Good Winds: Part II

Where we last left off, I was about six seconds from riding unicorns on clouds of marshmallows... Well my get up and go (as well as the sun, humidity, and tremendous heat of my room in the hostel) got me up a little more than four hours later around 10:30 (already later than I had hoped to start my day). No worries, though, because my self-loathing for having stayed out so late the night before provided me with just enough adrenaline and masochistic motivation to force myself into a high-octane tour of the city. I tore off a piece of a map to use as scratch paper and scribbled a 7 point agenda (complete with sub-stops for every major landmark) based on the most convenient route to tour as much of the city as possible on foot. In less than half an hour, I had showered, changed, and created a game plan for the entirety of the rest of the day.

Arriving first at a very keechi tourist trap called La Boca, I wandered around the various boatloads of American tourists looking for worthwhile photo-ops. The best story from this leg of my journey was as follows: trying to take a couple pictures of the woe-begotten miniature ponies that some man was exploiting for his personal well-being, the "owner" approached me asking for a "propina" (basically a tip for allowing me to view these animals whose lives he had so ruthlessly wrested from them). Well, there was an older lady, about 65-70 trying to do the same thing. Only when he asked us both for the propina, she jumped and spun like a dredle (an apropos analogy considering that she wore a thick, Long Island Jewish accent), asking me to tell the man "That I don't have any coins because I gyave them all to the chuuch" (she also asked me to pay for her, but I felt no such inclination into helping some stranger who was all too eager to parade her piety to any random passer-by).

Satisfied that this tourist trap had milked enough time, energy, and spare change from me, I asked around and caught the next bus to the San Telmo artisan fair. Perhaps my favorite stop of my time in Buenos Aires, the street La Defensa (named because its residents poured boiling water on the Spaniards during the battle for independence) was littered with artists, musicians, and various venders hawking everything from fresh fruit to tango figurines. I stopped to listen to one sort of modern tango-jazz group for about 30 minutes, trying to snap some cool pictures at odd angles because of all the people that were standing and watching them. Having thoroughly violated some of the onlookers by positioning my camera over their shoulders, under armpits, and between their legs, I took off and hoped that at least one of the pictures would turn out okay.

About 10 blocks and an hour later (there were lots of distractions), I arrived at Plaza de Mayo. This historical center of the city houses the famous Casa Rosada, a governmental mansion from whose balcony the likes of Eva and Juan Peron, among others, have addressed crowds of followers in the square. As the name suggests, the mansion is the unmistakeable pink building (pictured above), originally painted using ox-blood to achieve its distinct color. On the other side of the square is el Cabilde, the sort of Spanish Mission-looking building that is the independence hall for BsAs (hence all the political graffiti). This square is also home to the national cathedral (that from the outside looks more like a courthouse), home to the Argentine war hero Gnrl San Martín, who is guarded 24/7 by a pair of very solemn, and undoubtedly very bored members of the militia.

From there, I wanted to find the financial district north of the square, which my guide book told me was called "La City." Well, apparently, the guidebook is wrong because when I asked a cop where I could find the district called La City, he patronizingly explained to me that "City means Ciudad." Thanks... Jerk! Anyway, I found the place I sought, but quickly moved on because all the sites I wanted to see were closed (Sundays in Latin America, everything is closed).

From there, I doubled back to walk down a main avenue leading from Plaza de Mayo, called Avda de Mayo. With a little help from my pocket agenda that I created, I was able to identify some of the more important historical buildings and admire at the European feel of the street and the city on the whole. Having only limited time, I was unable to tour a lot of these buildings, but I think it was just fine all the same, as the tours are usually pretty bland attempts to infuse more significance into everything about the site than is actually there. By far the most magnificent of the buildings I saw was the Edificio Barolo, which was constructed to pay homage to the Dante's Divine Comedy: its three parts represent heaven, hell and purgatory; its height in meters (100) equals the number of songs; and it has 22 floors, the same as the number of the stanzas in the poem.

Continuing along the avenue, I crossed what is said to be the widest avenue in the world, Avenida 9 de Julio. More a compilation of 4 roads than one avenue, its reputation might be warranted considering in total it is about 10 or 12 lanes, with 3 different medians to cross. On the far side of 9 de Julio stands a pretty interesting statue of Don Quixote. I have no idea why it's here, or who put it there, but the statue is cool nonetheless.

After crossing, I stopped into the most famous, and oldest, of all cafés in the city (which says a lot for a city literally overflowing with cafés) named El Tortoni. A little overpriced, but well worth the stop, I drank my café cubano, ate my churros, and parted with the tranquil refuge. I then popped into the Perú subway stop (as recommended by the guidebook), but definitely did not pay the fee to get through the gates, as whatever the guidebook said was worth seeing, was defnitely not. Back up the steps I moments before descended, I then passed the boarded facade of 36 Billares, the pool hall that supposedly introduced the game of billiards to South America in the 1880s (more on that later).

My journey along Avda de Mayo ended in the Plaza Congreso, which is where the main governmental buildings are located. I stopped to watch a few guys do some Capuera (I bet Jason is better), rested my feet for a spout, and then moved on. North of the plaza (courtesy of the compass on my watch), I found Corrientes, BsAs' version of Broadway. I popped into a number of really old bookstores and walked around an outdoor promenade with some outdoor theaters, lamenting the fact that I didn't have the time or the money to watch the BsAs rendition of Death of a Salesman or Waiting for Godot.

With the sun dipping over the horizon, I returned to my hostel to the now familiar routine of packing away my camera, changing clothes, and leaving the other estranged residents of my room who had now seen me for about 3 minutes in the two days I had been in BsAs.

From an internet café I watched my brief stint in the second position of my pool tumble as UF dispatched Oregon and Roy Williams of old returned in full force. I received a text message from another friend from Stgo who was in BsAs telling me to meet him for dinner shortly. I hopped on one of the incredibly convenient buses, paid the mandatory 20-cent (US) fare, and in half an hour met up with Matt and his (sort of) Argentine friend.

Like the day before, when I met up with Marcelo, my reunion with Matt and his friend irreversibly changed the complexion of my trip... You can read more on that and the conclusion of my trip to BsAs in the next, and final, chapter of Good Winds.

Good Winds: Part I

Ok where to begin? I guess I will start by stating the obvious: Buenos Aires is AMAZING. As one of my friends warned me before leaving, traveling to Buenos Aires is dangerous, because you might never leave.

Fortunately (sort of), I left behind a lot of responsibilities (not to mention a home and all my personal belongings) in Santiago. But when I am done in December.... Who knows?

