Chile, El Bonito

Today was one of those magical days when just about everything finally seemed to go my way . Everyone, it seemed, was in a stellar mood, and tiny acts of beauty were noted all around. Is it that things were actually different, or was it merely some small shift in my perception? I can't say for sure, but I think--at least for the moment--that Chile and I have put aside our differences and begun our love affair once more.

A random collection of experiences, notes, and thoughts gathered over the last few week or so...

--I exchanged more than three words with Mari, our nana, today. It is still really strange for me that we have household help, and so I feel awkward sometimes not really knowing how to relate to her. Like, I sometimes try to sneak and wash my own dishes when she's here...and she inevitably sneaks up on me and whisks them out of my hands to do it herself. It's a real blow to assertive American self-sufficiency. She brings me lunch on a tray. She makes my bed twice a week. She knows what my underwear looks like. It's weird, right? And mostly our conversations go like this (a translation): Mari-"Are you ready for lunch?" Kelsey-"Yes, absolutely, thank you." Mari-"Ya." Kelsey-"Thank you so much for lunch, it was delicious." Mari-"Ya." A little later... Mari-"Ya, ok, I'm going now. Take care. Chao!" Though "ya" still figured quite prominently in today's conversation, we actually spoke a little more because we both left the house at the same time to run some errands in different parts of Viña. I feel this is a step in the right direction.

--At lunch on Sunday a tumbler of fresh strawberry juice appeared by my place at the table.

--My friend Sarah and I have determined that the best type of relationship for us to have while in Chile is what we like to call "the micro romance." Te explico. Let me explain. A good lookin' guy gets on the micro, which is inevitably packed with people like so many sardines, preventing actual conversation or contact. He catches your eye, probably stunned by your pasty skin and trying to figure out if you are a gringa or maybe just some fairer-complexioned Chilean descendant of Bernardo O'Higgins. You, in turn, are mesmerized by his brown eyes and mullet with rattail, or his snazzy sailor uniform (yay for port cities). You exchange a few shy gazes until suddenly your stop comes up and you buzz the driver and crawl over ten people to freedom, leaving the good lookin' guy to wonder. Short, sweet, harmless, and entertaining. That's the micro romance.

--The aforementioned Bernardo O'Higgins, considered the father of Chile, was a political and military hero of Chilean independence. He was also the illegitimate son of an Irishman who worked for the Spanish Empire (don't ask me how that happened) and a Chilean noblewoman. So my Celtic heritage has something of an "in" here...however scandalous it may be.

--A week ago on Thursday I went out with a group of friends, invited by my orientation leader, Anaiza, to El Huevo, an infamous nightclub in Valpo (Laurel Strozier knows absolutely nothing about this place, Dr. Mitchell...absolutely nothing). For hours we wandered up and down the four maze-like floors of this place, ears reeling from the blasting music, which ranged from salsa to rock to pop, etc. Worst/best of all was the reggaeton room, which may have actually had sweat sprinklers judging from the disgusting appearances of everyone dancing there (including us). I went to bed at 4:30 (I'll just pretend my parents and grandparents aren't reading this) and THEN got up and made it to my 8:15 class. So there.

--For the past three weeks, my host family has been tip-toeing around the smoking issue. Afraid to offend me with their habit, they practically hang out the window in the kitchen to smoke, then spray copious amounts of air freshener around the apartment. Sometimes they'll sneak a ciggie while I'm in the shower, but I always know because the smoke seeps in through the bathroom window, completely ruining their clever plan.

--One of the guys who works the funicular (the bald, fierce-looking one) finally asked me where I was from one day this week. When I said the States, he seemed surprised: "I thought you were chilena!" Yessss, I had him fooled. This morning I arrived at the funicular at same time as an older woman. Fierce bald man turned to her and said, "This girl's from South Carolina." She got really excited because she had lived in Los Angeles for a time. Er...I explained to her that LA was on the other side of the country from where I lived, but no matter. I had a friend on the funicular. Her name was Teresa, she was on her way to Santiago for a family funeral, she had an extra pair of shoes with her for walking in the city, she had worked at Neiman Marcus in LA and it was such a wonderful time, she loved the United States because they judged you based on what you did with your life and not what you looked like or how you dressed...We chatted for the few minutes it took to descend from the cerro and walk to the corner, then parted ways.

