San Juan, you dirty dog, you.

For starters, I'd like to clarify that the title has no contextual significance. Rather, I got a kick out of addressing a Saint with street lingo. I realize that this is incredibly sacrilegious of me, but I still find it funny. I understand if you think that I am an awful person.

This past weekend (if I had a peso for every time I started an entry with that phrase...I might have enough for a gum ball), we all made the trek to Tomé, the coastal town where all of my Chilean extended family resides. Why, you ask? Well, according to my host mom, it was my grandfather's Saint's birthday.

Quick interjection...your weekly Chilean cultural lesson. Most people down here are named after a Saint (everyone and their mom is Catholic...and I am, too, by the way for all intents and purposes). So, not only do people celebrate their own birthday, but they also celebrate their Saint's birthday. I've come to find that Chileans will use virtually any excuse to break out the grill and some vino (Chilean red, that is).

So anyways, when I asked my madre whether it was Abuelito Juan's birthday birthday or his Saint's birthday, she said, "both." I am also a sucker for coincidence, and enthusiastically responded with the Spanish equivalent of, "Wow! Neat-O! What are the odds of that!?" This conversation took place over lunch and everyone at the table set their forks down and looked at me like I was estúpida. They then explained, not bothering to muffle their sniggers, that his mother more than likely named him Juan because he was born on El Día de San Juan. Oops...missed that one.

For El Día de San Juan, there was a big feast complete with Argentinian steak, grilled chicken (as in the whole chicken), empanadas, seafood stew, and (of course) cake. On the way back to Concepcion that night, Dani, Gloria, and Ivanna were telling me all about the rituals that were to be carried out in honor of San Juan.

1. The suitcases

You take an empty suitcase and walk around the perimeter of your house (or apartment building) at midnight. In doing so, you bring about a year of worldy travels. 

2. The potatoes

Under your bed before going to sleep, you place three potatoes under your bed...one with the skin, one that is halfway peeled, and one that is completely peeled. In the morning when you wake up, you're supposed to blindly reach under your bed and grab a potato. If you pick the the peeled potato, this is a sign of good fortune and a prosperous life. If you pick the half-peeled potato, you will have a content life but without any great successes. If you are unfortunate enough to draw the unpeeled potato, you will experience many difficulties in life.

3. The "papelitos" (papel=paper)

On three pieces of paper, you write the names of three different people in whom you have a romantic interest. At midnight, fold the pieces of paper and place them under your pillow. In the morning, upon waking, reach under your pillow and select one of the "papelitos." The person you choose (depending on who you ask) is your one true love or your future spouse.

4. The mirror

Also, at midnight (I have yet to figure out how exactly one is supposed to accomplish all of these things...at midnight) you're supposed to go into the bathroom with the lights off and the door closed, turn around three times in front of the mirror, and light a candle. Supposedly, you will see a demon's reflection in the mirror. Although terrifying, this sight will cleanse your soul.

Of these, I immediately opted out of the first and fourth options. Not to be a party pooper, but it was cold and raining and I had no desire to tote (or roll) and empty suitcase around the apartment complex. Anyhow, given my past twelve months of worldly travels, I will be perfectly content to remain stateside for this next year. As far as the latter is concerned, I am not one to partake in such balderdash (that word was for you, Aunt Jo!). Besides, even if I were to believe in this superstitious nonsense, chosing between seeing a demon's reflection and a dirty soul is a no-brainer. What fun are clean souls anyway?

The rain on San Juan:

 

As for the other two, I was a good Chilean sport. Due the fact that on the weekends I sleep on Dani's trundle bed, there was no room for potatoes of my own. So, we all used the same set of potatoes and decided that we would just have to share the same financial destiny. In the morning, Dani (our selected representative) reached under the bed and chose the half-peeled potato. I'll take it. 

When it came to the papelitos, I jotted the first two names down fairly easily. The third piece of paper remained blank for a good while. After much input from Gloria (she started immediately reeling off single, male relatives...anything to keep me in the country) and some contemplation of my own, I wrote "someone that I haven't met yet." I got yelled at for cheating but "José Manuel" wasn't about to make the cut. In the morning, I selected my papelito. I was pleased with the result........