Context: As I had mentioned previously, I currently don't have classes on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and I don't have to work until 9pm on Tuesday. In case you weren't paying attention, that basically amounts to a 4-day weekend. Before I run out and get another job to help me fund these little adventures, I figured I might as well take advantage of the free time while I have it. I found a cheap flight ($110 rt, including taxes) from Stgo to BsAs (official abbr.'s) that would enable me to be there from Saturday afternoon until about midday on Tuesday, packed my bags, and next thing I knew I was rocking out to Shakira somewhere over the Andes.

Well, that's not entirely true... First, I got pretty sick (great timing). Then I went out with Simon, the Aussie, and the other TIPS from my school on Friday night (really good way to feel better: drink beers with friends until 2 in the morning when you've got to get up at 6:30 the next day). So after class, we all went out to this really noisy and smoky bar. Apparently when it's someone's birthday here, it's customary to get a bunch of noise-makers, police whistles, and bottles of wine, get together and rather than talk and laugh, just yell onomatopoeias at the top of your lungs until every table around you leaves the bar (because that's what one group of about 15 middle aged folks around us did). Rather than deal with them all night, I cowboyed up and walked over to some random Chilean sitting alone and asked him if he would mind if a bunch of gringos came and sat down with him.

He told me it would be fine, so we packed up our litros and got cozy with our new friend. Moments later, his girlfriend came to join the party, and we all just sort of sat and chatted it up (between their sporadic makeout sessions, of course)... They didn't seem to mind, and I was relishing the awkwardness of it all. They left us, amicably, and we followed suit shortly thereafter, but not before taking the obligatory group bar shot (picture, not drink - featured above).

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, and I left feeling surprisingly better than I had while I was teaching earlier that day. I woke up about 4 hours later, and in a drowsy and tipsy stupor, I threw some stuff into a bag and made my way for the airport.

I managed to borrow (read: pilfer) an Argentine guide book from the CIEE office before I left, so I spent most of the plane ride plotting my plan of attack. I landed, changed some money, and missed my bus. This wasn't too bad, though, because while I wouldn't get to my hostel for a little while, it gave me some more time to study the guide book. A bus ride, short walk, and cab ride later, I was at my hostel.

Once I got situated, stored my valuables in the impregnable fortress that is my unlocked backpack (cleverly hiding my iPod in a pair of socks to thwart would-be petty theives), I grabbed my camera bag and flew out the door. My first stop was the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. Before I could even make it 5 blocks, I was stopped by a couple of police officers, asking me for my documentation. Stories of corrupt Argentine cops flying through the annals of my cerebrum, I hurriedly handed them my Chilean ID (I left my passport in the hostel). Disappointed, one turned to the other, showed him the card, and said "Es Chileno. Pasa." I literally have NO IDEA what that was all about, but I can't help but think that the result would have been different had I presented my US passport.

On the way there I was distracted by a sort of open-air market on the parks and lawns nearby. Resisting all temptation to buy interesting but completely unnecessary trinkets, I finally took refuge in the museum.

The museum itself wasn't incredibly large, but I really enjoyed it. There were a few Cezannes, Monets, Vangoghs, and no doubt a number of other famous artists that I know nothing about. What I liked most about the museum, though (other than the fact that it was free), was the lighting. The place was practically empty as it was, but all the rooms were incredibly dimly lit - a sort of intimate, encompassing darkness, that was broken only by the soft warmness of the spotlighted artwork - the end result of which was to leave you feeling like you were the only person in the entire place.

After about an hour or two at the MNBA, I strolled around for a bit before heading over to "La Recoleta" an incredibly famous cemetery in Recoleta where many of Argentine's war heroes, important figures from history, or just the super-rich lay in wait. While it is far from the most impressive plot in the cemetery, I had to make a stop to see the grave of Eva Peron ("Evita" - at right).


The cemetery closed about 45 minutes after I got there, but I managed to snap a couple more pictures of the place all but abandoned before the police escorted me out. With the sun going down, I didn't have much else on the agenda for the day, so I just wandered around the market area outside the cemetery. I found a bunch of people hanging out on a lawn nearby, chatting and listening to some guy on his guitar, and decided to take a load off.

When I could no longer ignore the sweet smell of churros, empanadas, and chorizo any longer, my hunger got the best of me, and I settled on a little sandwich of jamon crudo to help me make the journey back to the hostel. Now dark, and getting cold, I dropped off my camera bag, changed into some warmer clothes, and headed back to the city outside; grand total so far at the hostel, 15 minutes.

As this bird was flying solo, I had to find a way to explore the city's nightlife, without being a complete sucker, paying a ridiculous cover to an empty dance club, or the creepy guy with a mullet that sidles up to groups of twenty-somethings, laughs at their jokes, and then tries to dance with their girls. Instead, I ducked into a pastry shop, told the nice older lady my story, and asked for her recommendations. Somewhat concerned that perhaps a 50 year old pastry-chef wouldn't have a the greatest insight into the Argentine nightlife, I looked to her much younger, far more attractive colleague for confirmation. Their stories checked out, so I made my way back to Recoleta (where they told me to grab dinner).

There, I approached a couple of younger women dining alone in an outdoor cafe (they were probably 25-27). They recoiled as I fumbled for the right words (any time you start a conversation with "I don't want to bother you, but" people are bound to be a little suspect), but immediately softened when they realized that I wasn't going to ask them for money. They directed me to a Plaza in Palermo and politely declined my invitation for them to join me, citing a late night before as their excuse (doubtful, but plausible).

Not wanting to eat alone, at Plaza Serrano, I carefully surveyed the clientele making snap judgments based on nothing but looks as to how I would be received if I approached a couple of complete strangers. Like Indiana Jones, I chose wisely, and joined up with a couple of guys drinking beer and eating pizza. They were super cool, really friendly, and of course, busy with their girlfriends for the rest of the night.

When they left after dinner, I had little choice but to start my search again. This time, I sat alone at a cafe, about 20 feet from a table of 3 pretty attractive young ladies eating together. My waiter brought the three of them a dessert from me (at my request) and moments later, I was sitting with them, asking their plans for the night. All three of them were nurses in their residencies, and they wouldn't be able to come out as they had to work from 8am Sunday until 8am Monday. They gave me their email addresses and told me that they might join me on Monday night, but that still left me without plans for Saturday.

"C'est la vie," thought I, and planned to grab a cab back to my hostel (at this point it was already about 12:30). The girls closed their tabs and left, while I stayed to take care of my check. Just before leaving, I received a text message from Marcelo, who just happened to be in BsAs too. It took 2 unnecessary cab rides and a whole lot of walking to get me basically right around the corner (due to poor communication from Marcelo) where I met up with Marcelo, Jorge, and a couple of their friends. In the whirlwind of activity that followed, what would have been a quiet night's sleep at the hostel turned into a few stops at bars and a night of dancing at Opera Bay, one of the big clubs near the harbor at Puerto Madero. Much to the chagrin if Marcelo and company, I called it an "early night" at about 6am, and headed back to the hostel, hoping for another big day of touring BsAs on Sunday.

