Still Going

So most of you have long since retired from the sporadic visits to my blog in order to kill off time. Which means if you are reading this you are more than likely lost or perhaps have just reached an unprecedented level of boredom. Either way, welcome.

I admit that toward the end of my chilean adventures, I definitely sort of fell out of the blogosphere. There are still a number of stories that I left untold, and many may well fade into the memory bank of stories that will only survive as nebulous intimations in the overcrowded storage space of my mind. The reason being, I have no intention to continue revisiting my time in Chile in whatever posts I decide to upload onto this blog of mine from here on out.

Going forward my posts may simply be incoherent ramblings with neither direction nor purpose. Or maybe they will morph into amateur attempts to write something profound. But mostly, this will be a sounding board that will provide me a slight respite from the multitudinous assailants laying siege to my mind (i.e. my thoughts). AND, as I am not likely going to advertise or promote the blog further, this can be our little secret. You don't have to tell me you are reading, and I don't have to try to appease anyone that is. From here on out, this is my gift to me. Because, after all, who doesn't like to make themselves vulnerable by posting some of their more revealing thoughts and struggles on a quasi-public forum?

Anyway, without further adieu, here is the first chapter in my blog, post-return to the USA:

The United States during Christmas time is an interesting place. That's not to say that the U.S. isn't an interesting place the rest of the year; nevertheless, it is during Christmas that the US most successfully lives up to the image that the generally poorly informed populace of the outside world has created for it. It is this time of year when we are most acutely aware of the type of identity that we have created for ourselves: that is to say, first and foremost we are consumers.

Without much of a segue, I will just to another topic, and perhaps later I will be able to draw a connection between what might at first seem to be unrelated topics.

In Chile, I struggled quite a bit with my identity as a Christian. I think some of that struggle could be associated with an insidious fear to be any further associated with George W. Bush. Not necessarily because he is a terrible person (though many certainly disagree on that point), but primarily because at the root of almost all human interaction is a desire to be accepted. We shape ourselves and mold ourselves and behave in certain ways in order to be accepted. And while some people would claim that they behave in just the opposite manner, I would argue the contrary; that rather than behaving so that they are outsiders and castaways, they are simply behaving in such a way as to be accepted by another group, perhaps one that they feel more closely resembled their images of themselves and their views of the world. After all, the punk movement couldn't be a movement if no one else joined in, and even Eric Harris and Dylan Kleibold (sp?) had each other. And going back to my point about W, let's face it, the guy hasn't done a great job of making friends.

Either way, I think the point is, that in a lot of ways, I was afraid to convey the wrong impression to people that I already had trouble relating to. There seemed little need to add another layer of stereotypes to overcome when already dealing with the burden of a language and cultural barrier (not to mention a cultural identity that is often anathema to the rest of the global community).

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was hiding the wrong identity. In spite of the fact that Americans are often viewed as boorish, arrogant, self-righteous pricks before they even open their mouths, I flaunted my Americanism proudly in Chile and in all my travels through South America, in part because of the innate pride that I carry with me and that has been inculcated in all Americans through an extensive system socializing everyone to believe that America truly is the greatest place on earth, and in part because I wanted to help change some people's points of view about America and Americans.

It wasn't until recently that I realized my error. I kept quiet on my belief system, because I was afraid of being judged. Yet at the same time, I was often overly forthright in indicating that I was from America because of the way that I could be an agent of change on behalf of all Americans. Now, though, I have begun to understand that the opposite should have been true.

It does very little for me and for all Americans if a number of people out there think more highly of Americans. Either you are American or not. You have very little control over that. Certainly, you have control on how you choose to comport yourself in certain situations, whether traveling abroad or at home, but you cannot change where you are from. You can escape it and deny it all you want, run away and join a throng of expats in a forgotten town buried in the heart of another culture, but it will always be a part of you and something that you can never change.

On the other hand, it does a whole lot for me and for other Christians if a number of people out their change their opinions of Christians and what they stand for. For one, it would bring more people to the eternal party that we get to rock when we are through with our time here. In addition, a broader base of Christians, SHOULD also translate to a broader base of individuals promoting love, peace, community, and joy. And effecting change in this way is achievable because unlike with your cultural identity, as a Christian, you have a choice. That is the whole point. In fact, the entirety of the religion hinges on THAT choice. Either you make it or you don't. Take it or leave it. With that one decision you can change the direction of your entire life, and also unlike you cultural identity or your historical upbringing, your old life IS something you can leave behind.

Still, I kept quiet, because in my imperfections I didn't want to perform a disservice to all the great people out there who are truly Christians, seeking Christ, pursuing God, living the way they are called to (or at least trying to). It was easier for me to accept doing a disservice to the American stereotype than to the Christian one.

It was a poor decision, but it is one that I cannot change at this point. All I can do is learn from it and try to grow from it. Which is perhaps the main reason that I am excited to be back in America: I can no longer excuse away my spiritual malaise.

In addition, I also got to thinking about the interplay between America and Christianity, and it struck me as incredibly contradictory. Much in the same way that I believe both parties in our ridiculously two party "democracy" burden themselves with inconsistent philosophies across the social/economic division of politics, I found the fact that America is widely considered a Christian nation to be utterly inconsistent with what the two shall we say "institutions" represent. Everything about capitalism and consumerism which are the fabric of America run counter to the most foundational tenets of Christianity. As a nation we promote individualism, competition, legalism, and categorization. We form social hierarchies and praise those higher on the totem, while largely neglecting, or even disrespecting those on the bottom. Celebrities of all kinds are our heroes, and regardless of whether they are professional athletes, pop singers, or reality TV stars, the common denominator in our reverence for them is WEALTH (or at least a perception of wealth). Yet as Christians we are told to give up EVERYTHING to follow Christ. Often it is just the opposite. We give up everything to follow money. We will move from tight-knit communities, uproot our families, abandon our friends, betray colleagues, and even lie to ourselves in the pursuit, but at the end, it is like chasing the end of the rainbow in search for the pot of gold in that we never really quite find what we are expecting at the other end.

Far be it for me to put myself above any of these observations (and that is what they are: observations. This is not intended as cynical invective condemning all things American or all Americans, not by any means). On the contrary! I am caught up in the very center of it all. Still, I am quickly coming to terms that life has more to offer than a fictional pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And THAT is the pursuit that I want to be a part of. I just hope I can learn to chase after the right stuff.

Día de las Fuerzas Armadas

I know that at this point you are probably starting to think that "Blog" is an abbreviation for "Backlog" but cut me some slack; it's not easy forcing myself to sit down and write vignettes about the day to day when the weather is changing, classes are winding down, and the uncertainty about my future is beginning to bore into me like a Venezuelan oil rig.

The good news is, while I am still really far behind chronologically, my current scarcity of scrill (sorry... that was ugly) has left me with far fewer options to travel. Which means, fewer mandatory stories to tell. Even though I am pretty confident that I can make the mundane at least palatable and on occasion even enjoyable, at least now I won't feel obligated to write about every weekend getaway that I undertake.

