A day in the life of "Meeeeess Kelsey"

I've had several inquiries about my classroom experience from various (high maintenance) readers. To satiate my fans, I will oblige in the form of a few short(ish) anecdotes...many of which, I am sorry to say, can only be truly be appreciated if you are familiar with the Spanish language. (Dad, your "Cuenta, por favor" doesn't quite make the fluency cut.) However, I will do my best to explain the pertinent lingual must-knows before launching into a story. I am (supposedly) a teacher, after all....

1. Vincente There's one in everyone's childhood. The hair-slicker, knows-no-boundaries, sleazy, smooth-talker that wheels and deals, cons little kids, and flirts with your mother. We love 'em, but we hate 'em. The "Eddie Haskells" of the world (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddie_Haskell). I pegged my "Eddie Haskell" on my first day. His name is "Vincente" (pronounced vin-cen-tay), he sits in the second row of my sixth grade class, is a few centimeters shy of four feet, and is the reason that I had to contrive an American boyfriend.

On my first day, the students had a chance to ask me questions after I introduced myself. Vincente's "questions" were as follows, "I'm Vincente. You have booteeful eyes. How many years you have? Have boyfriend?" I didn't miss a beat. I know his type. "Nice to meet you Vincente. Thank you. I am 22. Yes, I have a boyfriend. And please stop trying to take a picture of me with your camera phone from under the table." Every day the children file in and greet me (kiss me on the cheek). When the bell rings, they line up and again, kiss (besitos) me on the cheek. Every day, Vincente tries to circle around for double besitos. This 12-year-old has some nerve.

Of course, news spread like wildfire that I had an American boyfriend. Vincente has since pointed out to me that I don't have a CHILEAN boyfriend...yet. My little white lie (and my imaginary boyfriend) took on a life of it's (their) own after having to field numerous questions from colleagues and students. His name is Chris, he likes baseball, we have been together for two years, we met in college, his favorite food is a cheeseburger (reinforcing the American stereotype), and no, he does not like Justin Bieber. I'm thinking I am going to have to clear my conscience and "break up" with Chris soon because this has gotten out of hand. I can't keep up with my own lies and Vincente has started demanding photographic proof. Chris, it's not you...it's me...

2. My fowl-mouthed students (no, that wasn't a typo) The majority of my teaching is concentric upon pronunciation exercises. The other English teacher at the school has such a thick Chilean accent that I understand her Spanish better than her English. That said, when I introduce new vocabulary words, we usually play the "repeat after me" game. I promise that I make it more entertaining than it sounds. In the seventh grade courses, we just completed the unit on Celebrations and have now moved onto the Activities/Vacation Unit.

Here's your lesson in Spanish phonetics: In Spanish, the "ch" pairing exists but has a much softer pronunciation...more like a "sh." When the students try and emulate my hard "ch" sounds, they end up compensating my making a "tsh" sound. In general, very few Spanish words contain consonant pairings so students tend to struggle to produce such sounds as, "br," and "tr," and "lk." Stick with me, here!

In the "repeat after me" session, I incorporated both new and old vocabulary, among which were "beach" and "folk music." With their pronunciation difficulties, I wound up with a chorus of swear words. "Beach." "B*TCH!!" "Folk music." "F*CK MUSIC!!" My students, of course, were oblivious to their profanities. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have them repeat those two phrases a few extra times for my own amusement.

Another entertaining lingual slip. The other day, we were doing an exercise to practice countable and non-countable items (There is/are...). One of the examples was "un kilo de carne." The students asked me what "carne" (meat) was in English. I told them to look it up (How much did you used to hate that response as a kid?). After grading 29 worksheets with the response, "one kilo of flesh," I have since made the executive decision to no longer have the students use Spanish-English dictionaries. Ah, teaching can be quite a beach sometimes. 

3. El Ton-Jon the Gay The students badger me constantly about whether or not I have met, seen, or know various celebrities. The top five most popular subjects of such inquiries include Justin Bieber, (the latest preteen heartthrob), Selena Gomez (his girlfriend), Lady Gaga, Obama, and El "TonJon." The latter threw me for a loop. I would ask them if he was a singer. Yes. And with a name like that, are you SURE he is American? They insisted "yes" with vigorous nods of the head. I asked my madre and even she had heard of this elusive "TonJon."

Timeout for language lesson. This may be common knowledge but you never know. In Spanish, the articles El or La precede all nouns and are the equivalent of the English "the." Thus, "el padre," equates to "the father." Likewise, "El TonJon" equates to "The TonJon" in English...getting me nowhere.

The other day, a student followed up his question regarding El "TonJon" with, "you know...the gay...who sings in Lion King." Enter epiphany. Elton John. They had read his name and assumed that the first two letters comprised the article, "El." I wonder if Elton John is aware that he has (under his alias, "El TonJon the Gay") quite a sizable Chilean following. Although I now know to whom the students are referring to, my answer remains the same. No, I have never seen, met, or been friends with El TonJon the Gay. I hope that was enough to keep the wolves at bay for the time being. If there are any other questions/comments/concerns that I can address, please email me.

My sixth grade class



Chi-cha

The first weekend that I arrived, my family bought me a couple bunches of grapes.

Sidenote: Vineyards are plentiful in this region and the grapes are so indescribably delicious that it is almost blasphemy to give them the same name as the American grape that I once knew and loved.

Anyhow, the quantity of grapes that were purchased was about 20 times the average grocery store prepackaged allotment. In fact, they had to be transferred via wooden crate. I hate to waste food and felt especially guilty that these grapes were bought especially for my "sampling." I resolved to eat my way through the entire crate. After a few days of excessive grape consumption, the word spread that I was a "fanática para las uvas" (a grape fanatic). Of course this resulted in me having to quadruple my intake to compensate for the now constant stream of gifted grapes from various students, colleagues, neighbors, and friends.

