Bearshapedsphere: Quirk. Perspective. Travel.

Bienvenidos Lectores de La Tercera/LUN/BioBio etc.

2011-08-20T10:35:00.003-04:00

Esta dirección lleva meses sin actualizarse! La dirección adecuada es bearshapedsphere.com.

Gracias por visitar y comentar!

I'm moving! Change your feeds to bearshapedsphere.com

2011-03-07T16:31:00.004-03:00

Having finally moved physically from Barrio Brasil to República, and with the patient help of Pam Mandel from nerdseyeview I am becoming a digital migrant of sorts, leaving behind the orange and blue, restricted format, three column pesky tiny photo and I don't know what else of Blogger (which has been a fine host, truth be told), to move into the bigkid sandbox of my own site.

I am certain this will bring me no end of fame and fortune, or at least a whole bunch of extra work to do while I figure out how to pretty it up and make it look like something other than a shell with a bunch of stuff in it. Comments should have migrated over (hallelujah), and hopefully you all will, too.

See you over there! And yes, I have organizing and some fiddely bits to fix, and a big empty space on my whiteboard where for more months than I would like to admit, it has read "xfer blog."

www.bearshapedsphere.com

Nary a Hanga Roa in Hanga Roa, Easter Island report 2, now with jabón gringo

2011-03-06T18:16:00.006-03:00

Before I left for Easter Island, I was charged by one of my work gigs with doing some research (and writing) on the island. This was nearly a first for me. I am the person who managed to go to Milan and failed to see the Last Supper because I simply didn't know it was there. And you'd think I'd have learned my lesson from this tiny snafu, but I have not. I continue to go places without exactly honing in on details before landing. For the most part, it works out.

But I knew more than a smidgen about Easter Island. I had even sort of vaguely plotted out a bikeride before leaving the continent (that's what they call continental Chile, the continent, or even "conti" which makes it sound like we all live in the village of Constanza, for which Conti is also a nickname. I had learned the names of the four volcanoes, and could even name several of the platforms on which the moai stand, and had planned to go horsebackriding and even scubadiving. I had looked at pictures of the two major clubs/discos on the island (Toroko and Topa Tangi), and I had hoped to go to both of them (and I did).

But one of the things I asked myself, which has a whole lot to do with language, which Pam has identified as one of the things I blog about the most (which was confusing at first, because I thought it was culture, but then I realized she was correct, and also a very good houseguest), and which I could find no trace of, in written or online sources is whether or not there would be any hanga roas in Hanga Roa.

A hanga roa is what we (on the Chilean continent) call the vertical sliding shades comprised of strips of bamboo or other thin wood woven together with brown string. They run on metal tracks off of small plastic bobbins, and you pull them across a doorway or balcony to keep the sun out. It took me a while to catch on to the name, and then I classed it together in my mind with salsa americana (american sauce, a bit like pickled cabbage and carrots, not to be confused with chucrut, which is sauerkraut), or cocina americana (literally: American-style kitchen, meaning an open plan kitchen)

I always like to have a secret mission behind the mission at hand (a week of vacation!), and it was to see if there were any hanga roas (see explanation) in Hanga Roa, which is the main town of Easter Island.

And I looked near the horses (the ones in town, there were horses pretty much everywhere):

And down the main street:

And at the stop sign near the library:

But I never saw a hanga roa. Maybe it's like this sign for jabón gringo (gringo soap), which I've never seen before either. A misnomer by any other name would be as sweet-smelling and/or shady.

Food and Drink Nostalgia, Chilean Style: Sorbete Letelier

2011-03-02T09:55:00.005-03:00

In an apparently Chilean tradition of basing hypersweet drinks on the flavor of dried fruit (see: Mote con Huesillo), there's a soda in Chile based on the flavor of dried cherries. And not just any dried cherries, but guindas. Guindas are sour cherries, and when dried, they wrinkle around the pit and become leathery. When reconstituted, they get that "fat raisin" texture I associate with my mother's noodle kugel or Ecuadorean quimbolitos (cakes cooked in corn husks).

So what's the soda? Sorbete Letelier. It looks like this (photo with an iphone I recently was told was "a relic" so pardon the quality).

What's so interesting about Sorbete Letelier is not necessarily that it tastes like your Cherry Coke married a Dr. Pepper and the spawn had a genetic anomaly that made the Cola taste as well as the kick of the pepper disappear and the sugar content double.

What's great about this drink is that it was here, and then it was gone. And when it came back, there was great rejoicing. From what I hear, I'm new here, myself. The beverage is originally from Talca, a city I admit not to knowing, but which I'm going to get to know pretty soon, I hope. S.L. was introduced in probably about the 1920s for local production, Castel bottling took over its production in 1958 and then pulled it from the market due to production problems in 1985. It returned to the market in 1997. It's still not available everywhere, and when it shows up, there's an occiasional rush of "tienen sorbete letelier!" (They have sorbete letelier!) and accompanying coin-digging-outage. I've yet to see anyone drink an entire one, but that might just be because everyone all around is wondering if they'll get a rush of nostalgia at taking a sip.

The reconstituted dried cherry in each bottle obviously goes to the person who bought the drink. I don't think this is the equivalent of who gets the worm in the tequila bottle, but I couldn't be sure, having never tried either. The expression for artificially-flavored sodas in Chile is "bebida de fantasía." Which still doesn't explain why Bilz tastes like bubblegum, but at least there's no gum inside.

See here for the drink's official website: Sorbete Letelier, and here for Urbatorium's writeup of the drink (in Spanish, with original label pictured). Dates supplied by above websites.

Green Celery to me! (Easter Island report, with birthday blabla)

2011-02-28T10:47:00.006-03:00

For reasons too complex and probably personal, all of which have to do with someone's precipitous and precocious death and feared short life expectancy and really, I am that person who has been to two cardiologists in the past three years only to find out that no, I do not appear to be in imminent danger of a heart attack, I did not scream from the rooftops that I was about to turn 40.

But 40 I turned, a year more than 39, one less than 41, and a birthday that has not put me into an existential tailspin, but rather makes me think about how great these next 40 years are going to be, and how glad I am that I didn't promise to run a marathon this year, because I think I might have a stress fracture in my left foot and my right ankle is the weakest link, goodbye! (only not, because even if she's weak, she's mine, and I'm keeping her).

So. I went to Easter Island to celebrate my birthday, and like any bike enthusiast, partial misanthrope and crazy person, on my birthday itself, I woke up early, grabbed the bike I'd rented the night before and rode up a dirt road to Ahu Te Peu on Rapa Nui, several km out of Hanga Roa, alone, blissfully alone. Except for these cows.

And then I rode back to get some breakfast. And that looked like this (the ride back, not the breakfast):

Then I set out again, this time passing the airport, where I snapped this through-the-fence shot

And I headed to Ahu Akivi, where seven moai face the ocean, are set up to receive the sun at their fronts and backs on the solstices, and where I sweated the sweat of the weary and humidity-unaccustomed and sat on a rock out from under which waddled a cockroach of mouse-like proportions. Photo of moai, not of the cockroach, for obvious reasons.

This bike route, for what it's worth, makes nearly no sense because I doubled back from Ahu Te Peu when I really should have continued on, and would have arrived shortly at Ahu Akivi, but I was hungry and didn't want to miss breakfast and wasn't sure how long it would all take. Also, the island is pretty small, and I was going to run out of road before energy, so it wasn't a big deal to double back.