But I digress. Today, we are focusing on the Día de las Fuerzas Armadas (Armed Forces Day), which should be short and sweet. The basic gist is as follows:

After our party which was más lejos que la chucha, Eli, Ashleigh, Meghan, and I all decided to meet up at Parque O'Higgins about 2 hours before the big parade was to start, hoping to get there ahead of the crowds.

Of course, the only time all year that Chileans actually were on time for an event was this parade, and sadly we were shut out from any place where we might actually be able to watch the parade. As you all well know, my viewing pleasure comes secondary to getting the pictures that look like I had a great view, so I improvised. By standing on a cord of barbed wire, while supporting myself on a wooden stake in the ground, I was able to snap a few good shots of the passing parade, including this one of Michelle Bachelet (the current President of Chile).

Shortly after the parade started, the heat and the crowds began to overwhelm our desire to stick around and watch the slowly proceeding masses over throngs of greasy mullets and punked out hairdo's (not to mention the barbed wire holding me up snapped, eliminating my picture-taking perch), so we made out way for the iron-clad exits.

Carlitos (little Carlos, as we call him), Ashleigh's pololo (boyfriend), attends the Escuela Militar and was therefore actually in the parade... Also, his pet-name is a bit of a misnomer since he is not all that little. In fact, by Chilean standards he is huge, which puts him at about 6'1", 180. Not that you care... ANYWAY, he told Ashleigh that the parade would continue later into the night further east in the wealthy part of the city known as Las Condes.

This time, we managed to beat the crowd and actually find some seats in the rafters. We stopped off to get some libation to help pass the time while waiting for the parade, and enjoyed the setting sun with a number of Chilean families doing the same. It was dark by the time the parade finally arrived, so the pictures don't really do the scene justice. Still, we were right across from the Municipality of Las Condes building, where for the first time ever, they rigged the thing up with enough
explosives to make an Al Qaeda operative proud, and set the thing aflame in pyrotechnic delight.

Not wanting to let our night slide into the dreaded anti-climax, we frantically sought one last diversion to avoid going home. We eventually settled on bowling, which although mildly entertaining, was nevertheless unsuccessful in circumventing an anti-climactic finish to the night.

So after getting summarily pummeled in about a game and a half of bowling (I was experimenting with a recently acquired, and as of yet unperfected spinning technique), I got dropped off at my house, and slept off the sun, churros, and foul taste of defeat.

Fiestas Patrias

More than a month overdue, I am finally going to tell you about the actual day of Fiestas Patrias. For a history surround the most significant of all Chilean holidays, see the "Serenity Now, Part I."

Our return trip into Santiago from La Serena was via bus in what are considered full cama (bed) reclining chairs, that were surprisingly more comfortable than I expected. Still, the 3 hours of sleep I received on the bus was hardly enough to replenish my body after a full weekend of truncated slumber, and upon my arrival to the 'Go, I promptly zonked out in my bed for a few more hours.

Without any initial plans for the day, I ended up getting invited to a fonda (sort of like a fair) at a park near my house. There, I had a grand time watching the spectacle that is Chilean celebrations. For one, the fonda had all the interworkings of a North American Carnival - games, junk food, barn animals - only with their own little Chilean twist. For example, whereas at a theme park or real carnival, you might pay to toss a ball at a stack of bottles or try to land a ring around a peg, in Chile, you step up to toss an aluminum peg into a trough of dirt. The kicker is, if you make it, nothing happens, and if you don't... Nothing happens.

Needless to say, without any sense of competition or personal reward, I quickly lost interest in the games section of the fair. My next stop was to the granja (barn) section of the park, where several barnyard animals we cordoned off in their chicken wire pens. The funny thing was, there wasn't any element of interaction like in a petting zoo or anything. They were just there. Animals including cows and horses sat indifferently, thrilled by this grotesque invasion of privacy as pint-sized chileans laughed and hollered and threw pieces of straw at them in the midst of their bowel movements. Eventually the cocktail of BO, straw, poultry, and fecal matter got the best of me, and once again, I moved on.

Truth be told, while the fonda was quite an experience, I spent most of the time there looking for a bottle of water, which of course I never did find. My best estimate was that there were about 5,000 people milling about, and yet there were only a handful of vendors selling edible sundries to the crowd. Settling on a large corner stand that looked promising based on its long line and huge parilla layout, we waited in line until arriving to the point where the food was served. Alas, we were without our food ticket. The mind numbing and absolutely infuriating Chilean inefficiency once again outwitted me, and it never even occurred to me that the place where you would pay for the food would be around the corner at a little phone-booth like stand, where the food that you are ordering is nowhere in site... GREAT IDEA, Chile!

Either way, I went back, purchased my ticket, cut to the front of the line (no WAY I was going to wait twice), and got my kebob and a beer (still not bottle of water).

From there on out, I spend most of the time watching the cueca (a little cat and mouse type dance a couple just sort of spins around and stomps their feet in a feigned pursuit of the female by the man), Chile's national dance (and one of the many sources of pride for Chileans that we as gringos will never understand).

Having somehow managed to kill off 4 hours at the fonda, I decided to make my way out to the middle of nowhere, or as the Chileans say "donde el diablo perdió su poncho" ("where the devil lost his jacket"), for a parilla with one of the host families for another gringa teacher from another Duoc site (there was probably a better way to construct that sentence, but I am behind, and therefore need to be a little more liberal with my errors in grammar and syntax).

Crashing what clearly seemed to be a World Teach affair, I ended up having a great time eating terrific food, drinking good punch, partaking in a cultural interchange (which was mainly comprised of exchanging silly expressions in English and Spanish) and watching other gringos dance the cueca (rather successfully I might add) with the Chileans at the party.

I called it an early night around 2AM in order to recharge for one more day of Chilean culture and fun in the sun.

Serenity Now, Part II

After a night's sleep that really was closer to a nap than a restful slumber, we transferred all our belongings to a new room in the hostal and set out for the beach. The weather wasn't particularly balmy, but after spending 4 months in the frozen iceboxes that is every building in Santiago in the winter time, 60 degrees felt like a Hawaiian summer (at least at first).

A short while of sunbathing, snoozing, and just in general being bums at the foot of the non-functional lighthouse, gave way to the presence of one of the many soulless stray dogs wandering the streets of Chile, which provided us with the impetus to get up and play some frisbee. My inner hippie sated, we all decided to move on and head to a restaurant supposedly famous for it's gringo-favored fare (namely banana pancakes).

Much to our chagrin, we arrived to a pair of imposing wooden doors shackled and chained as if in the midst of hurricane preparations. Deflated, though not surprised - after all, it was Sunday, and no one eats on Sundays in Chile, especially not at relaxing comfort food places that would provide a terrific laid back atmosphere to pass the day - we set out on a search for another open restaurant. Initially, we were determined to find a restaurant that matched with our mood, that is, what we felt like eating. As our journey through the abandoned and silent streets of La Serena progressed, though, we quickly realized that we would have to take what we could get, or join the dogs in their rummaging through refuse.

