Tampons. Tampons. Tampons. I don't think CIEE puts enough emphasis on just how hard it is to find tampons here (when you do find them, you get 8 for about $16 U.S. dollars), so I thought I'd just make it extra clear that you should dedicate one of your two suitcases to this necessary toiletry.
Magazines and Art Supplies. Surprise of surprises, Duoc has a lot less equipment to use in the classroom than I had expected (read: no audiovisual, sound, or internet resources exist in the English classrooms at my campus). So I've been turning to doing some easy and quick art projects to liven the mood a bit. But like any country, art supplies (especially paper here) are really expensive. Anything you can find that is cheap and reusable (markers, paper, paint, paper, brushes, paper paper paper) is incredibly helpful. Especially when Duoc surprises you and tells you that you will be teaching a Graphic Design course.
Julia Child. I set the oven on fire in my hometown's YMCA trying to bake a chocolate cake when I was six. We had to evacuate to the parking lot. It was the middle of winter. This experience adequantly summarizes my culinary skills. As Americans, we get so used to having things premade or cooking supplies prepackaged. Although prepackaged stuff does exist in Chile, it does not exist in the quantity, quality, or economically friendly way that it does back in the good ol' U.S. of A. So perhaps I would have brushed up on how to bake brownies from scratch (the mix I found here made brownies that were the consistency of rubber chocolate - I would have done better to bounce them across the floor than put them in my mouth), cook a mean pasta-and-fresh-vegetable dish, or learned how to make some sauces. The internet is a great resource for these things, and with YouTube and some help from the culinary gods, I've had some successes.
Any knowledge whatsoever of metric conversions. I couldn't even tell you what I weigh or how tall I am. Also, cooking becomes increasingly difficult when you cannot convert Fahreinheit to Celsius (and becomes downright impossible when your gas oven comes equipped with two settings: "On" and "Off").
Other good items to bring?
Razors
Shaving Cream
Lots of Medications (Tylenol, Immodium to be sure)
A coat (it DOES get cold down here)
A duplicate pair of your favorite shoes (you walk everywhere)
A library of books in English, if you like to read as much as I do. Books here are very expensive - usually $16-$40 U.S. for a paperback in English.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Down With Love (and Sentimentality)
Topping off at a whopping five feet three inches tall, there is nowhere in the world where I should feel like a giantess. However, there is something about men in Chile where they inconveniently don't grow much higher than my armpit. You can imagine how uncomfortable this is, especially when I have to reach up and grab a bar in a crowded, hot, sticky subway car when I've got Chilean man-nose up in my haven't-shaved-in-a-week-and-might-have-skimped-on-the-deodorant-today business.
A lot of people travel abroad with the expectation that they will fall in love. I think every travel-abroad-er has heard of at least half a dozen romance-novel-worthy love stories erupting from study abroad experiences. I, on the other hand, came with the expectation of being single for a year. I feel like I'm getting older quickly and I have to start doing things that are more serious than boy-chasing. I am reading and writing and teaching, and that takes up a serious portion of my time. I am being career-focused. And I feel like for the first time in my life I am settling into myself. It's nice to be single. I'm selfishly enjoying it. And I don't want any muchachos to get in my way of this nice little single-bubble I've created for myself.
Sitting at Bravissimo with the girls today (where else would we be but the ice cream shop?), our conversation quickly turned to various frustrations in Chilean dating endeavors. One of my roommates is still fuming after finding out that the guy she made out with last weekend at a party has a pretty serious girlfriend back in Ecuador. Another girl bristles about how aggressive the men are here. Yet another speaks of a man who is so opposite of the typical hombre that his lack of making a move is almost annoying. And, of course, we all balk at how munchkinlike Chilean men tend to be.
Connie sinks into my leather sofa Saturday evening, waving her wine at me as we catch up on our love lives. She left a relationship back home when we committed to teaching here, as have some other girls (we fondly refer to our at-home heartthrobs as "psuedo" boyfriends). She asks me about a young lad who has been doggedly pursuing me for the last month or so, and I tell her that every time I meet someone remotely interesting down here I can't help but think of a certain someone back home. "Isn't it nice how that works?" she pontificates, circling her wine glass in the air. "It just re-emphasizes how great our guys are back home."