From Ahu Akivi, where I traded mild conversation with what appeared to be a Chilean-French couple (also cycling), but I don't know for sure because we never asked each other where we were from, I headed back to the road, and made a left, heading over to Anakena, where en route, I managed to get a wicked case of chain suck (yay! poorly maintained, grease-less bike chains), and ganked my chain into a position best described as "twisted" such that a) I could no longer get into the easiest gear and b) there was great skipping and clickage.

No worry, I pedalled on, urged to the right direction by this downward-facing sign, and fueled by fiber cookies, iced tea and a camelbak full of water.

And views like this:

And the smell of eucalyptus and threatening rain, and finally, the long, long downhill to the beach where I felt like I was being towed in by the ocean. I later found out there's a "magnetic" spot at about km 15, where despite appearing to be an uphill, cars will coast up the highway, so perhaps this feeling of towing in was my bike being pulled by this same force.

At Anakena I ran into a Chilean family from Iquique who'd adopted me on a hike to Rano Kau the day before, and whose friend-of-the-family's daughter handed me a piece of poundcake that she'd baked, which she didn't know, but which ended up being my birthday cake. And they shared water with me because I'd drained all of mine, and they ultimately gave me a lift part of the way back because there was no way my twisty bike chain and I were going to make it up that uphill I'd just come down without that smallest chain ring.

And I stopped to say hi to the moai for good measure.

And then I rode the ten or so km back to the bike shop, where I told them about the twisty chain and they gave me a mango for my troubles.

And I sat and watched a wispy sunset and then ate some fish and mashed taro cooked in a banana leaf, but I didn't choose the restaurant particularly well, and the food was just okay, and (don't tell), I shared some of each with a nearby cat. Perhaps it was her birthday, too.
::::::::::::::::

Green Celery explantation: The closest expression to how Happy Birthday sounds when spelled phonetically and then repronounced in Chilean Spanish is Apio Verde, which means green celery. Green Celery to me? Happy birthday to me. You didn't think I'd let a day go by without language geekery, did you? It's my gift to you.

On the anniversary of the 2010 Chilean Earthquake

2011-02-27T00:42:00.004-03:00

On the anniversary of a terrible date in recent Chilean history, the 27th of February, nearly a year is completed from the 3:34 AM earthquake in Chile that would generate a tsunami that would wash away towns, and would knock one apartment building flat on its back (photo 13 in this photo essay), and leave many, many homes in uninhabitable conditions and many people more without homes to return to, I have to tell you a story.

It's about juxtaposition. As it happens, I was in Chile during the Haiti earthquake, then in New Zealand for the Chile earthquake, and finally, on Easter Island for the New Zealand earthquake. Yes, I am tremendously lucky, and hopefully, sufficiently thankful.

In Chile, we had fundraising events and a media bath of "send aid," or "send supplies" to Haiti. I know Haiti continues to struggle, and the trials faced in that country are much different, and dare I say harder than what would later be faced here and later in New Zealand.

Bear with me as I fast forward about six weeks from the date of the Haiti earthquake, to when I found out about the earthquake in Chile. I digested the information as best I could, far from the source, and with the occasional missive from friends who actually lived through it.

And then one day, not long after the Chile earthquake, I was walking around Rotorua, NZ, and saw this:

and this:

And I felt my knees nearly give, and then lock.

No.

Chile fundraises for other countries. No one fundraises for Chile, I thought. We're all wineries and deserts and lakes and skiing and hiking and the Andes. Not a charity case.

Time went on, and many millions of dollars were raised to help Chilean earthquake reconstruction efforts, which are still ongoing, particularly in the hardest-hit region of Maule, where adequate housing is still an issue, and where reconstruction is far from complete. So yes. People do raise money for Chile, and with reason. Thank you New Zealand, and everyone else.

And as if to prove that disaster can strike countries of every ilk, Christchurch suffered a devastating earthquake just a few days shy of Chile's 2010 quake anniversary. I took this photo almost a year before the most recent quake from when the Christchurch Cathedral was spiffy and upright, when the city of Christchurch hadn't been so shaken, when so many people hadn't died from having been simply in the wrong place.

And I see now that people are fundraising for New Zealand as well. For Haiti, for Chile, for New Zealand. Three hugely far-flung countries, with very different pasts and presents, joined in recent history by earthquakes.

It pains me to know that people are suffering, with physical and psychological pain, with death. In Santiago we all had to step over escombros (building debris) for months while waiting for it to be cleaned up. A year later, even in Santiago (which was nowhere nearly as damaged as Talca or other more southern cities), many buildings are still scaffolded, 2x4s holding up cornices in places where they could still fall. The people of New Zealand must be reeling, and my few contacts down there seem thoroughly shocked (though physically fine).

Maybe we're supposed to remember that calamity can happen in any place, at any time? That even wealthy countries can need to ask for help? That tectonic plates respect no borders?

I offer out hopeful thoughts for speedy recovery, body and soul for those who need it. To people in Haiti living precariously, to Chileans still hurting, missing loved ones, waiting for reconstruction, and to Kiwis newly shocked and injured, as well as the foreigners who may have been in these places when the quakes hit.

A tidy finish eludes me. Stay safe.

Poof! I'm home!

2011-02-25T23:46:00.003-03:00

Iorana!

Despite the presence of a wholly unlikeable seatmate on my flight home (oh! the scalp-scratching, the hangnail chewing, the using of saliva to clean the screen in front of him), I am so peaceful after an actual week off, that I find myself wondering why I don't do that more often. I very seldom disconnect from work, and the many hours of tappitytap that requires, and this week on Rapa Nui (Easter Island) was nearly internet free, with the exception of reading (and responding to) many, many, many birthday wishes from some pretty fabulous people, and reading the occasional news snippet. My heart goes out to the people of Christchurch, and once again I am thankful to have missed an event so jarring, so dangerous.

I think the trip from Rapa Nui to my apartment in Santiago is the fastest and brusquest change I've ever made. From being on an island with fewer than 5000 people and about as many horses (and many more than that number of ants!) to my balcony that overlooks downtown Santiago (a city of more than 6 million) took a little over five hours. It's a stunning shift to exchange the twinkling spray of stars overhead to the neon Entel Tower in such a short amount of time.

It always takes me an overnight to make me feel like I'm really on vacation. I know I'm being greedy, but I kind of hope it takes me more than that to start to feel like I've landed back in real life.

Hope you've all been well, and back to more navel-gazing, trip reports and photographic splendor (I hope, I haven't even looked at any photos yet) soon.

Rapa Nui Day 1 report, reflections, nada mas.

2011-02-19T00:40:00.006-03:00

Today a woman I had met not more than 30 minutes earlier handed me her adorable 14 month old daughter in a pink rash suit and matching flowered sunhat while she (the woman) struggled on the sharp rocks to get a foothold so she could get out of the water. They had been "swimming" together, with mom floating around and holding her little girl, urging her not to whimper when the water moved around. She pointed to her friend, and then to her friend's dog, who was being held nearby in the water saying, "be like the doggie, she doesn't whine."