We finally found a little hole in the wall restaurant known for it's seafood. Ashleigh won the best order competition, combining a couple of small, cheap appetizers to put together a delectable and satisfying meal for less than half of what I paid for some mystery smörgåsbord of seafood.

Not knowing the "La Serena scene," our next order of business was to find something to keep us entertained for the night. On our way back to some open air markets closer to the town center, we stopped by a pharmacy in what turned out to be some of the most entertaining 5 minutes of my life. We engaged in a series of conversations, first with the pharmacist, then with a random young couple that seemed equally frightened and confused by my quest for information, and left laughing our heads off on account of events that can only be described as "you had to be there."

We regained our composure, wandered around to some open air markets, and then made our way back to the hostel to pre-game once again before heading out for the night. There, we met three girls (swiss, german, and italian) who were also living in
Santiago and traveling for the weekend. We modified the card game "spoons" into a drinking game, but after the swiss girl lost 4 times in a row, we decided to abandon any structure to our consumption.

From there, we headed down to the clubs near the beach based on a recommendation from Ashleigh's military pololo. When we were just moments from our intended destination, the cabbie halted to a series of eardrum shattering screeches and screams emanating from the lungs of Ashleigh and Meghan, who had just identified Cesar, perhaps the coolest Chilean colleague that we have at Duoc, walking down the street with his wife and a couple of friends. Obviously surprised to see us, and apparently somewhat
unprepared for the sudden burst of activity, Cesar quickly redirected us to a club a little down the road while he escaped with his wife for more tranquil endeavors.

We spent the rest of the night shaking our little tail feathers to a much needed dose of hip-hop, a pleasant respite from the ubiquitous house music that most other
Chilean clubs employ. When we finally made it back to our hostal exhuasted and pockets full of miniature chilean flags, the sun was lingering just over the horizon.

I am quickly realizing the length and relative lack of entertainment value of this post, so I will try to sum up my last day in La Serena quickly:

We went to the equivalent of a Southern State Fair, called la Pampilla. In addition to bankrupt clowns begging for work, hoards of trailers, tents, and lean-to's providing shelter on the hill-side, bungee assisted trampolines, and of course copious amounts of fried sweets and alcohol, the Pampilla was made uniquely Chilean by the numerous tents and stands of portable hardward stores selling everything from tires, to carabiners, to mediocre kitchen-ware. We spent several hours just wandering around and marveling at the spectacle before heading back to la Serena, losing a couple buck in the casino, eating some delicious sushi, and catching the overnight bus back to home sweet home in Santiago where we would go on to celebrate the ACTUAL day of Fiestas Patrias and Día de las Fuerzas Armadas.

Serenity Now, Part I

Where we last left off, I mentioned that I had planned to start a sleep-induced coma after my weekend cat skiing at SkiArpa. Unfortunately, that coma had to be postponed as I prepared for the long anticipated weekend of Fiestas Patrias, Chile's biggest national holiday.

Fiestas Patrias itself falls on September 18th, but in true Chilean style, no one works the day before, and the day after is another holiday: El Día de las Fuerzas Armadas. Not really sure how it normally works, but because the 18th was on a Tuesday this year, that basically meant a 5 day weekend for all, which of course then translates to a full week off, because let's face it, two days of work in Chile doesn't really mean anything anyway.

Brief history lesson: although many Chileans believe September 18th is their Independence Day, it isn't. Rather ironically (at least in my opinion), Chile's biggest, most celebrated national holiday commemorates the foundation of a quasi-autonomous government in Chile. In reality, said government was overthrown a year later, and even on the beloved 18th of September, the government still swore undying loyalty to the Spanish King. In essence, Fiestas Patrias celebrates the establishment of a government subservient to Spain that no longer exists... Woo-hoo! Let's all get drunk!

My gringo predilections aside, Fiestas Patrias IS the biggest holiday of the year, and the celebration primarily entails lots and lots of drinking and dancing the cueca (Chile's national dance), which really, if you've seen it, goes hand in hand with drinking.

Needless to say, the week of teaching leading up to Fiestas Patrias was not terribly productive. In addition to my suspicions that many of my students were arriving to class drunk (I should say, in even greater numbers than normal), I also had to compete with the eardrum-rattling, really annoying bands that were brought in by the school to play in the central courtyard around which every classroom is situated. Apparently, in a competition between Cueca and Class, Class takes a back seat.

Acting on advice from a number of Chileans, Ashleigh, Meghan, and I had plans to break out of the Santiago melee by heading north to La Serena for the weekend. Frisbee, swimsuit, and a couple flasks of rum in tow, I canceled my last Friday night class (that no one would have showed up for anyway) and caught the overnight bus up north. Not knowing how close our hostel was to the bus station, we caught a cab about a block up the road, during which the cabbie laughed the entire time at our stupidity. Apparently, our fatuity so delighted the cabbie that he didn't even charge us for the 2 minute ride.

Our timing couldn't have been better. We arrived at the hostel minutes before they "powered up" the doorbell, dropped off our bags, grabbed a bite to eat, and then set out on a tour of Valle Elqui.

The tour of Valle Elqui wasn't the most amazing thing I have done since I have been in Chile, but it was certainly made more enjoyable with the help of a pretty interesting tour guide, a few samples of pisco from the piquerias along the way, and of course, the bottle of Monkey Tail (kind of like Baily's but sweeter, stronger, and made with pisco) we bought at our first stop. In addition, we had an INCREDIBLE lunch prepared au natural. All of the food was actually cooked by the sun. That doesn't mean that solar panels powered the building or the kitchen where the food was prepared, but rather the food was placed in reflecting boxes which used the sun's energy to heat the food. According to our guide, a black kettle centered around a giant reflective disk could bring water to a boil in about 15 minutes. Now if only they could use the same sun to heat their
houses...

After a long day of touring, we returned to our hostel exhausted and ready for a break. In my room, I dozed for about an hour listening to Shakira, who, at the other end of the recording process, was no doubt gyrating her legendary hips in perfect rhythm to the backup music being produced by her under-appreciated (and likely underpaid) colleagues.

We wrested ourselves from our slumber shortly after, and still dusting the cobwebs from our minds, set out to find some fuel for our corporal carriages. It turned out to be much more difficult than we had anticipated. After a few failed attempts, we finally found a place that seemed to be serving what could potentially pass as a meal. A slight misunderstanding was exacerbated by poor math skills, and a minor debate ensued about the check (primarily because we had to pay it BEFORE we received our food). Nevertheless, in the end we accomplished our objective and set out for a botellón in Coquimbo.

The hilarity of the situation was not lost on the cabbie as we mixed our drinks en route to Coquimbo. And while he was not much of a talker, I truly believe his reticence belied the sheer ecstasy he must have been feeling upon listening to our ridiculousness for the 15 minute ride across town.

Our botellón concluded in a plaza in Coquimbo next to some Chileans doing the same, and we took advantage of our kindered spirits in order to solicit a recommendation for the rest of our night. We left our new friends in the plaza, seeming somehow less exciting in our absence, and headed over to Mr. X. A cheap cover included one drink, which translated to a warm can of beer.

