fun and self-esteem-building activities for them and give her a little space to herself. The program is called "Tias y Tios" (Aunts and Uncles) because that's what the kids call us--Tia Kelsey, Tio Tom, Tia Jessica, etc.
So on Sunday we gathered the children and took a trip to the Botanical Garden in Viña for a day of picnicking and playing outside. I have to say that it really lifted my spirits. It is heartbreaking for me to think about the horrors that these beautiful children have seen and experienced, and I am utterly amazed that they can have any semblance of normality at all in their lives--perhaps they are just that much stronger than I am. I particularly connected with Javiera, a gangly and adorable 9-year-old. She had the scars of a terrible burn on her tiny arm, and I wondered for a while about what could have happened, but I was more captivated by her boundless energy and sweet personality. We played hours of soccer, took two trips to the lake to see the ducks and geese, climbed bridges and explored caves, named plants and took photos. She cracked me up with her questions and observations.
"Tia, why are those people still parked there if that sign says no parking?" she asked in all seriousness, genuinely astounded by their blatant violation of Botanical Garden rules. "Well, Javiera, apparently they just aren't paying very good attention," I responded. "Oh. Ok. Let's run!" she said with glee and sprints off, glancing back expectantly over her shoulder with a huge gap-toothed smile. On our second trip to the lake, she commented casually, "Oh, there are those people parked where it says no parking," with a little attitude of faint disdain but resignation. Hilarious. And wonderful that she could still maintain that much innocence. Yes, I am an unabashed bleeding heart. At the end of the day we were all deliciously exhausted, and so the tias, tios, and kids all piled onto a bus and headed home. They showered us with goodbye hugs and Javiera took my nametag as a souvenir of the afternoon. Amazing. We will do three or four more big events with them before the semester ends.
I returned to my apartment in time to watch a live streaming video of Maryville College graduation on the internet--it was strange to watch it from thousands of miles away, those little pieces of my life in miniature walking across a temporary stage amidst the tranquil tree-shaded lawn, surreal, disembodied and broadcast straight to my computer screen. I felt connected and infinitely separated all at once. It felt so final. But at the same time I was incredibly happy for all of my amazing friends, and I managed to hold back tears and focused on wishing them well from afar...
"The Lord be gracious unto you
and give you peace," they sing
And church bells toll in a foreign city
Bittersweet goodbyes and hellos
Literally. I was standing in the kitchen with my host brother, David, making a quick breakfast. As I stirred my (always disappointing) Nescafe and he slathered mashed avocado on a roll, everything in the apartment suddenly rattled violently for a few seconds and then stopped. I thought at first that something had happened to the gas water heater that lives on the wall in the kitchen; my host dad was taking a shower in the bathroom next to the kitchen, so it sort of made sense. But when I looked at my brother, he gave me a big grin and a shrug, and said something helpful like, "We have earthquakes here." Ah, of course. So I've now had my third or fourth seismic experience this semester.
It was 8:00 on a Saturday morning, and I was headed to Valparaiso to take an exam. Yes--I had voluntarily signed up and paid around $100 to take a four-hour exam on a Saturday. Had I lost my mind? Maybe. But I thought it would be worth a shot for the chance to earn a Spanish proficiency diploma from the Instituto Cervantes in Spain. Nice resume padding, if nothing else. I managed to roll out of bed and get to the university on time. My friend Sarah, also evidently a fan of intellectual self-punishment, met me there and we buckled down for the first three and a half hours of exam-ing: reading comprehension, writing, listening, vocabulary, grammar. It might not have been so bad (I had been practicing for a couple of weeks) if not for the monstruous headache that invaded my shoulders, neck, and head halfway through the morning. It didn't let up, either, as Sarah and I went to a cafe nearby for a lunch break. I was tempted to scrap it all to go home and sleep off the pain, but my well-honed frugality and relentless determination prevented me from doing so. I made it through the final section of the exam--fifteen minutes of preparation and fifteen minutes of conversation--and headed home to enact the previous plan. The three hour nap that followed, along with a couple of ibuprofen and lots of water, knocked out the killer headache at last.
I would have been happy to chill peacefully at home that evening, but my feeble protests of intellectual exhaustion and nap-induced disorientation did not stand up to a scolding from my host mom, something along the lines of "You're not an old woman, you are young! Go out! GO OUT!!" (She obviously doesn't understand my lifestyle as a reclusive nerd.) So I turned to my back-up plan and called my friend Jon, who had invited me to a birthday party for his Chilean host mom. I met him and another friend, Carolina, and we proceeded to hang out until the wee hours of the morning, eating yummy party food, making awkward conversation with middle-aged party guests, and dancing to everything from salsa to reggaeton to 80s pop hits (Chileans have very questionable taste in music). Afterward, Jon accompanied Carolina and me to our respective houses and I went to bed.
There were big plans for Sunday, as well. I have gotten involved with a group of exchange students from the university who have organized a Big Brothers/Big Sisters type service project. One of our professors put us in touch with Gina, a foster mom in Valparaiso who is caring for seven foster children in addition to two of her own. The children all come from homes where physical and sexual abuse and other tragic situations were the norm, and so cannot live with their own families. Gina takes care of them and makes sure they receive the medical and psychological attention they need, which is stressful for all of them and especially taxing on her. So the object of our program is to create some fun and self-esteem-building activities for them and give her a little space to herself. The program is called "Tias y Tios" (Aunts and Uncles) because that's what the kids call us--Tia Kelsey, Tio Tom, Tia Jessica, etc.
So on Sunday we gathered the children and took a trip to the Botanical Garden in Viña for a day of picnicking and playing outside. I have to say that it really lifted my spirits. It is heartbreaking for me to think about the horrors that these beautiful children have seen and experienced, and I am utterly amazed that they can have any semblance of normality at all in their lives--perhaps they are just that much stronger than I am. I particularly connected with Javiera, a gangly and adorable 9-year-old. She had the scars of a terrible burn on her tiny arm, and I wondered for a while about what could have happened, but I was more captivated by her boundless energy and sweet personality. We played hours of soccer, took two trips to the lake to see the ducks and geese, climbed bridges and explored caves, named plants and took photos. She cracked me up with her questions and observations.
"Tia, why are those people still parked there if that sign says no parking?" she asked in all seriousness, genuinely astounded by their blatant violation of Botanical Garden rules. "Well, Javiera, apparently they just aren't paying very good attention," I responded. "Oh. Ok. Let's run!" she said with glee and sprints off, glancing back expectantly over her shoulder with a huge gap-toothed smile. On our second trip to the lake, she commented casually, "Oh, there are those people parked where it says no parking," with a little attitude of faint disdain but resignation. Hilarious. And wonderful that she could still maintain that much innocence. Yes, I am an unabashed bleeding heart. At the end of the day we were all deliciously exhausted, and so the tias, tios, and kids all piled onto a bus and headed home. They showered us with goodbye hugs and Javiera took my nametag as a souvenir of the afternoon. Amazing. We will do three or four more big events with them before the semester ends.
I returned to my apartment in time to watch a live streaming video of Maryville College graduation on the internet--it was strange to watch it from thousands of miles away, those little pieces of my life in miniature walking across a temporary stage amidst the tranquil tree-shaded lawn, surreal, disembodied and broadcast straight to my computer screen. I felt connected and infinitely separated all at once. It felt so final. But at the same time I was incredibly happy for all of my amazing friends, and I managed to hold back tears and focused on wishing them well from afar...
"The Lord be gracious unto you
and give you peace," they sing
And church bells toll in a foreign city
Bittersweet goodbyes and hellos
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