I wasn't surprised by the woman handing me the child necessarily, as I had offered to help. But the kind of help I offered was, "can I give you a hand?" not "can I hold your baby?" But she needed help, and it was baby-holding she was after, and so I was on duty. I held the girl, who looked at me with eyes that didn't budge, not even to blink, but didn't pull her to me, as she was dripping wet and I was dry. Also? Not my baby.

And I could say it's because we were on Rapa Nui (Isla de Pascua, Easter Island) and that's the way things are here, except the woman with the baby was from the 5ta Región (near Valparaíso). Or I could say it's because I seem like a trustworthy person, perhaps good at holding babies. Earlier in the day I had helped a little kid at the place I'm staying (maybe 4?) put on her bathing suit top so she could play with a hose with some friends. I guess it's a five-and-under day for me.

The woman with the baby took her back and then retired to a round woven mat she'd brought down to the beach and as the woman with the dog got out of the water, I noticed that she had a band of bluish, slightly raised Rapa Nui tattoos around her left thigh. In the end, I was more curious about the tattoos than about the baby and why I'd been asked to hold her. But I felt too intimidated to ask.

I told them my name in case we ran into each other again, took a picture (with permission) of the lobster the dog woman's husband had speared, slipped on my flipflops and walked back home under puffy, rainless clouds and a fierce afternoon sun.

Chileans make fun of gringos speaking Spanish! (again!) This time: Lah Peeohhaira

2011-02-14T10:29:00.007-03:00

The last post, where I talk about whether or not walking more than kung fu (caminar mas que kung fu) is a potentially offensive expression, brought up issues of language and sensitivity. I am particularly attuned to language, and I like to think that I watch carefully how people treat each other, and try not to be a jerk in general terms, though I have been known to occasionally snap at people and later apologize. I'm not proud of that, it's something I'm working on, etc.

But getting back to the issue of language and sensitivity, consider this video from Canal 13 news, where they interview the creator of Askme, a little mobile kiosk where you can get maps, and a service that has some self-guided walking tours and some paid (downloadable) audio tours. Here's what I said about Ask Me on NileGuide, if you're into that.

And here's the video in question, which we will be discussing. Please pay careful attention to the following:

:30-:42
:54-:55
2:01-2:07

Ready? Watch:

What we have here is one journalist in the studio, and one in the field, making fun of how gringos talk. "Dohwnde estta lah Peeohhaira?" is supposed to stand in for Dónde está La Piojera links to #NG. (and there's actually one funny portion here, where the news guy is driving his segway, and says, "look, no hands" and someone in the studio says, look out, or your next line could be "look, no teeth").

But back to La Peeohhaira. I suppose this is funny. If you are eight. I know this is something I have railed against before, and it will never cease to bug me. As an adult, you should be beyond making fun of people's accents on national TV. It's the equivalent of tuning into NBC news and seeing someone do a Speedy Gonzalez imitation to repeat something Penelope Cruz said. (Yes, Speedy Gonzalez, a pretend Mexican mouse, himself an offensive caricature, and I choose Penelope Cruz because she is famous and a native Spanish speaker, not because I am concerned about her new baby who I'm sure is beautiful and has awesome eyebrows).

Eso no se hace (that is just not done). Except in Chile, sí, se hace (yes it is). I'm not necessarily complaining because it affects me personally, I know I have a slight accent in Spanish, and I'm (mostly) okay with that. But that's the point about -isms, they don't offend you because you're part of the group, but because you're part of the society, and as a society, we should just all sign up to join the "let's not be jerks" club.

Except in Chile, making fun of the way gringos talk is not considered to be jerky. See exhibit A, video above. And by the way, the Ask Me people are cool, and you'll notice that the owner didn't participate in this tomjerkery. This is a situation in which my wiring says one thing and the society says something else. It puts me in a grey area of offendedness. Am I still allowed to be offended by something that was not meant to be offensive? I have told all of my friends that pretend gringo accent talking is not funny to me, and for the most part, they respect that.

I guess I just have to go make friends with the people at Canal 13. Won't you join me in my one woman campaign to get people to stop making fun of (and imitating, which is worse) the gringo accent in Spanish? (and looks like we're not alone, the combined search results from "make fun of my accent" and "making fun of my accent" were more than 100,000, and I'm sure bearshapedsphere can't be more than ten of those).

and here's another post where I talked about something quite similar. Call it early onset repetitiveness. A trait I come by honestly. Are you listening oh schvester mia and Mamaj?

Caminar mas que Kung Fu: More lessons in Chilean Slang

2011-02-11T13:28:00.006-03:00

It wasn't until I heard the expression "caminar mas que Kung Fu" (lit: walk farther than Kung Fu) for about the third time that I thought to ask someone just who or what Kung Fu was, and why he walked so much. It's not that I'm not interested in language. On the contrary. I spend so much time looking at language that sometimes I miss the point entirely. So to combat that, sometimes I just let thing slide and ask about them later, or not at all. I have kind of a rule with is called "interesting or the rule of threes." If something is very interesting to me, or if I hear it three times, I will chase it down. Otherwise, people say things near me all the time that I don't quite know the genesis of, and I'm pretty mellow about it, though I can hear the file cabinet of my subconsicious creaking open and the scritch of a pencil against my mental index cards (white, lined), even as I follow the conversation into the future.

Well you can thank Abby for my recent remembering of Kung Fu, due to a recent blog post of hers on Abbysline where she talks about Chilean expressions. One day three of my friends and I decided to go for a walk. In the end, we walked up to the Parque Bicentenario and most of the way back downtown, including a little amble around the park while we were there. When we got back, I "mapped my run" (except this was a walk) and discovered that it was on the order of 20ish kilometers, or about 12 miles. I later commented to one of the saga-walk participants that I love to go out on walks, but not necessarily such long ones.

And there it was again. "Sip, si ese día caminamos mas que Kung Fu!" (yep, that day we walked a hell of a long way).

So I asked. It turns out Kung Fu was a tv program on in the United States from 1972-1975 that featured an orphaned Shaolin priest and martial arts master wandering the Western United States in search of his lost half-brother. The kicker here is that I have never seen the show, not even in syndication, but here in Chile, enough people have seen it (in reruns, I imagine, given the age of the people involved) to generate this expression, which seems mildly racist on its face, but Chileans disavow most knowlege of any presence of racism, so I'm not really sure how to handle this particular question, other than to avoid it.

So there you have it. Sometimes I walk more than an allegedly half-Chinese fictional character portrayed by a white man who existed on television in the 1970s, and into later years in Chile. I'm beginning to understand the shorthand, even though I still probably won't use it.

A Great Miracle Happened Here (I finally moved)

2011-02-09T15:31:00.005-03:00

Above this text you see a picture. A blarey, bright picture with funny gingham checked yellow curtains (not my choice), and a plate full of something, which you probably can't quite make out. It happens that it's my lunch. But not just any old lunch, a lunch partially cooked (the other part raw) on a stove that I installed with my own two hands (and a leatherman) in my new kitchen. A kitchen in which I have set up the previous satellite kitchen (baker's rack) as a place to eat while I ponder the great outside and marvel at the fact that I can stand up and whirl around and extend my arms, and oh my goodness, it's a real kitchen.

I am stupidly excited about the new kitchen, as well as the hallway of my new place. The hallway is also photogenic, but seriously? You can't all want to see pictures of my whole apartment. Trust me when I say there are parquet floors and they are vitrificados (finished), which means I will not have to do the wax-on wax-off shuffle again for as long as I live here.