I guess the truth is that the prospects of finding the "love of my life" here in Chile frankly scares the pants off of me (or, you know, keeps them on me). Don't get me wrong - I'd appreciate a good flirt once in a while, but otherwise, I don't want the complication of "falling in love" down here. I think about the obvious obstacles that would stand in the way of any sort of success: the language barrier; the cultural clashes; the eventual having to choose whether to stick around here or to go home to your family and friends, etc. Not really romantic anymore, once the thrill of your summer love wears off and you're left in the cold winter of reality.
However, it is dangerous to sentimentalize any romantic relationship - here OR back home. It causes unnecessary (and sometimes unreal) pain, not to mention myopia, thus unjustly eliminating an other side to the equation (in this case, dating Chilenos). This crosses over to sentimentalizing other things back home - friendships, jobs, food - which all cascades into sentimentalizing Home itself. Sentimentalizing is at the heart of all homesickness. So it would be wrong for me to say that Mauro, who isn't quite tall enough to smell my undeodorized armpit on the subway train, is a less viable option than any man back in the States. And if he doesn't mind that I'm a bit frazzled, and he thinks the way I squint my eyes when I smile wide is adorable, I might have to give him the chance to wine and dine me for the evening.
Just as long as he is content with a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night.
A lot of people travel abroad with the expectation that they will fall in love. I think every travel-abroad-er has heard of at least half a dozen romance-novel-worthy love stories erupting from study abroad experiences. I, on the other hand, came with the expectation of being single for a year. I feel like I'm getting older quickly and I have to start doing things that are more serious than boy-chasing. I am reading and writing and teaching, and that takes up a serious portion of my time. I am being career-focused. And I feel like for the first time in my life I am settling into myself. It's nice to be single. I'm selfishly enjoying it. And I don't want any muchachos to get in my way of this nice little single-bubble I've created for myself.
Sitting at Bravissimo with the girls today (where else would we be but the ice cream shop?), our conversation quickly turned to various frustrations in Chilean dating endeavors. One of my roommates is still fuming after finding out that the guy she made out with last weekend at a party has a pretty serious girlfriend back in Ecuador. Another girl bristles about how aggressive the men are here. Yet another speaks of a man who is so opposite of the typical hombre that his lack of making a move is almost annoying. And, of course, we all balk at how munchkinlike Chilean men tend to be.
Connie sinks into my leather sofa Saturday evening, waving her wine at me as we catch up on our love lives. She left a relationship back home when we committed to teaching here, as have some other girls (we fondly refer to our at-home heartthrobs as "psuedo" boyfriends). She asks me about a young lad who has been doggedly pursuing me for the last month or so, and I tell her that every time I meet someone remotely interesting down here I can't help but think of a certain someone back home. "Isn't it nice how that works?" she pontificates, circling her wine glass in the air. "It just re-emphasizes how great our guys are back home."
I guess the truth is that the prospects of finding the "love of my life" here in Chile frankly scares the pants off of me (or, you know, keeps them on me). Don't get me wrong - I'd appreciate a good flirt once in a while, but otherwise, I don't want the complication of "falling in love" down here. I think about the obvious obstacles that would stand in the way of any sort of success: the language barrier; the cultural clashes; the eventual having to choose whether to stick around here or to go home to your family and friends, etc. Not really romantic anymore, once the thrill of your summer love wears off and you're left in the cold winter of reality.
However, it is dangerous to sentimentalize any romantic relationship - here OR back home. It causes unnecessary (and sometimes unreal) pain, not to mention myopia, thus unjustly eliminating an other side to the equation (in this case, dating Chilenos). This crosses over to sentimentalizing other things back home - friendships, jobs, food - which all cascades into sentimentalizing Home itself. Sentimentalizing is at the heart of all homesickness. So it would be wrong for me to say that Mauro, who isn't quite tall enough to smell my undeodorized armpit on the subway train, is a less viable option than any man back in the States. And if he doesn't mind that I'm a bit frazzled, and he thinks the way I squint my eyes when I smile wide is adorable, I might have to give him the chance to wine and dine me for the evening.
