Beloved readers, please forgive me, as I have slacked. I have had a mild (to severe) aversion to writing this past week and a half. I apologize profusely for the lack of reading material for all of you cubicle dwellers and college students that use your computers for alternate entertainment instead of taking lecture notes...you know who you are (Laura). Who am I kidding? Odds are, no one noticed my brief absence. Thus, I will obnoxiously draw your attention back with an ostentatiously titled "comeback" entry. I have compiled a list (in no particular order) of ten short stories/observations/noteworthy moments that will bring you all up to speed on the past, rather uneventful, ten days of my Chilean life.
1. As if my presence in this tiny town wasn't already conspicuous enough, it has now been assured that even the most secluded hermits know that: a) there is an awkward Gringa teaching their youth; and that b) despite the rumors, she does not, in fact, speak fluent Spanish. Although I have spoken pure Spanish, day in and day out for the past month, there are a few times when English gets the better of me. These particular instances usually occur when a person or situation draws a raw reaction out of me. Examples include waking me up in the middle of the night, calling me a *** (insert Spanish profanity of your choice) when I ask you to switch seats in class (and yes, unfortunately I am speaking from experience), finding a spider on my toothbrush, and in this particular case, sticking a camera in my face for a TV interview. We had an assembly last Friday at school. I was in the teacher's workroom afterward, taking advantage of the banquet food. I turned around, with a mouthful of cake (complete with icing mustache) to find a camera in my face. I stammered in very fluent Spanglish, got icing on the microphone, and then had to relive my ten minutes of televised fame six more times over the course of the week with the recycled broadcasts (not much else to report I suppose).
2. My dad and sister are visiting me next week, which I am thrilled about. Apart from bringing down a few personal necessities (gum and chapstick) to replenish my dwindling supplies, they are also going to come armed with some presents for my host family. With this in mind, I asked my host sister if she would like anything specific from the United States. She bit her lip and thought hard for a few minutes. Then her eyes lit up as she described a "window-shaped pastry that you pour honey on" that she had seen advertised on the American channels. It took me a few minutes, but I finally worked out that she was referring to waffles (and syrup). Perhaps I'm the abnormal one, but a hot, made-to-order breakfast item is not the first thing that comes to mind when asked for present suggestions from a foreign country. Ivanna, you mean a lot to me, but I'm just not sure that I can deliver on this one...
3. I need to conduct some field research to determine if this is customary or a quirky practice specific to my host family...but the other night, I emerged from the bathroom after showering to find my padre and Ivanna sipping tea, sitting in chairs, with their feet in the hands of my madre. She was clipping their toenails. I'm sorry, but this is taking the traditional housemaker role a little too far. I tried to avert my eyes and duck into my room. Too late. She spotted me and informed me that it was "my turn." No way, lady. I can groom myself, thank you very much.
4. I attempted to bake chocolate chip cookies the other day. Complications: Brown sugar does not exist here, I paid six American dollars for a measly cup of highly coveted chocolate chips from a old woman with a pushcart tucked away in a dodgy part of the city (no joke), there were no measuring cups/spoons in my madre's kitchen, and I had to use a molded cake pan to bake because cookie sheets were nowhere to be found. I did the best I could and eyeballed the ingredients (the biggest no-no in baking). Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when the first batch ran together and formed a thin, crispy, cookie sheet. Feeling defeated, I chipped the pieces off with a spatula, put the discarded cookie shards on a plate, and returned to my dough. I added some more flour and some raw oats. This did the trick and normal-ish cookies resulted. When I turned around to dump the previous batch into the trash, I found my host family crowded around an empty plate with expectant eyes. They had already devoured my mess-ups. I proudly presented them true cookies. They turned their nose up the second batch and demanded more of the misshapen cookie shards. Odd people, these Chileans.
5. Last weekend, Tía Gloria and Dani took me to a small coastal town not far from the city. We used rocks to smash the shells of freshly caught and steamed crabs and Gloria introduced me to one of her favorite delicacies..."pescado seco" (dried out fish). The name pretty much sums it up. A decent-sized fish sliced laterally, salted, and laid out in the sun for a few weeks. It tasted like...salty fish...and had the texture of a chewy feather. You eat it by scraping the flesh off the fish skin with your teeth. As you can imagine, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about the shriveled marine morsel as Tia Gloria.
6. In conjunction with number 5, there exists another "Chilean snack" prepared in similar fashion. I was driving into Coelemu with Nelson and we were stopped on the side of the road waiting for cars to pass in the opposite direction (there is only room for one-way traffic). A man with a basket of packets (filled with what appeared to be lint) approached us. Nelson rolled down the window and purchased two packets. He greedily consumed the entire first package without taking so much as a breath and then ripped open the second package. He offered me a pinch. I typically don't like to eat food that looks like a wad of gray hairy flakes without first knowing what I am putting in my mouth. "Caballo," he tells me. What? Surely I misheard him. In response to my slightly horrified blank expression, "caballo," he says again, pointing out my window to a horse grazing in a pasture. Yes, dimwit, I know what "caballo" means. But where I come from, horses are for riding, not eating. Certainly not in dehydrated form. My sister is going to be horrified when she reads this. Sorry, Shannon!