I have been talking about moving for as long as some of you have been reading here, and for years, for those of you who (like me) don't easily keep track of time. My last apartment had many great features. It was not the one before it (a truly horrible little hovel, with carpet in the bathroom). It had a great view, lots of light, was conveniently located in Barrio Brasil, had giant windows, from which I would take lots of pictures. It was also too small for me and my stuff, so cleverly tetrissed into place. My proof of this is how easily all this stuff that was in my previous tiny apartment has expanded to take up so much space in my current home.

Oh heck, here's the darn hallway, with many linear feet of closetified (shelves and racks and things) closet. Oh, great organizational boon.

There's more, so much more. Many thanks to friends who heeded my crazy need to drag things over under cover of darkness, and who helped me to decide which stove to buy and whose little girl played with a box of scarves and then said "ep-ee" to get help to put the top back on.

There is great joyousness in the land, and maybe soon I will answer the question, "What made you finally decide to move" which is the question I have most been asked. That, and "When are you having a party?" Oh friends, do you know nothing about me?

Deets: About five blocks from my old place, near Metro Los Héroes on a street that if you block out the last two letters stands in as slang for the male genitalia. Oh, ri-KELM (as some people used to call it), I won't really miss you!

Santiago in 36 hours, and what happens to a pitch deferred?

2011-02-05T22:19:00.005-03:00

Is Chile so fome (Chilean for boring), that you'd only want to stay here for 36 hours? Or maybe I'm just bitter that I didn't write this piece. Not true! I did write that piece. I have continually been writing and rewriting it ever since I got into travel writing 2ish years ago. But this author sent hers in, and I didn't, and maybe she's famous in the kind of circle that makes you get published in the NYT, perhaps rightfully so. So my version sits on my hard drive, and hers is on your breakfast table besides your bagel and cream cheese. Please tell me there are tomatoes on that. And pepper.

So 36 hours of shopping! and fashion! Sounds fashion-shoppy. Also doesn't sound much like my Santiago. My Santiago looks like this. Or at least it did when I wrote that. If you read here, you know a little about my Santiago. It has crumbly old buildings and splashy new ones and people doing interesting things on the street, and being nice to each other and searching for good food and a restaurant where they will give you a full (rather than 2/3 full) glass of water and photos of stuff like this:

and this:

The thing is, everyone's Santiago looks different. Kyle's looks different from Emily's looks different from Margaret's looks different from Abby's looks different from Annje's looks different from all the people who aren't gringa bloggers, and every Santiaguino has their own version of what it looks like, what it smells like, what it feels like to put one foot in front of the other to arrive to their next destination, where with any luck they'll be served something tasty to eat or drink, or see something humorous, or get the refreshing spray that lifts off of the Fuerza Aerea (Air Force) fountain near the Salvador Metro, or look up and realize that all this time, there was a rainbow, just hanging there.

I happen to know I'm not alone (oh! this has been discussed ad fingers crampicum, though the story technically comes out tomorrow) when I say I believe it's really important for the person who trots out Santiago as their place to actually live here. Which is why if you've already clicked on the article above, I must make two admissions. One, I am a blunderer for never having emailed my pitch to the New York Times. I know my Santiago well, and I write about it all the time. Simma down (that's me talking to me) At least now I am free of the agonizing dithering of whether or not to send in my pitch/completed story. Two, I knew this article was being written, and could have taken the reins and taken the author all around town, showing her my Santiago. And I didn't. We had contact, and I declined to help.

And so what I get, what she gets, what all of us get, is a guided tour through Santiago by someone who really likes fashion (yes, I have more detail, no I will not give it). Which also explains why when Santiago won the New York Times' first place for places to go, they mentioned the Museo de la Moda. Repetition is the mother of invention, or something.

Ah, sweet Santiago. A new side revealed to me, which I will mostly ignore, and scratch my head about. A lesson learned about not grabbing tofu bulls by their soy horns, and the self-satisfied sleep of someone who has really made Santiago (and parts of Chile, even) her own. Or maybe the self-satisfied sleep is due to the new, improved apartmentage of your author (that's me). Details to follow for my beloved fans and "when are you ever going to move" harranguers, you know who you are.

And now, my "official" reaction to the piece. #NG, clickety do. And I really love the photo I chose for the head there, because that's what much of Santiago actually looks like. A little color, a little run-down, convenient, easy and pretty safe, but it never hurt to be careful.

And if I haven't worn out my link love, and you read Spanish, and want to see another person's perspective on what's on view in Chile, check out this Venezuelan author's take on Cafés con Piernas (coffee with legs) here in Santiago on MatadorNetwork (disclaimer, I work there), in Spanish.

Fashion waterwhat? Making fun of the Chilean supermarket

2011-02-04T00:11:00.005-03:00

Sometimes I wonder which colors really go together. Today, for example, I was wearing brown pants and a black shirt. I'm not sure if that's permissible by the various iterations of fashion police that troll the streets. I did have someone say something horrible to me when I was on my bike yesterday in a similar outfit (okay, maybe it was the same one, I'm moving and I don't know where anything is and I'm schlepping stuff hither and yon and hither again). Anyway, I chased down the horrible-talking people on my bike (they were in their car), lowered my glasses and insisted that they repeat their horribleness for me to hear from closer up. They declined, and I felt a giant ball of joy at mucking up their day like they'd mucked up mine. And then I set to schlepping again.

And I still didn't know what I should wear, or shouldn't. Why, I wish I were a watermelon, I thought. Then I'd always wear pink and green and no one would ever shout horribleness to me on the street as I was biking past.

A watermelon, you say? Why yes, a watermelon. They have their own fashion you know. You didn't know? Please regard exhibit A (three years of law school and a fancy diploma in an embossed folder and behind a piece of plastic allow me to say that). (Sandía is the word for watermelon in Spanish).

So think about it. The next time you're pondering whether you should or shouldn't wear something, think of the humble watermelon, which is picked from the fields, baptized something ridiculous, laid in a basket and priced a solid 3X what it should be, where it will sit and do nothing at all while you roll your combination cart-basket past and wonder if you'll still go this same supermarket when you move a few blocks south.

And that is all she wrote for this week. Taking bets on whether or not my internet provider (whose website was down yesterday, oh dear) hooks up my service on time and when they say they will. Kinda betting that's a no, sadly. Back sometime!

Lollapalooza comes to Chile! (and I am nearly certainly not going).

2011-01-31T09:35:00.006-03:00

Are you going to Lollapalooza? Do you wish you were? Did you know that it's in Chile this year, April 2nd and 3rd? Should I consider that a celebration of when I will have been in Chile for seven years? It's so nice of those thousands of people to stand together in Parque O'Higgins, not far from my current or future home (YES! I am moving, it is a miracle, I am hoping the Rio Mapocho will run clear in miraculous accompaniment) for many hours on end, absorbing the sun with their upturned faces as much loud music wafts over them.

But I will probably not be going. It's not that I have anything against Parque O'Higgins, I've been many times, usually around the national holiday (September 18th) to catch stuff like this going on.

It's an okay park, if a bit of a peladero (literally, bald thing, but what I mean is that it's mostly untreed, and the parade grounds are a giant parking lot scar in the middle of the park). And it has this little lagoon of dubious cleanliness, where children splash and swim, despite signs indicating that they should not.