Just as long as he is content with a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Off With Your Heads!
"Como sabes que ellas son mujeres?
-Porque tienen faldas!"
-McBeth, Performance at Museo Bellas Artes
If anyone had told me yesterday night that I would be bent over laughing while watching Macbeth, I would not have believed them. I mean, men in skirts get me every time, but Macbeth as a tragedy is so deeply ingrained in my head that it was difficult to even imagine how it could be turned into a comedy. The acting troupe outside Museo Bellas Artes, however, had no problem at all doing just that - and all it took was a few skirty kilts, some crossdressing men, a one-eyed Lady Macbeth, and a marijuana leaf.
In 2008, Chile celebrated the election of Sebastian Pinera, Chile's first right-wing president in 30 years, with a staunch sobriety. But seriousness and laughter even mixed at the inaugeration ceremony this past Februrary when, amidst three strong aftershocks, the Peruvian president explained in nervous laughter, "[The aftershocks] gave us the chance to dance for a few minutes."
Not everyone was laughing. Pinera's election was garnered by a thin margin, sparked mass controversy among political leftists, and provoked fear for more than a few Chileans for whom painful memories of Pinochet's dictatorship lingered. News articles in the United States and Chile alike spoke about the earthquake as almost good fortune for the new President, who would most likely have faced vicious criticism and protest on his inaugeration day had it not been for the changed mood of the country.
One month later, as the King of Scotland lie murdered in his bedchamber beneath a chilly autumn sky in Santiago, a Chilean MacDuff joked, "The stars exploded - WHOOM WHOOM! - A black cat howled, running past - MEOW! - Pinera was elected President - ACK! - and the moon dripped rain, but not any rain - IT WAS BLOOD!"
Pinera was ragged on throughout the performance, as the political backdrop of the play added more than enough fodder for witty one-liners and toeing-the-line digs. But the play also took the opportunity to have a hearty chuckle at the Chilean tendency to run out of minutes on their cell phones, to smoke a little too much pot, and to like some really gnarly 80's rock bands.
My eye mostly focused on the cross-gender performance aspects of the production. Lady Macbeth was played by the tallest man in the ensemble, and assumed a grizzly, deep voice, while her husband was portrayed as a small boy. Thinking about Chilean society - whose blood runs thick with machismo and patriarchy - the demasculinization of the men in the performance seems pretty clearly a sign of a failing, flailing, and wailing (literally, in the play) patriarchy. But it also calls attention to the masculinized woman as a kind of perverted symbol and a participating factor in Chile's social downfall, specifically pointed at the crippling effect that the earthquake had on the already fragile Chilean economy (and perhaps references former president Michelle Balechet's "slow" response to the quake damage). I do not know if this is what the scriptwriters intended, but the implications have me worried as to what extent Chile accepts the "modern woman," and overall how Chile views women as participants in building and running Chile's political and economic future.
The Bellas Artes performance of Macbeth had me in stitches, but most poignant is that the banter is set with the original play in mind. This makes the viewing a sobering experience, and calls attention to some very, very black humor. After the performance, Karla, Felipe and I took shelter from the cold in a cozy corner bar, and I asked them what the attitude currently was toward Pinera. The muscles in Felipe's face tightened, and he restrainedly said, "We will just have to see what happens." That's a pretty just answer - Chile has made its bed, and is now holding its breath, waiting to see how the next four years will play out.
-Porque tienen faldas!"
-McBeth, Performance at Museo Bellas Artes
If anyone had told me yesterday night that I would be bent over laughing while watching Macbeth, I would not have believed them. I mean, men in skirts get me every time, but Macbeth as a tragedy is so deeply ingrained in my head that it was difficult to even imagine how it could be turned into a comedy. The acting troupe outside Museo Bellas Artes, however, had no problem at all doing just that - and all it took was a few skirty kilts, some crossdressing men, a one-eyed Lady Macbeth, and a marijuana leaf.