--I successfully got my student pass for the metro today. I had all the documents I needed (including the official letter from PUCV that I spilled coffee on), I didn't have to wait too long, no one laughed at me, etc. In my excitement, I forgot to actually go and add some metro fare to the card, but whatever.

--My Chilean mom has been very concerned that I've taken a couple of cold showers here (not a huge deal to me, but obviously an affront to her) because the gas water heater wasn't turned on, and I didn't know how to do it yet and didn't want to accidentally detonate the apartment. So a couple of nights ago she ordered my brother to take me to the kitchen and teach me how to light the water heater. Patiently and seriously he laid out the steps for me: open the gas valve, light the match, turn the knob to let the gas flow, light the pilot, press and hold the knob for at least 15 seconds, turn to desired heat. "Now you do it and I'll watch," he instructed. I giggled. "Really?" I inquired. "Yes," came the reply. Feeling silly, I dutifully performed the steps--perfectly, I might add. "Good. Now do it again," he said. Really?? Again I completed the task successfully. We went to report my success to Alvaro and Maria Elena, and the hilarious secret was revealed--my host dad can't turn on the water heater by himself. Sometimes he wakes up my brother at five in the morning to do it for him. We all laughed at him, and then I made him come to the kitchen to learn how. He tried it two or three times--no luck. I demonstrated to him that even the newly-arrived gringa could do it. We went through approximately thirty billion matches, instructing and proving our skills (honestly, I was starting to feel a little wasteful...but still highly amused). He sighed in mock despair until he finally gave up, stomping back to his room in mock frustration like a small boy...but this evening Papa Alvaro announced proudly to all of us that he had successfully lighted the water heater this morning, all by himself!

--I spent way too much money at a used bookstore near my house today, stocking up on some books by a Chilean author as part of my continuing desperate search for an interesting and feasible thesis topic. But here I made two new Chilean friends, the owner Maria and her husband, who were super nice and chatted with me for a while. This relationship is both helpful for the exchange student and highly dangerous for the enthusiastic--yet flat broke--bibliophile.

--Sometimes there are buskers on the micro. On my way to the beach one day last weekend, a couple of guys got on, cranked up their old-school boombox, and broke in socially-conscious rap: "El pueblo, unido, jamás será vencido!" ("The people, united, will never be defeated!")

--The people who are most worried about you getting a liberal arts degrees in the humanities, other than your grandparents, are Chileans. Every Chilean student I talk to is majoring in some form of engineering. The educational system here seems much more geared to very practical, technical career paths. There is little dabbling in various subjects; paradigms are rigidly structured and tightly scheduled. Also, during the Pinochet years, studying philosophy or sociology or psychology meant you were a subversive communist. Hence, the system was redesigned to exclude those subjects, a phenomenon which may still carry over to some extent today, though that is just speculation on my part. In any case, a typical conversation about my academic aspirations goes something like this: Chilean-"What are you studying?" Kelsey-"Spanish language and literature." Chilean-"No, but in the United States, what are you studying?" Kelsey-"Spanish language and literature." Chilean-"Oh...but...why??"

--Speaking of school, my host family was floored to come home one night this week and find me immersed in studying. "What are you doing? No carrete (the Chilean word for going out with friends)??" they each gasped in turn as they walked by my room (for the record, my uncharacteristic spurt of experiencing the night life has been solely in the name of social networking, aka desperately trying to meet people...and so far it has actually been pretty disappointing). "There must be alterior motives for your studying," joked Alvaro, "Are we expecting a call from your parents or something??" Haha, guys. Nope. This is just your introduction to my REAL life: the thrilling life of a self-described nerd who routinely organizes homework parties with her friends for fun on the weekends...

--I made the mistake of buying some dessert to have on hand when people came over last night for a little get-together: an alfajor is "a traditional cookie that is found in some regions of Spain and in countries of Latin America including South America, Central America and Mexico. Its basic form consists of two round sweet biscuits joined together with dulce de leche or jam and covered with powdered sugar or chocolate." Uh-oh. Keep me away from the panaderia.

--In Chile, there is a tradition of hazing new university freshmen during "la semana de los mechoneos." Basically, it's a really lovely custom where they cut the new students' hair (girls and boys), dress them in old clothes, cover them with paint and/or fish guts, and send them to the streets to beg for money to finance parties. Ah, bonding. Thank God I'm not a Chilean freshman.