It also has this quirkly little Pueblito thing, which is a fake little huaso (Chilean cowboy)town, and Fantasilandia, an amusement park, and fairly newly, a skatepark with the possibility of doing a 360 through a tube.

But I will (almost definitely) not be there for Lollapalooza. Oh, I get it that it's a big deal, the first time the festival takes place outside of the United States. And friends repeatedly tell me that the Killers are getting back together. The Killers! And I think about how old and doddery I've gotten and how much I enjoy acoustic music like Nano Stern who I saw at Teatro del Puente (remember that?)

Or Donavon Frankenreiter, who came to a bizarre, very poorly-organized concert at Mall Sport on the lagoon there. (Seriously, the crowd control was mythically bad, a cluster idiocy of even post-Chilean proportions, in most other countries there would have been a riot, and sorry for being bringing up the political, but man I hope Egypt gets their way).

But Donavon was fabulous, and gave a tremendous show, and he and his accompanying guitar guy even pulled up closer to the audience when they felt they were too far away, and threw mikes into the crowd for people to sing along, and he was just generally all lovey, and he sang the song for us that he wrote for his son, and he muddled along in Spanish and I thought about how I should have offered interpretation services so he could have talked to the crowd, but really most everyone up there understands enough English that he could have spoken more, but anyway, yay, concert! And yay acoustic music, and yay Donavon coming closer, and yay newish camera that pulls light from nowhere, and yay Kyle (on location this week) for asking the seminal question "but do you really plan to take photos at night?" which encouraged me to buy said camera. And yes, and with vigor. Or much clickage.

And yeah, I like many things, among them, photography and quietish music. And I think I'm really going to like my new apartment. Though I will miss this view:

But I can't wait to get the keys and dance around to folky music at a moderate volume and show you all what the new place has to offer.

Photo "reveal" and open for more discussion.

2011-01-27T09:27:00.006-03:00

Thanks to everyone who participated, peeped, tweeted or commented about the photo. What am I talking about? This entry, and the following photos.

The woman, is in fact, selling orange juice. She has a shopping cart and a juice squeezer and oranges, and a trash bag at her feet. Five years ago this shopping cart/juicer phenomenon was almost unknown. I'm not sure when it first came up, maybe about three years ago. It's new, but has taken hold, and considering all the other stuff that's sold on the street (fried sopaipillas, fried egg rolls, etc), I feel like it's a pretty good addition to the street-food scene.

I have no way of knowing if that is her child or not. I had assumed it was, but a number of you wondered if the child was or was not hers. I also don't know if it's a boy or a girl, or why he/she is so warmly dressed. I was wearing a sundress and breaking out in a sweat. There is no second child in the carriage, and the child was pulling the newspaper out of the carriage sheet by sheet.

I had not noticed that the child was on the other side of that metal partition. We do not generally have a crippling fear of kidnapping here, so it didn't seem strange to me that the child was not closer to the woman selling juice.

People who work independently often wear aprons or what we call cotones, which are button-up smocks over their clothes. The guy who sells sandwiches outside of the Registro Civil near my house wears a white cotón every day, so her wearing an apron did not surprise me. Plus it could have pockets for her to easily keep change in without sticking her hands in and out of her pants pockets, which might get juicy.

The question was asked about whether this was her main job or a supplement. Again, I have no way of knowing this. Given the time of day and how hard it would be to safely store all of her items and drop off her child elsewhere before getting to work (very unusual are the jobs where you don't have to be at work before 10 or 12, including at the mall), I'd guess it's her main gig.

I was also surprised to see her costly items, and have never seen anyone use a pack and play on the street before. I also wondered who dropped her off in the morning, and if that person would come and pick her up later, or drop off more oranges. Does she work for herself, or is there a middle-man who takes care of the orange procurement, and other associated tasks. Does he/she take a cut? Does she make enough to live on? Does she have more kids elsewhere? Does the kid like orange juice? What will she do when he/she gets bigger? These are the main questions that ran through my mind.

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And now if you'll accompany me, we can address the 64 million peso question (that's only $128,000 if you were wondering). The Peruvian question.

Is she Peruvian? Why do we care? Before answering this question, you have to know that in Chile, the word Peruvian (peruano) is heavy. It's loaded. Rather than being a simple description, like Irish or Belgian or Canadian, it comes off as an accusation. There is a history of strife between the two countries, based on land grabs and wars and treaties. But the Peruvian question is not based in history. It is based in the present.

Presently, there are many Peruvians who have come to Chile, specifically to Santiago. A bit of a "little Lima" (pequeña Lima) has developed on the north side of the cathedral at the Plaza de Armas. Snacks like Sublime (a chocolate bar) and drinks like InkaCola are sold at the many internet cafés and locutorios (telephone offices) that advertise low rates for calling Perú. Fresh food, from papas rellenas (stuffed potatoes) and chicken and rice and a thin pudding called mazamorra morada (made of purple corn) eaten as dessert are prepared off site, and sold in disposable containers which people tuck into, standing in groups, talking, smiling, laughing until long after dark. Late at night, when the street-eating is over, shuttle pull up and call out the names of various parts of the city that people might be going home to.

So what's the problem? The problem is that Chile is Chlie, and Peru is Peru. Chile has enjoyed a fairly strong economy for some time, and while Peru has a moneyed elite, much of which lives in Lima and sends their kids to school in the United States for a year, or for college (their school year coincides with the northern hemisphere's, unlike that in Chile, which is opposite, the year starting in March and ending in December), well, some of the rest of Peru has their sights set differently.

It's probably quite a bit like any country A with immigrant B situation. The people fron country A learn to have negative associations with immigrant B's culture (in this case, "too much noise, too much mess, music, ideas, etc."), and begin to blame immigrant B for economic hardship "they take all the jobs, they work harder than Chileans, they live 10 in a small apartment, there's no way I can compete!" And the unsettling feeling that the mother country is less yours than it was when there were fewer people from country B sending their kids to your kids' school, etc.

It is long and complicated. I am not a sociologist. But I am an immigrant here, and I think I (and many of my gringa commenters, friends, readers, etc.) are just vaguely assimmilating the idea that word Peruvian is (especially in English) taken to mean anything other than "a person from Peru." We resist anti-Peruvian sentiment, reject xenophobia. When we say that the woman is probably Peruvian (as I was originally going to say, before I opened the photo to comments instead), I mean: the law of averages dictates that she is from Peru, as I have bought juice on the street a number of times, and the person that sold it to me (for 500 pesos, about a dollar) was Peruvian in every case, or at least had a Peruvian accent, though I did not ask to see her national ID card.

There's so much more to say, statistics to give (I heard a dato recently that five years ago there were fewer than 150,000 immigrants in Chile, and now there are more than 300,000 (on Radio Futuro, don't have a print/web source at the moment). This Wikipedia article says that there are 85,000 Peruvians living in Santiago. Out of a population of about 6 million, for about 14%. For people used to living in a fairly monocultural place, it represents a change.

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The important part for me here is the difference between saying what you know, and saying what you suspect. I don't know if it's her child. I don't know if she has another job. I don't know how much money she makes, or where she lives, or if she's from Peru. All I know is that I saw something curious on my way to a work meeting the other day, and I took a picture. What is true is what is evident. Everything else is conjecture. Thanks to the fine folks at MatadorNetwork for encouraging my thought process and a critical eye towards what I see and what I communicate.

