Across the Great Divide

I have decided....

2008-10-09T12:51:00.001-04:00

That I don't really like blogs anymore. I find my Google Reader to be a never-ending source of disappointment. Any inspiration or observation I can muster goes to admissions essays or elsewhere. In a phrase: I'm spent. So this will be the last post on this blog, unless a life-altering event occurs.

It's been real.

LA

Nominate Me for the Members Project!

2008-08-12T12:06:00.000-04:00

I’ve submitted a proposal to the American Express Members Project to close the youth mentoring gap. This is a HUGE opportunity to reach thousands of youth across the country. Would you help me get the project into the Top 25?

Members Project is an exciting initiative that brings people together to make a difference in the world. It's simple. People go online to share ideas for projects—and ultimately vote on which projects will share $2.5 million in funding from American Express. For more information on the Amex Members Project visit:
http://www.membersproject.com/

To nominate "Closing the Youth Mentoring Gap. Changing Lives" for Members Project:

1) Go to www.membersproject.com

2) If you aren't a cardmember, click on the "guest sign up" link in the bottom right corner (under NOT A CARDMEMBER?). If you are a cardmember, log in using the box in the upper right corner.

3) Sign up using any email address
Once you're logged in, go back to the homepage www.membersproject.com

4) Use the bottom tabs to find our project under Education --> Achievement Gap

5) Click the "nominate" button on the right to cast your vote!

Many thanks!

And so it is...

2008-08-07T14:09:00.002-04:00

Due to the fact that I've had multiple people remark on my affinity for Jeremy Shockey, and his exodus from New York, I have decided to pay homage to him, and to welcome our new friend Brett Favre to the Jets. I don't feel good about this. I like my legendary, record-setting QBs to be settled in nice places like Minnesota and Wisconsin. Rebellious tight ends with too much to prove should be on the East Coast, where I could run into them at the Borgata or something.

But...is it me or.....does he actually look happy here?

(thanks to Del for sending me this pic!)

The time has come

2008-07-24T10:40:00.001-04:00

I suppose the time has come for me to address a certain situation, that one of our readers already mentioned in the comments. I was trying to ignore it, but I can no longer hide from reality.

Jeremy Shockey is no longer a Giant.

I am deeply saddened by this loss. I am playing with the idea of watching Saints games, the way that one might watch Brett Farve (i mean in the past few years...I can't even get into his current drama) because he's awesome while having no real connection to the Green Bay Packers.

As much as I love you Jeremy, you are no Brett. Granted you both have your fair share of media coverage at this point, and I'd marry either of you if given half a chance. But other than that I can draw no more similarities.

Your potential to achieve Brett status (in my eyes)exists, and perhaps the change of scenery will do you some good. Maybe you won't be as mean to Drew Brees as you were to our Eli. Maybe you'll be less "combustible" on and off the field. I always admired your willingness to beat yourself up if you made a mistake. Perhaps I didn't realize that you were potentially beating up other players when they did the same.

So long Jeremy! Perhaps we'll meet again in fantasy football land.

Causa y Efecto

2008-07-15T09:39:00.001-04:00

A man slapped me this morning. This isn't my chance to self-disclose about domestic violence or anything. A man slapped me because he wanted me to step out of the way as he ran toward the front of the subway. When I yelled after my slapper, he turned to me and said "good morning".

That makes three

2008-07-09T13:05:00.002-04:00

Continuing my list of favorite places in Santiago, which has now spilled over into its fourth month with only two posts under my belt, I bring you La Vega.

This is the Vega by mercado central, not to be confused with the other, larger and scarier Vega on the other side of the tracks. This Vega is the feria where, on a lazy Sunday afternoon Liz and I would go and get special gringa priced palta and tomates. We'd create some sort of concotion with whatever looked freshest, generally involving pan de pita and quesillo. Our big plastic shopping bags would be too heavy for one of us, and we'd hop onto the micro, with one handle in each of our hands connected by produce and awkwardly navigating seats filled with moms and their crying babies. At home, unloading the groceries and realizing we'd bought too much for two people, we'd start texting and skyping friends, inviting them over to share our feast. A few hours and boxes of gato later, we'd made the most of our lazy sunday.

Thank the thankless please

2008-07-09T12:39:00.002-04:00

You know you're having a good time when someone brings you and unexpected free lunch, and then apologizes for the fact that you have to walk less than 30 feet to get your soda. It is an especially good time when at your last conference, know one gave you anything, they treated you like you were an inconvenience, and merely offered cashews and a cash bar at their big "reception".

With all of this conference-related traveling, I've come to realize that event and conference planners have thankless jobs. I don't even remember the name of the conference facilitating this thing, just that it's an NAF conference. Thus, NAF gets all of my praise, much of it deserved. However, had this experience been as crappy as what I got from Czarsnowski, I'm sure I'd know. Because I'd be bitchily complaining about it.

Next time you are at an event, thank them for not being assholes. Not just the hosts, but whoever is standing around wearing black holding a clipboard. It's good karma.

Meet the Fake Boyfriend

2008-07-07T15:21:00.002-04:00

Fake Boyfriend (n):

1) The guy you're having sex with, and going on dates with, and texting all day who won't commit, or who you won't commit to;
2) Your male "best friend" who you go on dates with, who your social circle thinks your dating, but you've never crossed the platonic ocean with

Main distinctions between the fake boyfriend and the fuck buddy:
1) Fake boyfriend calls you for more than sex (def.1)
2) Fake boyfriend wants you for something other than sex (def.2)

The whole idea of dating/vs. not dating, commitment-phobes and casual sex is nothing new, but if I hear one more girl tell me that plans are on hold or up in the air because she's making plans with fake boyfriend, I'm going to scream. I'm all for male friends, and tend to prefer their interaction to women's at times (except that as a result of the preference, I talk like a gd sailor), but we're taking it too far. The end result is: the fake relationship precludes the real relationship. So for all of those women (and men) out their who are using their fake partners in place of their real ones because they're afraid of commitment, don' t they realize that they're actually just in a relationship anyway? And in #2's case, a sexless one?

Just for the record, my current scorecard: Fake boyfriends - 2, Real boyfriends - 0.

I hate happiness

2008-06-26T15:27:00.002-04:00

Negativity is inevitable. People who never have a negative thing to say about their wives, or jobs, or cars, or tiny, walk-up apartments are (frankly) liars. I stand behind this to the end. Dissension and expression of negative thought is a healthy part of the day to day is honest.

I hate business jargon. I don' t want anyone "taking my temperature" during a meeting, I don't want every conversation I have to end with an "action item", and as useful as they are "next steps" make me a little nauseated.

What business jargon is good for is eliminating negativity. It forces you to turn a negative thought into a positive one. For example "I forgot I had a meeting and missed it because I'm a fuck up" turns into "There was a miscommunication and/or scheduling conflict on my end. My next steps will be to review my current action plan for dealing with meetings so that I can stay on top of things in the future."

My problem with this is NOT that I don't think that people should be polite, or that we shouldn't make an effort to be professional, cordial human beings. My problem is that it is FAKE. People don't talk like that of their own volition. They do it because they are trained to, and don't want to step on anyone's toes.

They want this:

That's probably not such a bad thing. It's just unrealistic. We're adults with colorful vocabularies, with character and personality. Take away the negativity and we're all the same, just sitting around in our happy safe space where there are no arguments and we all have the same ideals. That place sounds really boring.
I'll share something else: I don't have the same ideals as you do. I believe in certain things, I don't believe in others. I don't believe in absolute openness, and at the same time I don't believe in secrets*. I believe in democracy but not in the democratic party**.

There is obviously a happy medium here, but how far will we go to find it? How many meetings and brainstorming sessions does it take to figure out that sitting around with people you did not choose to sit around with is hard?

*This is a complicated belief. If you really don't want anyone to know something, you shouldn't tell anyone. The minute you open your mouth, something stops being a secret. True secrets are the ones you don't tell.
**I don't believe in the Republican Party either. Again, this is because I DON'T HAVE THE SAME IDEALS AS YOU. Finding an institution that aligns with your ideals 100% is rare.

2008-06-17T16:02:00.000-04:00

So many strange things just sort of happen. You can’t plan them, or predict them. Sometimes you don’t even know they’ve happened until three days later.

I haven’t had a real place to live in a few months, because I’m lazy, because I’m busy, because I changed jobs (twice, I guess).

Those aren’t the only reasons. I also change my mind a lot.

My mother said to me the other day that in certain ways, I was so much like her mother. What? My mother rarely speaks kindly about Grandma, and I remember three main things about her:

1) Veiny hands

2) Hated our dog Lady

3) Had a very “eat your vegetables” attitude.

I’d find out later that she had a particular affinity for me. She must have enjoyed crippling shyness.

My mother continued “My mother had a few absolutes in her life. There were certain things that she just believed in, and didn’t budge on. You’re just like that.”

That’s pretty much true. I’m full of dealbreakers. It’s one of the reasons that relationships don’t work out for me. I find it difficult to deal with people who don’t meet certain standards, however arbitrary they might be. I think them through, but they only seem to make sense to me. Like the fact that I find hard affiliations to political parties meaningless.

The thing is, I know that I would never live up to my own standards, because I change my mind all the time. I could go to bed dreaming of the perfect apartment that absolutely had to be in Inwood, where I would speak Spanish to my super and take the A train and have pretty red walls and a t-shirt pillow. I would work tirelessly for weeks trying to find the perfect apartment. And then suddenly, hey! I want to live in Riverdale! Closer to my sister, L-shaped studio with bedroom alcove, bring a guy home from the bar in three or four short steps. Or maybe Pittsburgh…

Can you be absolute, and also live in a constant state of flux? I honestly don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder why I’m so often compared to old people.

Everybody Wants You: Comission-Based Grant Writing

2008-05-20T22:20:00.000-04:00

Pretty much every day, someone asks my opinion about grant writing. I didn’t spend all that much time doing it, but am apparently approachable about the subject. After a fair number of cocktails, I suppose I’m more approachable in general. One this is for sure: For new-on-the-scene idealists, the idea of one person being responsible for a pile of money being deposited into a bank account is a lot to digest.

It doesn’t work the way that most people think it does. Grant writing is more than writing, it’s research, following directions, program development, framing, networking, shaking hands and kissing asses. The most well written grant in the world won’t win unless the program or research project is good, or the organization has a perfect reputation.

But people always want grant writers to write on commission. This infuriates me, on a number of levels, as it would any self-respecting writer. I don’t work for free. My words actually have finite value, and whether you ultimately win the grant or not, I have spent time writing them.

Here are some of my favorite grant-related questions:

1) Will you write a grant for me?

Maybe. Depends on how much I like you, your program, and how ready you are for the money. I have written grants for free, for cookies, for money…it all depends. But it’s a choice.

2) I can’t afford to pay a grant writer. Why can’t I use grant money once won to pay the grant writer?

If you can’t afford a grant writer as a full time employee or consultant, you shouldn’t have one. Very few foundations say “Here’s a check. Have fun!” They want reports, they want to check-in, they want to come for a visit; if you are struggling with the grant writing process, you need to assess your organizational capacity. (Blue avocado has a much less bitchy take on when to and when not to hire a grant writer)

There are many writers (maybe not trained grant writers) who will volunteer to write a grant for you. Grant writing can also fall on program staff, the Board of Directors, or the Executive Director.

The important thing to remember is: the grant writer does not necessarily control the process. Funds are distributed based on the merits of the program, not the merits of the writing.

3) My grant writer failed. Why do I have to pay her?

You have to pay her if she produced what you asked for. If she gave you a recipe for grape nut salad instead of a proposal for a reading program, send her on her way. If she produced a cohesive proposal for funding, she did her job.

4) Why do grant writers charge so much if they aren’t in control of the process?

Usually, because they have connections, a reputation or a particular area of expertise. You might a pay for someone who has a particular track record with New York City family foundations because they will know exactly what the funders are looking for, and put you in a better position. Some grant writers are also knowledgeable about program development (like me!) and can help you build or revamp a program to make it more viable for funding. That is slightly different from traditional grant writing, and thus comes at a cost.

This post was sparked by a number of discussions on YNPN (SFBay) and blueavocado today. Please check them out!

The five reasons why I quit my job (and things you should consider if you feel like quitting yours)

2008-04-24T12:04:00.001-04:00

So suddenly, I'm an expert on jobs. A hasty move back to the States made me face a number of realities: I had to get a job, it had to pay well, and it was never going to be like my last one...which I LOVED. So I hastily took another job, which was perfect on paper. I quit three months later. My propensity for updating my gchat status regularly, as well as some drunken facebook wall posts left many people wondering why I quit. I talked to very few people about it, because things got kind of dramatic and I was wearing out the few people I did talk to with the specifics. My bartender (and friend) actually said to me "just stop going to work so you'll stop talking about it."