Now the beer in Chile doesn't really need any help in its quest to be inferior, so when a hot club is serving warm Chilean beer, that's not exactly any easy situation to swallow (pardon the pun). Granted, we are in Chile, so expectations must be tempered in order to survive the day to day. Still, there is only so much a man can bear.

Of course you know by now that I would not be partaking of this warm beer. Instead, I engaged in pleasant, if somewhat beguiling, conversation with the barkeep, explaining my plight with just enough pathos and melodrama so as to make it seem like the most tragic of situations. The bartender responded to such abject abuse of his clientele by proposing I trade my unopened can of warm beer for a 3/4 full pitcher of cold beer from the tap. I eagerly accepted the trade, which turned out not to be a trade at all because he forgot to reclaim the original collateral. As you can see, the pitcher was well received by all.

We spent the rest of the night spreading cheer and attracting randos until even the moon got tired and called for back up from his brighter celestial cousin.

I´m TRYING

There are three fundamental ingredients necessary in order to keep a blog updated and interesting: 1) Material, 2) Time, and 3) Internet.

Unfortunately, the accumulation of material with which to fill said blog tends to have an inverse relationship with the amount of time available to write about the material. And while a solid and consistent internet connection should be independent of the two other factors, for some reason, every time I have the first two factors in excess, there always seems to be a paucity of the third (and vice versa).

Nevertheless, I am urging you, faithful readers, to take heart! For I am committed to the entertainment (or at the very least the distraction) of all my readers as long as I am here in Chile, and irrespective of my heretofore inability to stay abreast of the many stories that have been multiplying in the annals of the unwritten, I promise to liberate my mindless ramblings just as soon as my stinking landlord can figure out our current internet mess. Until that SNAFU is worked out, I must resign myself to typing random nothings in my free time between class from the sticky keyboard (covered no doubt with some dilectable syrupy concoction comprised of Chilean finger grease, avocado resin, salty vegetable oil, and mayonnaise, all of which are found in copious amounts in the Chilean diet) in the teacher`s lounge at the school where I teach.

So that today´s visit is not a complete waste, I will leave you with a tasty morsel of information. The word SNAFU actually arose from a military acronym beginning with "Situation Normal: ..." I am assuming the clever can deduce the rest.

Cliff's Notes

After nearly a month of silence, I have decided to get back on the blog bandwagon. Reading through some of my latest posts - which, indeed, can hardly be considered late - I am realizing that there are so many huge gaps in my coverage over the last several months, that I am just going to have to leave some unfilled, like the Aurora potholes in the winter time.

Still, there are a FEW things that I would like to include. For starters, let me try for a quick summary of what I am so far missing:

-After my trip to Machu Picchu, I went to Easter Island for a few days. In sum total, my three weeks of travels were filled with back to back to back wonders that really cannot be done justice by any meager attempts on my behalf to describe them. In light of this fact, I will simply suggest you look at pictures, and maybe one day book a trip of your own.

-Upon my return, I alternated between skiing, partying, and saying goodbye. Both Nayara and Heloísa (the Brazilians) left the first week I was back, which was a HUGE bummer considering they were my two closest friends in the Casa Andacollo. Meghan's birthday party helped the cause quite a bit with a little dancing at Punta Brown. In addition, during that time, I managed to grow a little closer with Nora (the Colombian) mainly on account of snow: I skied with her boyfriend for a day and then when it was snowing in Santiago for the first time in 20 years, I helped her build a snowman in the front yard. There was less than a centimeter of snow on the ground, but our house was perhaps the only house in all of Santiago with a genuine snowman, brown, grass-ridden, and emaciated though he was.

-Before heading home to Colorado I almost bailed on the CIEE weekend retreat in favor of a weekend of cat-skiing. However, after a complete white-out on the mountain one day, I took a short skiing hiatus, and opted instead for a little weekend getaway with what few members of the CIEE posse still remain (big shout out to Menelike and Amanda... We miss you guys!!!). Turned out to be a great decision. Free beer coupled with kick-ball, volleyball, choripan, and ping-pong was just what the doctor ordered to chase my Santiago blues away.

-Quick on the heals of the weekend extravaganza described above, I saddled up for the 14 hour trip back to good old Colorado. After a mandatory stop at Chipotle, the NEXT thing I did was accompany Josh to buy $1,000 worth of alcohol for his wedding. The loading and unloading of copious amounts of the Sumers' greatest legacy provided the perfect segue into a weekend of much of the same. In spite of the email string comprised of more words than Quixote, we all managed to pull together an incredible weekend of beer-drinking, cigar-smoking, burger-eating, gore creek-tubing (or tube-popping), salmon-grilling, shot-pounding, poker-playing, sleep-depriving goodness.

-Most of the week following the bachelor party was spent hanging with friends and family, catching up on life in the US, and golfing, so essentially, everything I could have asked for from a vacation back home. Of course, the icing on the cake was my sister's and Josh's beautiful wedding, which really needs no elaboration.

-I arrived back in Chile, half-reluctant, half-excited to return for the final stretch of what has so far been an incredible adventure. On the insistence (and bankroll) of Lauren and Josh, my first order of business upon my return was to book my cat-skiing trip at SkiArpa. All my failed attempts to lure another skier into the fray left me hiking through the cold Santiago streets at 5:30 in the morning lugging a ski-bag, a backpack, and a small duffel replete with helmet clunking along the outside. Needless to say, I did not exactly blend in. The snow turned out to be less than epic to say the least, but never in my life will I ski more incredible terrain in succession. Due in large part to a small group of the nerdiest adults I have ever met who kept us a little more conservative on Day 1, we only logged about 9,000 vertical feet of skiing (over 4 runs). Day 2 however, we were joined by a group of 3 brothers from Utah, and we hiked for every one of our 4 runs, which left us at a best estimate of around 12,000 vertical feet for the day.

-I caught the bus back to Santiago on my own and tried to sleep off some of the last 2 months of accumulated exhaustion. I have not yet been successful, but then, if you aren't tired at the end of the day, you're just not doing enough.

I will try to write a more reflective, engaging, or inspiring piece soon. For now, know that I haven't forgotten that this page exists, even though most of my readers have.

Good night, and God bless.

Speechless Part II

My sincerest of apologies if there is still anyone out there who checks my blog. August has been a busy month and September looks to be filled with an equal amount of writing material that I likely will not be able to include.

Nevertheless, I promised that I would try to catch up, and catch up I shall.

Here is a post from one of the first nights of our trek on our way to Machu Picchu:

--
7/24

I am inking these words in what marks the first night of our journey to Machu Picchu. Since there were an odd number of people in our group, I volunteered to sleep alone tonight, and in spite of the bitter cold, I still think I made the right decision. On a night like this, it is better to be alone, to sit in silence, to reflect on the world, and to see what your head thinks of it all.

I am still waiting for some profound revelation from myself, but the overall theme of this conversation with myself is that, life is good.


Being back in the mountains, carrying a sweaty backpack, shivering on the hard ground wrapped in goose-down, while listening to the sound of a glacial stream... These are the things that spark those brief moments of contented nostalgia. For a moment, I am back home, reminded of all the various hikes, day trips, and nights camping that all left a different footprint inside of me, and each remains in a special place in my heart.