--And finally, this is our toaster:


There is so much more. But to truly live my beautiful existence, you would just have to visit me.

Ya.

Buen Viaje

I hope this satisfies you, anxious readers.

In my twenty years of traveling, it seems I've just been extraordinarily lucky. So there was that one time when five-year-old me had to run (with her grandparents, don't worry) to catch her plane to Disney World. And that disastrous return from Mexico last summer. But this time I had somehow lulled myself into thinking it would be a flawless journey. Surprise!

My tranquil last-Sunday-morning-at-home got hectic when I discovered that the first leg of my journey, from Charlotte to Atlanta, had been canceled due to freak winter weather in the Southeast. Hm. No matter, it's only three and a half hours from my house to Atlanta, plenty of time to make the drive and catch my 9:15 pm flight, I thought. It was still on schedule according to the Delta website. However, a glance at my online itinerary turned up a more interesting tidbit--I had been inexplicably re-booked for Wednesday, March 14. Tranquil morning morphed into serious action. I spent all morning--save a brief church visit and a quick Japanese lunch--calling every number for Delta I could find, with zero success, until I finally annoyed the robotic voice on the other end long enough to be connected to a human being. I explained my situation, asserting that anything other than a spot on the 9:15 flight was unacceptable. Luckily, she was able to get me a seat on my originally scheduled flight (thank you). So, the entire morning I had set aside for calm final packing and checking to make sure I had everything turned into about ten minutes of tearing around my house, throwing random last minute items into my luggage and stopping just long enough to make sure my passport and visa were in my possession. The essentials, you know.

We hop in the car and begin the drive to Atlanta, where the weather is cool but clear according to all information I could find. (Note: never, ever trust me if you need reliable information about road conditions.) We leave sometime after 2:00 pm. The farther southwest we drive, the bigger the blobs of snow sploosh to the ground. "It's so pretty!" gushes my sister. Decidedly not, I counter. "No need to worryyy, even though we're in a flurryyy," she croons in her best Allison Krauss twang, "Ohhh, Atlant-uhh!" (Caitlin: I know you're going to kill me for including that, but it had to be done. I love you.) As my intrepid dad navigates the treacherous roads, my mom calls Delta practically every five minutes to check the status of my flight--no sense risking our lives if it gets canceled. "Flight one-forty-seven," she intones over and over again, desperate to gain the understanding of that aloof robotic voice on the other end. On time. The flurries increase. On time. The slush thickens on the road. On time. A hundred miles to our exit, a little under five hours until my flight. Hmm.

Around 5:30 I begin losing hope. The slush is piling up, the traffic's barely moving, we're sliding here and there. A call from home tells us it's snowing there too, school is canceled for the next day. We stop to get gas. There are six inches of snow on the ground. I call and my flight is STILL on time. My parents are strangely optimistic, while I maintain that arriving in time for the flight is highly improbable. (I know you're all surprised by this pessimism. How unlike me!)

Shortly after 6:00 the road is suddenly clear, the snow now just rain. A smidgin of hope? No, I must not allow it. But a few minutes later I am rewarded with a fiery burnt sienna sunset--dare I call it the light at the end of the tunnel? We finally arrive at Hartsfield-Jackson. Amazingly, it is only about 7:20 pm. La familia drops me off out front. I decide that being rushed might actually be the way to travel--no time to think about what you're leaving behind. I check in and head for security, receiving my first compliment from a TSA guy who checks out my visa and says, "Chile. You live down there?" Ha, apparently I pass for a chilena. I'm ok with that. I'm loading my worldly possessions onto the conveyor belt when I hear, "Nobody move! Stop moving! Stop moving!" Everyone is still. Security breach, mutters my TSA agent. But then the announcement: it's just a drill. Thanks for participating. I make it to my gate, make a few calls, board on time. I can't believe we pulled this off.

