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.
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