One of the many things that I have learned since I started this little adventure of mine is that I tend to feel the least alone when I am completely alone. It is a strange irony that I can be at a bar, party, or any random get together, surrounded by all of my new South American friends and colleagues, yet often find myself directing my thoughts elsewhere, namely to the people that I left behind.


I should be more careful with my wording. If there is one thing that I know, it's that no one in this life gets left behind. In the same way that I carry my backpack of clothing and supplies along this trip, I am always carrying everyone in my life on my shoulders, each and every relationship providing me preparation for the next obstacle down the road. My first aid kit of human experience has served me well thus far. I can almost always find some analogy from my past in order to apply to the future and bring me comfort in the midst of a very uncertain journey.

Still, each day that goes by I feel more assured in my walk. I may not know where I am going, but there is a path in front of me, and I can see those further up the road walking along it as well. Most importantly, I will always have a guide to lead my way. And that's what seems so easy for me to forget.
I am starting to realize though, that the reason I am so quick to think I am alone on this walk, is that unlike Guido (the guide on this trip), the guide or guides that have always been with me in my life are following close behind me. Rather than directing my every step, they simply watch in bemusement as I stumble along this thorny and rocky path, only intervening when it is clear that I can't do it on my own.

For now then, I am lying on my back looking into a sky of nylon, comforted in spite of the rocks that are jutting through my sleeping pad into my vital organs. I am comforted knowing that beyond that thin layer of synthetic material awaits a wild world rife with excitement, adventure, and perhaps a little danger. It awaits my company, and I eagerly anticipate the journey for I know that I have all the tools necessary to navigate that sometimes frightful terrain, but what's more, I know that whatever I am currently lacking, I will pick up along the way.

Speechless Part I

You know how garbage is less likely to be taken out once it REALLY starts to pile up... And that mountain of dishes in the sink just NEVER seems to get clean? Well, in much the same way, because there is just SO much to cover, I have been avoiding the monumental task of restarting my blog after such a long hiatus about which there is just so much to tell.

I arrived in Santiago late on Saturday night after visiting several "once-in-a-liftime" places back-to-back-to-back (to-back). Since then, I have basically had a staring contest with my computer screen trying to figure out how to begin to summarize my time away from Santiago. Since I was neither so dedicated nor so foolish as to bring my computer along with me on my travels, I managed to scribble some notes into my journal at a few stopping points along the way. So rather than try to create new entries retrospectively, I will simply transcribe my journal entries into this blog. Before I delve into these entries, though, I feel it is necessary to warn you that my hand-written thoughts tend to be more personal, more melodramatic, and less lucid. Don't be surprised, then, if you find the following entries to be little more than esoteric ramblings dripping with sap.

Here is the first entry that I made. It was written by candlelight at a hotel constructed out of salt after watching the sunset on the outskirts of the Salar de Uyuni.

---
7/16/07

Where does one begin to write a short treatise of all the ways this world can captivate us?

The day-to-day routine often numbs us to the life we are living. A potent anesthetic of chores, habit, and general predictability put us to sleep and we focus our energy shutting out the world around us. Still, at times, that world attempts to perform surgery on our soul. A procedure to repair us. To wrest us from our waking slumber. To abandon what we think we know about the world - what we have seen, what we can predict, what we know and feel - and teach us what the world is really all about.

When you escape from the web we have spun for ourselves, the insidious hypnosis that we call "the REAL world", you can once again open your eyes to colors that you didn't know existed, to music that no instrument can play, to a symphony no orchestra could perform.

It is funny the way the Mind works. When you are trapped in the mire of obligation and responsibility, He yearns for freedom and adventure. Yet when given the exactly that, He directs his thoughts to the more pedestrian habits of daily ritual. Acting without your consent or direction, the Mind returns to worry. It is as though He cannot roam free. So long we have domesticated the Mind that in a truly unconstrained environment He would starve in the process of awaiting orders rather than flourish and blossom with fruits of innovation. In essence we only wish to escape insofar as our escape will eventually lead to our recapture. That way, we can maintain the illusion of a free spirit. Afterward, we can forever point to our ability to pick up and leave everything behind, knowing full well that we never intended to maintain our nomadic course. Instead, free though we seem, we at once hope for and fear our return to civilization.

For now though, you mustn't dwell on such thoughts. It is now time to embrace the opportunity to wander, to be young and directionless. Turn your anxiety into arrogance, knowing full well that you don't know, and that's okay. For it is this awareness (hope, fear, anxiety... Whatever you want to call it) that will eventually enable you to find your way.

Until then, laugh with others at the joy that life brings. Breathe in the air so full of youth and the promise that youth carries. Admire the artwork of the unadulterated world around you. And when the splendor of the world fills you up to the point that you can no longer bear it, find someone else to hold and let that joy spill over into their life as you sob tears of joy into their shoulder.

Most of all, rejoice for the time you have been given. It won't last long, but it will be with you forever.

---

MIA

Just a quick note to inform all my faithful readers that you needn´t check out my blog every five minutes like you normally do anxiously anticipating my next entry. I might drop a line to give a brief one or two line update, but for the most part I am going to be MIA until August.

As a preview of what is to come, tomorrow I am flying to the dryest place on Earth for a 4 day tour. From there, we will swing into Bolivia for a few days in the salt flats of Uyuni (there is even talk of staying in some hotel of salt somewhere... whatever that means).

From Bolivia, it´s back into Peru, where I will start in Cuzco before hiking an alternative trek to the Inca Trail, and pop into Machu Picchu for a couple days. If I have time I will try to make it over to Lake Titicaca, the highest navigable lake in the world (and also the lake with the coolest name).

Finally, to close it all off, I will spend the last days of my freedom from Duoc on Easter Island marveling at all the giant heads called Moai.

In other words, stay tuned... My posts may be few and far between, but hopefully they will be worth the wait.

The rest of the week...

My little Buenos Aires novella continues with Monday, a day of grand aspirations met with minor complications.

Pat and Becca came to meet us at our hotel early in the morning with the hopes that we could sneak in a museum visit before out Tango lessons at noon. Some last minute research revealed that the museum didn’t open until noon, so we just wandered around the theater district and downtown area until we were supposed to tango. In pure South American style, the tango professor never showed up, so instead we grabbed lunch at the foot of their version of the Washington monument (ours is much better, not to worry).

From there, we caught a cab up to the MALBA, Buenos Aires’ most famous museum of modern art. In spite of all the rave reviews in both the Frommer’s and the Rough Guides guide books we had, perhaps the most impressive part of the museum was the building itself. There were a few pieces of interesting art, but for the most part it was a lot of what one comes to expect from modern art these days: a few pieces of burnt toast on a plate; a box with a number of objects that vibrated when you touched the corresponding button; a pair of sticks each fashioned with a set of dentures and wrapped with some sheets and splinters painted the color of blood.