Of course, the trip's not over yet. At 10:30 we are still sitting at the gate, waiting for de-icing and a spot in the take-off sequence. From my vantage point on the wing (the right wing, incidentally) I am in prime viewing position for my first de-icing experience. The machine comes close and barely has a chance to spray the tip of the wing before I hear the captain saying, "Oooo-kaaay, folks, we're done with de-icing, let's take off!" Whaaat? There is definitely still snow on that wing. I get a weird feeling. We taxi over to the runway. Finally, as my heart starts beating out of my chest and I instinctively clutch the two prayer books I've brought along, his voice returns, "Oooops, thanks to some observant passengers, we've realized we need some more de-icing!" Duh. But now we have to wait for another spot in line and...it's 3:00 am before we finally take off.

I am amused by roughly half the passengers on the plane who are on their way to embark on a Princess cruise. Hereafter they shall be called The Cruise People. The Cruise People feel they have Special Status because they might miss their cruise due to our interminable delays. "Where do you leave from?" inquires one Cruise Person to another. "Oh, I dunno, Val-, Vala-something," answers the other. He means Valparaíso , where I'll be studying all semester. Pablo Neruda might roll over in his grave (cliché, cliché) to hear them botch the name of his city like that. With an extra seat next to me and Doubt as an inflight movie option, I have a most pleasant journey.

We arrive in Santiago around 12:00 pm. I stand in line to find out that I am exempt from the reciprocity fee levied on North Americans and Australians since I've already forked over big bucks for a student visa. The Cruise People, despite being reassured that Princess will not sail without them, are still freaking out. They feel their Special Status entitles them to be expedited through immigration. One fine specimen, hereafter known as the Ugly American, takes charge of the situation. A layperson as far as I can tell, not a Princess representative, her shrill voice echoes through the halls of Arturo Benitez airport as she directs confused American retirees. The Ugly American has a tight, shiny face and a no-nonsense ponytail. She is dressed in running clothes. A family with an older woman in need of a wheelchair is among The Cruise People, and the Ugly American takes it upon herself to help them cut in line, ostensibly to obtain said wheelchair with more haste. A forthright German in line just behind me has a problem with this, and takes her on: "Ma'am, what you're doing isn't fair. I understand what she needs, but the rest of us are waiting. THIS is exactly why YOU have to pay that reciprocity fee back there! I wish they would make you pay MORE!!!" he rants. Ooh. She rebuffs him, clearly considering herself the heroine for rescuing this poor woman and her family, though her help hasn't paid off with any noticeable results. Ah, intercultural exchanges.

I clear immigration and head to customs. An official calls me aside, wishes to open my bag. I acquiesce, of course, and when she asks me what it contains, I explain that I'm carrying clothes and some electronics. "Any food?" she queries. "Yes, a bag of cookies, I think that's all," I respond. Clearly doubting me, she reaches inside and feels around, her hand emerging triumphantly as she clutches my hidden contraband...

...a bag of sliced almonds that my Mommy packed me as a snack. I have completely forgotten about them, and that is seriously not just a lie I made up for the customs people. "Well, the fact remains that here they are," she says smugly, "and you didn't declare them. I'll have to ask someone about this." I agree to wait, silently kicking myself for surviving all of this and then being denied entry to Chile for a boring bag of almonds. A few minutes later she returns, clearly disappointed. "They say it's ok, because they're sliced. But NEXT TIME..." she warns. I mutter apologies in my sweetest Spanish and gather my stuff. Heading outside, I don't see my driver. But a really nice taxi guy named Andres helps me drag my bags to a pay phone. Then he gets me change and helps me dial the number for Macarena, my coordinator at the university. Being a foreign woman who speaks decent Spanish has its perks. Finally, we locate my driver and I bid adios to Andres, my first Chilean friend. (You, customs lady, certainly do NOT count).

For the next hour and a half I drift in and out of consciousness and several climate zones. We start in the Mediterranean-esque Santiago area, where there are straight-up avocado orchards as well as fields of practically any other fruit you can name. The next time I awaken, we are speeding through wine country, vineyards on both sides of the road. When I wake up for good, we have arrived in Viña del Mar and are searching the meandering streets for my host family's apartment. My host dad, Alvaro, greets me and lugs my bags up to the fourth floor, where Maria Elena, my host mom, awaits us. The apartment is adorable and so are they! I settle in, shower, eat, and then crash. When I wake up, my host brother David sets up my wireless internet and Maria Elena fusses over me, bringing me countless cups of tea and a bowl of oatmeal, while Alvaro pops in with the occasional joke.

Así no ma', po. Hasta pronto.