This past Tuesday (pay attention- the timeline here is critical), one of my students, whose family owns a vineyard outside of town, brought me 3 liters of freshly squeezed grape juice. This highly-coveted refreshment is locally known as "chi-cha." She told me to refrigerate it as soon as possible. When I got home, I did just that. Feeling pressure to not let a perishable item go to waste, I set to work. Each morning the rest of the week AND after school, my family and I served ourselves generous glasses of chi-cha. Friday afternoon before Ivanna and I hopped the bus for the city, I had one last sip and sealed the bottle.

After the weekend, Mondays and Tuesdays are quite busy. This particular Tuesday, however, the kids had eye exams in the morning and so I was able to sleep in a little after my family left for the day. Alone in the kitchen, I opened the fridge and saw the neglected chi-cha on the bottom shelf behind the milk. With a pang of guilt, I poured myself a glass. I estimated that if I could drink one more glass, I might be able to finish the bottle. Success! I chugged down the last of it, noting that it tasted a bit...off. There had definitely been some floaties in my glass so I decided to attribute the bite to the sediment that had settled at the bottom of the bottle.

I brushed my teeth, grabbed my bag, and locked the door. As I was walking to school, I was overcome by a funny feeling. I was dizzy and everything seemed a  little fuzzy. I inexplicably fell off the curb when I was standing and waiting for a  produce truck to pass. Despite the crisp morning air, I was glistening by the time I arrived at school and quickly shed my jacket. Per usual, I popped in to greet my madre in the infirmary on the way to class.

Immediately, she pulled me inside and asked me what was wrong. I looked in the mirror and saw that my cheeks were a bright feverish red. I told her that I felt off but didn't know why. Perhaps it was something that you ate, she said. I ran through my breakfast...coffee, toast, an apple...nothing out of the ordinary. "Oh, and two glasses of chi-cha," I added. She froze. She pushed me onto a chair, excused herself, and returned with the principal, my co-teacher, and the other nurse. My madre set to work immediately brewing some sort of special maté (herbal tea). The other three tried to stifle their laughter and feign an expression of concern.

I hate being left in the dark. "Can someone POR FAVOR explain what is going on!" My madre sat down, took my hand, and told me that she blamed herself for not explaining something. What what WHAT!? "Estás arriba de la pelota," she says. This Chilean slang loosely translates to, "You're drunk."

So, at 10am, sipping the steaming concoction that was handed to me, I had a much belated chi-cha tutorial. Chi-cha is only chi-cha (grape juice) for three or so days until it starts to ferment, at which point it becomes...wine. The process is sped up and intensified (higher alcohol content) if the chi-cha is capped and the gases of fermentation cannot escape (heh...oops).

Effectively, I consumed the equivalent 3-4 glasses of rather potent wine and then arrived at school to fulfill my duties as an academic leader and social role model. The cafeteria personnel whipped up some fried eggs and LOTS of "pan" (bread) for me. By 2pm, I was feeling back to my normal self again (save the splitting headache) and was cleared by the still-chuckling-principal to return to class. Any dignity that I managed to salvage after the toilet seat incident is no longer intact. Thanks a lot, chi-cha.

A Chilean tablecloth is worth a thousand Swedish Pesos

The past Saturday marked the completion of my first month in Chile. One would think that after a month, I might have learned to watch my mouth...as my words carry more weight around here than a Sherpa (and believe me, I know). 

Last week, when I was having "once" with my host family, I was transferring a tomato slice from the serving dish to my plate and the mission went askew. I dropped a juicy, blood red tomato slice onto an otherwise spotless cream tablecloth. Knowing how anal my madre is, I felt incredibly guilty and apologized profusely. She said it was fine but I saw her repeatedly eye the stain for the duration of the meal. 

I decided to try and lighten the mood by telling my family about a Swedish tradition that I've come to know quite well. When a Swede spills on a host's tablecloth, it is customary to cover the stain with a coin...a launderer's compensation of sorts. Upon hearing this, my host father stood up and reached around his pot belly to fish through his pockets. He produced a few pesos with a triumphant grunt and covered the tomato stain. If this had been the extent of it, my life would be hunky dory.

The next night, my padre had a few colleagues over for "once." The typical evening beverage of tea was swapped for a few cans of "Escudo" (the local beer). Needless to say, things got a little sloppy towards the end of the night. One of the men knocked over his jelly-covered spoon, leaving a generous smear of magenta on the tablecloth. Before my madre could wince, my padre had produced a handful of change from his pocket and concealed the stain.

Fast forward (several meals, a few more stains, and lots of pesos) to this morning. I had to go into school early to get some work done and was up and going before my family had woken up. I crept into the kitchen and managed to make myself some breakfast without so much as clink. I chuckled to myself as I made my way to the kitchen table as it was covered with about five dollars' worth of pesos (and believe me, that's a lot). Somehow, with my coffee and toast in hand, I managed to catch the edge of the table cloth with my thigh as I was taking a seat. My descending weight pulled the better half of the tablecloth underneath me and sent about 2000 pesos-worth of coins shattering to the floor. 

Good news: I did not spill a drop of coffee (Nescafé, to be exact). Bad news: Most unfortunately, I can now tell you what my padre wears to bed. A raggedy pair of very off-white sagging briefs. Ew. 

Lesson learned: Avoid implementation of Swedish customs while in Chile. That, or don't eat tomatoes.

The end result was actually quite productive. My padre relented and collected his pesos. My madre reverted back to Chilean tradition...and washed the stained tablecloth. 

I SEA food, I eat food, I eat everyone's food.