A group of obnoxious older women oblivious to the existence of other human life in the museum provided the final impetus to cut our cultural experience short, so with a flourish (read: bathroom break... you can’t spell flourish without F-L-U-S-H) we headed for the exits. Pat and Becca stayed true to their plan for a mandatory nap-time, while Lindsey and I went to see a little more of the city on foot.

We made a brief stop at an amazing ice cream place called Volta and then hit up the Japanese Gardens. After being at once impressed and digusted by the over-sized gold-fish (a.k.a. koi), Linds and I just wandered around this tranquil little refuge from the city. Almost as if providing me a reminder to heed my long time obsession, I saw a guy standing on the footbridge across the pond with a fat pair of Atomic freestyle skis. Too overcome by excitement at seeing a pair of skis to make note of the curious inconsonance of the situation, I approached the young man to ask him if he skiied... Brilliant question, I know...

Harry: “Those your skis?... Both of ‘em?”

Being that he was a freestyle skier by trade, he is probably used to being surrounded by imbeciles, and I don’t think he even noticed how dumb my question was. He ended up telling me that he was filming a freestyle ski program for Argentine TV, and that he and his buddy were sponsored by Atomic. I wanted to hug him and punch him at the same time. In spite of that deep-seeded solidarity and respect that pretty much the whole of the skiing/riding community has for each other, I couldn’t help but be a little jealous that this kid was getting paid to make ski videos with his buddies during his free time. Before leaving, I jokingly asked him if he wanted to give me his skis, since, after all, it’s not like HE paid for them... He didn’t think it was funny. Empty-handed, Lindsey and I left the gardens to continue to kill time until wine-tasting at 5pm.

We walked by the zoo, and maybe for a moment entertained the idea of stopping in, but the graffiti-covered advertisements that made the happy-looking animals sad and crying made us think twice. That, and it was closed. Instead, we stopped into the botanical gardens to see all sorts of rare breeds of fichus, fern, and feline. Apparently, the cabal of stray cats in Buenos Aires designated the botanical gardens as their central headquarters at the last town hall, because more than the cacti, chrysanthemums, or cyprus, I just remember the cats.

Having gotten our fill of flora and fauna, we made our way up the street to the place where the day before we had seen signs for wine tasting. The gentleman greeted us at the door and did everything he could to dissuade us from the gustación (gestation) until later so that he wouldn’t have to open three new bottles of wine just for the two of us. In retrospect, perhaps we should have paid deference to his suggestion, but, then, hindsight is 20/20. As I mentioned, since we were the only two people who showed up for the 5pm wine tasting, they had to open three full bottles of wine. Also, because they were simply going to throw out what was left in the bottle anyway, they decided just to leave them on the table for us to continue “tasting” as much of it as we desired. Empty stomach + little sleep in the past 3 days + 3 amazing bottles of wine = BAD.

In the end, Lindsey and I killed off about 2.5 bottles of wine between the two of us, and the plate of meat and cheese that accompanied the wine tasting did little to mollify the effects of the alcohol. SO, for the first time since I have been in Chile, I stood up from my seat without my camera bag.... Dah-dah-duh (dramatic cello music)....

We ended up buying a couple of bottles from the place, and I guess that my carrying the bag of wine helped me to forget that I WASN’T carrying my camera. We caught a cab back to the corner where our hotel was, but when I got out of the cab, Lindsey asked me where my camera was. Thinking that I left it in the cab, I made a mad dash in the direction of the cab. Unfortunately, the cab was gone before I could even catch the number of the cab, the company of the cab, or any relevant information whatsoever that might lead to the recovery of my camera.

At this point, I was so filled with anger and self-loathe that I couldn’t even see straight... Or maybe it was the wine. Either way, I was well beyond apex of the “Language Laffer Curve,” my title for the relationship between alcohol and your foreign language speaking ability that shares a similar graph to the square root of X, only with an asymptote at some value of X (different for every person; my graph peaks around 6 beers and plummets before 8). I have provided a graph to the right in order to better understand this complex mathematical relationship.

I returned to the hotel utterly despondent and unable to string together any set of words that might otherwise be used to make an intelligible thought. A few concerned bystanders asked me if there was anything they could do to help me, but in my state of disrepair the best I could do was send them distress signals to steer clear of this reprobate and derelict waste of carbon. I moped up into the hotel room and tossed myself onto the bed in despair, completely oblivious to the fact that Lindsey had not yet returned to the hotel. When Lindsey did return a few minutes later, she helped sprinkle some guilt and shame into my noxious stew of emotion, and things went from bad to worse. While we were only about a block from the hotel when the cab dropped us off, I failed to realize that Linds had been following me around all weekend, so when I ran off to chase after the cab, she was clueless as to where to go. In essence, not only did I leave my most valuable object behind, I also abandoned Lindsey on the street corner in the middle of a big city in a foreign country. Definitely not one of my better showings.

When considering that in a few short weeks I would be traveling to the dryest desert in the world, Machu Picchu, and Easter Island, losing my camera was literally the end of the world in my eyes. So in my wine-induced, hypersensitive, and melodramatic state I decided that the best way to solve the problem would be to escape into my dreams, the only place where the reality of my stupidity couldn’t reach me. I proceeded to konk out on the bed where I had fallen, while Lindsey decided to follow through on our plans to meet up with Pat and Becca at their apartment a few streets down.

After leaving me in my self-imposed coma for a couple hours, the three of them came back to wrest me from my slumber and make good on our dinner reservations. On our way out the door, the concierge delivered me the best news I have heard since Chipotle went public: apparently, I left the WINE in the cab, not my camera. The cabbie realized that it was ours and doubled back to bring it to the hotel. The concierge at the hotel then called the name of the store on the wine bag to see if they knew of the whereabouts of my camera. They told her that I had indeed left it there, and they would keep hold of it for me until I came by tomorrow when they opened. In essence, my two wrongs made things right, for if I hadn’t left the wine in the cab, I might have never known that my camera was still at the shop where we went to go wine tasting.

An awkward relief hit me like the first breath of air when you get on the New York subway in the winter: you are relieved to finally catch the train after waiting underground in the freezing cold but sickened by the putrid stench of cabbage and B.O. As happy as I was to hear that I would be able to recover my camera, my stomach was doing backflips at the thought of what a needless spectacle I had put on when I thought I had lost it.

Nevertheless, this WAS good news, and as such, I was willing to forgive myself for the last couple hours of dementia. Unfortunately, my company was not as forthcoming with their pardons. So Pat, Becca, Lindsey, and I sat around a singularly unique and comical restaurant chewing our food the appropriate amount of time before swallowing and talking around the huge elephant sitting in the middle of our table. By the time the check came and we had to decide whether or not we would continue the night out on the town, we surrendered faster than a French battalion and headed back to our hotel.

After perhaps our first real night of some very much-needed sleep, Lindsey and I got off to a later start than expected. We still tried to squeeze in a quick tour around the nearby shops to look for shoes and sweets. Without seeing anything really inspiring in any of the shops until we were just far enough away from our hotel to make us late getting back, we ended up delaying our departure by about 15 minutes. Tack on the unanticipated additional travel time needed to go pick up my camera, and we had done a pretty solid job of assuring that we would miss our flight.