But whatever, I started a new job.

A friend asked me for pointers on how to make a new employee feel comfortable (he's hiring his own replacement). What I told him, after I said "Tell them you're happy they're here (literally, say 'I'm happy you're here') is that if you feel uncomfortable about anything in the first two hours, you might never shake it.

I'm wrestling with this so much; the organization I worked for did WONDERFUL things for WONDERFUL girls. The job description fit like a glove. What went wrong? Was it all me? Was the transition too much? Maybe.

But not just me. It was a bad work environment, so I quit. Here's why:

1)The Phone
I was set up with a "desk" that didn't have a phone. It's a small non-profit, so at first it wasn't such a big deal, but the constant demand that make phone calls, and the fact that my ED said to me "I don't have time to sit on the phone all day...you do" should have tipped me off that I should move on right away.

2) The Silent Treatment
From the time I gave in my letter (which after I was taken out onto the street and "convinced" to think my decision over for a few days before I did anything drastic...I call this "the most uncomfortable three cigarettes of my life"), the award-winning Executive Director of a respected non-profit just. stopped. speaking to me. Literally, not a single word. She looked at me once, but I think it was a mistake. Maybe she thought I was someone else, like the mail carrier or Mister Softee. But no fuck you, no thank you, nothing. And no, she isn't five years old. Which brings me to number 3.....

3) Founder's Syndrome
Founder's syndrome is a very real, and very dangerous thing. Founders pour their heart and soul and blood and sweat and (insert cliche here) into their work, and ultimately have a difficult time moving on, letting others in, etc. It's like having a baby, getting them past the awkward growing up and then saying "hey, I'm supposed to let go because you might be able to raise my kid better than I can." I get it, I really do. But I'm also very smart, very strong-willed, and very ambitious. I don't always expect to the get what I want, but I do expect to be heard. When a founder can only hear her own words as they bounce around the room and back into her head, we have a problem. And it's time to go.

4) Respect
There are powerful people in life who command respect, and there are no questions. This is not a mutual feeling. These are people like Jeff Sachs and Brett Farve (if you're me)...you respect them, they don't have to respect you. Necessarily.

When you work with people, it's a bit different. You have to remember that they hired you because they thought you were good. While it might be easy to turn it into a "gratitude for giving me the job" situation, that's really not how it works. You are doing something for them, and your resume being plucked from the pile, and your making it to the third interview means that you should be respected. By the founder, executive director, HR staff, whoever. You have already earned it. Any place that puts you into the cycle of "I'm the boss and I get to shit on you and treat you like a moron" is probably always going to treat you that way. If you aren't being respected, demand that respect. If you're good at your job, you deserve it.

Needless to say, the respect that I needed to be successful never came.

5) The job you have vs. the job you want
I think we all fantasize about quitting things. Someone is yelling at you, something is screwed up, someone stole your computer to use your desk for a bagel party and left crumbs all over it....and you want to throw your hands in the air and say "Fine, I'm leaving! Suck it!" But you don't. Or maybe you just dream big, always comparing the job you have with the job you want.

Yeah....that's not what happened with me. I had the job I wanted, it just wasn't the job the organization wanted. They hired someone to fill a position that could not exist in their current structure. This isn't the end of the world, and truth be told a similar thing just happened with my beloved volunteers. It just wasn't my fault, and the blame ultimately fell on me not "being flexible" or "being dishonest". It was really easy to believe that those things were true.

So I got out. Do I know how things are going to turn out at the new place? Nope. Do I think I did the right thing? Yes.

I read the new job description posted for my old position. They altered it quite a bit, made it more realistic. Old co-workers have told me that they are approached about how they're doing, if there is anything that needs to change to make their lives easier. They heard me even if they weren't listening. I think we're all better off.

Four on the Floor: Plaza Italia

2008-04-21T16:03:00.001-04:00

I guess I’m continuing my favorite places in Santiago list with another no-brainer/somewhat cheesy place. And I suppose “favorite” is something of an overstatement: I’ve had friends get beaten up and robbed, I had a hooligan try to steal my purse (he really should have gotten it too…he was a very bad thief), and I was once surround by a group of drunks who proceeded to just stare at me and then get closer and closer…like being on the Metro but on a street corner with no one else around (save my taxi driver, who swept me away).

So I should hate Plaza Italia. And yet, there are so many reasons not to:

1) I lived there, and moved in the day that Pinochet died, hauling my belongings into my apartment to the increasing swell of chanting and noise from outside the window.

2) It’s the perfect meeting place, even for clueless gringos in their first week of volunteering.

3) Giant puppets pee in the street.

4) The Paulistano Schoperia – Best place to watch a futbol game….if you’re Brazilian (this is also the scene of the infamous “blondy girl” incident.

5) Dog fights.

Quitters sometimes win

2008-03-26T00:05:00.002-04:00

I've had another one of those "finding yourself" weeks, and it led me to quit my job. After a little over two months. Maybe it has to do with feeling like my choices were making me (leaving Chile as I did, living in New York, etc.), or being in an industry where your politics and your job are intertwined. I can't say that there is ever a time when you feel more completely and utterly in control of your life and destiny than the moment you give notice. It isn't easy, or pretty, but there is something slightly empowering about the whole thing.

That's not why I did it. I did it because some people are dumb and don't deserve the jobs they have, while others toil away over qualified and under appreciated.*** I did it because sometimes you have to speak up, or else nothing will change, whether it's speaking out about an insane law, or demanding that junior staff members are treated with respect.

Because I want to tell everyone: If you are young, or in some to other way inexperienced, and you do your job as best you can, and say please and thank you, YOU DESERVE TO BE RESPECTED. Seniority and favoritism and idiocy can anda la chucha for all I care. Don't ever let anyone blame you for something you didn't do just because you're new, or make you feel worthless because you don't know where the paper towels are kept. Insecure people do that. And you are better.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. And I'm feeling good.****

***I am aware that this happens everywhere, and that my next place of business may employ some idiot who can't do her job either. I could literally write for hours about my (now) former co-worker who was so grossly unqualified for her director-level job that I had to sit at my tiny desk and laugh/weep daily. But I'm sure we all have those stories. However, when my fiscal director doesn't understand the concept of a fiscal year, it gives me pause. Am I wrong? Can you do me one better? I double dare you.

****I'd feel better if my new job was, say, the New York Giants official pep-talker or funny tshirt maker. A girl can dream. Or John Mayer's joke writer. Or Jeff Tweedy's...drinking buddy? That's pretty wrong. I take it back.

The Lull and the Mull

2008-03-14T18:22:00.003-04:00

Given that I have a lull in my three week mad dash to meet grant deadlines, I thought I'd catch up with some blogging. Because I love nothing more than talking incessantly about myself.

Most of my job is foundation grant writing. Contrary to what some may believe, this is really a group process. Not that everyone is doing the work, but rarely can a proposal be submitted with out read-throughs, revisions and approvals. I don't mind this, as I think that an executive director should have the ultimate say in how i ask for $50,000 or $2 million. However lately, with impending deadlines I start to wonder where all the time went.

For the second time this week, I've done all of my work but my day is put on hold as I wait for th final input that preps the proposal for final submission. This inevitably happens after hours, when people are really feeling the push; people need a sense of urgency to make decisions.

But I start to think about what my time is really worth. As a freelancer, I've had to many times ask myself realistically, how much is my writing worth? Quoting rates, underselling and overselling is all in a day's work (as you can see from this spirited thread over at Freelance Writing Jobs). But since grant writing is my salaried job, I don't have the luxury of billing for hours spent waiting. And truly, in this world of flex-time, working until 10:00pm one night just means I have a blissful sleep-in or morning of errand-running in my future.

That's hardly the point. It's Friday night and I'm trying to make some after-work plans, trying to have a life that I can't seem to have during the working week. But I'm still waiting for that phone call. Lucky for me, I have the opportunity to work remotely on certain days, and as I write this I'm sitting in my favorite wi-fi equipped Irish pub sipping on a Stella. A little unprofessional, but not a bad life.

I'm sure I could work out what my hourly wage is, and how much it is in turn costing my organization to pay me to essentially sit here. Under normal circumstances, I'd be catching up on other work related tasks, it is just difficult to have to idea hanging over you that at anytime the phone will ring and I'll have to drop it all to go back to my proposal. There are few tasks that I could assign myself that allow for such flakiness. Blogging, obviously, lends itself nicely to this lifestyle. If only they new they were paying me to post this!

But I ask everyone, as people, what is our time really worth? How long should we have to wait?

The funniest thing I've heard this week...

2008-03-11T18:43:00.003-04:00

It's only Tuesday, and this is shaping up to be a real shit-show. I'd planned on continuing with my Santiago list, but I'm in a bad mood and I feel like that might hinder my ability to paint a picture of wonderment and happiness.

Entonces....

I'll instead share with you a text that was sent to my sister, from a friend who had been at the bar a little too long:

"Hey Mermaid! You got some seaweed up in you tail..."

Apparently, this was meant as an invitation to the previously mentioned bar.

Five Alive: Patio Bellavista

2008-03-04T20:17:00.003-05:00

I'm pretty sure I'm going to get some crap for this (obvio), but as I was compiling my list of my lugares favoritos in Santiago, I decided to start at the bottom with number cinco. And that led me to the ever-touristy, but pretty damn awesome Patio Bellavista. So maybe the crafts are a tad overpriced (as is the Guinness), and it's not exactly a hideaway (on Pio Nono por Dios!), but let's break down the pros:

1) There is Yogen Fruz
2) There is Vino Navegado
3) There is the Organic Coffee Man, who told me not to worry about anything, it was all going to be ok, when I broke down in tears while choosing a tin to bring home, the day before I left Santiago for good.

All this and you can sit outside! This is truly a happy place.

"Sick"

2008-03-04T19:51:00.004-05:00

The truth is, I'm sick as a dog. I don't get sick like most people do. I have an above average immune system, so I don't necessarily have the dripping nose or constant coughing. But on the inside, I feel it. But no one ever believes me.

I went to work today, because I had been in bed for two days, and watched an episode of One Tree Hill, signaling to me a real and intense need to do something productive. I kept opening up my laptop to work on something, when I would get distracted by Best Week Ever. I figured, even in my pathetic state, up and out of bed was the way to go.

People have a lot of opinions about non-profits, ranging from the whole "you guys are saints" attitude to a more cynical "why don't you have a real job" (thanks dad!). I'm on the fence about the whole thing myself. There is something about this new job, which I should absolutely not be talking about online, and one a blog that isn't all that hard to find, and which has my gd photo on it. But let me break something down:

I was the only administrative person in my office today. I'm a mid-level development person, but pretty close to the bottom of my particular orgs totem pole. The "administrative team" is fairly tight knit; we share very close quarters, overhear lots of each others' conversations, and generally tolerate each other. And yet, I was ridiculous annoyed that I was the only one in the office today. not because I think people shouldn't get sick, but because there wasn't any sort of email or pow wow or something about it. I mean, for frick's sake. For a bunch of people who truly believe that the world begins and ends with them (i am SO going to get it for that comment), how could you not give anyone a heads up that you aren't coming in? Am I crazy?

I take a step back and realize that I left New York initially because of this nonsense, because the pettiness of office politics was overshadowing the work. When I left my first non profit job, it was because I was really annoyed at my co-workers, and it clouded my judgment about everything. I like to pretend that I'm not that young and naive anymore. But that was only three years ago, so who am I kidding.

So I've come to terms with the fact that I will never like everyone I work with, nor will I like every aspect of my job. And that there are some really bad days. Or weeks. Unfortunately, when I'm unhappy, I always think of Chile. I didn't even like it all that much, yet I can't go back whenever I want, and that really makes me sad. So for a while, I've been trying to think of all of my favorite places in Chile, or I guess Santiago itself. Since I get a lot of ex-pats asking me questions about Chile.

That's coming up. And less complaining about work. Of course, feel free to leave your work idiocy in the comments.

Pop Tarts are disgusting

2008-02-12T16:35:00.000-05:00

When I returned from Chile after almost two years away, I could think about little besides food. Ok, that's not true, as anyone who has ever read this blog probably knows. However, I was so unbelievably ready to eat like a normal person again, it was beyond ridiculous. I love a good completo, or a lomito italiano. Eating either one of those things with any regularity is, obvio, wrong on many levels.

I realize that speaking as someone who had to have emergency surgery while living in Chile that affects my eating habits to this day and forced me to eat nothing but quesillo, mermalada and galletas aqua for months, I might be a bit biased in my outlook at Chilean food. But the bottom line is: I am from New York. I grew up spoiled in terms of food. Chile was a shock to my system, in more ways than one.

