Dear Juan,

Jorge is a veternarian. I know because he gave me his card and it said it right there: medico veternario. He was very nice and a little sweaty, and he got me to do a charades-impression of me during the earthquake that rocked Chile last Saturday night, in which I huddled up against a doorframe, thinking that standing in a doorframe during an 8.8 earthquake might be just as effective at keeping you safe as surrounding yourself with milk cartons during a nuclear attack.



But really, I could have told you that Jorge was a veternarian the moment I walked into the apartment he was renting out, because it reeked like wet dog.



Apartment hunting can be stressful in any situation. Apartment hunting in a foreign country where you only kinda speak the language? A little private slice of hell. In addition to the problems you'd have at home (a creep of a landlord, choosing an okay neighborhood, etc.), you additionally have to deal with all sorts of culture shock.



Apartment quality varies greatly in Santiago depending on neighborhood. Chile has one of the widest disparities in socioeconomic status of any country in the world, and it is clearly reflected in the types of apartments offered here.

So what do you look for in your fancy new Chilean apartment? Depending on the neighborhood, a room should cost somewhere between 100,000-200,000 CLP (approximately 200-300 U.S. dollars at the time of this post). If the apartment is in a complex, it should have a doorman, preferably it should be above the second floor, and it needs a SEC green seal of approval (yellow means it is pending approval; red means you should run for the hills).

Compartodepto and Craigslist: Chile are great sites to look for roommates. The first site is designed for natives or for those who speak fairly good Spanish - reflecting Chilean demographics, it is not too foreign-language-friendly otherwise. Craigslist is a better bet for those of you who are more language-challenged - you are more apt to find foreigners or Chileans with some English capabilities posting links, and the apartments, though less in quantity, seem to me to be better quality, for the most part.

Despite my pieza-fears, I have held onto one shining gem: Mariano.

Mariano has been my saving grace in all this mess. A man I have never met, who exchanges virtual hugs with me from across the globe, is eager to show me a room in his house. I see pictures online. The house looks perfect: an old mansion with cavernous rooms, brightly and eclectically painted, instruments hung on strings from a glass ceiling, a large deck looking out over the cityscape and, beyond, the Andes.

When I arrive at his door yesterday afternoon, Mariano seems very surprised. He politely shows me inside and gives me a cold glass of juice. He invites me to sit, and sinks into the overstuffed chair across from me. He sighs and his lips purse. I have made some mistake, but I am not sure what it is.

After some general conversation - How was my trip? How am I finding Santiago? Was I scared by the earthquake? - Mariano finally explains. I understand just enough of what he says to deduce that he was expecting me two hours later - not at four, but at six. this makes a little sense, seeing as time is told differently in both countries. When I had written him last, I asked to meet at 16,00 hours. He might have glanced quickly at the email and assumed I was telling him American time. He is dirty and his hair shines with sweat. He has been painting. His neon green shirt exclaims: "Gay? Fine by me."

Luna, the cat, digs her nails deep into my thighs as she settles into my lap. I squirm uncomfortably. I am now a burden to Mariano. He does not know how to ask me to leave without being rude, and so he lets me wander the house. It is seriously under construction. The three rooms to be rented have nothing but subfloor, and several of the walls are subwalls. I do not want to live here, I know. I do not want to pay a third of my salary to live in an unfirnished room in an unfinished house. But Mariano and I must be polite until I walk out the door. He invites me to coffee tomorrow at seven. I agree knowing that I will not go.

I have been talking to Mariano for weeks. Writing this email to him feels a little like he and I are breaking up. I try to let him down gently about the room. I include nothing that would betray me as a spoiled American girl. this makes the email sound terse. I compensate by using superlatives.

Mariano writes me back. His email is, to put it politely, terse. He does not use superlatives.

I cry.

My mother says to take a room I feel comfortable in, regardless of cost. My aunt suggests rooming with ex-pats. My friend Shea explains that the hardest part of moving to Chile for him was dealing with reduced creature-comforts. Chileans aren't friendly, says the guidebook. But Jorge was not unfriendly; in fact, he was very polite. As was Mariano. All the other girls are finding roommates and houses, bragging about the great deals they have found in super-chic neighborhoods, even one pair of girls housing with a hippie artist and his musician girlfriend and their apparently adorable puppy.

I wonder what I am doing wrong.