Sure enough, when we got to the ticket counter, it was already too late to check in. So, armed with a few iTunes episodes of some popular TV shows and a little tax-free refund courtesy of Argentine shopping, we managed to kill off the 5 hours before our new flight back to Santiago no worse for the wear.

I won’t bore you with the mind-numbing details of the rest of the week, but once back in Santiago, Lindsey and I made our rounds to some of the nicer parts of towns and tourist attractions in some of the best weather that we have had in months. Some stops included the Cerro San Cristobal, La Chascona (one of Pablo Neruda’s houses),the Central Fish Market, and a fantastic tour of the Concha y Toro winery, which included a glass of perhaps the most amazing Cabernet Sauvignon I will taste until Kamens banks his first million.

I later found out that the weather was the product of something they call “Veranito de San Juan” ( “Little Summer of San Juan”), which comes like clock-work every year right around the 24th of June and lasts about a week, bringing a refreshing and much needed respite from the rain, cold, and general greyness of the city. So, in spite of the fact that I was a little busy with schoolwork at the end of the semester, Lindsey could not have picked a better week in the winter to come, especially since the weather has since returned to the usual wet, black and white oil painting that makes Santiago in the winter so utterly forgettable.

In all, it was a terrific week, and hopefully one that might inspire a few more houseguests in the future... Only next time, I promise I will hang onto my camera!

Back in Action

Where to begin...
Well, as has become my custom, I guess I will start by apologizing for the delay between my posts. And as is your custom, you will probably not notice.

Either way, this time at least I had a pretty good excuse in that I was 1) out of town, and 2) entertaining my first (and more than likely only) houseguest down here in Santiago. That’s right; it is in fact possible to visit good ol’ Santiago. Not easy. Or cheap... But possible nonetheless.

Right now, I am sitting here in my room after a long day in which the most activity I had was dragging myself upstairs to watch Chile get pasted by Brazil in the Copa América –

Side note: even if you are not into soccer, I would definitely recommend finding a way to watch a game with some die-hard fans rooting for opposing teams. I had that opportunity today when I got to watch the game with Francisco and his friend Fernando (Chile) as well as Heloísa and Juliana (Brazil). Aside from being incredibly animated and entertaining, it is a wonderful way to learn how to say all the bad words that were so conspicuously absent from your high school Spanish lesson plans.

– so as I said, here I am, in my room, listening to Mozart (not because I am high-brow or cultured, but because my playlist is on random, and I find it too soothing and apropos for a period of quiet introspection to change the track) while I reflect on the week, life, and a host of other metaphysical phenomena... But mainly, just the week and life.

Before going into a description of last week, I definitely need to send a huge shout-out to Lindsey for coming down and reminding me for a week what an amazing group of friends I have and what an amazing life we lead back in the US. So thank you Lindsey. Hope you had as much fun as I did.

With that realization in mind, I also want to take the time to once again thank any and all of you who are reading this blog (all 4 of you). I am not sure what everyone back home thinks of the life that I am living here, but one thing is for certain: in spite of all amazing places I see, the interesting people I meet, the incredible experiences I have while I am down here in Chile, I don’t ever want any of you to think that I don’t miss you. So, in case you didn’t catch it, here it is again: I miss you. All of you. Whether I stay abroad for just a couple more months or for the rest of my life, know that there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t take the time to appreciate the unique contribution that all of you have made in my life.

...And if you are just some rando whom I have never met and are reading this, I bet you’re pretty special too.

Okay, enough boring sappy stuff. Here is the week in a nutshell:

Thursday:
The night before Lindsey came. Got back from class. Tried to clean my room. Got distracted by music and tequila shots taking place in the kitchen. Socialized with roommates until about 4AM.

Friday:
Wake up at around 5:45AM to pick Lindsey up from the airport. Once in, we took a little catnap to recharge and then made our way around the city. We braved the stormy weather, and in spite of the rain, we still managed to stop at Cerro Santa Lucia, Museo Casa Colorada (which was basically a 6th grade diorama fair), Plaza de Armas, Palacio La Moneda, and culminate our excursion with a very late lunch at Como Agua Para Chocolate.
Depending on whom you ask (i.e. the Duoc Coordinator), Lindsey and I got "held up" (which was more of an embellishment than a lie), so I was unable to make it to my classes for the evening. Instead, Linds and I went back to rent, fittingly, “Como Agua Para Chocolate.”
After hanging our soaking clothes to dry, we then headed over to Amanda’s, where we spent the rest of the night stuffing our faces with home-made lasagna cooked by a “real live mom.” Dinner also came with copious amounts of awesome wine and awesomer cookies, and we went home fat, happy, and a little sloppy. We get home at around midnight, and after briefly socializing with the perennial party that always seems to be raging in the kitchen right when I want to go to sleep, we threw some stuff in our bags for our trip to Buenos Aires and tried to get some much-needed shut-eye (tried being the operative word). Fortunately, “Como Agua Para Chocolate” bored Lindsey to sleep in spite of the noise, and I followed her shortly thereafter at around 2AM.

Saturday:
Another early morning. This time, we are up at 3:30AM in order to make it on time for our 6AM flight. Apparently all the moving and shaking interrupted the settling and digesting, so when we got on the plane, the tint of Lindsey’s complexion matched up nicely with an under-ripe banana, and a few airplane shuffle-step acrobatics over the sleeping businessman on the aisle liberated Linds to liberate her libation.

Once in BsAs, we again plugged in for a juice booster, but managed start the show by about midday. I played my best tour-guide role as I recited what I remembered from the guide book I used on my last visit. For some reason, I was very pigeon-picture-happy, primarily because I didn’t want any repeat photos from my last visit. So if you notice an influx of flying rats in my album, I apologize.

We stopped into a great café for lunch, wandered around a few parks as well as a pedestrian mall, and in general just walked as far as our little legs would take us. After lapping back to the hotel, we made our way out to the night hotspots for the night. Unfortunately, because there was an mayorial election scheduled for Sunday, all the bars were pretty dead. They stopped serving alcohol at midnight, presumably to promote better decision-making on the day of the election. Something about having a responsible electorate seemed pretty foreign to me... After all, I am from the U.S.

In light of the fact that the night was DOA, we went back to the hotel for yet another failed attempt by Lindsey to finish the movie.