So returning to States, I had a list of all the things I was ready to eat. They were almost all from the Chinese food menu, since Chinese food in Chile is a constant source of disappointment to me and others. I ate sesame chicken everyday for the first week that I was home, due in part to my varying hospital stays, and the fact that people were constantly throwing 20s at me and telling me to “make sure I eat something”. I gained 10 pounds.

And then I moved on to those brightly packaged, hold a meal in your hand kind of American treats. I was thrilled one day to find out that pop tarts only cost two dollars, yet disappointed that they don’t make the low fat s’mores ones anymore. But my American desire for a deal made me grab them anyway.

My god, why did we ever eat these things? Mealy grossness with crusty sugar topping? Propensity to burn in toaster oven if not carefully watched? Lip scalding jam hidden inside? I am disgusted and appalled.

Tomorrow, I choose toaster strudel.

18-1

2008-02-04T16:47:00.000-05:00

I don't even have to say it. It's all been said.

But maybe Mr. Terrific should take a lesson from the Manning bros about how to be gracious and humble. I blame Belichik. For everything.

This could be better....

2008-01-21T04:07:00.000-05:00

I love the Giants. This, my friends, is no secret. I screamed horrible things at Tynes when he missed those two field goals, all the while telling Eli that he was doing a great job, no matter what. And really, I'm a Brett Farve fan, as long as he isn't playing the Giants.

But really, wouldn't this whole thing be better if anyone would give us a little credit? We didn't win the Dallas game, they lost. We didn't win today against Green Bay, they collapsed. Do 10 straight road games, and the calm, cool, collected play of a fourth year QB who's never won a playoff game mean nothing? Seriously Fox Sports, Sports Center and NFL on CBS. Show a little respect.

What about Chile?

2008-01-16T23:33:00.000-05:00

Facebook is kind of killing me. I joined because one of the volunteers (he was 19, of course) kept telling me I was old because I didn't have an account, grandma jokes were tossed around. I was the oldest 26 year old in the room, so I bit the bullet.

I avoid Facebook like the plague. The photos of volunteers at retreat, the walls full of private jokes, the unanswered messages to me asking about my "return to my old life"...now I'm the oldest 27 year old in New York, as I now have a new life, and an old life, or something.

I'm erasing Chile from my life.

It's no real secret that I was never the biggest fan of the country. It's refreshing to be able to make friends with women again. It's nice to not to have people yell inappropriate things at me (although, now that I work in Harlem I can't say that never happens. In Harlem, people whistle).

I know that I'm making it worse on purpose, and that thinking about how much I miss my kids, and the fact that I can't replace them with the new girls I work with (although I might be able to be part of a book club for the girls! woot!). You'd think that, with the similar backgrounds of abuse and neglect, the focus on positive roles models, and the mission of putting children in charge of their own destiny rather than "saving"them, that the transition would be smooth.

But there was something comforting about living and doing this kind of work without my friends and family looking over my shoulder, being overly interested and making cracks about prostitution. Almost everyone I knew in Chile was involved with the kids in some capacity, aside from the random Chilean men I dated. And I can't say I ever talked to them about anything heavy. I never had to explain myself the way I do now. My conversations weren't all long political statements.

Or maybe they were. I can't remember.

Child Prostitution Laws in New York State: WTF

2008-01-16T10:41:00.000-05:00

Here's some issue stuff I'm getting worked up about today. This is pretty outdated, but I'm new to all of this. Chew on it for a while, especially all of you New Yorkers:

Safe Harbor for Exploited Children...this didn't pass.

Disclosure

2008-01-15T21:57:00.001-05:00

I've been toying with this post for a few days, writing it in my head on the subway or waiting for a bus. As much as I'm dying to relay the same kind of messages from my current job as I did from my last, I feel unbelievably guilty about disclosing exactly what's going on, or even where I'm working. It's all so sensitive, and it gets more real everyday. I'm an impostor there, and already have the feeling that I can't do much to help these girls. I can't relate to them, I can't ever truly understand them.

And then I try to wake from my melodrama. We had a long talk about disclosure today, the point being that at some point, the girls may want to discuss their situation with me. I am told that I have to be ready to handle it. Me. The girl who has already cried at her new job (tears of joy, because I got good news about my family while sitting at my desk). I have no idea what I would or wouldn't do, put in a situation that I merely write about on paper to solicit money. It's the kind of thing that in my world can't possibly be real.

I started listening to Ingrid Michaelson who, as it turns out, I totally know. We went to college together, and had lots of friends in common. We went to the same parties, and unknowingly gossiped about the same people. It is really weird to find yourself singing the songs and quoting the lyrics of someone you used to see perform in the dining hall. But I will anyway:

"I want to change the world, but instead I sleep." This is from "Keep Breathing" was featured heavily on Grey's Anatomy. Normally I'd say something snarky about that, but if there is one thing that Grey's does really well, it's drive home a scene with good music. Her song "The Way I Am" was in an Old Navy commercial, but I have issues with the video because of all the clowns.

So other people feel this way? All of the good intentions with none of the energy. Or good intentions leading to exhaustion because you feel like nothing you do is ever enough, like you'll never make a dent.

I had dinner with my best friend today, who I haven't been spending nearly enough time with. The theme of our meal, as if meals ever actually have themes, was DON'T FEEL GUILTY. About not having money, or moving to Chile, or leaving Chile, or being happy that you have the apartment to yourself, or that you don't speak Spanish anymore, or that you really like Grey Goose and won't drink well, or that you have a nice phone. Sometimes you need a nap, or can't get to the gym. Sometimes you just don't know what another person has gone through, but you listen to them all the same.

All you can do is try.

Never a doubt in my mind...

2008-01-06T22:12:00.000-05:00

Eat that Barber twins!

Also: Never, ever read the "Weddings" section of the NYTimes. Thank me later.

Feliz Año Nuevo!

2007-12-31T15:44:00.000-05:00

Perhaps it's because I am still mourning the loss of Jeremy Shockey for the Giants playoff game(s, hopefully). A friend of mine suggested that I revamp this blog to deal exclusively with my favorite tight end, then write him a letter asking him to sponsor either my current or former place of employment, a relationship which will blossom into an intense friendship and our inevitable nuptials. Writing this out I realize how insane it sounds, so I'm going to keep blogging about work and such, particularly the over-stimulation that starting a new job brings.

One of the hardest things about posting on this blog is how much it makes me think about Chile, and every time I have to revisit the circumstances under which I left. By rights, I should still be there, with my kids, with my volunteers, in my happy apartment with a job that I loved and the most comfortable bed in Santiago. Did I cry when I had to sell it to a purpose-less gringo who had just moved to the country, telling me "I don't know, maybe I'll teach English"? For the fourth time that day.

I delayed having to think about my old life, which seemed years away, when I was whisked directly from the airport to the hospital, only to return to a different, and much crappier hospital three days later when a friend was hit by a kamikaze cab driver who actually considered not stopping until I stuck my finger firmly in his face and said "Go f*ck yourself!", which maybe wasn't the best way to get him to stick around, in retrospect. As it turns out, of all of the people on the street that I night, that cabbie and I are the only witnesses to what happened.

"Are you sure the light was red, Lauren? Are you sure? Was the light red?"

I hate hospitals, and I hate how cliche it is to say that. But it's true. In the hospital room of my first visit, one of my sister's friend broke down, talking about how only horrible things happen to people in hospitals, and people don't come back out. Had she not poured Tanqueray into my Sierra Mist, I would have thrown her out, as no one in that room needed a reminder of any potential outcome. I countered "What about when babies are born? That's happy?" My sister and friend looked at me with a slight shake of the head. "NOOO! she cried. Do you know what happens to a woman's vagina?" I found her bottle of gin, topped off and tried to focus on Meerkat Manor. So it's not the smell, or the illness, or the constant beeping that gives me the creeps, it's the adverse effect that hospitals have on otherwise sane people.

I like to think that being in a normal work environment will make me more retrospective, since I've spent time wishing I had documented more of my Chilean journey. So much happened, and so much didn't. The hard part for me, is that so much is still happening that I can't be a part of anymore, that I traded a Chilean school for an American hospital room and a newfound addiction to my laptop. My selfishness upsets me, and I find myself drawn into the alternate reality of (as previously documented) of SoapNet.

And this, my friends, is why I don't find myself compelled to blog. Because I'm a sad-sack.

Happy New Year all the same. I have nothing but the highest of hopes for 2008. Will I get into graduate school? Will all of my friends continue to get married and have babies?

And most importantly, will I finally get to meet Jeremy Shockey?

It pours

2007-12-19T20:05:00.000-05:00

I knew I was hitting rock bottom when I said to myself "Maybe I should start watching One Tree Hill." Until that moment, I had zero interest in the show. Especially since a friend of a friend made out with Chad Michael Murray at a party in the Flatiron District. While he was still married to Sophia Bush. But in the SoapNet midday line up, sandwiched comfortably between Melrose Place and the O.C., One Tree Hill seemed like the next logical step in my journey to full-on tv junkie. It wasn't until I spent two endless hours watching what can only be described as "everything wrong with the teen soap drama...with none of the good" that I actually turned off my television, my partner in crime for the weeks since I moved home from Chile, and vowed to never watch SoapNet again. The strange thing is, that's when the phone rang.

I got a job. A real "what-I-want-to-be-doing" kind of job, in a crappy neighborhood with awesome people. When the Deputy Director called me, after four days of speed bumpy inter-continental reference checking, it was almost as if she knew how narrowly I escaped CMM and his overacting crew of soulless adolescents, and the job offer (which I accepted so eagerly I was greeted with a slight, but audible, giggle) was my reward.

Then, perhaps because I was overjoyed at the prospect of having something other than Riverdale gossip and the New York Giants throw-myself-off-a-cliff season (and now this?), I left SoapNet off for the remainder of the day, and actually worked on a short story (in which my protagonists always get the cool nicknames I never had). I was snapped out of "Jules'" plucky world by a gmail chat "plunk", and with it a freelance offer. In my inbox, the long-awaited response to a blog pitch. Followed by three separate announcements that friends are engaged, which is getting old very quickly (I'm so happy for all of you, really). And I think I'm getting a temp job in the meantime. Big stuff.

That was Monday. Am I gloating? You bet. After weeks of making things up to tell my friends about my "day" and wishing I had a dog, I actually have news. It's good news. And as my blog struggles to re-find its voice, I believe you'll now be hearing about how (or if) it's possible to throw myself, 100%, behind something new, with the memories of Chile and the volunteers still so much in my mind. So for now, we'll start at 50% new place and take it from there.

And 0% One Tree Hill.

The Four Stages of Unemployment

2007-12-16T17:41:00.000-05:00

1) Elation: Oh, to be in my bed until noon, followed by "take me back to simpler times" episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 before spending two hours at the gym. Round out the day with emails, texts and a drink at the Irish pub and the world is a wonderful place.

2) Boredom: You know what? Beverly Hills 90210 isn't all that good. And Guinness is expensive. If feel the drain every time I'm asked "So what makes you want to work here?"

3) Frustration: Credit card bills creeping, not getting the job I thought I would, too much time in my head, useless temp agencies, and a partridge in a pear tree.

4) Depression: This helps. So does this.

The Return of Pop-Up Video...

2007-12-06T15:04:00.000-05:00

This should be on television. But I'll take what I can get.

The Best (and Worst) Omnipresent Christmas Music

2007-12-05T19:32:00.000-05:00

Being unemployed (and having people tell me that I don't have to be in any rush to find a job) I'm spending a lot of time by myself. That is, I'm spending an impressive amount of time watching television. Coming from living in Chile with limited channels and an obsession with Dr. 90210, the world of choices and movies and DVR have left me on commercial overload. And it's working. I hear a song, and I know that I'm supposed to buy something. The bell is ringing, and I am a dog.

These songs were chosen to be included in ads ad movies for a reason, for their catchy quality, their nostalgia, or their "hip" beats. And they're everywhere. They just opened a Starbucks in my neighborhood, and those crazy kids and obligatorially blaring their overpriced itunes playlist/ixed CD. But the fact is, no matter how hard I try to hate what Christmas has become, and how much the music feeds into it, some of the songs are just really good. They make me happy to be home. So what's the best? What should you play at your next holiday party and not have peole hate you? Here you go:

1) God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen: Barenaked Ladies & Sarah McLaughlan
I heard this in Starbucks today, and I just love those Canadians. They managed to spice up a tired oldie, that I always hear sung by a men's choir. It's good times, trust me.
2) Stars: The Weepies
This is the song from the Old Navy commercial, and it's very sweet, if not an actual Christmas song. They also have a song in the JCPenney commercial (all that I want), which coincidentally is on the same album as the above song. And their song "The World Spins Madly On" is awesome, but overplayed on hip television shows. Commercialism at its best!
3) Please Come Home for Christmas: Charles Brown
Now, this song is overplayed on the movie circuit. But I'd come home if Charles Brown sang to me, and that's that.
4) River: Joni Mitchell, Indigo Girls or Travis (my personal favorite) versions
This is always played at the sentimental point in the movie, and that annoys me. It's a truly beautiful tune, and should just be appreciated for that.
5) A Change at Christmas: The Flaming Lips
The Flaming Lips brought us Yoshimi, and then they brought us this. And it's awesome.