This entry, as well as the last one, will be more entertaining when I have a chance to upload pictures tonight (a very slow, painstaking process). This  past Saturday night, I attended a 21st birthday party of one of Dani's (Gloria's daughter) friends. In the States, this usually equates to excessive drinking in celebration of the legality of alcohol consumption. In Chile, they start drinking at the age of 12 and a 6-year-old can buy a pack of cigarettes...so this was just like any other birthday.

Dani was the star of the show at the girl's house because she brought the American. I fielded questions and got my photo taken for a few hours. It was 2am before there was any movement towards the door. And man, oh man, was I ready to leave. I was up way past my teacher bedtime and was quite tired after my 11K shuffle. We all piled in the car and when we came to a stop, I stepped outside to find that indeed, I was NOT back at Tia Gloria's. I was outside of a very crowded discoteca (dance club). Oh did I miss this when plans were being discussed earlier? Clearly I need to work on my listening comprehension skills.

There was a very long line- the end not ever in sight. So naturally, the group of people I was with did the logical thing and marched straight to...the front?? There were some words exchanged with the bouncer. Then, I was pushed up to the front as a sacrificial offering to the biggest, most muscular Chilean that I have ever laid eyes on. His face broke into a stupid grin and he asked if I was American. Sensing that this was one of those times that I should not be trying to camouflage myself, I said, "erm....yes...I mean....SÍ!!" He asked Dani to take a picture of him with the Gringa and practically threw her his flip phone. Next thing I know, the birthday group and myself were being ushered inside. I made some fast friends after they all got in free of a cover charge (and without having to wait in the building-wrapped line). Pitt status, I owe you one.

The undivided attention from the Chilean is one thing when I'm running a race...but if I am being forced to dance, I certainly don't want to have all eyes on me. I was able to deflect their attention by singing very ostentatiously to the music (most of it was American). They were mesmerized by my mastery of American pop song lyrics.

It was circa 5am before I was crawling into bed.

The next day, I felt as if I had pulled an all-nighter writing a midterm paper. I had that weird feeling in my stomach...I call it the bottomless pit. You think you're hungry, but you're not. So you eat and eat and eat but are never able to satiate the growl. Of course, Gloria has the bright idea to take me to her favorite lunch restaurant on the coast so I can try all the traditional Chilean seafood plates. At the time, this sounded great.

Three empanadas, two sopapillas, a bowl of seafood stew, a Chilean salad, half of Dani's salmon, some weird conch-type grey shellfish that don't have a translation, and essentially all of anorexic Nelson's crab LATER, I literally couldn't move. (pictures to come!) We sat at the table for a half an hour after the bill was paid so that I could try and digest a little. Gloria also had the waitress bring out some Chilean remedy for digestion...it tasted like a shot of apple liquor to me...and did NOT help to ease my fullness. After that, we went to the pier in a futile attempt to walk it off. Back at Gloria's, for the third time since I've been here, I was prepared the special digestion tea to cure over-eating. Truly shameful.

The lunch feast:

More pictures to come tomorrow...that one took me two hours to upload. Curse Chilean internet connections!

The Great 11K Shuffle

The much-anticipated "maratón" was a great success. More or less. I was pleased to find that the big race turned out to be a 10K...or a 5K should you so choose. I ended up being the only runner in the 11K...quite by accident, I can assure you. Allow me to elaborate. I'll start from the beginning...of the race, that is.

Outfitted in my new (rather ugly) running shirt, Nelson and I lined up with the rest of the runners. The course was a 5K loop and those who were running the 10K were to simply loop around again. If I am going to go through the trouble of running a race, you better believe I'm going to run the whole thing. I informed Nelson that I was going to do the 10K but that he could do whatever he wanted and the we did not have to stay together...trying to subtly insinuate that I did not want to run by his side for an hour. He said he was going to run whatever I ran. Ugh.

At that moment a little boy came up to me and said, "Hello."

Pause.

I need to explain something. Being fair-skinned and clear-eyed (as they call it here), I obviously stick out to the general Chilean population. However, there are a FEW Chileans that are not of darker complexion. So when I am labeled as an American/"extranjera"/"gringa" walking down the street, the only way they have to confirm their suspicion is by saying something to me in English and testing the waters. Thus, as long as I remember to respond in Spanish, I can continue on my way and deflect any excess attention.

Play.

So this boy catches me completely off guard and I instinctly respond, "Hi." The little niño squeals and runs off to report back to a large group of gossiping ten year olds.. Shoot. The damage is done. My cover is blown. Within seconds, I'm completely swarmed by a group of young boys asking me if I'm from Miami and if I know Obama. And then the race whistle blows. I resign myself right then and there from setting any personal records. I take a deep breath, put in my headphones, and start the 10K shuffle with my new fan club. Meanwhile, Nelson has been bumped to the outskirts of the swarm. The course weaves around plazas and through shop-filled streets. The race officials didn't bother to reroute traffic and as I discovered after I almost got my posse run over by a grape truck, Chilean drivers don't yield to pedestrians. Spectators were everywhere and shopkeepers were all out on their stoops to watch the race. Even through the music blasting through my headphones, I heard the cat calls, whistles, and cheers of the crowd...all screaming "Gringa! Gringa!"

After we had been running for a considerable amount of time, I saw a few runners branch off to the left as I was steered right by Nelson. A few strides later and I was crossing the finish line. What? Surely that couldn't have been right. If so, I had just run the 10K at the speed of an Ethiopian. Nelson waved me over (the now panting group of adolescent boys stuck by my side) and I asked him if that was actually 10 kilometers that we had just run. He stammered and said that he thought that we were running the 5K and that the course for the 10K had split off awhile back. He tried to blame the miscommunication on the language barrier. Don't even go there Nelly-boy, you wimped out and you know it. Fuming, I headed BACK out to find the other runners. Some of the boys weren't too keen to follow me around for another lap but the diehard fanatics stuck with.