Coming soon: much less heady and fun-to-read topics, silly pictures and other tomfoolery.

A photo for comments, an experiment. Downtown Santiago

2011-01-24T10:34:00.004-03:00

I don't know if I want to tell you what to think about this picture. What you see is probably very different from what I see, and if I tell you what I see, will you still see what you were seeing before? Or will you replace your own vision with mine?

But I can't leave a photo uncommented. So I ask you to think first. Take a minute, look at the image and tell me what your eye tells you. Roam around the four corners, look at what most grabs your attention. Does this image say anything to you? Santiaguinos? Gringos in Chile? People with no connection here?

I will tell you that it was January 21, 2011, about 9:05 AM, and that we are on Calle Nueva York, outside the stock exchange. The rest is up to you. See it bigger on flickr.

And yes, there will be a reveal, where reveal doesn't mean the truth, just what it made me think. I'm not right, I'm just an observer, just like you.

Chilean Solidarity

2011-01-20T22:59:00.002-03:00

All for one and one for all.

Once again, the topic of individuality vs. group think comes to center stage. This one triggered by a conversation I had with a friend of mine about arriving to the movies with some buddies and finding no set of seats together large enough to seat them all together, other than in the first two (uncomfortable) rows. There was confusion afoot, and everyone got separated, as the "individualist"(American) assumed they should all sit seperately but comfortably, and the "group-thinkers" thought they should all sit together in the first two rows, neckache included.

When I heard the story, I thought immediately of this thing that happened to me the other day, and how me extrañaba (sounds like it means "it stranged me" but actually means "it was so strange to me" at the time, but I couldn't quite figure out why.

I had to get into what to me is the upper reaches of the city, specifically to Vitacura. Well, more specifically, to El Mercurio. The best way for me to get close is to take a colectivo, or shared taxi. So I went to the corner where you wait for the colectivos, and traffic was crawling. And every colectivo that went by was already full. I got to talking to some women that were also waiting, about what to do next. Should we keep waiting? Call the company that sends the colectivos? Hope for the best?

Finally a colectivo went by and he told us that the one behind him had two seats. But our groupleader took it upon herself to decide that that was not enough. By virtue of the fact tht I'd talked to them, we were no longer a group that was two-strong, we were now a posse of three. And if there weren't three seats in the colectivo, then we'd share a taxi, each paying about two dollars more to get to our destination, it ws decided. No, I said, you guys go ahead, I'll wait for the next one. And then she thought about it again, and decided that no, if there weren't three seats in the next car, she would pay for the taxi herself.

It was all very curious, this getting subsumed into group think. Why did she think that my needs pertained to the group. Was it because I was nice? a gringa? a little stressed about getting where I was going late? I forgot to wonder, because then a colectivo came with three seats free, and we paid him a little extra to take a faster paid highway, and like that, I was spat out closeish to where I needed to go and I farewelled my new friends with an air kiss, pressing our right cheeks together.

And I forgot to even think about it or comment on it until my friend came up with the movie seat conundrum. In the case where group think was going to get me where I was going faster, I'm all for it. But I don't know, sitting in the first two rows of a movie? That's just uncomfortable. What does that make me, an opportunist individualist? It definitely makes me less Chilean than empanadas.

Media, El Mercurio and Elephants

2011-01-18T08:41:00.005-03:00

And now for the new media portion, followed by a nursery rhyme that's so cute, you'll want to learn it, even if you don't speak Spanish.

Media; my cryptic talk about the media was about a couple of intereviews with El Mercurio about being a "famous" (?) travel blogger.

1. Little magazine article in the Sunday El Mercurio travel magazine here.

2. The film version, which features not a small number of some of my more recent favorite pictures of Chile, here.

The feedback has been lovely, with the issue of whether or not I sound Chilean center stage. "Your accent is slight," they say or "You're more Chilean than beans" (this is s compliment, really). I still hear my accent, of course, and my goddaughter (age 6) recently pointed out a few pronunciation snafus that I still have. But still, it's nice to know that I sound more like a person who lives here and less like a person who doesn't, since that is actually the case.

However, no matter how long I live here, I'll still never have grown up here. And while I'll have five little monkeys jumping on the bed, or I like to eat apples and bananas as cutesy childhood songs, Chileans have elephants swinging on a spiderweb.

Un elefante (an elephant)
se balanceaba (was swinging)
sobre la tela de araña (on a spiderweb)
como veía, que resistía (when he realized that it was strong enough)
fueron(!) a llamar otro elefante (he went to call another elephant)

And the elephants keep piling on, and the numbers go up.

And though it's not part of the fabric of my youth, if I want to surprise anyone around me, should the song happen to come up (as it did at a concert I went to recently), I can sing along. Though then they'll talk about the issue of whether the last line has the swinging elephant calling elephant or a comrade and I remember that I am, in actual fact, significantly less Chilean than beans. But at least I have a sweet song about elephants (which I now cannot get out of my head). Oh, and bit of snazzy news coverage.

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fueron is grammatically incorrect for the first version as it is the third person plural. It should be "fue," but, probably for simplicity's sake, it is often sung with fueron for all versions, even the first one.

Observations, part 2, and welcome novatos (newbies)

2011-01-15T15:01:00.005-03:00

First, a hearty bienvenidos to those of you who may have come from a news outlet that, in order for me to arrive for my appointment there (because a. I am stubborn and b. transantiagoinforma.cl really let me down on the directions) had me walking along a highway in a skirt and girly shoes. Here it is, ready? Bienvenidos!

More news on the cryptic first paragraph as I have it in my greedy little hands. But here's a picture I took of a projection of my own giant face in the studio where we filmed, and word to the wise, if you're going to be mic'd, for goodness sake, do not wear a very loose skirt, because the guy who has to mic you will probably clip the microphone pack to the waistband of said skirt, and thereby be privy to more of what you have on below your back than you were hoping.

Now back to the business at hand. Observing.

I had written about the new light project to use the Mapocho as a canvas for light here, except it's not yet January 19th, so who knows that that is about.

And last night I had a chance to check it out, first from on the bridge that is the Teatro del Puente, where it looked like this:

And then from the wrong side of the river, which yielded this view:

and later from the right side of the river (right side being the south side, closer to the Alameda). Where I spied this configuration.

I wasn't quite sure what to make of it. At the time I saw a keyboard, but now I see a musical score. You may see what you like, and certainly pop by some evening in the next year to get a better look. There are many spotlights casting colorful light into the water, this was just one, near the bridge at Purisima.

I marveled at the loads of people zipping right by, who didn't even hesitate to get a better look, who didn't see what I was seeing. And then I also slowly slinked away from two guys who may or may not have been opening a bag of something not quite legal on a bench facing the river, and whipped their heads around to see what was going on when they heard my camera shutter click. (not pictured)

And then R and I went back to the Teatro del Puente where we watched a tocata (small concert) by Nano Stern with the energy of every single person we'd seen ignoring the light artwork concentrated into one, bearded, sweaty, long-haired mega ultra talented musician (oh! the guitar riffs, oh, his gorgeous voice). I really enjoy his music and was blown away, along with 139 other fans and family members (heard his cousins recalling childhood memories of him during the long pre-show wait).

And here he is at the beginning of his show with his snake-emblazoned guitar and a musical instrument that he got more sounds out of than any of us expected.