Silent night

Not a ton to add today, but I am not quite ready to go to sleep yet. Plus, I think everyone in the house is already in bed, so I don't have anyone with whom to socialize (too formal of a construction? English teacher, remember?).

That said, I figure I will just give a brief (relatively speaking) update on classes and day to day life. Before I move on, though, I would like to draw some attention to the picture at the right. If you can't tell, you might want to click on it for a better view, but I am in fact sleeping, in my travel sheet - used to protect me from the harsh, unsoftened hostel bedsheets; random creepy-crawleys that might consume the entire outer layer of my epidermis (rather than just the exposed upper half); and a host of fluids, bacteria, and who knows what else, from the multitudinous travelers from days of yore... Thanks, mom! - propped up on my pillow, with my laptop up and running. The picture is courtesy of Stephen, my former roommate, who found me in the featured position upon returning to our room on a random late night... All I got to say is, "Kudos" to you, if you are reading this. Because let's face it, if what I am writing is putting ME to sleep, there's no telling how many double shots of Starbucks espresso are propelling you through the mire of this blog.

Oh, right! I promised to be brief... Sorry about that.

Anyway, at this point, I have completed a couple rounds of all of my classes, and I really do think I am getting better. We do have some textbooks to follow, but not much else as far as guidance. For the most part it's been hit and miss, and let's just say, I swing at everything. On the bright side, I think I finally had a successful lesson plan today for my intermediate English class, which I am basing on the fact that they only started begging for me to let them out 5 minutes early, rather than the typical 37 (class is supposed to be 90 minutes long).

Other success stories, I managed to persuade a girl, in spanish, into giving me a nerf basketball for free rather than having to sign up for a credit card to get it. Also, I got 500 pesos off my laundry today, and it looks like I might be able to get more, as the lady at the desk, when asked if I could receive a discount if I promised to bring my clothes only to her place every time I needed them washed, fastened on a coy smile, and responded "vamos a ver." So either: 1) my Spanish is getting better, or 2) It is so bad that the locals pity me, and throw me freebees like I'm a gibberish-muttering hobo who won't leave them alone.

Ok, it's not much, but I figure at the very least I can distract some overworked paralegals, bankers, interior designers, and consumer relations reps from their jobs for the five minutes it took to read this.

Headed to Buenos Aires on Saturday. I should be back by Tuesday, assuming I don't stay there, secure a false identity, and work my way down to Patagonia to take a job as a fly fishing guide for the rest of my life. If you don't hear from be by Friday, maybe we'll meet some day again in Barriloche.

Chau for nau.

Classmates (sort of), Roommates (kind of), and Parties

Many of you have commented on the conspicuous absence of any discussion with regard to my classes. To those of you who noticed said absence, I would simply like to point out that I am quite capable of boring you with every detail of even the most exciting moments here in Chile. That said, I felt little need to further elongate your suffering by having you virtually sit through one of my classes.

In all seriousness, yes, my classes have started. And yes, I believe them to be, at times, quite boring. However, the students seem to be responding pretty well (even though some of my students are as old as 55), and as a teacher I am getting better. To imagine what I am like as a teacher of English, simply think of me as a camp counselor or Wyld Life leader, only I repeat myself A LOT, I enjoy the overuse of GRAND, SWEEPING gestures to get my point across, and I speak LOUDER than usual... And, yes, it is possible for me to speak louder! (I often forget that if they don't understand what I am saying, more volume doesn't always help :).

As for the rest of life here in Chile, I have now been here a month (already?!), and I am now one week at my new home. The picture above is of all my house-mates so far. We took it at our first party which was held last Friday night.

From top left, we've got Andrés (a journalist - I think - from Portugal), Amaury (a student from France), Eloísa (a student from Brazil), and Francisco (who I am pretty sure also works as a journalist), our only Chilean. In the middle is Nora (a student from Colombia), below her is Nayara (the other Brazillian student), and the goofy guy next to her is of course yours truly.

Missing from this picture are Adam, the other gringo English teacher from Oregon who doesn't speak much Spanish, and Mari, who is a German girl, but I do not yet know what she will be doing here in Chile. They both move in on April first.

As for the party that we hosted, it was actually kind of a blow-out. Andrés got his friend to dj for us, and the place was bumpin'. Before I left for class, everyone had mentioned that we would be getting some food and drinks for our guests, and Andrés told me to invite whomever I wanted. Not wanting to wipe my muddy feet all over the welcome mat of propriety, I only invited about 6 or 7 people, thinking that any more than that might overwhelm the party. Well only about 4 of my invitees showed up, and when we did, we certainly did not overwhelm the close to 100 others dancing, drinking, and ashing their cigarettes all over our living room floor.

All said and done, the night was pretty successful. We even managed to avoid extensive cleaning duty as we all split the cost of our "Nana" (Cleaning lady that normally comes only once a week) to come for another day.

Having crashed at about 6am the night before, I spent most of the next day watching basketball online, cleaning, and in general lamenting my sorry position in all of the March Madness pools I joined.

Saturday night I headed out with some of the guys from CIEE to the rich part of town, where a girlfriend of Stephen's (not that kind of girlfriend) agreed to host a birthday party for Nick (the blonde in the green shirt) at her house.

There weren't any life changing epic moments at this party, per se... But then, isn't every moment it's own little way, life changing and epic? Profound, I know.

Anyway, when we got there it was just us and Smalls' friends (Smalls is the nickname we gave to the girl whose house it was, because she is... Small. Aren't we clever?). But a number of people joined as the night went on. A little alcohol provided the unguent necessary to lubricate some gringo hips, and before we knew it, we were dancing (exhibit A: Jason cuttin' a rug with Natty in picture below... Although, in fairness, Jason is hardly a gringo, considering he's a Capuera - Brazilian martial arts/dancing - guru, and a salsa dancer extraordinaire - see exhibit A otra vez).

...For a little while, anyway. My tendency to run home back in the States, has been somewhat supplanted by my tendency to get into deep conversations when I can barely express half of what I am saying. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), most of the people with whom I get into aforementioned "deep c's" speak English. So while my Spanish practice time takes a bit of a hit, my philosopher-wanna-be time sky-rockets.

Long story short, I had a pretty good night joking with girls in Spanish, learning some quirky Chilenismos (Chilean Slang), and talking with a Jewish Chilean girl about why so many Christians are so misunderstood... Who likes irony?

This weekend, I will be heading to Buenos Aires for 4 (well, 3 and 1/2) days, so if you read this post before then and know anything about the city - where to go, where to eat, where to sleep - I would love some pointers, as I am flying solo in my explorations.