I backtracked, tacking on an extra kilometer, and found the turn off. By this point, we were considerably behind so I was quite surprised to find that the crowd of spectators had not thinned out at all. In fact, it had multiplied. Word had spread quicker than I could run that a Gringa was in the race. Several people in the crowd had made makeshift cardboard signs that said, "Hello Gringa!" or "Thank you Gringa" or just "GRINGA." Everyone wanted hi-fives as I passed, one man gave me a wilted yellow flower, and cameras flashed in my face. For Pete's sake, people!

The boys and I crossed the finish line (for a second time...no thanks to Nelson) after the eternal 11K shuffle. And yet, we still managed to complete our two laps around the race course before Gloria had made it around once. As fast as that woman drives, she sure walks slow.

Gloria and I post-race

 

Our Race to the Race

On Saturday morning, I woke up at 6am to catch the first bus into Concepción, where Tia Gloria lives. By car, one can get from Coelemu to the city of Concé (as it is referred to by the locals), in about 45 minutes. By bus, the journey borders on 2 hours and the accommodations are considerably less favorable. Nonetheless, I arrived in the city and walked the ten blocks to Gloria's apartment. 

When I arrived, a very crabby and impatient Nelson was waiting for me in the living room in shorts that were much shorter and tighter than I would have preferred. Tia Gloria had just woken up. Two hours, a shower, several wardrobe changes, and a packed picnic basket later, Tia Gloria was ready to go in her white jumpsuit (because white allows her to channel better energy, she tells me). Apparently she called the "race people" to inform them that she was going to walk the race course without a number and because it was a public street, they couldn't stop her. Gloria calls the shots and what she says, goes. 

The three of us piled in the car at 10:55. The race was in Chillán...an hour away and the race was to start at 12pm. For those of you have ever ran in any kind of race, you know that you are supposed to arrive with ample time to check in, get your number, stretch, and warm up. Under normal circumstances, I would have been completely stressed out.  However, in my worldly travels, I have come to find that having utterly no control over my life doesn't really allow me to accommodate some of my more anal tendencies...or Gloria for that matter. So there we were, zipping between the mountains at 150 k/h (the speed limit was 100k/h if you need a reference point). I was just SHOCKED when we got pulled over....

Sidenote: In Chile, the policeman don't chase you down. They run out in the highway in front of your car, and stand there with their arms crossed and a stern look on their face. So, you can either pull off to the side, or run them over. Gloria picked option C. I screamed, she swerved, clipped his radar gun, and ran off the road a few yards past the fuming Chilean officer. 

She immediately jumped out of the car, ran over to him and started yelling at him for making her late. We had a race to attend, after all. When that tactic (not surprisingly) failed to soften him, she told him that her father is a police officer (he's a mechanic). Nope, that didn't work either. Then, I heard her say she had an American in her car. I sunk low in my seat and locked the door...but like I said, Gloria calls the shots. She unlocked the car, dragged me out of my seat (despite my feeble protests), and marched me over the the cop. His face lit up when he saw my passport and he asked if I knew Lady Gaga. I considered lying for Gloria's sake but told him that, "regrettably no, I have not had the pleasure of meeting Lady Gaga." Disappointed but otherwise unfazed, he asked Gloria to take a picture of the two of us with his iPhone. 

Things were looking up...until he informed her that he was still going to write her a ticket because 150k/h was inexcusable. How does Gloria react? Naturally, she smacks him with her purse and let's out a slew of indistinguishable Chilean profanities. So much for that channeling of positive energy. 

In the US, she would have done some time for disorderly conduct, assaulting a police officer, fraud, and bribery. I scampered back to the car. With her crumpled speeding ticket in hand, an enraged Gloria sped off again. The speedometer hit 160k/h before she let off the gas. Oh me, oh my.  We arrived in Chillán at 12:30pm. Good thing Chileans seem to all be on the same page and the 12pm race wasn't even close to starting. 

The "manly apron"

Friday night, there was another "asado," this one for the teachers at the school. For those of you who are just tuning in, an "asado" is a Chilean barbecue. From what I understood, it was the school's leftover budget from last year being put to good use (in the form of meat and alcohol). The asado was held in the school yard, the kitchen was turned into a makeshift bar, the cafeteria into a smoke loungue, and the tables a stage for dancing.

All in all, it was a fun night without much to report. The only blog-worthy incident can be documented with pictures. I asked the apron-clad PE teacher (in charge of the grill) if I could get a picture of him with his meat. Be careful what you wish for.

Take 1: Me completely oblivious.

Take 2: Me completely aware (and several shades redder).

Who says aprons can't be manly??

Wet hair is not easily forgotten...

Last night, my padre rolled in around 11pm. He had been having a few chelas (beers) with the neighbor across town. After a few drinks, they decided to trade kitchen cabinetry...and apparently that's a normal past time here because no one else seemed to think anything of it. Anyhow, after school today my madre and I spent a few hours cleaning out the old cabinets, sweeping, rearranging, etc. and then it happened. 

I sneezed. Just once. And I was immediately smacked on the back of the head with a towel by my madre.  Naturally, one sneeze is indicative of a cold from going to bed with wet hair. There just isn't any other logical explanation. The hundreds of millions of dust particles that we had stirred up were most certainly not to blame. Nope- definitely the wet hair, she says. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Oy vey.

PB on Wheat...hold the lettuce.