Honorable Mentions:
-Carol of the Bells
-Santa Claus is Coming to Town (Bruce Spingsteen)
-Christmastime is Here (A Charlie Brown Christmas)
-Keep Christmas With You (Christmas Eve on Sesame Street)

And the worst:

1) All I Want for Christmas is You: Mariah Carey (or whichever wannabe is singing it at the moment)
This was a great song. A new classic, if you will. But right after that little girl sang it in Love Actually, it should have gone to sleep. Out of movies, off of tv shows and absent from ads. But instead, it became just as tired as all of the other Christmas standbys, which is really a shame.
2) Santa Baby: Whoever
I so fucking hate this song I can hardly stand it. It's everywhere, it's endless and it makes me want to rip my ears off my head and sling them at the poor shop workers peddling their soap or scarves or slippers wearing hideous outfits, even though it's probably their boss making them play it. This is the worst Christmas song in the world. It should be shot.
3) All Alone on Christmas: The Holiday Express
See above. Only replace "shops" with "movies", which makes the whole sentence somewhat nonsensical. But whatever, that's how much I hate this song.
4) Blue Christmas: Elvis
You know what? I hate Elvis. There, I said it.
5) Grandma Got Runover By a Reindeer
Is so truly idiotic....

In my very intense research, I stumbled upon this article about selling out, or Beyonce-ing as I like to call it (that HDTV commercial...are you kidding?). The use something called "The Moby Quotient" (hee) to calculate sell-out-ness of music as used in commercials (how does my beloved Wilco measure up?).

Trolling

2007-12-01T21:00:00.000-05:00

I've been trolling around the blogging universe alot lately, due to my unemployment and general disenchantment with life at home. I've seen some really hilarious Internet fights, with lots of housewives getting all uppity and lots of idiots being idiots.

I realize something: I'm really sick of blogs about blogging. Or freelance writing. Spitting out the same nonsense about how to make it into the business, and make money, etc. Sure, I found some jobs through a website that lists jobs, but it seems that every member of that community has their own blog about....blogging. If everyone is just blogging about blogging, then what's the point. There is so much more in the world to be talking about!

Like the fact that I'm becoming more and more obnoxious with each passing day. I interviewed at a little npo on the Upper West Side, and they decided to consider me for a job with more responsibility (and a higher paycheck) that I originally applied for. Hooray for me, right? Well, no because I didn't get it. Because I wasn't really all that qualified. So then, why put me through three interviews? Right now, I don't really have any idea why they did it. But I hate them.

Working in the non-profit field is not unlike for-profit, in that people are still really competitive. At all the interviews I've been on since Chile, I always get the feeling that we're talking more about whose organization does the best work, or has the greatest mission, or reaches the most children/women/endangered species. It's kind of exhausting having to talk about how great we all are as people, especially in the "give me a job, please" context.

Ideally, this will all be over on Monday, when I expect to hear from and org that I really like, and that I think would be a great fit for me. Until then, I leave you with a great list from Cracked.com. Enjoy!

What's a Fark fanboy? a.k.a. Why I love football!

2007-11-26T12:49:00.000-05:00

I couldn't sleep last night, because I spent all day either watching my dreams shatter (not really, I'm keeping hope alive), prepping for a big funding meeting with the E.D., and trying not to think about the impending decision about my potential new job. It's also really difficult just to be living back in the States, but I don't think I can talk about it just yet.

So I came across this post at a new-ish blog which is written by a group of women freelancers/bloggers, one of whom I follow at Freelance Writing Jobs. I like FWJ because I've found work there that enabled me to live in Chile for so long without a regular income.

I've sprinkled a post or two, cryptically I suppose, about my love for the New York Giants. I am a football fan, through and through. I found the post really offensive and uninformed, and thought about posting a list of why I love football here (on a somewhat girly, touchy feely blog) just to sort of say that men and women are not separated by sports, and that one woman does not speak for all of us (I don't think that's what she was trying to do, but the whole thing started to become about gender lines, etc.).

The writer was totally attacked in the comments. Nasty, hurtful, unnecessarily attacked. Name calling, etc. ensued, and she eventually had to start moderating her comments. I don't have anywhere near her readership, so I'm not all that concerned about mentioning it here. All the action apparently was stewed up by her list appearing on Fark, with which I'm only slightly familiar. So what gives over there? What is everyone so angry about? I should be the angry one, considering the way the Giants played yesterday. But instead, I'm staying positive.

A little about why I love football:

1) Three hour games: The football season is short, but the games are long. Every one of them means something. I'd take a three hour game over a seven game series any day.
2) The Quarterback Sneak: It usually works, even though we can all see it coming.
3) Jeremy Shockey: It's refreshing to see someone get as mad at himself for screwing up a play as he is happy with himself when he does something right.
4) Tailgating
5) Coach's Challenge: Am I the only one who likes this? It's like a jury verdict coming in. Very tense, very exciting. Sometimes refs are wrong...the challenge means we won't be talking SO much about bad calls the next day.
6) The safety: The St.Louis/Seattle match-up started with 2 points on the board. There is something so satisfying about seeing the opposing QB sacked, and that satisfaction is doubled when you actually get points for it.

I could go on, but I won't. I just love the sport, I love standing behind a team whether they are good or bad, just because I said I would. I love seeing Brett Farve having one of his best seasons at 38. I love the yelling.

And it really doesn't matter to me if some random blogger doesn't get it. It's her loss.

FRACK!

2007-11-24T13:07:00.000-05:00

A friend is visiting from Chile, with gifts for me (not including Frac, the best galleta in South America), and we're pitching VE to a great big donor on Tuesday. Wish me luck, and forgive my utter lack of posting for the past two weeks. A quick rundown of what's been going on, and what my problem is:

1) I left Santiago is somewhat of a rush, due to some family issues and my need to be home.
2) I cried for a week. It has tapered.
3) I've been spending lots of time in hospitals (not as the patient) and looking for a new job. People keep asking me to compare Chile with the States. I'm sick of the question, so now I give fake answers. Like "Chile smells like baking bread, New York smells like candied apples."

So what becomes of this blog? Well, I have no idea where I'm going to go with it. I have some hilarious travel/job interview stories I'd love to share, and I'm still involved with the organization and there is always something exciting going on there. We'll just have to see.....

Happy belated Turkey Day to all of you Americans!

Vote for Chileno!

2007-11-03T01:37:00.000-04:00

Fellow Chile blogger Chileno has been nominated for Best International Blog - Latino in the 2007 Weblog Awards. So hop on over to the site and give him a vote.

Also, I realize I've been remiss. I'm well overdue for a real post...packing is hard, and I'm being a deadbeat. But here's what I've got on the menu: Colo Colo fights, stuck dogs after sex, tailbone injuries, naughty fairies....how's your interest? Come back soon for my last week in Santiago!

Space, the final straw

2007-10-22T09:31:00.000-04:00

People have left some pretty interesting comments about their relationship with Chile. Perhaps because it's clear from the blog that I'm from New York, or maybe because it's a city that many people have been to, there have been a few comparisons made as far as rudeness/crowdedness/etc. that I'd like to address. In rant form.

The absolute, without a doubt, worst thing about living in Santiago is the in-your-face lack of etiquette on both the transportation system, and in the street. If you are not pregnant, you deserve to be pushed, shoved, and otherwise manhandled at any time. As I've mentioned before, personal space not a thing here. It makes me absolutely crazy. It makes me hate everyone and everything, not leave my apartment, and give up entirely. When I get to the Metro during rush hour, get shoved in with the crowed and actually make it on the train, and then some man in the doorway puts out his arms and pushes everyone even further onto the train just so he doesn't have to wait for the next one...let's just say, if I could move my arms, there would be violence.

I want to make something clear: This doesn't really happen in New York. I've lived in the city for almost my whole life, and have commuted from both the UES and the Bronx. Sure, some idiots push themselves onto trains, but generally people don't want to spend their half hour-to- an-hour on their way home after a long day pressed up against a stranger. I'll just say it: that's really strange. I admittedly also find it strange how much people make out with each other in public, but that's because I'm not much for PDA. Culturally, people have very different notions of physical boundries in this city, and it is that mentality, combined with the "big city get ahead" thing, combined with lingering memories of scarcity and oppression under Pinochet that makes walking down the street, or getting on a micro, sometimes unbearable.

So I understand. I sort of get the why. But please, for the love of God, let people off the metro before you get on. Wait for the next train, since it's coming in 2 minutes anyway. Wait in line for the micro. Walk to right in the street. That's what we New Yorkers do (except for the last thing), otherwise the entire city would implode.

Oh Giants....

2007-10-22T09:30:00.000-04:00

I never doubted you. Ok, maybe I did. But just you Eli. And I'm sorry.

What's Up?

2007-10-15T22:15:00.000-04:00

We invited some friends over tonight to watch the game. A big game, because it's my team and they're doing pretty well. As well as one can when their QB is so hit or miss. The wrong sports metaphor, I know.

Because I've screwed up the schedule so many times, I made sure to check espn.com to make sure that MNF would in fact be gracing us here in Chile. Even with the recent time change. Anticipating a 9:30 start, I was horrified to see baseball highlights, and began to assume that the Sox had bumped my beloved Giants. I checked again, this time in VIVO! my trusty cable revista.

The game would be shown at 1:30am. For no reason that I can currently fathom. I have very real memories of watching MNF at Hooters, Publicity and the Geo Pub. In fact, once the Geo pub closed IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GAME I WAS WATCHING. What was different today?

Pablo tells me: It's Chile. Everything is different.

And so it is. We're trying to pick a new Program Director, and have to ask ourselves if an American, or Holander (?) or Mexican can adjust to life in Santiago, without the luxury of integrating with a class of volunteers like all the rest do. None of the current admin, save Luke who came on a fellowship, have come out of class. So many come for a very "latin" experience. The kind that you simply don't get in Santiago, at least not right away. I've struggled recently, especially with my impending exit from VE and Chile, with the fact that I can't say that I enjoy life here, outside of the volunteer and VE experience. Like so many expat bloggers, it gets increasingly difficult to enjoy life in a city where people don't appear to enjoy their lives.

So I ask the Chileans reading this blog (and I know that you're out there)....what do you enjoy? Do you have the same love-hate relationship that I have with New York? Is it hate-hate, or love-love?

And will I be able to stay away from NFL.com until 1:30am....

The best laid plans

2007-10-11T10:11:00.000-04:00

I always have these really lofty goals for when I fly. I assume that I will have my laptop open for eleven hours and will tirelessly tip-tap-type away, studying for the GRE, maybe writing a whole grant and a first draft of my grad school applications. I've never really done this. In fact, with all of the flying I've done in the past few months, I've gotten very little done int transit. I'm a big fan a the "board plane, pass out if possible" method of flying.

And yet, I'm a compulsive email checker. Both of my jobs are largely email dependent, and I have supervisors who email me and expect an response immediately. This is largely their problem, and unless they one day decide to provide me with a Blackberry or some other leash, I can't promise that kind of turnaround. But I try.

So I'm appalled to report that unlike I previously assumed, there are no airports that have free Wi-fi for passengers. Pretty much all of they are affiliated with some sort of pay service, which generally charges a minimum of $7 just to check your email. Which meant no blogging, and no working. Even if I'd wanted to. So maybe we'll scratch that whole first paragraph and say "I really wanted to be blogging for the past three days, nonstop. Damn expensive Internet."

My hero...

2007-10-01T16:34:00.000-04:00

...is this man...for today anyway.

Desperate...

2007-09-21T14:12:00.000-04:00

I don't know what made me think that it would be easier to keep up with this from New York....I'm actually spending less time with the laptop, but am no less inspired by life. Just can't seem to keep up. So a list-style post today:

Saying to a Home Depot employee "If I were the duct tape, where would I live?" is not cute, and will not go over well.
Costco is the absolute best place in the world to get photos developed. Two 12x18's are well worth the membership fee.
My friends and family are wonderful, supportive people.
New Yorkers love photography taken by children.
You should never assume what language someone does or does not speak.
I will find a job that pays well.

Anything you learned this week? Let me know....

Crocodiles are Scary..

2007-09-13T17:34:00.001-04:00

Today was the greatest day. I had all of these plans: meetings, grad school applications, random work. My phone is ringing off the hook. At a certain point, when I realized that there was a marathon on of the entire 3rd season of Project Runway, I just stopped. I decided that working at my laptop for 12+ hours everyday since my flight out of Santiago was just not normal. This blog post will be followed by the sweet click of my little Dell closed, for the night at least. Tomorrow, well...that's another story altogether.