Que todos de ustedes estén bien.

Santiaguino Factoids

Pronounced "Sahn-tay-ah-gwée-nos," that is actually the word used to describe people from Santiago. My using it to describe tasty morsels of information might be a bit out of context, but as I am the author of this blog, I am allowing myself some creative liberties. Without further adieu, here are some things I bet you didn't know about Santiago de Chile:

-Deposit on bottles: Rather than having a comprehensive recycling program, the
supermarkets and "botillerias" place a tax on bottles that you get back when you exchange you bottle of coke, beer, whatever. So for about every 2 liters of beer you drink, you can bring back the bottles and it feels like you are getting one for free.

-Hookers in the paper: There is a section in the paper that looks exactly the same as classified ads. Only instead of a used car or old furniture, the ads list women (in order of price, cheapest to most expensive). Sometimes, if you are lucky, you might be able to find 2-for-1 deals... I'm not really sure what that means, and I don't think I want to find out.

-Law abiding dogs: It's somewhat hard to understand how there could possibly be so many stray dogs living in a city with so much congestion and traffic in the streets. You would think that there would be some sort of critical mass of dogs where each new puppy would be offset by a corresponding squish of another under the tires of one of the throngs of fast moving buses that every day threaten even some of the more attentive tourists. However, while walking back from Cerro San Cristóbal, a few friends and I watched a dog wait on one corner of a nearly empty street until the crosswalk sign turned green, and then waited AGAIN on the next street. It's no wonder Darwin came up with his theory of evolution in South America... Survival of the fittest, indeed.

-The 80s: I haven't yet performed any in depth statistical analysis, but as a very rough estimate, I would say that 4 out of every 5 guys rock a wicked mullet (usually accompanied by some sort of feaux-hawk, "turd-rasta" dreadlocks, or both), and that at least 7 out of every 10 songs played in any restaurant, bar (excluding dance clubs), or gym are from the 80s.

-Keys to the outdoors: as I mentioned in a previous post, the only hiking trails we have found so far required access through a locked gate. So you are literally locked out from the outdoors.

-Healthier NOT to exercise in the winters: I heard, and it has since been confirmed by multiple sources, that in the winter, it is better for your body NOT to run or workout outside because of how bad the pollution is. Not that it's entirely Santiago's fault. Due to some sort of environmental phenomenon known as "Thermal Inversion" (see "Wikipedia," keyword: "Santiago, Chile" for more information), during the winter the smog is held close to the ground, and with the mountains surrounding the city, it has no place to go. One person recommended that if I did want to run, by a surgical mask, and run in a gym with air-conditioning. If I decide to go that route, I'll be sure to take a picture.

-Hotdogs: one staple of every Chileno's diet is the ubiquitous hot dog. However, unlike those found in the stands on the street corners in big cities like New York, these come packaged with mounds of exotic condiments, the most common being mayonnaise and avacado. Perhaps the most recognized form of hotdog is known as an "Italiano" because it is covered with tomatoes, avacado, and mayonnaise (the colors of the Italian flag). If hot dogs aren't your thing, fear not, because you can also get any number of sandwiches "Italiano" as well... Phew!

-McDonald's is the healthiest restaurant in town (see picture above for some gourmet options of Chilean fine dining, including pork chop pizza, fried eggs and french fries, and of course, hot dogs covered in mayonnaise): While I was staying in the hostel in the center of the city, on my way back from running errands one day, I stopped into a little cafe and asked the lady if she knew of any place I could get a salad as a meal (rather than the appetizers comprised of a small plate of shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and your choice of lemon juice or vinegar and oil for dressing). She thought for a while, and, seeming somewhat surprised by her own answer, she politely told me that she could not think of anywhere. "Ok," said I, unfettered by this minor obstacle, "¿Como sobre un lugar donde se puede comer sana?" (How about somewhere I can eat healthy?). Again, she thought long and hard, her face contorting as though someone asked her to think about swallowing a live golddfish. Deflated and disappointed (I can only assume the reason for her despondency was that she so desperately wanted to help me) she basically told me "I got nothing." "No worries," I told her, and headed for the door. Just before leaving, a light-bulb clicked on in her head, and she told me "¡Hay ensaladas en McDonald's!" I, of course, knew there were salads at McDonald's before talking with her. But finding that there were no other good options, I decided to take her up on her advice...The salad I got was made fresh in front of me, with fresh avocados, tomatoes, cheese, and chicken, and it came with an fresh, clean apple as a side. USA scores again. Go Team!

I hope you all learned something about Santiago today. Stay tuned for more interesting, in unsupported, "facts" about Santiago de Chile. And remember, if I wrote it, it must be true.

In the Meantime

With the search for housing consuming most of my thoughts, I almost forgot to catch everyone up on the weekend.

Where we last left off before finding housing, I had mentioned that I planned to see a few more places before going to a party with Marcelo and company. As it turns out, the place that I had walked by the day before (the one I mentioned that I couldn't get in touch with the owner) is the place where I am now living. He called me back, I went to see the place, and the rest is history.

Immediately after touring the house, I assured the "landlord" (I put that in quotes because the liaison for our house is probably a year or two older than I am, and he is way too cool to be a landlord... Of course, Shelden Williams was pretty cool too...), landlord or not, I assured him that I would be able to move in on Monday, and would pay my deposit then. Needless to say, things worked out.

With a new cause for celebration, we went out on Saturday night to a sort of rave/concert/dance club. The venue was definitely that of a concert, and there was a dj of sorts, but the ambience was all techno-electronica replete with smoke-machines, hypnotic irridescent lights, and over-priced beverages. In all, the night was pretty fun. Perhaps the best part, though, was after everyone had left, I was on my way out when I ran into none other than a heretofore unmentioned girl named Cami. She was heretofore unmentioned simply because it's not always easy to write anything substantive about a girl who ignores you completely.

The back story is as follows: on one of my first couple of nights out with Marcelo and friends, I went to their local hangout (which just so happens to be an incredibly shi-shi bar near the outskirts of town). It was there that I was nearly given whiplash by all the beautiful, exotic-looking girls walking around. I tried unsuccessfully to charm one with my meager spanish abilities, and was summarily defeated when instead of humoring me, she simply reverted to English (that was probably better than my own). Nevertheless, I somehow managed to get an email address, and sent her an email, never to hear from her again... Or so I thought (and I'm sure she wished).

Fate, the ever indulging prankster, put me in such a position that I literally had to side-step around Cami to get out of the club that night. I don't know if it was the language barrier, the lingering haze of the fog machine, or simply dim recollection resulting from sleep deprivation, but I found the encounter to be rather cordial, and surprisinly lacking in awkwardness.