In my extensive world travels, I have astutely noted that only in America do we appreciate the sanctity of crushed nuts in a jar. Yes, I am referring to the wondrous substance that is peanut butter. I brought a jar with me because the thought of going 138 days (not that I was counting) without that spreadable goodness was just unfathomable. This past weekend in the city, we stopped at the Chilean equivalent of Walmart (called Lider). In the food aisle, I casually picked up a jar of "mantequilla de mani," knowing full well that if I mentioned that I eat it a lot in the States that they would insist on buying some. Sure enough, against all odds, there are now two (only one to their knowledge) jars of peanut butter in my Chilean homestay. 

That night, for "once," my madre and Ivanna did their best to prepare food with the alien condiment. So for dinner, I was served about a half a cup of chunky peanut butter on a bed of lettuce with some diced tomatoes and avocado. Although I later explained to them the concept of a peanut butter sandwich, I must admit that this experience has only affirmed my previous notion that peanut butter is THE ultimate condiment and is supremely versatility. I've found my new favorite salad dressing. Despite the somewhat less-than-traditional preparation, there was minimal conversation at dinner due to enthusiastic consumption (and partly due to the fact that their jaws were cemented shut). They loved it. I knew I liked these people.

Today at school, I unwrapped the lunch that my madre had packed me. Behold, a peanut butter sandwich!! With....LETTUCE. At least we're making progress. And I have a feeling that the peanut butter has earned a permanent spot on the table. Consider me a happy Chilena.

Our New Toilet Seat

Why my life seems to be a painful sequence of awkward situations, the world may never know. This particular situation starts and ends in the bathroom as should the most awkward of situations.

There is no hot water in the house. Before I shower, I go through a lengthy process of lighting the gas water heater in the bathroom before I can go about bathing. After using a match to light the pilot switch thingy (in technical speak), you have to push the knob in for an unknown period of time (this period of time varies day to day) before turning it to actually heat the water. As a rookie, I would undress and do this right before I jumped in the shower. I learned quickly from my mistake as I did not enjoy shivering in my birthday suit waiting for the darn flame to catch. The other night I thought I would try and monopolize my shower time by undressing WHILE pushing the knob of the water heater. Hah! How's THAT for efficiency? However, if any of you have ever tried to undress yourself with only one hand, you know it's no walk in the park.

I managed to get my shirt off with only an-almost-painless encounter with the towel rack. Feeling smug, I then went for the pants. I got one leg out fairly easily. Still applying pressure to the water heater dial, I tried to wriggle my other leg free by pulling the loose pant leg and hopping. Go figure...I lost my balance. I knew I was falling but I couldn't do much about it because my legs were constricted. I fell into...(correction: THROUGH.) the plastic lid of the toilet, simultaneously ripping the knob off the water heater and letting out a weird yelping noise.

My madre had broken through the locked bathroom door before I even had time to process what happened let alone try and articulate in a different language why I was sopping wet and standing in my underwear with her broken toilet lid around my ankle. The nearest hardware store is an hour away but we made a special stop of the way back from the grandparent visit this weekend. My padre installed the new toilet seat tonight. Great success. If anyone happens to visit me, there will be no need to ask why our toilet is green and the lid is white. Cheers.

 The water heater...the bane of my existence.

Us Farm Folk Venture into the Big City

On Good Friday, I woke up and got ready only to discover that there was no school. Dang that language barrier! I could have slept for another 5 hours. My madre, Ivanna, and I spent the day making a traditional Chilean dish called humitas. Essentially they are stuffed, boiled corn husk pockets. They taste lightyears (that's my standard unit to quantify deliciousness) better than my pathetic description. I don't really know how else to explain it so I'll leave it to Google to answer the rest of your questions. Anyhow, after we finished our feast...four hours later....we all piled into the family auto (a fun-sized Toyota that has definitely seen better days) and headed to Tia Gloria's (the crazy aunt) in the big city. 

Ivanna and I slept over and hung out with my new Chilean cousins...a 21-year old girl named Daniela and a 27-year old boy named Nelson. To sum up the evening, we went to a Chinese circus, watched Passion of the Christ dubbed in Spanish, and I shared stories about my imaginary boyfriend so as to ward of the very conspicuous family initiative to marry me off to Nelson. Nelson, they told me, used to be a fatty (a gordito) and then he had gastric bypass surgery and is  now a beanpole (a flaquito). He can't eat more than a handful at a time or else his stomach will overflow (ew) and has since taken up running. Apparently the women in Chile aren't very athletic because the news spread like wildfire that I was a "deportista" (an athlete) because I went for a jog last week.  Anyhow, I found myself being forced to go on a running date with Nelson the following morning. And by forced, I mean Tia Gloria literally put on and tied my sneakers and shoved me out the door. What's a girl to do?

Starting with me (because I´m egotistical like that) and moving clockwise: Daniela (my Chilean cousin, daughter of Tia Gloria), Tia Gloria, my madre, Nelson (my other Chilean cousin, son of Tia Gloria), my padre, Ivanna (my host sister).

 

I didn't feel like mentally exhausting myself with Spanish conversation on top of the physical exertion so I decided to run as fast as I could to make it impossible for us to talk. Great success. Kind of. An hour later, we were both breathless and ready to keel over BUT not a word had been uttered after the first 45 seconds of our run. One itsy bitsy problem. Due to the rigorous run, Nelson told the extended family that I am a SUPER deportista and I have since been registered to run in some kind of race with him this Saturday. The family is thrilled about their match-making skills and are all coming to watch the "maraton." I can only hope that the word "maraton" is not a direct translation. If so, Nellie boy is the least of my worries. What did I get myself into?

From Tia Gloria's, we went to Tome (a scenic port town about an hour away) to spend the rest of Easter weekend. I met both sides of the extended family, sat at the head of every table, was served first, fielded a constant stream of questions about the faraway land of America. I also attended a 4-hour long (no exaggeration) Catholic midnight mass Saturday night. Honestly, the weekend was rather exhausting (although I didn't mind the eating like a king bit).  I also didn't complain when my abuelita made me a little Easter goodie bag with homemade chocolates. You can never outgrow Easter treats...it simply doesn't happen. On the way home, we made a detour to pick up a few things in the city....but that's a story on it's own (see following two blog posts).