Come on, I have to keep my readers enticed somehow! Nothing like a little romantic mystery to spice things up, eh?

My dear San Juan, 

Thanks for a year free of travel, a life without excess, prince charming, and the dirty soul.

Yours truly,

The Gringa

A much belated sequel to my weekend in Constitución

Cody and I left the bus station around 9pm and walked back to his house. I found comparing our experiences with our respective encounters ith Chilean culture to be highly amusing. Cody lives in a mansion (relatively speaking) with an elderly widow, lives within a few blocks of five (FIVE?!) other volunteers from our program, and speaks English on a very regular basis (as he spends significant time with the American volunteers in the evenings and on the weekends). I, on the other hand, live in a town that doesn't even have a stoplight and uses dial-up modems. However, we have come to the conclusion that when push comes to shove, they're all the same sock-wearing, blow-drying, bread-consuming, claiming-to-be-Catholic-but-rarely-attend-mass breed. Anyhow, Cody's host mom had a huge dinner awaiting us. She piled my plate high with absurdly generous portions of rice and pork sausages. I tried to tell her that it was too much but she waved away my protests and set the plate on the table with authority. I guess I was hungrier than I thought because I cleaned my plate and still had room for dessert (honey and strawberry crepes). Heh.

After a three-hour dinner (during which Cody's host mom and I conversed and Cody said, "Sí, sí, sí"), Cody and I waddled over to another volunteer's house. On the way he asked what his host mom and I had been talking about. "Why? Weren't you listening?" I asked skeptically. He then proceeded to tell me that he doesn't understand a word she says and that he just says "Sí" to everything. Perhaps the grass isn't always greener. Anyhow, the volunteer that we were going to visit hadn't been one of my favorites during orientation. For starters, her name is Kirby. She is from LA and my first impression of her was her asking our program director "whether or not hair salons down here do a decent job of touching up highlights." That said, I wasn't surprised to hear that her experience in Chile had not met her expectations and she had bought an early ticket home. In fact, when we arrived at her house, she was in the process of packing her bags. I suppressed the urge to laugh as she told us how she had been chased by a pack of rabid street dogs when she took up power walking as a way to relieve her stress. We sat in her plush living room and listened to her rant about water pressure and slow wifi. (Note: In my host house, I'm more concerned about getting all of the shampoo out of my hair before the water turns from lukewarm to icy cold.)

We finally made our way back to Cody's house around 2am. I took a piping hot shower in my private guest bathrrom, went to sleep in my king-size bed under a down comforter, and tried very hard not to be bitter about the injustice of the disparity between our living conditions. 

The next morning, Cody and I woke up around 6:30, ate a quick breakfast and aimlessly walked a few blocks in a random direction until we found a taxi. We asked the driver (who smelled suspiciously of rum) to take us to the train station, and were hence dropped off in a shady part of town where the driver "thought the station was." Having heard (from the neighbor's cousin), that the morning train departed at 7am, we were moderately panicked. I still don't quite know how it happened, but we played the "left, right, or straight?" game and somehow miraculously found ourselves boarding the train as the conductor was blowing the "final call" whistle. We commended ourselves on our navigation skills but we both knew it was just dumb luck.

The train from Talca to Constitución takes a little over three hours while the bus takes only two. Cody and I opted for the train ride because we heard that it was both cheaper and more scenic. The morning in question was overcast, icy cold, and impossibly foggy. Furthermore, the window glass was incredibly scratched. This resulted in our spectacular view which you can see below.

 

At first, I wasn't exactly sure how it was possible that a bus could move more efficiently than a train. That was before we stopped multiple times so that the conductor could move a crate of tomatoes obstructing the tracks, move a stubborn cow, buy a flat of eggs, and (in all seriousness) take a pee break in the woods. In America, this inefficiency would enrage me. Here, however, Cody and I had a good laugh and still prided ourselves on saying the equivalent of two American dollars. 