Either way, she did acknowledge receipt of my email, which, if nothing else, proves that responding wasn't really high on her list of priorities. We are planning on having a party this weekend at my new house, so I will give her one last chance to redeem herself, and if I am once again placed below clipping nails and brushing hair, she's a done deal.

Lesson to all girls: if you aren't interested, simply say so... It will save some poor guy a lot of trouble, time, and energy, not to mention some extra space on his blog which he could fill with witty vignettes and/or prose poetry.

Liberated as I was from the manacle of the housing search, Sunday was devoted to sheer laziness: a leisurely breakfast, drop off some laundry, check the progress of the ACC Tourney (Go to Hell Carolina!), and then off the Cerro Santa Lucia (picture at top).

Though I had run there a number of times, I had never been to the top. It is actually a pretty incredible little park that is situated right in the heart of Santiago Centro. After a brief look around, I planned to get a little reading done in the midday heat (hence the beach attire). We parked ourselves next to a couple using their tongues to explores the cavernous dwellings of the other's mouth, fully expecting the display to end withing a few minutes. After about an hour or so, I was unable to endure the wet slurping sounds (think of a hose vaccuum reaching the bottom of a bucket of water) any longer, and my ever-growing puddle of sweat further goaded me to an early departure.

On the way back to the hostel, I picked up my laundry, organized some things, replenished some fluids, and then met up with a couple people in our group to watch a free performance from Plácido Domingo at the Plaza de Armas. This is about as close as we got to the stage (the white arrow points to the scaffolding of the main stage, well behind the satellite screen in front of us), which is to say, we were not very close.

We left after a little bit, stopped by the cheap Italian restaurant by our hostel, received some terrible service - they laughed when I told them we wanted to be able to swim in pebre (kind of the Chilean version of salsa), and then rather than giving us more, they took away all that we were originally given - and called it a night.

Monday morning, I packed up my stuff, said good-riddance to my bed at the Londres, and spent the rest of the day running errands and getting settled into my new home.

Home, Sweet Home

Pictures are presented in the order they are mentioned, starting with a view from the outside.

Okay, so I have finally moved into my new home. To be fair, it’s not exactly official since I have yet to pay my deposit, and I still don’t have a key. Still, those are just technicalities, so I won’t get too worked up about it.

So far, I have really only spent time with the two Brazillian girls that live on the first floor. Their names are Nayara and Eloisa, and they are both students at the Universidad Católica, which is the mother school of the DuocUC schools (hence the UC).

My room (pictured here) is at the far corner of the house, next to the kitchen and a little patio where we hang dry our clothes. Across from me is another little room that will soon be occupied by another gringo, with whom I have spoken to for a grand total of about 2 minutes. Also on the first floor, we have the kitchen (pictured), a little dining area, the main patio (pictured), and one more big unoccupied bedroom, and a living room/library (picture) from which I have already stolen a couple of books to read: Rousseau’s Social Contract and John Maynard Keyne’s Critique of Modern Economics, both in Spanish. I would put the likelihood of my reading both books all the way through while I am here at about 25%… I mean, I know I’m a nerd, but translating treatises on politics and philosophy by choice? That’s like the Eagle Scout of nerds.

Back to the house. On the second floor we have a guy from Portugal named Andre, a guy from France (sorry Joel Mitchell) named Amorie (not sure on the spelling), our one local, Francisco, and a Colombian chica whose name I’ve forgotten (give me a break, it’s my first day).

The third floor is basically just a big open floor and was designated (by the landlord, not us) as the “Party Floor.”


I am pretty sure we only have one more room to fill, but so far, everyone is between the ages of 21 and 26 (I think). While first impressions can be misleading, I am under the impression that all of the people are “de buena onda,” which basically means that I am getting a good vibe from all of them.


In case you are planning a surprise visit, my new address is:
Andacollo 1619
Santiago, Chile

I'm not sure of the postal code yet, but I will find out.

…Look at mapcity.cl if you get lost.

¡Por Fin!

A haiku:

No more hurting feet
All that work has now paid off
I have found a home

More info on my new home to come later. I move in tomorrow.

*Insert long, dramatic sigh of relief here*

Countdown to Go-Time

Seeing as how this is the final preparatory week we have available to us before we actually begin teaching in earnest, one would think that we would spend a majority of our time honing our skills, tweaking our lesson plans, and generally preparing to deal with the fact that we may very well be the one and only access point to the English language that many of our students receive. Fortunately (for us, not for our students,) “One” is wrong. Acting in opposition to conventional wisdom, we have used the majority of this week searching for housing, settling on a daily routine, and in some way or another distracting ourselves from the looming reality that we are, in fact, teachers.

Monday was familiar enough: I awoke to the now familial song of car alarms and banging doors. Angry and ambitious, I did my best impersonation of “Rocky,” only instead of raw eggs, I drank warm yogurt, and rather than running up the steps of the Philadelphia Library, I stumbled down the staircase in Hotel Londres. Then, off to the gym. Apparently the universe frowned upon my demanding use of my sweat glands, because, when I returned, the only key to my room was nowhere to be found. Once again I was sentenced to solitary confinement with my funk. After about 45 minutes of hard-time, order was restored, and I was able to locate my key with only minimal damage to my olfactory system.

Having purged myself of some unknown evils, I walked downstairs to join a couple of guys (Matt and Nick) to a meal over by the CIEE office. For a little less than US$3, we received a salad (small plate of shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and lemon juice), an entré (piece of chicken and rice), and a dessert (some sort of chocolate gelatin vaguely resembling flan). To date, it is still the best meal on the cheap that I have eaten in Santiago.

I spent most of the rest of the day reading and hanging out until our meeting with the head honcho. At about 8:30 or so, all the English teachers from Duoc sites were relegated to different groups and assigned to teach various levels at a number of schools around the city. I was conveniently held up on a phone conversation, and was therefore not selected to teach until Wednesday. Monday night’s truancy was rewarded with a free day on Tuesday, which I used to brainstorm my lesson plan for Wednesday, continue in my ongoing search for housing, and go to the market to purchase more ingredients for another cold turkey sandwich for dinner. As an aside, I think cold turkey has really gotten a bad rap from all the failed quitters (whether it’s cigarettes, alcohol, or sunflower seeds), because the cold turkey sandwiches we had were pretty incredible.

After dinner, I was (easily) persuaded to join Marcelo and his crew at a nice bar in the suburbs. In a feeble attempt to save some money, we invited a few girls from the hostel (subsidy for the cab). We made some mixed drinks at the hotel before leaving and then were on our way. At the bar, I had the distinguished honor of getting completely ignored by the incredibly attractive wait staff and clientele.