 Ivanna and I with our "Easter baskets."

Hope everyone had a fantastic Easter weekend!! Miss you all. Abrazos around!

For those of you who were banking on an embarrassing story from the radio interview....

You're out of luck. Surprisingly, I made it through all the questions without any major blips. Granted, I was speaking slower than George Dubya...but I feel like that's permissible given the circumstances. Here's a picture...feast your eyes on the glamorous studio of Bio Bio radio. By the way, I'm selling autographed napkins- 50 pesos a pop...get your orders in now!

Chilean Husband Prospect Número Uno

After a day of school in Pitt status, I am ready for some peace and quiet. Today I decided to go for my first run in Coelemu. Innocent enough, right? I grabbed my iPod, blasted some AMERICAN music and hit the road running. I drew lots of stares from the townspeople on my way out of the village so I am assuming running isn't very popular in these here parts. The weather was perfect and I headed out of town towards the river. It was glorious (aside from the occasional honks from truckers) and I ran much further than I had intended to but I spotted a bridge further down the road and decided to turn around after I crossed it.

On the way back across the bridge, a logging truck (the forestry industry here is huge) passed me and a huge wood chip hit me between the eyes. Rather than break my momentum, I opted to continue running despite the fact that my eyes were watering like crazy and visibility was minimal. It took me a few seconds to process exactly what happened next. I crashed into something. Someone, rather. Possible the only other runner in the entire region of Bio Bio who happened to be out for a jog at the same time, on the same bridge, in the middle of nowhere. This someone also happened to be very attractive and exactly 22 years of age and of the male gender. Really? What are the odds?

Naturally, I made a fool of myself. I was so disoriented by the collision that I was speaking Nepali to him when he helped me up. Rodrigo, that is. Perhaps I'm reading too much into the coincidental encounter but I think it's safe to say that it was love at first sight. (Kidding.) However, we did talk ourselves all the way back to my house...a solid 45 minute walk. He is a medical student working at the hospital (if you could even call it that) in Coelemu. He got my Chilean cell phone number and was quite keen to have someone his age to hang out with in this tiny town. No complaints on the Chilean "besitos" this time around. I can't say for sure but I don't think we've heard the last of Running Rodrigo.

Pitt Status

As in Brad Pitt. The celebrity. Celebrity status. Pitt status. (Befittingly, this status also happens to stink after a few hours.) This is what I have decided to affectionately nickname the phenomenon that is currently taking over my life. Today was my first day at the school- only to observe, mind you. 

I started off the morning with a big fat miscommunication. Curse the language barrier! Last night I asked my host mom what time we need to leave the house. The school is about ten blocks away from the house...maybe a 15 minute walk. I have since learned that it can be covered in about 8. I THOUGHT she told me last night that she leaves for school at 8am. Turns out school STARTS at 8am. I emerged from my room this morning at 7:45am, pleased with my punctuality and plenty of time to eat breakfast. Or so I thought. My mom looked very anxious and she told me as she poured my coffee that we had to leave now. After the miscommunication had been cleared up, I told her that I would drink my coffee on the way. That didn't fly. She wanted me to drink my coffee but also wanted to leave AHORITA (RIGHT NOW!). Well lady, you can't have your cake and eat it to. So I proceeded to down a scalding hot cup of coffee as she kept a vigilant eye. And then we were off. Current time...7:52am. I asked if we should run because that seemed to be a logical tactic to combat our tardiness. Oh no. That would be absurd, she says. Instead she sped walk. And believe you me, that woman puts the early-morning-residential-power-walkers (we all know the type) to shame. We arrived at school at precisely 8am- I short of breath, nursing two leg cramps and singed taste buds. 

Without a chance to catch my breath, I was scooped up by the principal and ushered into a conference room in which the school's ENTIRE faculty was seated and staring at me with expectant eyes. Before I had time to process the end of his sentence. (it was in Spanish...safe to assume that everything is at this point), "...and she will be taking over the English classes for semester. Please welcome her as she is a great asset to our community. Please, a few words, Kelsey." I managed to produce a few long ummms before a slew of broken Spanish came tumbling out of my mouth. I'm pretty sure I told them that I wanted to take advantage of their students instead of taking advantage of the opportunity. I just stopped talking mid-sentence, realizing that I was probably past the point of recovery. There was an eternal stretch of silence. And then the entire room erupted in a whooping applause. Everyone then lined up  to kiss me (on the cheek- standard Chilean gesture). After I exchanged "besitos" with about fifty people, I was given a tour of the school. Very small and very uninsulated which will surely be a problem seeing as this morning I was freezing my spoiled American bum off and it's only autumn. 

I was forbidden by the program to let the children know that I speak Spanish in order to motivate them to speak only English. This seemed easy enough until I realized that none of the teachers speak English either and I can't exactly give them the silent treatment when they converse with me in front of students. It goes without saying that my cover was blown before the first bell rang. In all the classes I was bombarded with questions like "Do you know Lady Gaga?" and "Have you ever seen the House that is White?" and presented with strange yellow fruits (I later learned were "membrillos" which translate to "quinces," which didn't get me much further) and homemade breads. My name was also crafted on a huge banner hung above the school. After a class, all of the students would line up to kiss me on the way out. Too many besitos. Note to self: scrub and sanitize cheek as frequently as possible. In between class periods (which last an hour and a half), I am literally swarmed be students on the way to the teacher work room. 