And if you're dying for some audio input, this song is a great place to start. His lyrics and voice are both way older than he has any right to be able to pull off.

And then late, very late, because the concert started late and ran over, I took a cab home, and listened as the cab driver observed (as they often do), that I'm not Chilean. That seems to be the one thing people almost never fail to notice.

You may not be quite as observant as you believe. Or at least I may not.

2011-01-13T21:03:00.003-03:00

Observant. That's me. I'm the person who will tell you that in upper class Chilean Spanish people say "raya" for the dash that separates the ninth and tenth digit of their national ID number, and in the middle and lower classes people tend to say guión. And I'm the first person to point out when a graffitied wall has been repainted with new graffiti. I just notice stuff.

Which is why I was so extra surprised when I was walking not three blocks from my house the other day and saw a little sandwichboard sign saying "Tottus, ya inauguramos" which means Tottus (a supermarket), we're open!

Really? Open? A new supermarket? Three blocks from my house? Impossible. It seemed like some kind of a joke as R and I walked through a mostly empty parking lot to enter what is, in fact, a brand new supermarket just three blocks from my house. I have no idea how this thing was built without me noticing. I pretty much walk and bike everywhere, pass by there with some regularity, read the newspaper, and still? I had nothing. So, brand new supermarket, and me scratching my head, wondering how it went in without me seeing it. Also, strange new products: an $8 box of falafel mix (how many people in Chile even know what falafel is?), and bake-your-own marraquetas, which I have to say look downright tempting. Marraquetas are sort of the national bread of Chile, 4 french bread rolls cooked so they stick together. Perfect for sandwiches and things.

So I continued on my day, with my new 75 watt lightbulb (gasp! Tottus does not have that lightbulb tester thingy which certainly would be illegal in the states, non-Chile dwellers, it's basically an empty live socket which you stick the bulb into and press a button to make sure it's working. Shocking! (oy, bad pun)). And R and I went out for some nibbles, and then made our way along the plaza, the same plaza where I have a cup of coffee at least a few times a month, and go to to take out my plastics recycling, and bike past, and walk past to get anywhere that's not downtown, pretty much (which is uptown from me, but that's another story), and we found that one of the better ice cream places in Santiago (Filippo, if you're wondering) had opened a location. Right there, on the plaza. Where I go all the time.

And I hadn't noticed it either. I'm thinking I'm going to have to rethink how observant I believe myself to be. I wonder what else I haven't noticed lately. Or what else I think is true and really isn't.

Yay, new supermarket and good icecream. And I say I want to move out of Barrio Brasil, why?

And it has come to my attention that I write about supermarkets far more than is probably normal.

Supermarkets on NileGuide
The Shangri-La of Supermarkets
Donating your coins (or not) at the supermarket

Santiago tops NYT list of places to go in 2011

2011-01-09T13:12:00.008-03:00

I went to sleep in a city with relative anonymity. We're not Buenos Aires. No one comes here for the boliches (discos) nor to go to a milonga (tango hall). Some friends of mine visited from LA one time (and by friends I mean people I met on the road and who helped me cross into Chile from Peru with their their guidbook under their arm, and me, floating free, with nary a guidebook but a healthy arsenal of Spanish and a growing infection on the left side of my right ring finger for which I would later get treatment at a local private health clinic in Arica, but not before being thrown out of the public hospital for having private health insurance). So these friends from LA. They wondered what kind of stuck I'd gotten in Santiago, what had happened to me, why I didn't leave.

And then they got here. And they adored it. Loved walking around, seeing architecture, eating more than a healthy number of completos (Chilean style hotdogs slathered with mayo, avocado and tomatoes, I think they may be an acquired taste and I don't eat meat, so don't look at me), and washing them down with gallons of tuna (prickly pear cactus) juice, which is much tastier than it sounds. And they said, we get it. We know why you live here.

I don't know if the New York Times knows why I live here. I'm not even really sure they've ever been here, or spoken to anyone who has. They trot out the same examples of fancyness I profile on NileGuide because they pay me to (and because the things really are nice, and hey, who doesn't want nice on vacas (vacation), and choose a very strange example of up and coming culture in Santiago. the Museo de la Moda, which is nice because it's in a converted old masion, and interestingish for a one-time-visit for its displays, but when I went there a couple of years ago, I was there alone (except for the trusty Mamaj, who is always up for an adventure). It's not on the metroline, is not on the tourist trail, and is mainly frequented for the posh café outside where ladies who lunch well, lunch.

But yay, the New York Times noticed us, put us number one on their list of 41 places to visit in 2011. That's good for me on some level, puts an official stamp of approval on a city I've been encouraging people to visit for almost seven years. Professionally it's good for me, because I can start pitch letters saying "recently-touted as one of the top destinations for 2011 by the New York Times", etc. And I'm still playing by-the-click for NileGuide, and everything I wrote in this piece about how the NYT found Santiago worth of visiting is true.

But there's a part of me that loves the undiscovered, the secret, the mine and yours but only if I choose to share it with you. And I've got the sneaking suspicion that Santiago's not much of a secret these days. Maybe that raises the bar. Or pushes the envelope. Or begs the question, or wags the dog. Whatever it does, it doesn't make me want to be anywhere else, just to get to know this city better and on my own terms. And offer help to tourists standing with maps squinting at the horizon, and let them practice their high-school Spanish with me if that's what they want to do, so they can run off and tell everyone how nice and helpful people in Santiago are. Because they really are. Even if some of us aren't originally from here.

Quoting strangers and the desk of madness

2011-01-02T13:37:00.008-03:00

These quotes are gleaned from the scraps of paper and tiny notebooks that adorn my desk like a lesser version of "A Beautiful Mind." There are no strings, if you were wondering. Hey look, here's a picture. Scraps of paper on the coffee table for sorting (not pictured)

1. Buenos Aires, Ezeiza airport (EZE), 2009, security line (one Argentine to another, taking off his belt): Te juro que me compro una hebilla de cartón (I swear I'm going to buy a belt buckled made of cardboard.

2. San Francisco, SFO, two blonde girls, about 6 and 8. I had overheard the parents say that they lived in Cuzco, Peru, and this was their first trip back to SF in a while. Girl one, being led to the restroom by her mom, as dad stayed behind with the luggage. Points towards the center of the corridor and says, "Mom, what's that?" "A moving walkway," mom responds, and then whisks the two girls into a bathroom. I'm tempted to follow to see how they respond to the hand dryers.

3. Shared ride quote from a woman who by her voice I'd assumed was in her teens, xport within Buenos Aires to my accommodation.
"Yeah, so the hostel, is like, really great, plus I like, stayed there before, but it's near the um bakery which so so good, but it also put like two kilos on me the last time I was here." And then, "I'm dying to see Tron, that's like my main goal this week. Maybe you're not that excited about it, because I'm like 37 and I remember when it was big the first time, you know?" At this I had to turn around and see that in fact, she was a grown-up, adult woman. I hoped her run-in with the bakery turned out okay and got out of the car.

There's probably more deep in the depths of paper scrappage and notebookage (notebookkage?), but these are some of the kinds of things you see me writing down when I pull out a tiny notebook and a pen, or my phone. I don't know how the rest of you walk around and never anotar (write down) anything. It would make me insane.

