A few months ago, after I purchased my round trip flight to Santiago (my bank account had not yet recovered from the Nepal trip...but that's neither here nor there), my dad decided to plan a trip to come visit me. He called me one day to tell me that he had nailed down the dates of the visit. I commended him on his date selection, remarking that he had factored my birthday into the equation. I could tell by his reaction that it had been a complete coincidence that my birthday happened to fall within the dates of their visit (May 10th-20th).
Fast forward to May 10th.
The original plan was for Gloria and I to collect my jet-lagged dad and sister from the airport in Concepción and take them to their hotel. Generally speaking, nothing in Chile is ever that simple. Everything is a production. I should have known that this was no exception. In Chile, it seems that the only thing better than a hosting one American is hosting three Americans. To make a very long story short, two car loads of people escorted me to the airport caravan-style to greet my family. From a translator's perspective, this complicates matters tremendously. Not one person here speaks English. So, when my dad and sister arrived, I was immediately responsible for translating five different conversations at once. The whole situation was rather stressful but I somehow managed to make the necessary introductions and communicate to my Chilean family that no, my sleep-deprived dad and sister were not up for midnight coffee and conversation.
That night, I slept in the hotel with my dad and sister. What luxury!! A hot shower (no need to tango with a water heater), a warm bed, and even a sleeping buddy (yay Shannon)!! I was lulled to sleep by the familiar sound of their rather raucous snoring (sorry for divulging family secrets) and awoke the next day with a new vitality- ready to assume my duties as tour guide and translator-extraordinaire.
I walked them to Gloria's apartment. From there, we all went to the local outdoor market (one of my favorite things to do). There, they got their first taste (pun!) of Chilean culture. My dad committed his first Chilean faux-pas by trying to buy cheese and empanadas from one of the vendors. Gloria was appalled...God forbid anyone buy cheese or empanadas from the outdoor market vendors. Luke warm fish handled by women with dirty hands, half-dead-but-still-alive chickens ready for slaughter, and skinned rabbit carcasses...yes, of course! But alas, cheese...no. Cheese must be purchased from the supermarket, and empanadas from the bakery (Do you want to get sick!?).
Outside of the soccer stadium in Concepción by the outdoor market:
We returned to Gloria's apartment for lunch, where their housekeeper had been preparing my favorite Chilean dish called Porotos Granados (it's chili from Chile, if you will...a bean stew). The housekeeper is a properly plump, charming woman by the name of Alejandra...although Gloria refers to the woman (when she's not within earshot) as "La Gordita" (or, The Fatty). My Dad got a kick out of this and immediately integrated the word into his limited Spanish vocabulary. For the duration of the visit, he took it upon himself to point out every Gordita/Gordito we encountered...always good for a few laughs.
Anyhow, after we all ate very filling portions of Porotos Granados, our plates were cleared and new ones were laid out. My dad gave me a quizzical look, "Are we not done eating?" I was equally confused...as were Gloria and the rest of the family. Then Alejandra paraded out of the kitchen with a mammoth platter of meat and potatoes. "When visitors come, you serve them meat!" she said. Although she respected my wishes and prepared my favorite dish, she obstinately prepared a "real meal" to serve to our guests. Reluctantly, we all served ourselves modest portions of the surprise second course and far surpassed our state of comfortable satisfaction, traversing into a post-feast stupor that causes one to discreetly loosen his or her belt under the table. Although we were uncomfortably full, La Gordita was pleased with our appetites. A job well done.
All of us at dinner (back row: Nelson Jr., Dad, Seba- Dani´s boyfriend, Nelson Sr.; front row: Gloria, me, Shannon, Dani; his on row: Benito the family pup)
The next day, we took a field trip to a port town that is nationally known for its mining villages. There, we visited the museum (more translating of exhibits) and walked around a beautiful park overlooking the port. Next, we took a tour of an old mining village (also the film site of a famous documentary about the life of a miner). Our tour guide would speak for about ten minutes before pausing to allow me to translate for my dad. It was then that I realized that Chileans say a whole lot of nothing, talk in circles, and repeat themselves. I was able to sum up his ten minute spiels in about twenty seconds. He kept eyeing me suspiciously as if to say, "I know that you're not translating all of my word fluff." Eh, he'll live. I was hungry and trying to speed things along anyway.
A view of the harbor from the park in Lota:
At the end of the tour, there was an opportunity to take a tour of the underground mines (which extended beyond the coast and under the sea). Forgive me, but for some odd reason (ahem...recall the trapped Chilean miners of 2010), the prospect of descending into a Chilean mine didn't appeal. Needless to say, I was the party-pooper and opted out of this for everyone. I did however, agree to a quick photo at the formidable entrance to the mines. Who says I'm not adventurous?!