...and have a drink with me

2007-09-12T10:36:00.000-04:00

I walk into my favorite Irish coffee shop/bar in Riverdale. A weird man is having a beer at 20 minutes to 11. He's not Irish, and seems generally confused by life. In the other room, children are singing "You are my sunshine", because this place hosts 'Mommy and Me' on Wednesday mornings, as it turns out. This is honestly painful to watch/listen to, and even though I work with kids and have learned to appreciate many of the random things that make them happy, I have also come to appreciate how many dance recitals, school plays and chorus rehersals my parents had to sit through. My parents are saints.

Home Stretch....

2007-09-06T10:14:00.000-04:00

Four days to go, so much to do, and not enough time to feel the happy-sad-confused that I usually feel while I'm awaiting my flight from the Santiago airport. I so desperately want to go home, see my family, sleep in my old bed and have a real pint of real beer. And perhaps some Bombay Sapphire. And some Chianti. So maybe I just want to go home to drink.

But I'm also sad to leave these new people that I just me. They're amazing, and inquisitive and funny. They can't wait to get to work, they play all of our stupid get-to-know-you games, and they don't complain. They come from all over the world. They are the epitome of what I always imagined this experience to be.

They also ask me to translate everything, and don't understand the use of the word "po". I explain to them that I often, especially in collectivos, pretend that I don't speak Spanish, or English. Most people think I'm German, and most people don't speak German, so that works for me.

I asked my friend at lunch last week why people think it's ok to interrupt any conversation that I'm having, in any language, to ask we where I'm from. I could be pouring my heart and soul out to someone in a restaurant, tears in my eyes, and a man at the table next to me will turn to me and say "Where are you from?" No "excuse me" no "sorry to bother you", just the basic presupposition that if I am speaking English, or poor accented Spanish, it is ok to interrupt me.

So my Peruvian friend set it straight: "Who are they?", he asked.
"I don't know, just people. Whoever," I replied, ever helpful.
"Men," he laughed at me. "So, they're 'joteando'."

He's right, of course. It isn't just random people on the street who want to chat (they generally just stare). It's the jotes. Jote means vulture, and is the way to describe the men who circle you on the dancefloor, or at a bar or, apparently, in a colectivo. And the interruption is a lame attempt at flirting. What I always wonder is: Does this work? What would I want to talk to someone who's so rude?

And yet, we talk. We don't want to be rude, we don't want people to not like us. We're foreign, strangers in this country and any attempt to communicate can be a welcome change from feeling isolated.

Unless you decide that you only speak German.

A Donde Sea

2007-09-01T23:12:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was possibly, the most productive day of my life. Maybe not my whole life, but certainly my Chile life. That's a lie, too. It was just a very very productive day, and I tend to exaggerate.

The new people are coming. In fact, some of them have arrived. We picked up our first at the airport in the morning, and installed him happily in the hostel. He had a book of spanish phrases he thought he might use, and I appreciated his effort (as did our Peruvian friend and driver). He was so excited. It was contagious.

New people means lots of communication. It seems like everyone needs to know which volunteer is going where (and why). And yet, even though Liz lead a great meeting on Thursday, only six institutions were represented. Sometimes the lack of effort is very discouraging.

Yet Liz and I decided that we should meet, personally, with as many institutions as humanly possible before the newbies arrived for their first day of work, timid and frightened and silent. The key to everything about intensive volunteer work is making expectations clear from the start. And talking.

We started in La Florida. I never appreciated the comuna when I lived there, how clean and suburban it is, its greenery. The neighborhood around the hogar we visited is particularly lovely, close to the mountains and full of talking babies. The fact that is was a perfect spring day only compounded my overwhelming feeling of joy and being around the kids.

After baby-time, we went to my institution. As it was after class time, and the atmosphere was a bit different. With no kids, and the sun going down, I felt like a kid in trouble sitting in the directora's office, and even though I explained that she will be getting 2 new full time and one part time volunteer, she didn't seem thrilled to see me. We needed a baby to come waddling in to lighten the mood; I maybe should have brought one with me from LaFlorida.

Leaving the school, still in LaFlorida, we walked towards Los Navíos, one of the toughest neighborhoods in Santiago. We should not have been walking, and with each passing block my happy world of La Florida, where I worked every day for months, became less familiar and more ominous. When I'm walking alone, I always assume I draw attention for being American and ignore it. With Liz by my side, I am reminded that my hair doubles and triples the stares and catcalls, as tells me that she can walk around alone without much hassle.

Thankfully, a taxi.

The lovely trees disappeared as we cruised down Bahia Catalina. The streets became more beaten down, with more potholes and roaming dogs. We arrived at the community center as it turned dark, the taxi driver concerned that he was leaving us in a place like this. "Are you sure you want to get out here?" he asks. "Yes," we reply, for what seems like the millionth time in the past year. "This is where we work."

I'm coming home and having a party!

2007-08-29T20:20:00.000-04:00

De Nuevo

2007-08-24T19:31:00.000-04:00

I almost titled this post "Here I Go Again" in honor of the Red 7 crew, which really (as Amelia reminded me) only consisted of she and I when it came to karaoke. And "Here I go again" wasn't actually our song, it was "I want you back" and when we sang it, I think we made everyone hate that song a tad bit more than they had before. As if it's possible to truly hate that song.

But here we are, getting ready for another new class, planning another Palooooza (which might be my favorite event) if for no other reason than I get to bring my black dresses into rotation. "What to wear?" for me means "Which black dress to wear?"

Re-reading old posts, which I've done since I noticed that more and more people are reading this blog, made me feel like maybe (as I do in my own journal) I talk a lot about things that aren't happening, or that should have. I remember well talking about the "Land of Missed Opportunity" because I got a lot of "hang in there" emails as a result. The truth is that today, or maybe the last few days, a have dropped quite a few wonderful things into my lap. Since the beginning of August, I've felt a big wave of self-confidence, and people read that way more than I give them credit for. I talk about things like they are going to happen, rather than like they should.

We've (perhaps) hit a slow patch. No new projects are starting (which is really a good thing) and we're on our "low" number of volunteers for the year, which is normal during the winter. But people just seem to be enjoying themselves, the kids (some of whom are going to build snowmen at a ski resort tomorrow), and the weird, gray, Santiago life. As I made a Facebook profile last night (don't ask) I was getting unbelievably nostalgic (compounded by the fact that I am going home in two weeks) for New York. I look at the photos that I took around the city and I think that New York just seems so much more crisp and orderly somehow. And that appeals to me.

But at the same time, I solidifying all of these relationships that I was scared to death to solidify before. The thought of getting too close with people who I might only know for 6 months (or even 3...dear god) was terrifying, and I shut myself off. More and more, I'm laughing the laugh of someone who is actually connecting with those around her. So much so that yesterday, as I misheard every sentence out of a volunteers mouth (and yet insanely answered her questions), we weren't laughing because I've lived in Chile for more than a year and should know Spanish already, but because life is fun.

Where do I stop, where do I begin?

2007-08-22T17:40:00.000-04:00

This has been an interesting day, and it's only 5:40pm. Office hours are 10am-6pm, but since I live in the office, the hours are now, later and even later.

An email appeared in my inbox this morning. The subject: I wrote about your blog. As I have two blogs, technically (this one and that one), and I generally have multiple gmail accounts open, I though he was talking about the VEBlog, which is a work in progress. At an admin meeting last night, I told our Formation Director that my goal was to start updating that blog daily, eventually getting comments, etc. His response was: "Lauren, en serio? Diario?.....pucha." This can be loosely translated to "sure.......ok."

This blogger, Chileno, was talking about ATGD. Woo-hoo! His words were flattering, and he seemed to get the point. However, I took a look at the other blogs he'd reviewed and I started to feel guilty. I don't blog about travel, because I have little time to travel. I don't blog particularly about poverty and my work (it's more anecdotal) because my position somewhat precludes my ability to openly discuss, negatively I suppose, the organization I work for. The founder once came upon a post I wrote last December about an event we put on. It wasn't overtly negative, but I used the phrase "not a well oiled machine." I mean, we're not, but we're getting there. It may have rubbed him the wrong way. Plainly, as I officially speak for the org in a professional sense, I can't speak for them here, however unofficially. Therefore, I haven't tried very hard to publicize this blog at all.

I started this as a way to explain to my family and friends what the hell I'm doing in Chile. I'm not in love with the place (if you read Chileno's blog, he does a fine job of explaining why I wouldn't be). Being in a place that has all the appearances of a fine, upstanding member of the global community doesn't seem to make sense, considering the conditions in which we work. Having a higher literacy rate, or per capita GNI doesn't mean that the children I work with can read, nor does it make them any less poor.

More than that, I don't want to beat people over the head with poverty, and how a small group of volunteers in Santiago think that they can change the world. I'd like for people to see how fulfilling and frustrating it can be to try to get people to work together, exist within an imperfect social service system, not speak the language perfectly, and try to help a new non-profit grow. (For the record, I didn't start it...I arrived on the scene two years in)

I just found out that a grant that we applied for (painstakingly, in three stages) did not ultimately get funding. We submitted it as a long shot, but with every step forward (we were one of 30 finalists out of 545 applicants) we got more and more hopeful. This would have been our first major source of funding in Chile, and the reading program that we designed was, and is, very personal to me. Books are unbearably expensive here, and the school where I volunteer doesn't have any. I read to the kids once a week, and that it possibly the only time that they come into contact with books at all. There is simply no access. I wish I knew how they measure that magical 99% youth literacy statistic.

We created something replicable, that brings families into the mix and that focuses on pre-readers. We read the needs of the kids, how they like to get up out of there seats and put things on the blackboard, and how they like to point out every strange picture in the book as I'm reading aloud, as we mapped out what kids of things we'd do with them each week. We talked to the tias about what they needed to get out of the whole thing.

So this was a blow. I went to school to tell the director and she wasn't there. I practiced what I would say in Spanish, and how I would explain that I was going to focus on U.S. funding sources next. It makes me uncomfortable to tell her that, because of the pre/misconception that all of our volunteers are independently wealthy and can fix all problems with American money.

Of course, if I went into a depression every time I didn't win a grant, I wouldn't have made it through 2004-2006. So we move on. To the next foundation, the next group of volunteers. Our tour is moving along, so we could just make enough money to do the program outright. How great would that be?

What's Pablo Doing?: A Photo Essay

2007-08-20T13:51:00.001-04:00

"Poor Kids"

2007-08-19T19:10:00.000-04:00

The latest issue of the newsletter went out today. It was the tenth issue, and it's been a year since I started it at all. It has come so far. The current editor put together a fantastic piece about inequality and how it relates to children's rights and our work. You can find the newsletter here, if you're interested. The fact that it exists at all is a major accomplishment, and I'm very proud.

Getting wrapped up in trying to learn a CMS or a CRM can sometimes prevent me from visiting my kids. My pride and joy of a reading program has faltered thanks to days and nights spend planning "the tour", helping out with decision-making within the org and just doing my job. I'm usually a very "behind the scenes" kind of person, but recently I've become much more active in the day-to-day, and less obsessed with the future and growth.

Which is why, when Liz told me we were taking kids to the movies, I jumped at the chance. The jardin is one of my favorite places. The kids are anything but standoffish, and desperately want to know you and play with you and talk to you the minute you walk in the door. Taking them to see Ratatouille, on the micro no less, sounded like the best thing one could do on a Wednesday morning.

I had no idea.

These kids are hilarious. We walked down the street, everyone holding hands and singing "Vamos al paseo beep beep beep, en un auto feo beep beep beep." There are more words than that, but since Tia Lauren couldn't remember them, we just sang those over and over again. I never realized just how high up those micro stairs are, but trying to get 12 four year olds into a bus with any speed is next to impossible, unless you have the help of every Chilean man on the bus, who can't resist the urge to help a gringa in distress.

I knew the movies would be a big deal. A multi-plex, bright, colorful and full of noises and sounds, is overwhelming for anyone. For a child going to the movies for the first time, it was...an assault on the senses. The lifesized cardboard cutouts served as hiding places and new friends. The blue and red carpet seemed like a perfect place to take a nap after a lively round of "arroz con leche".

But nothing could compare to Michael Jackson. As Liz negotiated the box office lines, where the only tickets left were for Shrek 3, the kids caught a glimpse of a TV monitor playing the Thriller video. They were equal parts enthralled and appalled by what they saw, and the volunteers were too busy grinning stupidly at how happy the kids were to notice that they thought it was the movie. After MJ's 10 minute masterpiece ended, the kids grabbed our hands and were ready to head home.