When we arrived in Constitución, our friend May was waiting for us at the train station. From there, we walked around town, ate a few meals, explored the beach, and brushed up on our English (or at least it was a brush-up for me). Pictures will probably say more than my narration will for the rest of the weekend. Have at it:

Cody and I wearing every article of clothing in front of our train:

Just kidding. This was our train:

A few pictures we took when the conductor stopped to pee:

I really wanted to make this picture happen (it didn´t quite turn out the way I had envisioned because my head wouldn´t fit out the window)...

After meeting up with May...and her giving us a tour of the scenic (eh) Constitución...which includes two pictures of the wood plant (all of those little sticks are tree trunks):

A few pictures from the coast:

Cody taking a picture...and the famous Elephant Rock (appropriately named).

I win.

What is it with me and buses?

Same disclaimer from previous post applies. Thanks for your gracious patience and understanding.

This past weekend I went to go visit some friends from the program. I had purchased a bus ticket earlier in the week from Concepción to Talca, where my friend Cody would pick me up. On Friday after class, I rode in to Concepción. Gloria had offered to drop me off at the bus station. When I arrived, she was in a panicked frenzy at the thought of me traveling four hours by bus...by myself! Granted, I have experienced this hyper-overprotectiveness before and it should have come as no surprise.  

Side story: I ran across the street last weekend (ALONE...gasp!) to buy some tomatoes for Gloria because she was cooking a pie and couldn't leave the apartment with the oven on. After she reluctantly agreed, she passed me some money and reminded me to be careful crossing the street about five times. She watched me from the balcony and shouted at me to make sure I looked both ways before crossing the street in case I missed it before. If I were in America, I would have been mortified. When I returned 5 minutes later, she asked me if I had gotten lost and if everything went ok when I paid.

Silly of me to expect the same woman from the story above to just drop me off at the bus station and be on her merry way. Oh no. She parked, held my hand (I kid you not) and lead me through the bustling terminal and marched up to the ticket counter to ask where my bus was. I had already spotted my bus...grouped with all the other buses from the same line, clearly marked "TALCA." I just let Gloria do her thing...Chileans are not to be reasoned with. We walked out and she asked a few passengers and both drivers to verify that it was the correct bus and then proceeded to tell them that I was from the United States, that I barely spoke Spanish, and needed to be told when to get off. Then she pulled me onto the bus (yes, still holding my hand), led me to my seat and...buckled my seatbelt for me. She would have sat with me until the bus pulled out if the man occupying the seat next to me hadn't kindly asked her to move. She gave him a once over and told him that if he had planned on talking to me that he'd better "speak loud and slow and articulate because she's American." To my horror, she also threw in, "She already has a boyfriend so don't get any ideas." 

Finally she got off the bus and by that, I mean she was escorted off by a clearly annoyed bus driver. Sufficiently embarrassed, I dug through my bag for my iPod. Next thing I know, she's by my side again telling me for the zillionth time to get off at 8pm in Talca (as if there were other options). Attempting to make a joke, I said, "Wait, where do I get off?" Immediately, she looked as if she were about to pass out and then she started crying. Smooth, Kels. I told her I was joking and that I would be fine. A now furious busdriver folded his arms and glared at us. I gave him an apologetic look as she gave him a chest pat and brushed past him, sniffling. I had my headphones in for approximately ten seconds when the man beside me (he had the window seat) tapped me. "I think it's for you," he said, nodding towards the window. And there was Gloria rapping on the glass, gesturing at her watch, flashing 8 fingers, and obnoxiously mouthing TAL-CA!! For Pete's sake, woman...I've traveled the world (am I allowed to say that?) by myself. I think I can manage my own travel plans.