7. This Saturday, Gloria asked me to accompany her to the outdoor produce market. I enthusiastically obliged (perusing outdoor markets happens to be one of my favorite pastimes). We debated whether to walk or drive. I always prefer to walk but thought that in this case, it might be prudent to drive so we wouldn't have to lug our purchases all the way back. Gloria INSISTED that she only had to buy some fish. And so we set off, and merrily walked the 14 blocks to the market. Well, I should have known better. I'll have you know that Gloria's "fish" ended up being two WHOLE fish (each longer than my arm), three FULL (overflowing, that is) bags of produce, a sack of potatoes, a sack of onions, and a pumpkin. By the time the two of us managed to get everything (14 blocks) back to the apartment, I was smelling like a fisherman and cussing (under my breath, of course) like a sailor.
8. I tried (as in ATE) barnacles. And some form of warm, oily seaweed. I didn't care for either.
9. My padre's latest purchase: a remote control for the car radio...aka the most useless gadget known to man. Note: The family car is so small that from the backseat, seatbelt buckled and all, I can touch the radio by merely extending my arm without even leaning forward. Therefore, there is no feasible purpose for a remote control for the car radio (which might I add, is static hunk of junk anyways) when all passengers can reach the dashboard to change the station/adjust the volume at any given time. And yet he drives, punching buttons on the remote control which he holds centimeters away from the actual (perfectly functioning) radio dials. Then he pushes the control into my hands and nods enthusiastically. At first I humored him by ooh-ing and ahh-ing as I turned the volume up and down a few notches. Now, the novelty has worn off and my madre, Ivanna, and I have started brainstorming creative ways to terminate the darn thing. Suggestions welcome.
10. The other day at school, a kid approached me in school yard and asked me if I was "andar a lo gringo." Strange question. "Andar" means "to walk" or "to go/get along," and "gringo" is a slang term for a white person. And so, to the best of my knowledge, "Yes, I 'andar a lo gringo' as you say." Everyone within earshot exploded in laughter. For the rest of the day, other students approached me asking the same question and I continued to answer in the same manner. At the end of the day, one of the other teachers overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently, "andar a lo gringo" is a Chilean phrase that means "going commando." Awesome.
And there you have it. Until we meet again...
1. As if my presence in this tiny town wasn't already conspicuous enough, it has now been assured that even the most secluded hermits know that: a) there is an awkward Gringa teaching their youth; and that b) despite the rumors, she does not, in fact, speak fluent Spanish. Although I have spoken pure Spanish, day in and day out for the past month, there are a few times when English gets the better of me. These particular instances usually occur when a person or situation draws a raw reaction out of me. Examples include waking me up in the middle of the night, calling me a *** (insert Spanish profanity of your choice) when I ask you to switch seats in class (and yes, unfortunately I am speaking from experience), finding a spider on my toothbrush, and in this particular case, sticking a camera in my face for a TV interview. We had an assembly last Friday at school. I was in the teacher's workroom afterward, taking advantage of the banquet food. I turned around, with a mouthful of cake (complete with icing mustache) to find a camera in my face. I stammered in very fluent Spanglish, got icing on the microphone, and then had to relive my ten minutes of televised fame six more times over the course of the week with the recycled broadcasts (not much else to report I suppose).
A picture from the assembly (some of my students dancing the traditional Chilean dance, The Cueca):
3. I need to conduct some field research to determine if this is customary or a quirky practice specific to my host family...but the other night, I emerged from the bathroom after showering to find my padre and Ivanna sipping tea, sitting in chairs, with their feet in the hands of my madre. She was clipping their toenails. I'm sorry, but this is taking the traditional housemaker role a little too far. I tried to avert my eyes and duck into my room. Too late. She spotted me and informed me that it was "my turn." No way, lady. I can groom myself, thank you very much.
4. I attempted to bake chocolate chip cookies the other day. Complications: Brown sugar does not exist here, I paid six American dollars for a measly cup of highly coveted chocolate chips from a old woman with a pushcart tucked away in a dodgy part of the city (no joke), there were no measuring cups/spoons in my madre's kitchen, and I had to use a molded cake pan to bake because cookie sheets were nowhere to be found. I did the best I could and eyeballed the ingredients (the biggest no-no in baking). Needless to say, I wasn't surprised when the first batch ran together and formed a thin, crispy, cookie sheet. Feeling defeated, I chipped the pieces off with a spatula, put the discarded cookie shards on a plate, and returned to my dough. I added some more flour and some raw oats. This did the trick and normal-ish cookies resulted. When I turned around to dump the previous batch into the trash, I found my host family crowded around an empty plate with expectant eyes. They had already devoured my mess-ups. I proudly presented them true cookies. They turned their nose up the second batch and demanded more of the misshapen cookie shards. Odd people, these Chileans.