I've told this story many times, sometimes in an effort to explain what it is that I do, and why I do it. Other times just to make people smile. Most people get that, but occasionally I tell someone and they say to me "That must make you feel so good. To give something to the poor kids."

Like a punch to the gut.

Poverty is part of my daily life, but not in a way that makes me feel like my taking children to the movies is somehow going to save them. These kids may be from the campamento, but they're kids just like any other kids. I remember my first trip to the movies: excitement, fear, confusion, Snow White. Their fascination with zombie videos had little to do with money, and everything to do with youth. The most important thing that I can tell anyone is that children need attention and love, and that's what our volunteers provide. Not ipods or an expensive pair of shoes, but a first experience. Like meeting a famous futbolista. Or having a proud face in the crowd when they win an award at school. Rich kids need that as much as the poor. We all do.

Best Week Ever!

2007-08-15T10:11:00.000-04:00

While at YAI, I became something of a Dlisted girl. Michael K is nothing short of hilarious, and I enjoy my celebrity gossip mixed with a little bit more snark than some other bloggers go for. I had forgotten, in the land where I only watch La Ley y El Order:UVE on television, all about VH1 and their obsession with forced nostalgia. However, the blog for Best Week Ever, is awesome, especially their obsession with John Mayer - not the oh-my-god-he's-hot-he-dated-Jessica-Simpson-his-music-will-save-us-all John Mayer, but the one who is actually really funny, and who had a one episode television show a couple of years ago that fell off the face of the earth, and which my friend Victoria told me existed and I didn't believe her. Ok, Victoria. You win. I know he had a tv show.

He also hung out with Dave Chappelle for a little comic gold:

It's only Wednesday, yet this week feels long already..in an inexplicably good way. As Liz and I were riding home in our colectivo yesterday after a staff meeting, we just kept turning and saying to each other "that was a really good meeting." I'll be honest: I never say that about our meetings. They take place at 7:30pm every other Tuesday, sometimes lasting until 10pm (as this one did). While they are a chance for people to see each other (there are some volunteers who work and live in places where I never see them, so unless we're in the same social circle face time is limited. There is generally so much to say about everything - announcements, assignments for futbol league, a talk about receipts - that meetings can drag. And if a meeting drags, the volunteers are sad. Because it's a Tuesday.

But right now, there is some kind of onda (mood...that's a loose translation) within the org, and it was definitely present last night. We had a group discussion about conflict management, and people were raising hands and falling out of their seats to participate, in English or Spanish. The group is small right now, but dedicated. There are problems, but we're talking about them.

The reason for this ambiance of happy: la cara fea. See for yourself.

Razzle Dazzle

2007-08-10T14:16:00.000-04:00

Save the date!

VE is invading NYC on 19th September for an art exhibition/fundraiser on the Lower East Side. There will be no charge to get in, and we'll have photos taken by children through our OJOSnuevos program.

This will all take place at GalleryBar (www.gallerybarnyc.com). More details to follow.

Chauito no mas, po

2007-08-06T17:10:00.000-04:00

In Chile, unexpectedly, no one says 'adios'. In fact, the only time I've ever heard someone say adios to me in this country was the pilot of my plane going to Argentina. I then felt like maybe in Argentina they said 'adios". Nope. They say 'chau' as well.

'Chau no mas' is what you say to someone when you want to end a conversation, or you're being a dick. Like, you wouldn't say "Chau, no mas" to your mom, because it means everything from "ok, bye" to "go fuck yourself". "Chauito no mas, po" is possibly one of the most chileno things you could ever say...but if you say it to a stranger, you might have to have a large bouncer at a salsa club come to your defense.

It is the latter that I have decided to say to my Wilco blog. While it was fun to write about something other than 1) myself 2) my organization, it is way too much work to keep up with for way too little money. However, maybe I'll continue to post music-related news on this blog, just to put some pressure on to update more regularly. Hmmm...so many possibilities.

For example, check out this blog to hear a whole bunch of pre YHF recordings featuring Jeff Tweedy and the publicly-ousted Jay Bennet. If you saw "I am trying to break your heart" (and seriously, why haven't you seen it?) you might be on the fence about who was the bigger dick in the moments before the band moved forward sans-Jay. Use these recordings to remind yourself that they're both incredibly talented, and that it's hard for boys to get along all the time.

The Genius of the Panty

2007-08-03T10:51:00.000-04:00

Chile is not big on central heating. I feel bad saying this, as my apartment/office is one of the warmest I've encountered in Santiago, due to some sort of weird water pipe that runs under the floor. When we were cat sitting, we'd find her curled up in the most random places: the floor next to the refridgerator, the middle of Liz's bedroom, etc. Yep, she found all of our place's hotspots.

Today, it is zero degrees. Our office, which is located in the back of the apartment, with two big walls of windows, is freezing. The kind of freezing that makes it impossible to work. However, if I were to move to say, the living room (which I imagine to be nice and toasty) I'd be dealing with 1) people 2) La Ley y El Orden: U.V.E. For those of you who thought that it was only the U.S.'s TNT that was obsessed with Chris Meloni and Mariska Hargitay's child molester-busting, think again.

But I have something else that is somewhat unique to Chile: the panty! In this wonderful country, panty means pantyhose. And they make all kinds of clothing out of this fantastic nylon material: leggings, shorts, tank tops, mock and cowl neck sparkly tops. All designed to go under your clothing, providing a protective barrier against the biting cold of cement housing.

We could all use more panty in our lives! Everyone gets cold! Write to your congressman!

Oh, and read this: http://www.bestweekever.tv/2007/08/02/introducing-juan-mayer/#comments

In the air tonight

2007-07-30T11:59:00.000-04:00

The month of July has been sort of a bust as far as blogging goes, due mostly to traveling to Buenos Aires (more elaborate post to follow) and the states to see my family. The U.S. was an odd culture shock this time, mostly because I wasn't in New York, and Stuart, FL is unfamiliar territory. Everything was so expansive, tables set far apart from each other in restaurants; I got some of my personal space back.

Riding around with the top down, to and from the beach, I started to think that I could get used to this small town, warm climate living. I started to hate Santiago's smog and general sense of rushed unhappiness. I began to think about why it's ok for a man to spread his arms and give a giant push to a bunch of people standing in the door of the Metro, just so he can get on. Or why I'm not allowed to touch my shampoo before I buy it. Or why I need a hundred receipts. I was so happy to be in Florida..why did it make me so bitter?

This was fleeting, because I got to eat at some awesome restaurants (especially this one) and spend alot of quality time with Tom, Sue and Christine. I got some sun. It was very relaxing, even though I had to make some early morning runs to Starbucks to work on this and the people were unbelievably pleasant.

But I enjoyed flying back into Santiago, after all. It isn't my favorite city, it doesn't feel like home, but I love my job. Eleven months later, I still love my job. I'm hitting a groove with how to make money and do this at the same time, planning for the future, making connections. So many people have come here for the city, but I came for the organization. For all of these issues I've found with this city, it brought me to the exact place I need to be.

And the mountains are gorgeous.

New Gig

2007-07-08T17:58:00.000-04:00

I have a new gig writing for a Wilco fan blog. Check it out here. Although, the first two posts have me depressed (about not being able to go to Bonnaroo, mostly).

Cheers!

Spellbound

2007-06-27T22:37:00.000-04:00

One of the girls involved in our completely magical photography program took the above photo. I just love it.

And: I'm going to use spellcheck from now on; reading through some old blogs has made me feel like a loser.

Also: You should watch/download/Netflix Dexter, because Michael C. Hall is a genius. Of course, that's after Machuca.

That is all.

This woman's work

2007-06-26T23:36:00.000-04:00

Sip it up.

(yes, the website is finally done. I can breathe again.)

50 cups of coffee and you know it's on

2007-06-23T17:20:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine used to say that line (sing-song it, really) all the time, and I always assumed it was a song lyric. Seeing it written out, it's just dumb.

But I'm still in Starbucks, and I'm trying to think of something appropriate to write about life or work or something. Like yesterday, I went to the toma to visit the jardin (daycare) and play with the kids. You aren't supposed to pick them up or make them fly or anything fun, because if you do it to one, they all want a piece. "Ahora mi, tia" was the mantra for about a half an hour. I didn't mind, except that my arms hurt a bit today. I got a little bitter at the tia for stopping the kids from asking me to pick them up so that they can touch the ceiling, because if I don't dote on them, what am I even there for? Is it so bad for the presence of a visitor to mean that there are going to be a few hours that are more fun and special than normal, especially on a Friday? I have no idea, and as I do so often do, I manage to convince myself that so much of our work is doing more harm than good. But those kids are so cute.

This has nothing to do with coffee, or with the Starbucks in which I am now sitting, which is being patrolled by a security guard wearing a suit and tie. In Starbucks. I have no idea what is worth stealing here, but I am going to use this opportunity to present to you a deep dark secret of mine: I attended a coffee tasting in Starbucks last week.

Who knew such a thing existed, let alone in a mall in Santiago, Chile. It turns out that every Starbucks barista has to be trained in the ways of coffee. To demonstrate their knowledge, they must conduct a tasting with their patrons, under the watchful gaze of all of the other staff members. Two types of coffee are presented (only from the FRENCH PRESS!), for wafting, sipping and enjoying. They are accompanied by expertly chosen baked goods. They both taste wretched, and I wonder why I still some to Starbucks at all.

It's the free wi-fi.

Bouncing Around the Room

2007-06-15T15:38:00.000-04:00

Oh my sweet goodness gracious. I'm freaking out. Seriously, undeniably, freaking out about the launch of our new website. We're already 2 weeks late. Or a year, depending on who you ask. I'm obsessively posting photos, taking them down, and posting them again. It's sick.

Its also orientation week, so the new volunteers are here and they need things. Like talking and advice and coffee and sandwiches. We got to talk to the U.S. Embassador to Chile on Wednesday. It was as thrilling as it sounds.

If you've ever wondered about Chile's history, watch Machuca. Immediately. Even if you don't care about Chile at all. It's that good a movie.

2 dates, you're out...

2007-06-10T17:03:00.000-04:00

I'm not doing so hot with my resolution of updating this daily, or even weekly. I'm going to have a paid blog soon, which will either drastically improve my ability to get a post out with some regularity, or....not. Vamos a ver.

I think that this week I have the best excuse, because I've been teaching myself how to use joomla (like a psycho) in anticipation of our website relaunch tomorrow (ok, tomorrow is the first day of Orientation, so maybe Tuesday). It's been...interesting. We had a webmaster, who did all of the CSS to create a custom template, which meant that when I tried to change anything I felt like a worthless joke of a person. He left, and plummeting (is this a word?) of my self- esteem ensued. But thanks to some nice people from the joomla forums, things got on track, but not without many a weeknight sitting in my bed reading techie websites and feeling like a crazy person. We're almost done, ¡gracias a dios!

I also went on a date this week with a random Chilean I met at Starbucks, a hotspot for Chileans and gringos alike and wherein I have been asked out multiple times (hilariously, as I'm generally here with my tall gringo friend, and am approached only when he gets up to go to the bathroom or get more coffee...in many ways I wish he has a weaker bladder).

He was nice, if not a little on the boring side (which I'm happy to chalk up to the language barrier, as I do everything else). That was, until he let the cat out of the bag that he was a RAGING RACIST!. In fairness, I find Chile to be one of the more homogeneous places I've visited, and the lack of diversity (which isn't a criticism as much as an observation, my Chilean reader who attacked me when I insulted Transantiago) allows for the rampant exchange of crazy stereotypes. But my date, who we're calling "Chad" because Liz told me she hates that name, wasn't just ignorant, he actually tried convince me that a certain racial group (does it matter which?) was, simply stated, a group of stupid criminals. He said this to me, as if I was the one who could then justify his belief having had actual interactions with the unnamed racial group. After he dropped the bomb, and I after I repeatedly said "Actually, no. ___ people are just like you and me...the usual response to a ridiculous blanket statement. At first I really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt (or think that he was joking, at least) but then the conversation continued like this (i'm obviously paraphrasing, as the conversation took place in Spanish...the italics represent what i would have said, was I not a giant pansy when speaking in any language other than English):

Chad: "So, I'm right aren't I? All ___ people are criminals?"
Me: "What?"
Chad: "Oh, you must not understand me. You see, I hate all ___ people, because they are stupid criminals, and I'm glad there aren't many in this country. Actually ____ people too. They just want to blow everyone up. Especially people like you."
Me: "I wish I could blow you up. Or stab you with a fork. Why did the waiter take the fork? Probably to stop you from talking with your mouth full. Racist. Actually, I understand you perfectly. I already said that it wasn't true, and you aren't going to convince me otherwise. I don't think I want to talk about this."
Chad: "Why not? It's because it's true, isn't it. I've seen the movies. You can say, (looks around restaurant) there are no ______ people here. Just admit that it's true?"
Me: "That you should probably be taken into an alley and beaten? Yes, yes, I'll admit that. I'd like to get the check please. I'm very tired, and I think this conversation is inappropriate***." (***I said the word 'inappropriate' in English with really fun finger quotes to amuse myself.)
Chad: "I think I like you. Can I take you out salsa dancing tomorrow night?"
Me: "If by salsa dancing you mean a place where I slap you repeatedly and drink expensive wine, then yes. No."