After we were finally on our way, the lights inside the bus dimmed, and the feature presentation began. A five-hour bus ride, a cushy seat with a foot rest to boot (there's your pun for the day...you're welcome), AND a complimentary movie!? Best 3,000 pesos I've ever spent! Perhaps I spoke too soon. The cinematic selection was Un pedazito del cielo (A Little Bit of Heaven), a new release pitched as a romantic comedy (which I have since decided was a grossly misleadingly advertisement). The movie features Kate Hudson as a cancer patient who falls for her dreamy doctor. I was contentedly watching the American film in my mother tongue (English is sweet to my ears these days) while the other passengers were audibly grumbling because they couldn't read the subtitles from their seats. The young man sitting next to me leaned over and asked me if I could understand what they were saying (gesturing at the screen). I hesitated, afraid of the direction the conversation was heading, and said yes. Sure enough, he followed up with, "So what are they saying?" And with that, I kissed my peaceful cinematic experience goodbye. 

A few minutes into my live translation, the old woman across the aisle tapped my arm and asked me if I would be so kind as to speak up as she was hard of hearing. Of course, señora, I would be obliged. I accrued 11 listeners (7 of which I am now friends with on Facebook...these Chileans don't miss a beat) in a span of twenty minutes. Everything was going quite smoothly until the plot turned sour and I quickly began to realize that this socalled romantic comedy was none too comedic. I would love to know whose bright idea it was to air a movie about a dying cancer patient on a Friday bus route...what a downer. I choked back my tears as long as I could but there was one depressing scene right after another. Even though I was clearly a a sobbing wreck, my fellow passengers relentlessly probed me to continue translating, anxious to stay informed. My eyes were still puffy when we pulled into the terminal in Talca. I had to employ some rather deft persuasion tactics to convince my friend Cody (who was waiting to collect me) that I hadn't been attacked on the bus...because that was his most logical rationale. Although...he was slightly on target...

New goal while in Chile: Have a normal bus experience.

Gringa stardom shines on...

Disclaimer: Eye haven´t had time two reed over this entry, sew if its riddled with errors, plz fourgive me.

Getting kicked off the school computer in six minutes...a poorly written post is better than none at all, yes?

Here goes.

In retrospect, perhaps I should have titled the entire blog "Pitt Status" instead of one lousy entry as it has emerged as a common theme in my Chilean life. And so it continues...

I was called out of class on Wednesday because there was "a visitor of esteemed status" awaiting me in the front office. My students and I were in the middle of a fairly intense pictionary/charades hybrid game. I've found to be quite effective for practicing vocabulary, plus I score "cool teacher" points from the kiddies. Anyhow, the office assistant was booed as she guided me out of the classroom (rightfully so...we had a tie game and there were "stars" yet to be won). After being promised an individual of elite standing, I was disappointed to find the principal of the town's only high school. He informed me that he was there to collect me so that I could assume my duties as head judge of the English Festival. 

When? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? "Oh no," he laughed. "We're going right now. It starts in five minutes and you're the guest of honor," he offered as though this were common sense. Right, well I'll be right there after I'm done teaching my class. "Nah," he says, "they'll be fine." I'd like to know in what world he thinks that thirty twelve-year-olds left unsupervised will be just fine? (I later found out that one of the little unattended angels set a fire in the trash can...good thing I make the students dispose of their explosives in the school yard trash bin.) Once again, without warning, I was whisked off to make a celebrity appearance. I've gone through all of my applications and emails from the volunteer program, and this was definitely not one of the job requirements. 

When we arrived in the high school, I was lead to the auditorium and pushed out onto the middle of the floor as the announcer's voice sounded through the ancient speakers in static-laden echoes, and "K-K-K-Kelsey C-C-C-Connard f-f-f-from d-d-d-dee USAAAA!!" Lots of thing happened at once. I became aware of the fixated stares of hundreds of judgmental high school students, I was barraged by the other judges who were shoving papers in my hand, and the high school English teacher was trying to reach my cheek to give me a besito (definitely a legal midget...or small person I suppose is the more politcally correct term). On top of all that, a microphone was being waved in front of my face. I did the most logical thing when one has a microphone at his or her disposal...and gave the auditorium and awkward wave and a grin. It sufficed.