But luckily I have these pretty unremarkable pictures I took of some really remarkable places with probably my first digital camera in around 2000. Top, Gulfoss, Iceland, Middle, near the national Mall in Washington, DC, Bottom, Jokulsarlon, Iceland. They keep me smiling, most days.

Summer Cleaning! A panoply of things!

2010-12-29T14:45:00.004-03:00

A little summer cleaning. What with today being the ninth day of summer, and that having absolutely no relevance or significance to me, I would like to note the following:

Thing one: I do not care how many times you tell me that humid heat is better than dry heat, it simply is not true. Humid heat makes you wilt, takes away your will to live. Dry heat bores a hole in your skull and sucks the moisture out of your brain, but a dry, dessicated brain is better than a wilty everything. I used to live in Washington, DC, and recently spent a week in melty Buenos Aires. Chileans, stop deceiving yourselves, you got the better end of the heat stick (though not the sun stick, which bears no resemblance to a rain stick, I'm afraid).

Thing two: I made it all the way through past Christmas without eating any, but yesterday, at a synogogue of all places, I had my first piece of Pan de Pascua (vaguely similar to fruitcake, but not really) of the season. It was clovey and had lots of nuts in it, and the people at his progressive synogogue were pretty awesomely nice and the music and discussion were lovely, including Roma (as in Gypsy, not as in Rome)-inspired Nómade, which I can't seem to find a link for at the moment. I find a link to another group with the same name, but the sound isn't the same.

Thing three: I am digitizing my music collection and getting rid of a boatload of CDs, most of them recorded from my originals which are somewhere in the universe in a box. If you live in Santiago and are dying for some new-to-you music, talk to me baby.

Thing four: I also have a stack of books that is ready to go to new owners. How should I handle this? should I create a blog post so you can see what they are, and let me know what you want? In my brain there was a googledoc and we all participated, but then my brain got dessicated from the boring (as in drilling, not as in fome) sun, and today is weirdly overcast, but you know what I mean. If anyone wants to googledoc a Santiago book exchange, let me know and I'll pimp that doc. Otherwise I'll just look at my coffee table in sadness, wondering why it won't empty itself.

Thing five: I have been a busy bee, over at Matador, where I've been writing and snapping, like this:
23 Movies that will make you want to travel
and
Fashionistas do battle at House of Diehl's Style Wars in Buenos Aires

Thing six: I have also been a blogging fool over at NileGuide where I'm soon to be the Chile expert, not just the Santiago expert. Which I think might be exciting, or it might be a whole bunch more work. And I'm paid by the click, so clicketydo if you're curious.

Three Indie Movie Houses in Santiago
and
Santiago a mil, free and cheap stuff to do in Santiago in January
and
Mapocho to be used as a canvas for light, kicking off January 19th

Thing seven: There is no thing seven.

Books for the family

2010-12-26T20:16:00.003-03:00

I am a sucker for books. Books galore! Books a million. I love books. But I also love not having a lot of stuff. So the ideal situation is to buy books for other people (and theoretically, purchase an e-reader, but I'm pretty riotously not interested in that at the moment).

I also have this family. I mean, they're not my family, but they're mine, you know? We're not blood, and we sometimes go too long without talking, but the D-As (last name, not their hairstyle) are my family, probably since before they asked me to be H's godmother, but certainly since then.

So when I was in Buenos Aires in one of the chichi design stores that makes you want to act like you're a movie star, I saw two children's books on sale, one by Umberto Eco, and one by Ray Bradbury (called something like Switch off the Night) in Spanish, I was so happy to have these kids (H and her brother) to buy the books for.

I brought over the gifts on Christmas day, between catwatching (Abby, Charlie's doing fine!) and going to bed ridiculously early. I kind of expected the world to be full of chaos, of a boy running around throwing things and a girl making up her new "head" (one of those frightening disembodied heads you're supposed to make up and style the hair of). But when I got there, H was having a moment, and so I went upstairs to see what was up. Eventually she brought the head up and demonstrated how the hair could be streaked with a variety of colors, and offered to streak mine. (I declined).

She then noticed the envelope with the book on her bed, and asked what it was, and immediately settled down into reading the book with me. It's about a boy who never goes out to play in the dark because he loves light. One day, a girl (called Negra, or Black, in Spanish) comes to visit him to show him how you can turn on the night by turning out the lights. And they all lived happily ever after, playing with the crickets on the lawn.

H and I took turns, first with words, then with sentences, and then with pages when she grew tired. And she called me out on two pronunciation glitches I still have, which are the ll (I pronounce it like a straight English y, but it really has some j-ness to it), and pronouncing all rs like rr, even in the middle of words. It was funny and sweet, and I didn't mind it at all, and I listened in marvel, maybe for the first time, to how beautifully she speaks, how every sound comes out just the way it should, and I remembered that when she was tiny, she would say, "Soy juerte!" (I'm strong, but the word is fuerte with an f, not juerte with a j). And we never corrected her, but one day she just started saying fuerte. (And in fact, she is quite strong).

And I thought about how even if I were to live in Chile for another million years, and even bought another thousand books, I would probably never deshacerme de (get rid of) those pronunciation glitches. But it's okay, because your family, even your familia postiza (fake family) loves you just the way you are.

The keys to my castle in Buenos Aires

2010-12-24T20:13:00.003-03:00

Now that I'm no longer in Buenos Aires, despite the occasional workstoppage which might have conspired to keep me there (and I don't mean my own), I'll tell you that it's a lovely place to be, but the joy of being at home is not lost on me, despite it being Christmas eve an the whole world a giant dose of silence, except for the music in Arabic wafting around from my next-door-neighbor's apartment. He's not Middle-Eastern or even North African, just a studier of Arabic, and I guess he enjoys the music. Who am I to judge, do I not sing Julieta Venegas from time to time? I'm not Latina, in case you didn't remember.

One of the things that was so notable about my stay in BsAs (That's how we roll with the abbreviations in Spanish) was the kickin' apartment I rented while I was there. There was nothing particularly incredible about it, except that it had a decent-sized kitchen, a dining room table, a loggia (like a laundry room), and air-conditioning (so lovely in Buenos Aires, not necessary in Santiago) and wifi. All things (minus the air conditioning) that are a bit lacking in chez eileen, and some of the many reasons why one day I must move.

But one of the things I liked best about the apartment were the keys. See for yourself:

I mean, have you ever seen anything more charming? Every day when I would come home from being out and about, I would think, I wonder what's going on at the castle (where castle is pronounced caaaaahhhh sel)? The way I figured it, I had a key to the castle, the moat (for boating purposes) and the catacombs. In actual fact, I had three keys for the top, middle and bottom lock of my door and one front door key.

I tried to regale other bonaerenses and/or porteños with my tales of dragons and flaming torches and my nifty keys, and they all pulled out keys that looked pretty much the same. Which was disheartening, but did not ruin my joy at saying caaaaahhhhhhsel at all.

And while the apartment was far larger and spiffier with all its extra space and rooms and stuff, I had to give it back to its proper owner, who must make a mint renting it out, and it turned out she wanted her keys back, too. So I returned the keys to the castle, moat and all, and flew back over the Andes, where fierce turbulence turned many a traveler Sprite and coffee-speckled, got the last seat on the centropuerto bus (a steal at 1400 pesos), walked into my building, and turned my plain old regular keys in my door to find, not a castle, but my palace all the same.