Sunday:
Trying to make the most of the day, Linds and I got up (again) before our bodies were ready. After a quick bite in the hotel, we wandered over to the Recoleta to stumble over the entombed corpses of people far more important than either of us ever will be. After a bite in another café, we made it back to the hotel to start a city bus tour. Having already been to the final couple stops, we bailed about halfway through and walked up Calle Defensa through the San Telmo artisan fair. A beautiful Argentine leather saleswoman made small talk with Lindsey about her friends from UGA when Lindsey went to try on some boots. It didn’t help her make the sale, but I found her “like, you know’s” to be pretty entertaining.
A quick stop by the famous Cafe Tortoni and a detour to buy some alfajores left us back in the hotel sipping on maté and watching bad American movies in the early evening. Blood saturated with whatever chemical infusion that maté contains, we summoned enough energy and appetite to take down the best steak of my life. At a sort of below the tourist radar restaurant called “El Establo” (The Stable) we got an absolutely stunning butterfly filet that they cut in half with a spoon to show us the velvet red interior patiently waiting to bring us pleasure. After lending brief consideration to the idea of simply hoarding the pieces of meat in my cheeks so that the experience wouldn’t have to come to an end, social norms and general rules of propriety won out, and I let my stomach have some fun with what my mouth had so thoroughly enjoyed. Pat and Becca, some friends from Atlanta who were also in Buenos Aires for a bat mitzfah, met up with us at the restaurant, and after dinner we headed back out to another hot night spot to see if we couldn’t bump some hips and butts with some porteños. Unfortunately, the strenuous day of choosing someone else to run the city’s corrupt government left most of the locals too tired or disinterested to go out, so the four of us chased down some Fernet-cola with watered-down beer and called it a night.

...And because local time is now about 5:30AM, I too will call it a night. Stay tuned for more adventures in wonderland (aka Buenos Aires).

Don't bring me down...

So I know I haven't exactly been on my game when it comes to writing these blog entries lately. The truth is, I don't know what I have been doing. Aside from researching some side business projects, responding to domestic affairs around la Casa Andacollo, and in general trying to stay dry in the midst of the greyest, ugliest, rainiest couple weeks of my life, I don't really have any excuses for having not written other than I haven't really felt the creative juices flowing...

That is of course, until now. As a bit of a precursor, I am currently fuming mad and am writing off the cuff in order to vent. I want to gather myself enough to say that in general, life is amazing, and I am incredibly blessed to be able to sit here and type on my computer in my free time in Chile while other people around the world are starving, homeless, or stuck at a boring desk job that they hate.

Neverthess, my current (as in, up-to-the-second) assessment of Chile is the following: "I love life. I love being in Chile. I love Chile... But I HATE Santiago."

Ok, that made me laugh. Hate is a strong word. Let's just say, if you had one year left to live, and in that one year you could spend 1 day in any city, pueblo, or derelict shantytown in even the most remote parts of the world, with 365 and one quarter cities to visit, I STILL wouldn't recommend Santiago... At least not in the winter.

It is grey... Too grey.
...Except for when it rains... Then it is wet. And once it stops raining, it's grey again.

It IS functional... Inefficient and tedious, but functional.

It is safe... If you are paranoid.

The people are nice... As long as you don't talk to them.

It isn't THAT cold... Unless you sleep inside.

It has a lot of wildlife... If you count mangy dogs as wildlife.

It has culture... According to Chileans, cheating, stealing, and passing the blame are all very popular.

All right. That's enough. I just needed to get that off my chest.

I don't know why I let it get to me so much, but my crappy phone has been acting up. And unlike in other developed nations where companies have some accountability to stand behind their product or service AFTER the initial transaction, I have seen very little of that in Chile (perhaps that can be credited to the "blame-passing" part of their culture).

Nevertheless, when my phone when on the fritz for no other reason than that it was probably made by some gorgeous inept blonde named Sven (it is a Nokia phone), I did my best to be optimistic that everything would get resolved quickly and easily, and one trip to the Entel store would be all I would need to get up and running again.

I was wrong.

I stepped outside into a mosaic of different shades of grey, and as soon as I was far enough away from my house to where it would be a nuisance to turn back, it started to rain. I of course have not grown accustomed to bringing my umbrella with me everywhere I go, and neither do I have the ability to tell the difference between the charcoal colored RAIN clouds, and the graphite colored SMOG.

Thinking optimistically, I waited at the bus stop, hoping that the net combined wait+transit time of taking a bus would be shorter (and dryer) than walking the 20 minutes to the Entel store.

I was wrong.

The first bus slowed down just enough to get everyone at the stop excitedly walking to the curb in order to receive a cuff full of dirty street water when the bus continued on through a puddle. Knowing that on average a bus only comes about once every 15 minutes, I figured I would take a little jog in the rain to pass the time. I got to the Entel store after a combination of walking and jogging (wet though I was, I still have an aversion to dripping sweat before walking into a place of business) for about 10 minutes without ever seeing the bus that would have taken me the length of the journey in about 5 minutes.

Surprisingly, I only had to wait 10 minutes in the store before interacting with another human being. I handed the lady my phone. She agreed that it had gone crazy. She asked me a series of questions including how old the phone was. I told her that I bought it about 3 months ago, which she thought was "GREAT NEWS!" "That means it is covered under the warranty," she explained. At this point, I am like the excited puppy waiting for the treat you've hidden behind your back, thinking that I might actually get a new phone. And when she told me that they just had to send it in to technical service, I was that same puppy who is both eager, confused, and maybe a little sad when you drop the biscuit out of sight and show him your empty hands. She then told me that it would likely take anywhere from 3-4 days to repair. Forget cute puppy analogies. At this point, I was the old-yeller that they shot in the end. I don't know the exact conversion, but when Chileans say they will be about 15 minutes, it normally means closer to an hour. So by my Math, I should have the phone sometime in mid-July.

Nevertheless, she did give me a "loner" phone. Which is fantastic considering I have about one text message worth of prepay credit left on my original phone, and it probably wouldn't be worth it for me to charge my credit considering I don't have a single number from anyone who lives in Chile (because they were all on my other phone, which is now probably under the delicate care of a big, mullet-wearing Chilean named Rodrigo).

Yeah, fine, whatever. Take your time.

I walk through the drizzle to the bus stop. Realizing there are too many people to make the next bus even if it does stop, I decide to ask a taxi if the coins in my pocket will get me to the corner near my house. He says yes, I jump in, and then he tells me that he is going to wait for more people. Two more ladies hop in the car, and pay 500 pesos in advance to go further than wear I asked him to let me out. I originally asked him if 800 would do the trick, but since I had to wait for these other randos, and because he is not providing me metered taxi services and rather is acting as a colectivo (a shared cab with a set rate), I obviously think that the situation has changed. Worse, I miscounted my coins thinking that I had a 500 peso coin. So instead of just giving him 500 and having the upper hand when I jumped out of the cab, I had to hand him a bill worth 1000 leaving him to give me the change.

I was the first stop, and when I gave him the bill, as I half-expected, he gave me 200 back. I tried to argue with the guy, pointing out the obviously flawed reasoning in his payment system, but there were two other people in the cab and a line of cars honking behind me. Thinking it best to give it up and chalk it up to the stupidity that is Chilean thinking, I slammed the door and stormed off leaving them to talk badly about gringos once I was gone. In essence, the two broads who waited less and were going farther paid about half the price that I had to pay. Yep. That seems about right.

Just so that this post doesn't seem completely negative, I will leave you with a very blurry picture of some guy soliciting a prostitute... Because I think it's funny.

I'm going back to Buenos Aires with Lindsey on Saturday... Hopefully good wine, good food, and good company will hold me over until my next opportunity to escape from the city.