Still, I didn’t mind because I was engrossed in conversation with Mauricio (Marcelo’s friend) and his friend, known as “The Turk.” Turk and I spent most of the rest of the night talking about kite surfing, skiing, and the best ways to do both on the cheap. Before the night was over, Turk offered to let me stay in his daughter’s room in his apartment in Los Condes. According to Turk, his daughter is only four years old, and she only spends about 3 days out of every other week at his apartment. When she is there, she sleeps in his bed anyway, so surely, he says, she wouldn’t mind her displacement at the hands of a complete stranger who barely speaks her language. As intriguing as the offer sounded, I was convinced that the oration was more a product of yeast converting fermented sugars to alcohol than sound reason, so I simply moved on without much thought on the matter.

From the bar, we were taken to a night club, which was apparently even farther from our hotel. We arrived to find a line about half a block long, in which we stood for a grand total of 20 seconds before our friends tossed in their VIP status, got us a discount on the covers, and we scooted past about 150 really angry Chileans waiting in line. The place was enormous, and PACKED. At 1:30 on a Tuesday night, no less. The best part was, because the music was so loud, no one could hear my gringo accent. I split off from most of my friends and danced it up with a number of different girls before calling it a night at about quarter to four. I split the cab ride home with one of my friends, raided the hostel breakfast stash, and then crashed for the night.

Wednesday was the day of my big teaching debut. My group was assigned to two classes: one class of tenth graders, one of twelfth. We preceded our hour-long commute to a little private school called “El Bosque” (the forest) with a quick stop at the market to buy some candy. That way, just as our lesson plan starts to crash and burn, we break out the candy, and all is forgiven. At the school we talk to about 4 different people before finding someone who knows why the heck a bunch of fair skinned gringos in nice clothing are wandering around a private high school on the outskirts of Santiago (here is a picture of some of the kids hanging during their break). We are ushered into a class of about 35 eager sophomores, introduced, and left on our own. The class was supposed to last an hour and a half, so with three of us teaching, we figured we would break the class into three groups each teach about 20 minutes, and with the introduction and a game at the end, we would be golden. Unfortunately, the activity I had planned lasted right around 20 minutes, whereas the other teachers in my group could just sort of go on indefinitely… Frantically seeking a respite and a switch of the groups, I busted out some clever stalling tactics (which was basically just a combination of dancing, jumping jacks, and tossing candy to whoever was closest)… It was quite a sight.

In spite of what I thought was a complete disaster, the kids seemed to like it… Or at least the girls did. One of the girls asked me about 5 times after class if I could “ski” for her again (part of my activity involved acting out your favorite activities), and another asked for my instant message chat name, because “Ummm… René (one of the guys in our group) wants to play pool with you”… Sure he does!

If only I could get high school girls while I was in high school like I can now…

The twelfth graders were far more advanced, and consequently far less interested in what we had to offer them. The good news is that their class only lasted 45 minutes, so our torturous regimen of singing, dancing, and playing games was short lived.

After class, I tried to get in touch with el Turk to see his place (I promised him I would call him about it). As an added incentive, he also wanted to tell me where to buy or rent skis for cheap, and he had a pair of bindings that he might be willing to sell me. He wouldn’t be home until about 6, so I grabbed a bite to eat, took about a 20 minute nap, and then headed out to the boondocks to visit his pad.

30 minutes in the subway, 15 walking, and another 10 being lost got me where I needed to be, right on time. As much as I would have loved to live rent-free, I just didn’t feel right about imposing so much on a man I barely knew. Everything he told me at the bar, though, was correct. His place was really nice; not terribly large, but inviting nonetheless. His daughter was adorable (I wrestled with thoughts about kidnapping her because she was so stinkin’ cute, but being the upstanding citizen that I am, I thoughtfully declined). And the place would still be free. For about an hour, I just sat and talked with Turk, mostly about skiing and his place. In the end, I told him that I would use his place as a back-up plan if I couldn’t find anything else.

Another 40 minutes, and I was back at the hostel. Walking through the courtyard that leads to the entry, I heard “The Rolling Stones” blaring, and crowds of people laughing, which could only mean one thing: Drunk Americans!

Sure enough, in the dining area of the hostel, I encountered a whole herd of these exotic beasts, engaged in some sort of ceremonial competition involving plastic cups quarters, ping pong balls, and copious amounts of a frothy, golden liquid. As they were blissfully unaware of my presence (or anyone else’s), I was able to snap a few pictures of them in their natural habitat before I moved on. Shown here is one caught in some sort of celebratory dance.


And below is more fascinating specimen. Rarely seen in the midst of such a raucous crowd of Americans, this Britain wore traditional festive attire. Even more remarkable, this picture catches his shirt at the perfect angle for it to capture the young male's essence: "Green-go" (the actual shirt says "Green Grove Tennis").

Opting instead for the tranquil company in a more civilized environment, I persuaded a couple of my friends to come out for a quiet drink or cup of coffee at an outdoor café. We walked about 5 miles, passed the same confused stray dog about 6 or 7 times, and finally found a little place called Patagonia. There we spent the rest of the night sharing stories and psychoanalyzing each other, before heading in at about 1:30am.

Thursday was too tiring to describe in great detail, as it primarily involved me trekking all over the city looking at 4 or 5 different apartments. I found a couple of decent options, but none that I couldn’t pass up, so I maintained hope that I would find something better and headed home. From there, I went with a couple of guys to the local grocery store where we bought supplies for an awesome spaghetti and turkey dinner (they didn’t have chicken in the amount we wanted), sat around and chatted with some other TIPS (Teacher Intern Practicum Specialist) at the hostel and called in an early night at around midnight.

On Friday, I finally got to meet the Duoc coordinator for my site in a powerpoint briefing that can basically be summed up by the following: “If you need it, we don’t have it. But you will get it… Right after you need to use it.” After a couple hours of Q&A, touring the site, and preparing to teach next week, I bailed on the rest of my group so that I could continue my housing search. A brief stop at the Entel store to get my phone working again, and it was back to the hunt. At the hostel, I drafted up an excel spreadsheet of all my options, lined up side by side. Four more places to see, and I would be done (or so I thought). In the end, I saw one place I couldn’t afford (and didn’t really like, except for the location), one place I LOVED (but the location is pretty awful), and one place that wanted to charge my by the day. For those of you counting, the fourth place I just walked by, because I was never able to get in touch with the person in charge of renting it.

Either way, it was a pretty productive day, as I found a great back-up plan and eliminated a couple of possibilities. Back at the hostel, we decided to have a movie night, so one of the kids hooked up his laptop to the dining area TV, some people bought some litros de cerveza, and we all gathered round for an informative look into the life of a Kazakh traveler named Borat.

Today, I hope to see a couple more places, hit the gym, and then go out to some blowout with Marcelo, Jorge, and Mauricio.