In 2008, Chile celebrated the election of Sebastian Pinera, Chile's first right-wing president in 30 years, with a staunch sobriety. But seriousness and laughter even mixed at the inaugeration ceremony this past Februrary when, amidst three strong aftershocks, the Peruvian president explained in nervous laughter, "[The aftershocks] gave us the chance to dance for a few minutes."
Not everyone was laughing. Pinera's election was garnered by a thin margin, sparked mass controversy among political leftists, and provoked fear for more than a few Chileans for whom painful memories of Pinochet's dictatorship lingered. News articles in the United States and Chile alike spoke about the earthquake as almost good fortune for the new President, who would most likely have faced vicious criticism and protest on his inaugeration day had it not been for the changed mood of the country.
One month later, as the King of Scotland lie murdered in his bedchamber beneath a chilly autumn sky in Santiago, a Chilean MacDuff joked, "The stars exploded - WHOOM WHOOM! - A black cat howled, running past - MEOW! - Pinera was elected President - ACK! - and the moon dripped rain, but not any rain - IT WAS BLOOD!"
Pinera was ragged on throughout the performance, as the political backdrop of the play added more than enough fodder for witty one-liners and toeing-the-line digs. But the play also took the opportunity to have a hearty chuckle at the Chilean tendency to run out of minutes on their cell phones, to smoke a little too much pot, and to like some really gnarly 80's rock bands.
My eye mostly focused on the cross-gender performance aspects of the production. Lady Macbeth was played by the tallest man in the ensemble, and assumed a grizzly, deep voice, while her husband was portrayed as a small boy. Thinking about Chilean society - whose blood runs thick with machismo and patriarchy - the demasculinization of the men in the performance seems pretty clearly a sign of a failing, flailing, and wailing (literally, in the play) patriarchy. But it also calls attention to the masculinized woman as a kind of perverted symbol and a participating factor in Chile's social downfall, specifically pointed at the crippling effect that the earthquake had on the already fragile Chilean economy (and perhaps references former president Michelle Balechet's "slow" response to the quake damage). I do not know if this is what the scriptwriters intended, but the implications have me worried as to what extent Chile accepts the "modern woman," and overall how Chile views women as participants in building and running Chile's political and economic future.
The Bellas Artes performance of Macbeth had me in stitches, but most poignant is that the banter is set with the original play in mind. This makes the viewing a sobering experience, and calls attention to some very, very black humor. After the performance, Karla, Felipe and I took shelter from the cold in a cozy corner bar, and I asked them what the attitude currently was toward Pinera. The muscles in Felipe's face tightened, and he restrainedly said, "We will just have to see what happens." That's a pretty just answer - Chile has made its bed, and is now holding its breath, waiting to see how the next four years will play out.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Juan From Argentina...
"...such a strange predicament we find ourselves in.
Baby it's a long way to South America.
Every option I have costs more than I've got.
If you trust in me, if I could, I would be there..."
-Grizzly Bear, "Plans"
It's somewhere around cuerva 13 where you start feeling indignation for being raised somewhere so topagraphically boring. Seriously, there is no comparison to the majesty of the Andes. Anything that simultaneously can make my stomach lurch and my heart leap for joy has to be at least as awe-inspiring as crossing these cordilleras.
Mendoza, Argentina is not actually very far from Santiago, but when you factor in winding dirt roads and a three-hour stop at customs, it ends up taking at least 8 hours by bus to mosey in to this tiny tourist town.
Like any good Girl Scout, I thought I had come fully prepared: I had brought along some bottled water, remembered to pack deodorant, and stashed away some Chilean pesos in the back pocket of my wallet. So you can imagine how crestfallen I was when I discovered, while approaching the ATM, that I had left my debit card safely tucked away in my apartment. Luckily, I was traveling with some very awesome and generous friends, who helped me out with cash for the weekend (and who I still need to pay back). A minor glitch in our major scheme for fun.
We feasted like kings that night at a wonderful (and wonderfully cheap) restaurant called Estancia la Florencia. Our sinfully scrumptious steak dinner prompted my brilliant and witty roommate, Brittaney, to exclaim, "I'd slap my momma for that steak!" We went to bed with wine and red meat rolling in our over-full stomachs.