And scene. It wouldn't have been so bad had this been our first date. But he waited until number two to bring this up. Actually, I don't know what the worst part of it is. Other than the fact that I'm afraid of men who go to Starbucks.

No Bravery

2007-05-28T20:10:00.001-04:00

So maybe I'm something of a complainer. It seems to me, that with recent health scares, dying pets, funding issues and ego trips, I have something to complain about. I've always believed that laughing through a complaint makes it less annoying. Apparently not.

Someone told me to be positive today. I look back on the last few weeks, and I made it through surgery, we got a much-needed donation, I started actually getting paid for freelancing (which has made it a LOT easier to travel in and out of the country....customs and passport control don't understand how "volunteer" or "pr director" are professions....no one questions "writer"), we had two amazingly uplifting art events for the kids. Nothing much to complain about.

But I still want to moan and complain. Because through getting sick, I became this whiny, needy girl who was always crying for no reason and who lashed out at people. I wasn't sitting and being brave and nice and smiling through the pain....I had a meltdown.

We're all so hard on each other; I'm probably the worst of all. No matter how old you're getting, or whether you're working in social service or as a writer, or a doctor or an astronaut, you never get over this need to compete, to be better. The volunteers I work with are so obsessed with how everyone else is doing, who's friends with who, even who the kids like more. I don't know why it matters so much any more than I know why I've spent the last few weeks competing with the stronger, less weepy Lauren.

She's not perfect, either.

That funky monkey...

2007-05-16T15:56:00.000-04:00

My very first freelancing article is up! I wrote a (somewhat exhaustive) piece for JobMonkey.com about Overseas Volunteering and you can see it in all its glory here. It's almost 50 pages long...I don't expect that anyone who is not actually looking to be a volunteer would read it...but yay me!

Give a little, take a little

2007-05-15T23:00:00.000-04:00

In a better, brighter world I would have a picture of my gallbladder to post on this blog, with a very short description of the last four days. But sadly after Friday's emergency surgery, they didn't let me keep my apparently-useless organ, nor did they give me any photos. Actually, due to some unfortunate translation, I spent two days thinking I had surgery for kidney stones, and not a complete removal of my gallbladder. People go back and forth between feeling sorry for me and thinking that we're all idiots. In fairness, Chilean doctors (even good-looking, half-Australian, English-speaking ones) are less than forthcoming. They told me over and over the name of my ailment and surgery, assuming that I knew what at "colecistectomia" was. I thought it was a removal of kidney stones. Not the case.

Farewell sweet gallbladder! You will be missed. As will my pride.

Canciones de Amor

2007-05-02T11:41:00.000-04:00

There is a great song called Canciones de Amor by a Mexican singer/songwriter named Julieta Venegas. I've recently been listening to nothing but her music in my ipod, causing me to now associate her lyrics with various places in Santiago that I might pass ("No seré una mujer perfecta" means Parque Balmaceda, for example). I was listening to Canciones de Amor during my train ride to Rancaugua this weekend, and it made me wistful and giggly. It doesn't have particularly uplifting lyrics (Estoy tan cansada de las canciones de amor/siempre hablan de un final feliz/pero sabemos que la vida nunca funcion asi***) but the bouncy guitar and somewhat optimistic tone offset the pessimism (and I believe, truth) of the lyrics. I am obsessed with this song.

I am that girl that girl who believes that love stories and love songs don't really happen, and that people make them up. Every relationship I've ever been in, or known of even, has ended with the destruction of one or both parties - no happy endings there. I don't know if that's just my generation, and if we aren't programmed for the long-term anymore, or that romance is dead...I have no idea. It's kind of amazing how many girls came down here thinking that they would meet some wonderful, romantic man...the kind of man they believe they can't meet in New York or San Francisco or Madison, WI. I didn't even have the optimism to hope that would happen to me; Santiago men proved to me in my first few days that they are not so unlike New York men. I will give them credit for having some wonderfully forthcoming pick-up lines, though.

I'm wrong about all of it. Something pretty amazing happened to me in the hot springs of Termas de Cauquenes. It was novella-worthy (and more than likely I'll go ahead and write a short-story about it). I met someone, we connected, I left....we'll probably never see each other again. But the whole thing was so hopeful and bizarre. There's so obviously no long-term relationship there, no happy ending in the traditional sense. But maybe that's what Julieta really means, that happy endings just aren't what they used to be. Because I'm certainly happy just having had the experience of living outside of my life for two days with someone new, who for some reason understood me as much as I understood him (in Spanish, to boot!). I'm happy that romance is alive and well and living outside of Rancaugua.

That's my happy ending.

the English translation
***I'm so tired of love songs/always talking about a happy ending/but we know that life never turns out that way****

Night Moves

2007-04-22T21:00:00.000-04:00

I looked around my apartment/office yesterday. I was alone, and searching for a kitten that I'm kitten-sitting, and which hides all day under either the couch or my bed. Or behind the suitcases next to Luke's desk or on Liz's chair. Or in the bodega surrounded by Becca and Katie's (her mommies) stuff. Or anywhere really, that is nowhere near me. Because the cat hates me.

She hates me so much that she waits until I am mid-way through a beautiful dream - where I am a lonely back-up singer for a faceless, guitar-playing gentlemen named Jack Crawford, who one day sees my latent talent for pitch-perfect harmonies as exactly what he needs to bring focus to his next album and we form an indie music duo, fall in love, develop a dedicated cult following and refuse to go mainstream; just as we begin playing our intimate farewell concert at the Great American Music Hall to an emotional crowd (so that we can retire and I can begin my second career as a private detective)- to curl her little paw into a little fist, and punch me in the nose until I wake up. It is 4am.

It's like she can sense that I have a dog preference, or that when I see her little food bowl in my room I flash forward 10 years and I'm changing some other cats food bowl and cursing the day I let the first cat into my life. Why is it only ok to be single and have a dog?

She was a street cat, rescued and nursed back to life. She's had a hard life, and she's in a new place, with lots of traffic noise and weird gringo volunteers coming in to use the bathroom. Why don't I feel more for her? Am I as cold and heartless as so many believe? Or are cats just ridiculously creepy?

Vive LaKeaneo!

2007-04-18T10:45:00.000-04:00

The Vive Latino music festival, held in Santiago's Club Hipico (its a racetrack) on Sunday was my first concert since I moved to Chile. I can't believe it, really, since I used to see live music once a week when I lived in New York, and it isn't like they don't have any here. Just poor prioritizing, I guess.

In our usual form, we only caught the last four hours of the 12 hour festival thanks to an unfortunate map-reading blunder and my tendency to ignore everything that anyone says to me in the street, even if it is directions to Club Hipico. Its a defense mechanism, really.

I was familiar with some of the bands in the 22-strong line-up, and was happy to be introduced to Los Jaivas and Vicentico (formerly of the Los Fabulosos Cadillacs...if you don't know the song "Vamos a Bailar Toda la Noche" you should). It was also just nice to be outside; as the weather gets colder this will happen less and less.

But of course, there was a lot of random weirdness. For example: The fest was sponsored by Cristal. I love me some Cristal, because there is a giant billboard (which lights up in happiness, and shows the time and temperature) on the roof of my buiding, and because they make beer in green, red and black flavors, which is awesome. The whole park was filled with giant inflatable Cristal cans, tempting and teasing me. But there was no Cristal to be had. Actually, after 8pm there was no anything to be consumed, and people lined up around random water spickets to hydrate.

The other thing was...Keane. They were the closing band, drawing the biggest crowd. I have nothing against Keane, and as it turns out they were successful in Chile before they even broke out in the States....but at a Vive Latino festival? Really? Que raro, po!

Aquí Estamos

2007-04-12T15:19:00.000-04:00

I'm letting this speak for itself....

Always the Best Friend, Never the Bride

2007-04-12T14:47:00.000-04:00

The title of this post is this short story that I'm working on, which is very self-effacing and dramatic. I was going to post a excerpt of it, just to have it out there so in the hopes that I might get some feedback and get over my fear of ever having anyone read my work. Since I've been selling writing now, I'm going to have to get used to people actually publishing it. But I digress. I've decided not to publish said short story excerpt, for now, because many more people read this blog than I thought (I'm tracking you all, pts)...and I'm simply not ready for this kind of committment.

Young Combatants Day/Día del Joven Combatiente

2007-03-30T01:39:00.000-04:00

I'll admit right now that I don't regularly read and Chilean newspapers. Occasionally when I'm on the metro in the morning I get my hands on the Publimetro, or I'll buy El Mercurio if it is a particularly interesting day (Pinochet's death, Bachelet's election, etc). Since my self-informing activities primarily take place after the fact, I was not prepared for today.

Alameda's storefronts (Santiago's Broadway) were closed. Buses were few. The metro closed early. Volunteers were tear gassed. We received this warning early this morning:

"There may be protests and such things. While there is no reason to be alarmed, I think it would be wise to be aware of your surroundings and not to go wandering too much in the city."

What? I don't know what this means. Seriously, since Transantiago came, there is a protest everyday.

But wait:

from the Santiago Times

"CHILE: STREET PROTESTS, TEARGAS COMMEMORATE 1985 DEATH OF YOUNG PINOCHET OPPONENTS"

"Flying rocks and teargas marked the 22nd annual Young Combatants’ Day, which commemorates the slaying of brothers Eduardo and Rafael Vergara Toledo by Augusto Pinochet’s military forces in 1985." rest of article...

en Español, de El Mercurio

"Alta seguridad para evitar los desmanes"

"Se acordó cierre de 5 universidades y protección a buses del Transantiago." leer más

They say its the worst its been in years. The city is empty but full of tension all at the same time, with an eerie, micro-free silence broken periodically by the sounds of yelling or chanting or bottles breaking.

The wounds of this country, the dictatorship and its results, are far from healed.

A Touch of Grey

2007-03-30T01:17:00.000-04:00

This week fall came rumbling in (literally...there were two earthquakes this morning). We haven't seen the sun since monday, and our window-filled office turned in to a n icy wind-tunnel. As I've explained many times, Chile isn't all that cold (climate is like northern California, at least in Santiago), but so few places (including my apartment) have heat that when its cold outside, its also cold inside. And everything is made of concrete. So its cold, and dark and I have three grants due tomorrow and I've been cranky all week. So here is a foto of my last really great day:

Kids. Playdoh. Punto.

7 days

2007-03-27T13:46:00.000-04:00

Has it really been more than 7 days? I'm so in trouble.

This post is going to showcase my vanity, because I did something potentially traumatizing, but absolutely necessary, with mixed results: I cut my own bangs.

Many know of my struggle with the bang, beginning with an undying hatred and quickly advancing to obsession as my stand-in stylist "KC" cut my first bangs in such an amateurish fashion that I stormed out of the salon. "What was I thinking?" I thought to myself, as I walked up 3rd avenue to hide in my room until they grew out.

My last bang experience was when I was 5, and my grandma took me on one of her secret trips to the Lemon Tree at the mall, against my parents explicit instructions. It didn't bother me all that much before, because I was a child and she used to give me cookies. But on this particular day, she had me get the most heinous, tiger looking bowl cut ever, and when I showed up at school the following Monday my kinder-friends pretended they didn't know who I was.

Thus, the bangs have always been a difficult for me to deal with. I took a big chance with KC, as my previous little man fled the 34th Street Dramatics without telling me where he was going, and I (gasp) decided to just walk-in. I brought a photo, just to be safe, but still KC failed.

But they the ray of hope who is "Flame" fixed my bangs, and gave me perhaps the best haircut I've ever had. I was "banged" for life so to speak, and have kept a variation of the cut ever since.

And then there was Chile, where haircuts are only $5-$10 but trying to explain "sideswept" in Spanish is a challenge. I braved one salon about 4 months ago. Oh sweet lord. Never again.

Flame told me never to cut my own bangs. Does it make sense that a person whom I pay lots of money to to cut my hair would say this? Of course. However, she had a point...knowing the consequences of the bad bangs, why would I attempt such a precarious activity?

Because I'm an idiot, that's why. I cut my poor bangs in a fit of rage, using dull office scissors. Because I have absolutely no patience. Because really, who cares anyway?

Pity me.