Sorry this was so long. Once I get into my own place, I hope to make the posts shorter and with greater frequency, so you don’t have to read a novel every time you want to get caught up on what’s going on here.

Oh, and one last thing, can anyone tell me which direction (clockwise or counterclockwise) the water goes down the toilet? I really want to check to see if the Coriolis effect holds true for plumbing systems.

People Watching and Sight Seeing

At the end of a very tiring week of training, going out, and generally just getting accustomed to the Chilean way of life, all of the teachers (totalling about 45 from various different programs) received a much deserved 3-day weekend. Originally, I had planned on trying to find a cheap flight to somewhere, ANYwhere, since I wasn't sure when I would have another 3-day weekend to travel. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to book my flight until after Friday night's festivities as CIEE had a sort of "Coming Together Before Growing Apart" dinner (my title, not theirs) planned for us - more on that in a moment... In spite of my inability to find a last minute flight to an unknown mountain hideaway near Machu Picchu or some bungalow buried deep in the Amazon rainforest, there are a number of reasons that I don't regret staying here in Santiago... Not the least of which was the awkwardly long, yet surprisingly comforting hug I received from some random bearded man in the street (pictured here).

As for Friday, we were dismissed from training at around 5:30 and managed to make it back to the hostel by about 6. I had just enough time to squeeze in a quick run with my new Ethiopian friend (to be fair, his parents are Ethiopian. He is actually from Texas. Still, it sounds much cooler to say I ran with an Ethiopian), and be back in time to shower and change for dinner. Feeling rejuvenated from the run and all the cat-calls we received from the schoolgirls dressed in emo-goth-punk attire (or whatever it's called now... I can't keep up with all the young whippersnappers these days), I was congratulated with a shower that was - wait for it - LUKE WARM!!! Huzzah!

At dinner, we had our own private room and a couple of guys with their guitars to provide the ambience. The "couple of guys" quickly expanded to include a number of the CIEE staff, various empty bottles of tinto vino providing evidence of their motivation. A few "really famous Spanish songs," that I had never heard were followed by the Chilean national dance, which I had never seen, and before I knew it, the dinner was over. It was then on to meet up with Marcelo. Only, the number of people I could take was limited. Nervous but undaunted, I tried to walk the awkward tightrope of answering the question "What are you doing tonight?" with just enough ambiguity so as not to make anyone feel left out. In the course of trying to get in a cab with one or two other people who had also met Marcelo, I failed in my death-defying stunt. So, in keeping with the trend, rather than face the boos and jeers of the crowd as I tumbled to the safety net, I simply rolled over, fled from view, and sped out of sight (that last part in the cab, in case my metaphor was getting a little too jumbled).

Having ditched half of the party that was trying to come (not on purpose, but more because I had no idea where I was going, and the cabbie was about as helpful as the Mexican police are corrupt), we made it to Marcelo's with a motley crew of people who had even less of a clue as to what was going on than I did. Fortunately, they all scattered like Koala bears (see Mitch Hedburg) once at the party, and I was able to socialize relatively undisturbed. For a while, I made small talk with a Brazilian model named Ivana (who really wasn't all that attractive, but everything you would expect from a model: really tall, striking features, nothing between the ears), had a couple drinks and then managed to catch a ride home with one of Marcelo's friends at about 4.

Returning to the hostel, I was dismayed to find the only two computers both in use. I patiently waited my turn and then searched for flights for about 45 minutes before giving up and calling it a night just a little after 5am. Having failed in my attempts to travel in what would no doubt be one of the few extended weekends of my time here, I committed myself to doing something worthwhile for the weekend. I woke up at about 9, involuntarily as usual, and laid awake in my bed, trying to distinguish between all the distinct car alarms putting on a concert for me. Once awake and somewhat coherent, I rallied together a few holdovers from the night's festivities, and persuaded them for a day around town. First stop: free hugs.

After a quick bite of Spanish tortillas (oh how I miss Madrid) and jugo de frambuesa, we headed to Plaza de Armas, which is the historic center of the town. Like a special ops battalion, we synched watches, laid out the details of our mission and infiltrated the crowd armed with cameras, pencils, and journals. Unfortunately, we were unsuccessful in our efforts to fit in, as our cameras made us stand out Barbara Streisand's nose. Nevertheless, we managed to evade the squadrons of pigeons making target practice on our heads, got a lot of good people-watching in, and even took a couple of cool pictures along the way.

From the plaza we headed up to the cerro San Cristóbal, home of a HUGE statue of a Virgin Mary that overlooks the entire city of Santiago (think Rio, minus the ocean). We made friends with a Kiwi engineer, who was nice enough to take a few pictures of us without running off with our cameras. A few hours and about a gallon of sweat later, we were back to city level, drinking cortados and Heinekens at a pleasant little cafe in Providencia.

To save some money, we went to the British market with grand plans of buying some fresh veggies and preparing a meal that would make Emeril proud. By the time we got there, though, the veggies were hung up for the night, so we had to settle for the BEST avocado, tomato, and turkey sandwiches... Mostly because we were all so hungry.

After dinner, we took a trip back to freshman year in college when a bunch of other people returned, and we all just sort of hung out till the early hours laughing and telling stories. I declined a second viewing of "The Departed" in the last two weeks, and hit the sack, eager to get my first full night of sleep since I had been here. That plan went the way of the dodo as soon as my roommate returned and started calling grizzly bears.

On the bright side, my being up early meant that we could prepare for our second big day of the weekend. This time, had planned a little excursion out to the rugged and untamed wilderness of the Andes just outside of Santiago. A little online planning and a brief look at our Lonely Planet guidebooks made us confident that we could leave our hostel at about 10am, hike for about 4 hours, and still be back in time for dinner. Once again, our naivete outweighed our good intentions. We found our way to our destination, though it took about an hour longer than we had anticipated. What's more, while the web site seemed to indicate that hiking with a guide was an optional, and costly, alternative to hiking alone, in reality, a guide was required to access the hiking trails at all.

With the girls putting on their best puppy-dog faces, I went into negotiate mode, and before we knew it, we had a key to the trail (yes, the trail actually had a gated entrance that required a key for access), paid the nominal fee for entrance to the park, and were on our way, sans mandatory guide... Yes!

The hike was a bit of a disappointment, but it was still fun to pretend to be explorers conquering a vast and virgin landscape. It was also pretty funny to see the random French girl who finagled her way into our little quartet have enough trouble with the camera to bring about comparisons with the monkey scene at the beginning of "A Space Odyssey." Only rather than squawking and screaming like them, her confusion was expressed more through quiet unintelligible gibberish as she took a picture of just about everything, EXCEPT what she was supposed to focus on.