The next day could be properly described as an epic fail. Upon waking, I realized our hostel bathroom lacked a toilet seat, my bed lacked clean sheets, and the hostel owner lacked any sense of class. However, we made the best of it and headed into town on the hunt for a Bikes and Wines tour (a fabulous invention where you rent a bike and cycle to various vineyards marked out on a map. Basically, you get tipsier with each stop, leading hopefully to hilarity and some interesting moments drunk-biking on the sides of highways). However, since we had slept in fairly late, we had missed out on any opportunity to participate in the tour that day. (In hindsight, this was probably for the best.) We spent the rest of our day planning activities for the rest of our trip.
Being the avid equinist that I am, I signed myself up for a full day (five hours) of horseback riding, and Brittaney thankfully obliged to join me. That morning we drove into the Mendoza suburbs. A woman swept leaves out of the dust of her driveway. Willows dripped their heavy branches over the bumpy lane. Chilren innocently stole grapes from the edges of vineyards. And amidst all this beauty, I shivered in the backseat of a van, desperately wishing I had brought my long-johns and a hot cup of tea.
The riding was just what I needed: a complete escape from city life. The smell of dirt and horses felt good in my nostrils, and we plodded along peacefully up the sides of mountains. Halfway through we stopped to have mate (a traditional herbal tea with a unique type of caffiene called mateina, which is a traditional drink among friends in South America), and not much later we were treated to a delicious asado (barbeque) on the side of a mountain. Chileans, Argentines, Americans and Italians alike loaded up on wine to keep ourselves warm, and we were off again, this time literally scaling the sides of cliffs on inclines that made me a little woozy. I had a blast and went home feeling sore, cold, and happy.
That night we had another feast at Bistro Anna, a new restaurant that offered Italian-Argentinean fusion. We were happy until we arrived back at the hostel, where we found that the hostel owner had allowed 30 random people to come and party the night away, turning our already unsafe hostel into a raucous nightclub. Around 3 a.m. we found ourselves bargaining for some sleep, but when they broke their agreement to end the party, we took revenge, unplugging their sound-system and disabling the toilet for the evening. We left the hostel early the next morning, bleary-eyed and thoroughly ticked off.
All that stress melted away as Brittaney and I embarked on our day-long spa excursion. I don't think I've had that much fun being covered in mud since I was a child. We were massaged, pampered, and oiled back into relaxation (and an acceptable state of personal hygiene), and spent the rest of the day at the park and the bus station, waiting for our red-eye to arrive.
Our bus whipped back across the Andes toward Santiago. Relaxed, I peered out the window as my eyelids drooped with sleep. The Andes were my first glimpse of South America. I woke to them as I flew into Santiago; the lazy blue, and pink, and stronger orange of the dawn breaking to reveal clouds as thick as Arctic snow beneath the wing of the plane. And through this snow, the humpback whales of mountains. And finally the cordilleras, serpentine, rivers rippling over their surface as the veins of the heart. It was so beautiful and so hard-looking at the same time.
That is kind of the metaphor for life here: sometimes beautiful and sometimes hard-looking. But, peering out at a thick cluster of stars in the inky black sky, I could not help but smile. The mountains tower like black obelisks beneath these endless heavens. Some things might be hard here, but these peaceful moments, these sights that occur nowhere else on earth, remind me how lucky I am to be here.
Baby it's a long way to South America.
Every option I have costs more than I've got.
If you trust in me, if I could, I would be there..."
-Grizzly Bear, "Plans"
It's somewhere around cuerva 13 where you start feeling indignation for being raised somewhere so topagraphically boring. Seriously, there is no comparison to the majesty of the Andes. Anything that simultaneously can make my stomach lurch and my heart leap for joy has to be at least as awe-inspiring as crossing these cordilleras.
Mendoza, Argentina is not actually very far from Santiago, but when you factor in winding dirt roads and a three-hour stop at customs, it ends up taking at least 8 hours by bus to mosey in to this tiny tourist town.