The mine shaft of doom:
The original plan was for Gloria and I to collect my jet-lagged dad and sister from the airport in Concepción and take them to their hotel. Generally speaking, nothing in Chile is ever that simple. Everything is a production. I should have known that this was no exception. In Chile, it seems that the only thing better than a hosting one American is hosting three Americans. To make a very long story short, two car loads of people escorted me to the airport caravan-style to greet my family. From a translator's perspective, this complicates matters tremendously. Not one person here speaks English. So, when my dad and sister arrived, I was immediately responsible for translating five different conversations at once. The whole situation was rather stressful but I somehow managed to make the necessary introductions and communicate to my Chilean family that no, my sleep-deprived dad and sister were not up for midnight coffee and conversation.
That night, I slept in the hotel with my dad and sister. What luxury!! A hot shower (no need to tango with a water heater), a warm bed, and even a sleeping buddy (yay Shannon)!! I was lulled to sleep by the familiar sound of their rather raucous snoring (sorry for divulging family secrets) and awoke the next day with a new vitality- ready to assume my duties as tour guide and translator-extraordinaire.
I walked them to Gloria's apartment. From there, we all went to the local outdoor market (one of my favorite things to do). There, they got their first taste (pun!) of Chilean culture. My dad committed his first Chilean faux-pas by trying to buy cheese and empanadas from one of the vendors. Gloria was appalled...God forbid anyone buy cheese or empanadas from the outdoor market vendors. Luke warm fish handled by women with dirty hands, half-dead-but-still-alive chickens ready for slaughter, and skinned rabbit carcasses...yes, of course! But alas, cheese...no. Cheese must be purchased from the supermarket, and empanadas from the bakery (Do you want to get sick!?).
Outside of the soccer stadium in Concepción by the outdoor market:
We returned to Gloria's apartment for lunch, where their housekeeper had been preparing my favorite Chilean dish called Porotos Granados (it's chili from Chile, if you will...a bean stew). The housekeeper is a properly plump, charming woman by the name of Alejandra...although Gloria refers to the woman (when she's not within earshot) as "La Gordita" (or, The Fatty). My Dad got a kick out of this and immediately integrated the word into his limited Spanish vocabulary. For the duration of the visit, he took it upon himself to point out every Gordita/Gordito we encountered...always good for a few laughs.
Anyhow, after we all ate very filling portions of Porotos Granados, our plates were cleared and new ones were laid out. My dad gave me a quizzical look, "Are we not done eating?" I was equally confused...as were Gloria and the rest of the family. Then Alejandra paraded out of the kitchen with a mammoth platter of meat and potatoes. "When visitors come, you serve them meat!" she said. Although she respected my wishes and prepared my favorite dish, she obstinately prepared a "real meal" to serve to our guests. Reluctantly, we all served ourselves modest portions of the surprise second course and far surpassed our state of comfortable satisfaction, traversing into a post-feast stupor that causes one to discreetly loosen his or her belt under the table. Although we were uncomfortably full, La Gordita was pleased with our appetites. A job well done.
All of us at dinner (back row: Nelson Jr., Dad, Seba- Dani´s boyfriend, Nelson Sr.; front row: Gloria, me, Shannon, Dani; his on row: Benito the family pup)
The next day, we took a field trip to a port town that is nationally known for its mining villages. There, we visited the museum (more translating of exhibits) and walked around a beautiful park overlooking the port. Next, we took a tour of an old mining village (also the film site of a famous documentary about the life of a miner). Our tour guide would speak for about ten minutes before pausing to allow me to translate for my dad. It was then that I realized that Chileans say a whole lot of nothing, talk in circles, and repeat themselves. I was able to sum up his ten minute spiels in about twenty seconds. He kept eyeing me suspiciously as if to say, "I know that you're not translating all of my word fluff." Eh, he'll live. I was hungry and trying to speed things along anyway.
A view of the harbor from the park in Lota:
At the end of the tour, there was an opportunity to take a tour of the underground mines (which extended beyond the coast and under the sea). Forgive me, but for some odd reason (ahem...recall the trapped Chilean miners of 2010), the prospect of descending into a Chilean mine didn't appeal. Needless to say, I was the party-pooper and opted out of this for everyone. I did however, agree to a quick photo at the formidable entrance to the mines. Who says I'm not adventurous?!
The mine shaft of doom:
First! (Stupid.)
ReplyDeleteYour Father's want to point out Gorditas/Gorditos is hilarious. If I heard a native Chilean calling people "Fatty" while visiting the USA I would die.
Hey! Sorry I got a bit behind in my reading. While your dad was visiting, so was mine! Here's the recap: Parents flew in, Samuel was confirmed, Samuel graduated from 8th grade (a Southern custom, I guess, to celebrate the completion of 8th grade), all 8 of us packed into The Expedition and drove up to Asheville, NC to visit the Biltmore and eat at the Grove Park Inn Seafood Buffet.
ReplyDeleteSo glad you had a great visit with your family! Our pediatrician, who is working on his Spanish, loves to use the "G" word. I am now officially insulted by his impudence.
Happy (Belated) Birthday!!