When we returned to the so called "trail head," we decided that it just wasn't acceptable to travel 3 hours round trip to hike for about an hour and a half. Instead of leaving, we headed to the pool, where we once again talked our way to a discounted entrance. Standard pricing was Ch$5,000 each, and we got all three of us (the French girl decided to stay at the restaurant to nibble on her croissant and reconnect with Rousseau, or whatever it is that French people do when they want to kill time at a remote Chilean camp site alone) in for Ch$6,000. The pool was the coldest water north of Antarctica, but we couldn't just waste all that effort we had just spent bargaining. Still, it wasn't until we saw a 10-month old streaker (naked and loving it!) get dunked all the way under that we finally decided to man-up and take the plunge.

A couple of (very quick) laps across the pool was all we needed before we decided that laying on the grass was probably just as good. Persuaded by a few hundred ants filing between our toes, we decided to hit the road. Talk of "cooking" for dinner quickly devolved into a stop at the local soda shop where one of the girls had been befriended by a couple of the proprietors after she confided in them when her camera was stolen. Somehow, our water sin gas, grew into 2 rounds of Schop (beer on tap) each, and we left the restaurant fat, happy, and exhausted.

A full night's sleep gave me enough motivation to hit the gym this morning, and then I spent most of the day online or wandering around the city in my search for housing. I have still not found a place, but I have a few promising leads, so with any luck, I should be out of the hostel by the end of the week.

Until then, I can be comforted by the fact that I (finally) got my schedule, and I am among the lucky few who has a 3-day weekend EVERY weekend (Saturday-Monday off). Which means, that basically, every weekend can be as fun filled and action packed as this one.

De sol a sol, and then some

Earlier, I tried to lay down for a nap, but I think my body enjoys the irony that I am only tired when I can’t sleep (the picture is my roommate rubbing in the fact that I can’t sleep). So here I am, writing perhaps what will be the longest post in my blog thus far.

The day is currently Thursday, March 1, 2007. Did you say “rabbit, rabbit, rabbit?” No? Well, neither did I, but for some reason I vaguely remember Alison always asking that on the first of every month.

In addition to today being the first day of a brand new month, it is also the first day of my second week in Santiago, and I have not yet been mugged, shot, or contracted any rare, life-threatening diseases. Plus, I finally got a cell phone that works! I know it’s not much, but sometimes you gotta celebrate the small stuff.

While I have only been here a week, there seems to be an overwhelming sense that I have lived here forever. I don’t know whether that’s more a product of the huge pile of dirty laundry that is accumulating in the corner of my luxurious room (a picture of which, as promised, is included in my previous post) or the fact that my life is just so drastically different than it was before I left.

I am still living out of a suitcase while I continue to look for a place to live full-time. In the meantime, here is a glimpse into my daily routine at the hostel:

-Wake up before the sun to the melodic cacophony of dogs barking, renegade car alarms, the room vibrating in concert with my roommate’s snoring, the sound of dripping water from the bathroom next door, or some combination thereof.

-Take stock of the amount of skin that is flaking off of me like the paint from a barn door in Siberia

-Curse myself for not getting more than 3 hours’ sleep (again)

-At this point, I normally stumble to my feet and wander, half-naked, to the inevitably occupied bathroom, outside of which I will wait, in my towel, for an average of 15 minutes before some girl (it’s always a girl) saunters out in a flourish of heat and steam.

-With the mirror still foggy and sweating, I turn the shower on warm, and wait… Then warmer, and wait… Then hot, and wait…

(It is important to keep in mind, I am normally not a terribly patient man. Still, for a hot shower, I will temper my normally intemperate temper.)

-Finally, spirits broken, I succumb to the reality that I will once again be showering under a glacial falls (and suppress my desire to pour a bucket of the icy stream on the Cyprian bawd in the shower before me).

-I emerge from the shower smelling sweetly and shivering mightily, ready to face the day.

-Downstairs awaits our included breakfast of a peace of bread and cheese. No complaints here, though, because I am so hungry from staying out so late the night before that every morsel takes like filet mignon.

-I usually then wait an average of 15 to 20 minutes to use the internet, where I can find out whether Duke got pasted by Maryland (check), whether the Chinese stock market crashed (check), and whether that annoying chick from Grey’s anatomy shaved her head (check).

-Satisfied that I am caught up in world affairs, it is upstairs to brush my teeth, and I am on my way.

-In the metro, I get to push, squeeze, shimmy, and squish my way past the grumblings of the locals until I have satisfactorily wedged myself between the fat, sweaty guy, and the woman that smells like old cheese.

-At class, my body and my mind engage in an epic battle to see who will reign victorious in the ongoing struggle to stay awake: right now, the brain has a slight edge, but sustained severe casualties when Body almost threw Brain to the ground (sheltered cranium and all) when Chin slipped from its perch atop Hand.

-The rest of class is usually a blur until we break for lunch.

-Here, I oscillate between sitting for the full break with some friends at a moderately priced restaurant, and getting a really cheap, quick meal alone and then run some errands, so that I can return to class sweaty and smelling like the lady from the metro.

-After lunch, Brain and Body reconvene in their pursuits until we are dismissed.

-From there, it is around town:
With friends, or alone, I have gone to a couple gyms, run in the park, gotten lost in numerous different areas, and tripped a young girl, who started to cry, at which point I scurried off into the safety of anonymity.

In my defense, the girl was running like a drunken sprinter down an incredibly crowded street, and playing chicken with the legs of every stranger in her way (she was only about 3 feet tall). By the time I saw her, she had already managed to catch her foot under mine while I was in mid-stride and she fell like a lemming. I tried to ask her if she was okay, but someone scooped her up off the ground, and amidst her tears and screams, I figured my broken Spanish would do more harm than good, so like Batman, I fled to protect my identity.

-By the time I get back from exploring, working out, or maiming young children, it is usually about 10pm, so I meet up with some friends for dinner.

-After dinner, Marcelo (some guy who I only know because, while I was in Los Angeles, Hugo’s friend Gabe – whom I had never met before – told me to get in touch with his friend Marcelo – whom I had never met before – while I was down in Santiago) usually calls with some grand plans to go out and party for the evening… Always on the condition that I bring some American girls, because according to Marcelo, “for me, the Am-er-ee-kahn girls are so ees-see” to pick up.

-Marcelo rolls up at about midnight, and from about 12:30am to about 4am, I….

….will let you use your imagination.

-My squeaky door screams to my roommate for help at about 4:30 am, to which my roommate responds with a grunt, a repositioning of his torso, a few smacks of the lips, and a return to business as usual.

-Earphones in ear, I usually pass out about two chords into the first song.



…And just to be clear, while my commentary might seem pretty negative, I am loving every minute of the schedule above. I just hope sleep is as overrated as Matty says it is.