Like any good Girl Scout, I thought I had come fully prepared: I had brought along some bottled water, remembered to pack deodorant, and stashed away some Chilean pesos in the back pocket of my wallet. So you can imagine how crestfallen I was when I discovered, while approaching the ATM, that I had left my debit card safely tucked away in my apartment. Luckily, I was traveling with some very awesome and generous friends, who helped me out with cash for the weekend (and who I still need to pay back). A minor glitch in our major scheme for fun.
We feasted like kings that night at a wonderful (and wonderfully cheap) restaurant called Estancia la Florencia. Our sinfully scrumptious steak dinner prompted my brilliant and witty roommate, Brittaney, to exclaim, "I'd slap my momma for that steak!" We went to bed with wine and red meat rolling in our over-full stomachs.
The next day could be properly described as an epic fail. Upon waking, I realized our hostel bathroom lacked a toilet seat, my bed lacked clean sheets, and the hostel owner lacked any sense of class. However, we made the best of it and headed into town on the hunt for a Bikes and Wines tour (a fabulous invention where you rent a bike and cycle to various vineyards marked out on a map. Basically, you get tipsier with each stop, leading hopefully to hilarity and some interesting moments drunk-biking on the sides of highways). However, since we had slept in fairly late, we had missed out on any opportunity to participate in the tour that day. (In hindsight, this was probably for the best.) We spent the rest of our day planning activities for the rest of our trip.
Being the avid equinist that I am, I signed myself up for a full day (five hours) of horseback riding, and Brittaney thankfully obliged to join me. That morning we drove into the Mendoza suburbs. A woman swept leaves out of the dust of her driveway. Willows dripped their heavy branches over the bumpy lane. Chilren innocently stole grapes from the edges of vineyards. And amidst all this beauty, I shivered in the backseat of a van, desperately wishing I had brought my long-johns and a hot cup of tea.
The riding was just what I needed: a complete escape from city life. The smell of dirt and horses felt good in my nostrils, and we plodded along peacefully up the sides of mountains. Halfway through we stopped to have mate (a traditional herbal tea with a unique type of caffiene called mateina, which is a traditional drink among friends in South America), and not much later we were treated to a delicious asado (barbeque) on the side of a mountain. Chileans, Argentines, Americans and Italians alike loaded up on wine to keep ourselves warm, and we were off again, this time literally scaling the sides of cliffs on inclines that made me a little woozy. I had a blast and went home feeling sore, cold, and happy.
That night we had another feast at Bistro Anna, a new restaurant that offered Italian-Argentinean fusion. We were happy until we arrived back at the hostel, where we found that the hostel owner had allowed 30 random people to come and party the night away, turning our already unsafe hostel into a raucous nightclub. Around 3 a.m. we found ourselves bargaining for some sleep, but when they broke their agreement to end the party, we took revenge, unplugging their sound-system and disabling the toilet for the evening. We left the hostel early the next morning, bleary-eyed and thoroughly ticked off.
All that stress melted away as Brittaney and I embarked on our day-long spa excursion. I don't think I've had that much fun being covered in mud since I was a child. We were massaged, pampered, and oiled back into relaxation (and an acceptable state of personal hygiene), and spent the rest of the day at the park and the bus station, waiting for our red-eye to arrive.
Our bus whipped back across the Andes toward Santiago. Relaxed, I peered out the window as my eyelids drooped with sleep. The Andes were my first glimpse of South America. I woke to them as I flew into Santiago; the lazy blue, and pink, and stronger orange of the dawn breaking to reveal clouds as thick as Arctic snow beneath the wing of the plane. And through this snow, the humpback whales of mountains. And finally the cordilleras, serpentine, rivers rippling over their surface as the veins of the heart. It was so beautiful and so hard-looking at the same time.
That is kind of the metaphor for life here: sometimes beautiful and sometimes hard-looking. But, peering out at a thick cluster of stars in the inky black sky, I could not help but smile. The mountains tower like black obelisks beneath these endless heavens. Some things might be hard here, but these peaceful moments, these sights that occur nowhere else on earth, remind me how lucky I am to be here.
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