 

The idea was that hosting a talent show (actually more of a singing contest) would spur more interest in actually learning English. The variety of songs the students chose to perform was astounding...ranging from Aerosmith ("Walk This Way"....interpeted as "Wok Dees We") to Rhianna ("Umbrella"...interpreted as "Umber I Uderella"). One band chose to perform "Smells Like Teen Spirit" (I was warned before arriving how much Chileans love Nirvana). Let it be known that I don't even understand the lyrics when sung by the original artist, let alone through an ancient sound system, off-tune instrumentals, and a thick Chilean accents.

At the judges table were three other judges, none of whom spoke English. We were in charge of evaluating the student performances based on vocals, stage presence, fluency, and pronunciation. After each performance, the judge next to me casually copied down all of my scores, number for number. The next judge copied her scores, and so on and so forth down the line, until all of us had duplicate scores. As far as English pronunciation and fluency were concerned, all of the performers tied for last. I ended up determining the winner by selecting my favorite song of the bunch. So, first place went to a scrawny boy who did a decent cover of "Tiny Dancer" by the one and only El Ton-Jon.

The judges table (and yes, that woman wore her sunglasses the entire time): 

The heavy metal garage band (my ears are still ringing):

 

Three Gringos, a Map, and a Stick Shift

I took the rest of the week off from school to travel with mi familia. From Concepción, we flew north to Santiago where my dad had rented a car. I was more keen to just take buses to our destinations (we all know how much I love those)...cheaper and less hassle (usually). However, my Dad insisted that it would be an adventure to take some back roads. Famous last words. Also of noteworthy significance was the fact that automatic gear-shifting technology has not yet made it to the automobile world south of the Equator. It's not that my dad didn't know how to drive a manual car, it was just that he was a bit rusty. In particular, there was a rather embarrassing (my sister might even classify it as mortally traumatizing) incident at a bus stop.

We pulled over in the middle of a small town so I (the always trusty navigator) could consult a map. Of course, the open space we had pulled into happened to be the loading zone for buses. This was abruptly brought to our attention (as well as every townsman's) that we were NOT supposed to park there. HELLO!! YES! WE ARE THE DUMB AMERICANS INVADING YOUR TOWN! We tried to reverse but the engine only revved. Again, and again, and again....and again. My dad taught the onlookers some select American profanity, my sister sunk low in the back seat with her face buried in her jacket, and I futilely tried to diffuse the tension by stupidly smiling and waving at the townspeople. After a few very painful minutes, we (and by that I mean, my Dad) finally discovered the trick...you have to pull UP on the stick shift to get it into reverse. Heh...would have been helpful to know before taking on the Chilean countryside.

We spent the next couple days cruising along the Chilean countryside which favored California terrain, battling the map, stalling frequently, and trying out the local eateries. We also toured all three of Pablo Neruda's eccentrically designed houses. Neruda was an iconic Chilean poet whose work I read in college...I selfishly drug my sister and Dad along on the house tours but they were good sports...dare I say they even enjoyed themselves? Neruda was also an influential diplomat and played a key role in Chilean politics, including the rise and fall of President Salvador Allende and the notorious Pinochet. This was an effective way to entice my Dad, as one might consider him to be somewhat of a history buff. Anyhow, in Valparaiso we also explored the naval shipyard and walked along the beach in Viña del Mar.

Things that we learned while traveling through Chile:
1) Shannon is better at driving stick shift than I am. She stalled once and tried to shift from first to fourth gear. I also stalled once, but somehow managed to shift from first to fifth gear. After this experience, we both decided to cut my dad a little slack for the bus terminal incident.
2) Tear gas causes violent sneezing. When we arrived in Valparaiso, my sister and Dad went to go park the car while I checked into our hotel. They came back a few minutes later with watery eyes and a bad case of the sneezes. Apparently there had been riots (students protest A LOT here...no big deal) a few hours earlier and tear gas residue was still lingering in the air. I'd hate to experience a fresh dose.
3) There is no effective way to ward off the stares of Chileans. My sister and I tried smiling, staring back, ignoring them, and in one case, making ugly faces. Note: the latter only draws more stares.
4) Not to trust Kelsey when she's says, "Oh yeah, definitely within walking distance...it's only a few short blocks away!"
5) E.T. is infinitely more entertaining when dubbed in Spanish.
6) If you get on any highway that runs through Santiago and drive in circles for approximately 1 hour, you miraculously arrive at the airport. It's the strangest phenomenon.