Before lunch, the principal interrupted class to inform me that the mayor had requested my presence. So...mid-class, I grabbed my bag and was escorted to "La Municipalidad" to meet the mayor, who invited me on a fishing trip over the upcoming weekend. Sure. Why not. Ugh. And back to school. After lunch, I had a planning period. I physically could not make it across the courtyard because I was surrounded by so many excited students. The situation resulted in me being locked in an office so that I could plan in peace. Peace is a relative term. The children were sliding drawings and candy (...and their socks???) underneath the door and taking turns boosting each other up to wave at me through the windows or take pictures with their camera phones. On the way out, the principal informed me (he was practically bursting with pride) that I am to be interviewed by the regional radio station on Thursday. For the love of Dios. My fans are relentless. It's funny what light skin and some English can get you outside of the U.S. 

Blow-dried into Submission

There are some things that Chileans just don't like. 
1. A bare table. God forbid even a sip of water is taken if there isn't a placemat underneath. 
2. Slippers. They can't imagine why ANYONE would WANT to have their bare feet touch the GROUND! And socks just don't cut it.
3. A stuffy room. After the bed is made in the morning, the windows in the bedrooms are opened to "air out the sleep." Snow and rain are negligible factors.
4. Wet hair. Hair dryers are a Chilean's best friend. 

Up until last night, I was made aware of these in a very passive aggressive manner. (Aren't your feet cold? Don't you want to air out your room? Here is a placemat so you don't have to look at the ugly table.) It has also become customary that I return to my room at the end of the day to find my window has been opened and a pair of slippers positioned strategically by the door. And then, last night,  the passive was dropped and it became flat out aggressive. 

I take my showers at night and no matter how lightly I try to tiptoe back to my room, my host mom comes barreling around the corner to comment on my wet hair and how I will get sick if I go to bed with wet hair. Every. Time. I usually joke my way out of it, throw my hair in a wet bun and that's the end of it. 

Last night, I went to bed around 11pm and was fast asleep before my head hit the pillow. I was happily in dream world when I was rudely awoken by a gust of warm wind and the unmistakable drone of a blow dryer. Surely not. But yes, there she was. My host mother. Armed with a blow dryer, trying, ever so discreetly, to dry my hair (which is an oxymoron if I've ever heard one) as I slept. Fine. Fine. FINE! I surrender. I now reserve 7 extra minutes of my bedtime ritual for hair-drying. Can't a girl catch pneumonia in peace?!

My First Chilean Luau

The first night that I arrived in Coelemu, I experienced my first "once." In Chile, the biggest meal of the day is lunch and dinner is called "once" which normally consists of some toast and avocado and some tea. After "once," my host sister Ivana got a call from a friend asking her to drop by a birthday party. I was still hungry after "once" and I was banking on some more food at this shindig. So the whole family jumped in the car and we drove to a small house a few blocks away. 

I was expecting a few people gathered in a room, eating cake. This "birthday party" was comparable to a wedding reception complete with streamers, balloons, a bar, cocktail umbrellas, chocolate fountains, music, dancing, and at least a hundred attendees...who all screamed and ran up to me when I entered. I was passed around the room to personally greet each and every guest with a "besito" (the Chilean greeting- a kiss on the cheek). The entire time, my host mother clutched my arm, beaming with pride. 

Everyone wanted to talk to me and take pictures with me and decorate me with streamers. Every two seconds I was asked if I needed another drink. An old man whose cheeks were bright red from one too many "banana mamas" even got me out on the dance floor- a rare feat. He introduced himself as Enrique and was very concerned that I would forget his name. I assured him that I would not because of the famous singer Enrique Iglesias. He was delighted and proceeded to serenade me with the entire catalog of Enrique Iglesias the rest of the night. Ay caramba.

And did I mention the food? There was tropical fruits in heaping platters and chocolate fondue and nuts and cheeses and pastries (and a random bowl of marshmallows). I was in heaven!! I ate and ate and ate some more. Then, the hostess of the party (who introduced herself as "La Reina Juevona," Chilean slang for "the Queen of Fun") steered me to the back yard. A pig roast. I kid you not. I tried one piece and it was all over. And Argentinian steak as well. The most amazing meats that I have ever had in my entire life. After a few minutes of gorging, my host mother pulled me aside with a concerned look on her face. She asked me if I was used to eating this much at night and told me she was concerned that I was going to have a stomachache. I told her politely that the food was too good to pass up and returned to the meat platters. 

When it was time to leave, my host family had to literally pry me from the grips of my enthused fan club. They wasted no time in asking when my birthday was and practically cried when they found out that they had "only SIX weeks to prepare!!" After we got home, my host mom sat me down at the kitchen table and brewed me a special tea so I wouldn't get a stomachache from over-eating. How embarrassing. That aside, I would say that my social debut in Coelemu was a social success. My only regret of the night was that I didn't bring my camera. For future reference, dropping by a "birthday party" in Chile will most definitely result in a picture-worthy event. 

The Duffle Shuffle

Today was a good day for two three reasons. We are done with training. We found out more information about our host families and how we are getting there in the morning. AND tonight the volunteer program is throwing us a cocktail party in the courtyard behind the hostel. We were promised cheese platters, drinks, and vegetables (to which everyone exclaimed, "YAY vegetables!!!" as there hasn't been very much green in the hostel cafeteria this past week).

Priorities were made very clear. When the food was brought out to the table that evening, conversations were dropped mid-sentence and the feeding frenzy ensued. We acted like we hadn't eaten in weeks. One girl fell and twisted her ankle in her haste to grab a fruit skewer. Luckily, I established a prime spot in front of the guacamole and boxed out my competitors for a solid twenty minutes. After the table had been picked clean, we then began to mingle and say our goodbyes and take pictures. After the first few blog entries, I had more than a few requests for a picture of my bunkmate, the notorious Grace from Bama. Well folks, I delivered! I would tell you which one she is but I think that is highly unnecessary.