5. Last weekend, Tía Gloria and Dani took me to a small coastal town not far from the city. We used rocks to smash the shells of freshly caught and steamed crabs and Gloria introduced me to one of her favorite delicacies..."pescado seco" (dried out fish). The name pretty much sums it up. A decent-sized fish sliced laterally, salted, and laid out in the sun for a few weeks. It tasted like...salty fish...and had the texture of a chewy feather. You eat it by scraping the flesh off the fish skin with your teeth. As you can imagine, I was not nearly as enthusiastic about the shriveled marine morsel as Tia Gloria.
The dried fish:
The cute little fishing port where we found the goods:
Smashing crabs:
6. In conjunction with number 5, there exists another "Chilean snack" prepared in similar fashion. I was driving into Coelemu with Nelson and we were stopped on the side of the road waiting for cars to pass in the opposite direction (there is only room for one-way traffic). A man with a basket of packets (filled with what appeared to be lint) approached us. Nelson rolled down the window and purchased two packets. He greedily consumed the entire first package without taking so much as a breath and then ripped open the second package. He offered me a pinch. I typically don't like to eat food that looks like a wad of gray hairy flakes without first knowing what I am putting in my mouth. "Caballo," he tells me. What? Surely I misheard him. In response to my slightly horrified blank expression, "caballo," he says again, pointing out my window to a horse grazing in a pasture. Yes, dimwit, I know what "caballo" means. But where I come from, horses are for riding, not eating. Certainly not in dehydrated form. My sister is going to be horrified when she reads this. Sorry, Shannon!
7. This Saturday, Gloria asked me to accompany her to the outdoor produce market. I enthusiastically obliged (perusing outdoor markets happens to be one of my favorite pastimes). We debated whether to walk or drive. I always prefer to walk but thought that in this case, it might be prudent to drive so we wouldn't have to lug our purchases all the way back. Gloria INSISTED that she only had to buy some fish. And so we set off, and merrily walked the 14 blocks to the market. Well, I should have known better. I'll have you know that Gloria's "fish" ended up being two WHOLE fish (each longer than my arm), three FULL (overflowing, that is) bags of produce, a sack of potatoes, a sack of onions, and a pumpkin. By the time the two of us managed to get everything (14 blocks) back to the apartment, I was smelling like a fisherman and cussing (under my breath, of course) like a sailor.
8. I tried (as in ATE) barnacles. And some form of warm, oily seaweed. I didn't care for either.
Grilling the seafood inside a barn at a vineyard:
The ocean´s delicacies:
The barnacles:
9. My padre's latest purchase: a remote control for the car radio...aka the most useless gadget known to man. Note: The family car is so small that from the backseat, seatbelt buckled and all, I can touch the radio by merely extending my arm without even leaning forward. Therefore, there is no feasible purpose for a remote control for the car radio (which might I add, is static hunk of junk anyways) when all passengers can reach the dashboard to change the station/adjust the volume at any given time. And yet he drives, punching buttons on the remote control which he holds centimeters away from the actual (perfectly functioning) radio dials. Then he pushes the control into my hands and nods enthusiastically. At first I humored him by ooh-ing and ahh-ing as I turned the volume up and down a few notches. Now, the novelty has worn off and my madre, Ivanna, and I have started brainstorming creative ways to terminate the darn thing. Suggestions welcome.
10. The other day at school, a kid approached me in school yard and asked me if I was "andar a lo gringo." Strange question. "Andar" means "to walk" or "to go/get along," and "gringo" is a slang term for a white person. And so, to the best of my knowledge, "Yes, I 'andar a lo gringo' as you say." Everyone within earshot exploded in laughter. For the rest of the day, other students approached me asking the same question and I continued to answer in the same manner. At the end of the day, one of the other teachers overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently, "andar a lo gringo" is a Chilean phrase that means "going commando." Awesome.
And there you have it. Until we meet again...
As for the last item - it's OK to leave something for the imagination :-) As for the remote - I guess the guy thing is universal! Congratulations on the cookies ($6 for Chocolate chips is totally worth it and brown sugar is really just white sugar with a little bit of molasses!) And, for the record, I actually was a little bit worried since I hadn't heard from you for so long!
ReplyDeleteWe are in the May crazies with just 2 1/2 weeks of school left!
Miss you!
Rachel
bahahaha kelsey anda a lo gringooooooo [insert point and laugh]
ReplyDeleteAll Connards are anda a lo gringo ;)
ReplyDelete