All in all, I think it was an interesting trip for them...they definitely walked away with a better understanding of the Chilean culture. I returned to Coelemu, rejuvenated from my family time, with some pretty rusty Spanish. Salud! (Cheers!)

A few pictures for your viewing pleasure:

In Isla Negra:

In Valparaiso:

Pablo Neruda´s Valparaiso house:

The side of a wall in Valparaiso (I never said I was a photographer)

Viña del Mar

Dinner one night:

The Gringo Count in Coelemu Multiples by a Factor of Three

Despite my difficulties with the buses (I can read, I swear), I arrived at school more or less on time. Around mid-morning, Gloria and Dani brought my Dad and sister out to the charming (that's sarcasm, by the way) little Coelemu to visit my school and see where I have been planting seeds of knowledge. The school was buzzing with excitement at the prospect of setting eyes on an entire CLAN of the white species...including a male one (Brad. Ahh, sí, like Brad Peeett!) and a blonde one (Shannon. Ahh, sí, Sharon!). When they popped in to meet my usually incredibly talkative 7th grade class, every student was instantly bashful and getting them to ask questions was like pulling teeth. Naturally, the second my dad and sister left, they were practically shouting questions at me.

Sidenote: Since they have returned to the states, I field daily questions from my students concerning "Brad Pitt" and "Sharon." AND my female colleagues (don't I sound pretentious?) shamelessly gab about marrying my father in my presence. Ladies, a little discretion?

By the time the bell rang, the entire school had heard about the new visitors and the hunt began. One student spotted them getting into Gloria's car and alerted the rest of them. Within a matter of seconds, the car was swarmed with kids all trying to take pictures with their camera phones, touch the magical blonde hair, or shake hands with "Brad Pitt." For the first time since I've been here, the spotlight was not on me. Standing there on the outskirts of the commotion with my newfound breathing room was an odd sensation.

With regards to the picture taking, a comical pattern was quickly emerging. In the car, were Gloria and my Dad in the front seat, and Shannon and Dani in the backseat. Gloria, although Chilean in every sense of the word, is unusually fair-skinned with dark blue eyes. The students who were hard at work analyzing the family dynamics, took this into account...
To Gloria: "Meeess Kelsey's mom!! I want to take a picture of you!"
To Dad: "Meeess Kelsey's dad!! I want to take a picture of you!"
To Shannon: "Meeess Kelsey's seeester!! I want to take a picture of you!"
To Dani (with her dark hair and dark eyes): "And who are you?"

Gloria, of course, set them straight, assuring them that she was "one of them." The students were unfazed. "That's ok, we still want a picture. You look white enough."

After the students were forced away (Gloria started the engine, started inching forward, and rolled up the windows), we headed to my host house. From there, my host father graciously took my father and sister on a tour of Coelemu, including the historic bridge (a pile of rotting posts in a dried up river bed) and private tour of a vineyard that peaked in the 80s. We all plastered a look of feigned interest on our faces and humored the proud Bernardo as he recounted (arguably) every detail of the town's thrilling history. Once again, I will admit to taking advantage of the language barrier. During his seldom pauses, I would translate for my dad, "He's reeling off some more mind-numbing historical facts...just smile and nod and we can get this over with and get home to eat." Some might call that dishonesty. I call it efficiency.

Pictures from the winery:

(Shannon, Dani, Me, Dad, Gloria)

(our informal tour guide, Dani, Shannon, Me, Dad, my host father...with a beverage in hand...typical)

When we (finally) got back to my host home, cold and hungry, my madre had assembled a beautiful spread awaiting us. We were joined by various neighbors, friends, and (of course) Dani and Gloria. I received lots of wonderful birthday presents, including three scarves, a wooden mirror, and some glass figurines of the Virgin Mary which now reside on my bedside table. A very feliz cumpleaños it was indeed.

The birthday dinner:
(Dad, host mom, me, Shannon, Dani)