(She´s on the right. And Margie...left...was on her tip toes.)

While we are on the subject of Grace, I should inform you that of all the volunteers, I had the good fortune of landing her as my bus buddy. She was the only other volunteer placed in my region and the following morning would be accompanying me on the 6 hour bus ride down to the Bio Bio region. If I'm going to be using Chilean public transportation, the last thing I want is to be associated with an abrasive blonde of epic proportions with SIX huge rolling suitcases and/or duffle bags.  Upon further questioning, I learned that one of these was specifically her "boot bag." She brought seven pairs. SE-VEN. Seven!!! Grace, who are you and where do you come from?

The bus ride was relatively uneventful. I had been informed that my host family would pick me up at the bus station at 4pm and then we would drive the remaining 2 hours to the tiny town of Coelemu. When I got off the bus, there was no one jumping up and down with my name on a sign so I assumed that they had not yet arrived and sat down on a bench to wait. In the meantime, Grace's family came to collect her. Easier said than done. I don't know what was most hysterical, the fact that the petite family of three only came up to her belly button, the shocked expression on their faces when they spotted her, or the sight of the padre trying fit all of her suitcases- AND her for that matter- into the back of a European-sized Toyota. Her boot bag and another duffle wound up (unsecured) on the roof of the car with a promise from the padre to "drive slowly." Hahahahaha! Poor Grace. With her free hand (the other was out the window, clutching a handle of her boot bag with a death grip) she gave me a miserable wave as they pulled out of the parking lot. Her little host sister was nowhere in sight. I'm thinking she was under the purple duffle beside Grace. I'm not concerned. Even if she loses both bags on the roof of the car, she will still have twice as much as I brought.

Views from the oh-so-scenic bus ride.

A few minutes later, my ride arrived. My host mom, her sister Gloria, and the other English teacher in Coelemu (a young Chilean woman named Monica) came to collect me. Tia Gloria is the prototypical crazy aunt. She drove like a maniac, turning around to face me in the backseat for particularly terrifying stretches of time whilst navigating rush hour traffic.  I don't think she took a breath the entire way home. I loved her. My host mother is much quieter but a wonderful woman. When we got back to the house, I met my sixteen year old host sister named Ivanna and my host dad. All of them were warm and receptive and I couldn't be happier with my new Chilean family. :)

Back in Action

For the record, I am writing this in retrospect...please excuse my inexblicable bout of silence. It was rude and inconsiderate and I promise to make more of an effort. I struggle to keep up with this whole 'recording and posting every move I make' thing. I suppose I can go ahead and cross off "author" from my list of potential career paths. I think I'll go ahead and nix "professional travel blogger" as well...I hear that it's not very lucrative and that job security and benefits are dismal.

Anyhow, we all made it through our taxing week of teaching workshops and seminars. I have emerged with an even deeper loathing for instant coffee. Wednesday and Thursday we split into groups of three and had to present sample lesson plans to our peers who pretended to be our fifth grade students. One of the criteria was to have the fifth grade Chilean class (aka a room full of twenty-something year old cynics) correctly recite the date. That means I heard the date recited multiple times by 14 separate groups. I will forever remember the most monotonous day of my life as Wednesday, March 28th, 2012.

Our sample lesson involved a listening activity for the students to practice their food vocabulary. Pizza nonetheless.

My friend Helena and I during one of our much-needed breaks. I´m going to venture a guess and say that the camera lens was smudged.

After sitting in a stifling classroom for almost ten consecutive hours, I hit the ground running as soon as 6pm rolled around. The hostel doesn't serve dinner until 8pm...so by Chilean standards, we are lucky if we hear serving dishes clinking circa 9pm. In that time, a few of us set off to hike up Santa Lucia. It's a beautiful park in the center of Santiago and it is the highest point in the city...or at least it used to be until the skyscrapers started cropping up. Needless to say- spectacular views. We got gelato on the way back. We do that a lot. In fact, by the time I left Santiago, I had tried all fourteen flavors the heladeria had to offer. Oopsies. Good thing I had the foresight to pack lots of dresses...my pants are a little tighter these days.

The next day...more of the same presentation droning save the date change. Thursday, March 29, 2012. Thursday, March 29, 2012. Thursday, March 29, 2012. On the upside, we did get out early (at 4pm). With our newfound freedom, a few of us devised a brilliant excursion to the legendary fish market for a seafood dinner...more importantly...NOT a hostel dinner. It took us a very frustrating hour to find the place only to be informed by a security guard (clearly on a power trip) that the market closed at 4pm.

After that, we decided to peruse the neighboring market. We bought some fresh strawberries and grapes from a old woman. As we were walking away, she grabbed my arm and told me that we needed to go home because the riots were about to start. I tried to ask her more questions but she waved me away and told me that the streets weren't safe. At this point we were on the other side of Santiago so we began to speed walk back to the hostel. This pace progressively quickened as we noticed shopkeepers frantically scrambling to lock their doors. There were also policemen on horses and with snarling German Shepherds swarming the plaza. By the time the third person scolded us for being on the streets, we had started sprinting.

When we arrived back at the hostel, the streets were eerily quiet and the hostel desk manager checked our names off a list with a huge sigh of relief. Finally we were able to get some answers. Apparently it was the anniversary of the death of a student who had been killed as a result of police brutality ten years prior in a protest for education reform. Each year on that day, students gather and riot to remind the public of the heinous act...from what I understand it is less to do with education reform and everything to do with an excuse to vandalize public property. Ironically, the Chilean Ministry of Education (whom sponsors the volunteer program) failed to inform of us of the circumstances. Silly us! Clearly it was common sense!

 A shrine of sorts...in lieu of the protests.