You can get it if you really want

2007-03-17T14:30:00.000-04:00

As many of you know, I left New York for a variety of reasons. One of which was some unfortunate luck concerning me, the New York City subway system, and vomit. Not my vomit, but a stranger's vomit. So imagine my surprise and chagrin when I discovered that Santiago would be switching over to an MTA-clone transit system "Transantiago"(aren't they clever) which involves shuttling people about with heavy dependence on the Metro (subway). There are long, caterpillar-looking express buses, and little local buses. They renumbered and rerouted everything. Its a fucking mess.

In theory, this was a good idea. The old system was very unfriendly to the environment (noise and air pollution were out of control with the constant stream of old, gas guzzling micros), and more than a little unfriendly to people that value their personal safety. Micros drove fast, and often drivers would compete with each other, speeding away from traffic lights and cutting off other micros. More than once, I saw mirrors tumble to the ground or people fail to step fully onto the micro before it pulled away, leaving them staggering in the middle of the intersection.

I sort of loved the micros. Because of the blonde hair (and presumably, the boobs) I was usually given a seat. Sure, people watched me sit and read, but I never got pick-pocketed or hassled (beyond the usual catcalls that I get in the street). Since you paid the driver in cash, you could haggle and talk your way onto the micro (especially in a group) for as little as $.20 (100 pesos). In the summer, you could count on the ice cream man coming through with his "Chirimoyamoracremapiñadoblecienpesitosheladoooooss", giving you instant and cheap release from the stifling heat. Men with guitars sang traditional songs and/or told jokes. People on the micros were the real chileans.

I like to call transantiago the "transit system scrubbed clean." Sure, the routes are easier to follow, there are maps everywhere and you can pay with a "bip!" card and receive free transfers. The buses don't simply stop for every old lady standing in the street waving her hankerchief, so travel is a bit more streamlined. But still, I've found myself waiting up to 45 minutes for a bus, or on a Metro platform because its so crowded that you simply can't get on (oh, memories on the 86th street 6 train...). In rerouting more than half the city to the Metro, they neglected to add enough new trains to handle all of them. Similarly, in an effort to meet their deadline for system change, they unveiled transantiago with 800 buses missing. In many ways it seems that people tend to prefer that things look nice even if they don't work all that well. In a country of astonishing economic disparity, its no wonder that the metros and buses serving Las Condes, Vitacura & Providencia (where the rich people live) are cleaner, more modern and running on time, while those in the south (where all of our institutions are) are older and harder to come by. Many people farther out of the city who had depended on one micro to get them home for their whole lives, now have nothing...there simply isn't any more service to their neighborhood.

A modern transportation system doesn't necessarily make a city more modern. It just brushes away all the dirt, hides the poor people among the masses and convinces itself that its working in their best interest. The next time I sit down next to a man talking about his 2 hour commute to work, and help an old lady figure out how to get in and of the cavernous, stair-filled metro, I'll remember why my friend Liz only takes collectivos now.

Ummm...yeah. People are pissed. There are protests almost every weekend, and sometimes it can be mayhem. Especially if the Colo Colo are playing.

And life is sweet...

2007-03-11T13:35:00.000-04:00

I've spent the past three days in front of my computer, doing loads of research about and amazing amount of craziness. I searched in vain for someone to give me a comprhensive explanation of the past subjunctive mood, I tried to find a foundation with guidelines lenient enough that they would provide funding to one of our institutions (a shanytown nursery school) and I discovered flash fiction. Living almost exclusively in cyberland has been an experience, and made me realize that its scarily easy to get everything you need from the Internet - advice, news, social interaction, porn - a fact most people discovered back in 1999. But more than that, its possible to never leave your house for any reason, even when the sun is shining and there's a protest in the square and you're supposed to be taking children to the interactive museum.

Luckily night time was the right time, and over the weekend I did in fact leave the comforts of my L-shaped couch and cushion (that I sleep on...kind of like a dog bed, really but I prefer to think of it as bohemian chic) to hang out with our new volunteers (who ROCK) and do a little dancing. But the whole time, instead of feeling the overwhelming guilt of staring at a computer screen for 12 hours a day instead of hanging out with the kids (in fairness, there were more volunteers than children during the trip...I can't say that I was missed) I felt accomplished. I managed to cram tons of information into my head that was actually...dare I say...helpful in some way. It seemed like such a first, since I used to spend so much time at my old job poking around on the Internet to distract myself from my job. Maybe this is just what happens when your life becomes your job.

Well, have you?

2007-03-10T10:54:00.000-05:00

Have you Goodsearched today? Might want to get on that.....

When we break free....

2007-03-08T14:11:00.000-05:00

Remember Poe? I was so obsessed with her music...I'm gonna SoulSeek something fierce tonight!

Today is the day that everything changes here at ATGD...I'm going to blog with TREMENDOUS regularity (I'm fairly sure that you can't be tremendously regular, but you're just going to go with it). Of course, many posts are going to ridiculous, but I've neglected this blog for too long, and it stops right now.

The main impetus for this: I'm becoming a freelancer. No, seriously. You're going to see stuff that I've written around every corner of these here Internets. Why? Because month 9 in Chile is when Lauren goes broke. I love my job (even after an extremely rocky past few weeks...there were tears), and can't bear to leave even though they can't really afford to pay me. I write all day anyway (when I'm not running in a circle with the kids...school starts Tuesday!), and I'm going to try to get paid for it. My first submissions are in, and I'll start posting links when articles go up.

Summer is coming to an end (and yes, I know that sounds weird to you norteamericanos), and things are shifting gears again. The organization just had a major overhaul, resulting in a new administration and title change for me (hooray! i do it all for the glory!). We have twelve new volunteers going through the orientationmotions this week. And they're all, dare I say it, pretty happy.

This is such a major turnaround from a few months ago (I call it the dark period) that I almost don't trust it. The vols from this past class treated us with such contempt and animosity (some of it deserved, most of it not) that as much as I want to, I'm not sure that I can trust any of them anymore. How horrible is that? I've devoted my life to working with volunteers (hell, being a volunteer) and I'm having crazy trust issues! If I had health insurance, I'd transantiago my way to the shrink.

Jesus Camp

2007-02-18T21:13:00.001-05:00

While I do have lots to say about Santiago and volunteers and all of that, I'm going to take this opportunity to say that I saw a FANTASTIC documentary that I apparently missed last summer (not so much with the documentaries in Chile, se supone). During a spirited discussion of everyone's camp experiences during last weekend's jornada, the movie Jesus Camp came up. It was my fault, as I refer to my own camp experience with those words. At first I thought that it was a movie about kids like me, who went to pseudo-religious/bible camps. Well, I wasn't prepared for what I saw at all. If not only for the image of a pre-disgraced Ted Haggard, this movie is alarming, and wonderful. Put it on your NetFlix list...and enjoy.

All By Myself

2007-02-04T10:44:00.000-05:00

Ok, not really. I'm working in this hostel now, and for the first time since I started they've actually left me alone. Usually, the owner or one of the other worker bees (most of whom also live here) buzz buzz buzz around me all day, looking over my shoulder and asking me what I'm doing as I'm doing it. Might sound annoying, but it actually means I have very little to do throughout the day, as people inevitably do my work for me.

Less than halfway through my 9 hour shift I'm giving advice, washing sheets and smiling. I'm making it a point to smile all the time because, as I've been told many times this week, my face gives my emotions away. And it bugs people.

The hostel is therapy. The people hilarious. An drunk Irishman, screaming at me in half-spanish to make the remote work so that he can watch Scrubs, is just what anyone needs in their life. Three dogs (two little salchichos) running and yapping around while the Carabineros play pool, wildly entertaining.

And, I get to tell people what to do ALL day. Can I do my laundry? No. Should I buy bootleg DVDs? yes. Is it ok to have sex in my room while there are other people in it? I'm sorry, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

Perhaps this is my true calling. Everyone has to listen. To me.

La Pequeña Gigante

2007-01-31T12:16:00.001-05:00

I am scared of many things. As most people know, these are by and large completely unreasonable fears, just shy of being full on phobias. For some reason, many of these things fall into the category of "things children are supposed to enjoy". As I work with children now, and have in the past, I have come into contact with many of these things more regularly than I might like.

The list is as follows (in ascending order of creepiness):

1) The Hobbit cartoon
2) Clowns (only with fully painted faces)
3) People in Character Suits (Mickey Mouse & the Jack in the Box man, in particular)
4) Character suits without people in them, laying on the side of the road
5) Mimes
6) People wearing just the head of a character suit, with regular clothes

You will find (something many people find odd) that puppets do not appear on the list. Why? Mostly because of Jim Henson, but more so because puppets are rarely people-sized, and therefore, if they were to become posessed by some sort of urge to kill or maim me I could most likely defend myself.

Of course, then there's La Pequeña Gigante, the giant marionette import from France who terrorized the streets of Santiago this past weekend.

She was supposed to be performance art, as the little troupe of traditionally clad Frenchman flew and danced and pulled her strings, taking her a on trip through downtown Santiago. On television, it was highly enjoyable to watch, if more for the spectacle of families lining the streets than for the ingenuity of the event. The idea that an old-fashioned puppet who spent most of her time sleeping and walking around brought families together to do something other than eat and watch television was very cool. However, there is a limit to how much I can take.

I reached that limit on Sunday afternoon, when La Pequeña Gigante finally captured her puppet rhino (as was her quest) and decided to enter my domain: Plaza Italia, just outside my apartment. Thousands of people gathered, waiting for her to wake up and reveal the rhino that she had captured. They waited and waited and waited, watching her sleep and sleep and sleep. Children screamed "Wake up lazy puppet!" as she slept past her announced wake-up time. They got anxious. Finally, the frenchmen appeared, she stood up, the clowd roared...blah blah blah. The rhino was revealed, and looked like a puppet rhino should.

It was clear that there was something to come, as we had waited so long and it was her final day in Santiago. So there was a confetti canon, and a live band, and a giant cymbal. But before that, before the merriment, there was the urine.

La Pequeña Gigante, having taken such a long nap and having (presumably) consumed three tons of water, decided that she would do what no proper lady-doll ever should: she hiked up her skirt, squatted, and peed in the street.

Call me American. Call me pretentious. This just didn't seem ok. There's something creepy about watching what is supposed to be a child, albeit a giant fake one, doing something so....intimate? dirty? bizarre?

La Pequeña Gigante scarred me. I'm going to update my list.

I'm going to link to someone's flickr set, because I believe that photog captures PGs creepiness better than I ever could.

Tremors

2007-01-22T10:19:00.000-05:00

As it turns out, Santiago is on a fault line. Its a little one from what I hear, but it means that there are tremors all the time. Up to this point, I have slept through all of them. I thought maybe this was because I am a ridiculously heavy sleeper or something. But then, this happened:

rumble rumble rumble

Me: "Hey did you feel that?"
Friend in room: "Yes. What was it?"
Me: "Was that a tremor?"
Friend: "No, I think it was just a really big truck rolling down the street?"
Me: "You mean, like, a giant enourmous monster truck that we can feel five flights up? And that we've never felt before?"
Friend: "Shut up."

So tremors....not such a big deal?

Quickie

2007-01-09T18:19:00.000-05:00

This will be a short little ditty, as I've just arrived back in town and was slammed (in a good way, I think) with a grant proposal due Friday. Wish me luck!

I arrived at my new apartment/office, missing one of my suitcases and dripping with sweat, to find that my wonderful pareja had painted the WHOLE thing, including my room. It rocks. I can't wait to post some photos, but I'm going to wait until there is some furniture. If you'd like to contribute the Office Furniture fund, let me know. Apparently we spent our whole budget on paint, chairs and a great big desk.

The benefits of living in the center of the city become more clear everyday. We can walk to lots of places. The corner store is actual on OUR corner. The postman can find us. Life is good.

So as I sit in my red and yellow office, at my very own desk (so official) I feel content.

Thanks for a great three weeks in NYC! I miss you all already.

Failure

2006-12-12T10:48:00.000-05:00

As I prepare to head home, for what was supposed to be for good, I'm doing some thinking about what I'm coming back to.

I worked for six months in a school for children with mental disabilites, and got to know 5 children as well as I could. The situation was far from ideal for a number of reasons: My limited spanish, the rotating tias, behavioral issues. Sometimes I hear myself complaining about all of this and I think to myself "What did you expect Lauren? This is supposed to be hard. This is why you're here."

I was shocked by how difficult the past six months were. Everyday that I couldn't communicate with my tia, and everyday that I went home with bruises I was surprised that this was something I committed to. Beyond that, when I unofficially became the primary teacher for the class and spent hours trying to figure out how to keep them busy, I also lost sight of my real purpose in the class. My purpose was to be an extra set of hands, to get to know kids on a more personal level and support them in a way that the school couldn't.

I failed, and I can finally admit that.

I tried, but I didn't try hard enough. I played, but I didn't put my whole self into it. Mostly, I saw that something was happening, I thought that something was happening, and I didn't say anything.

On a Monday morning a few weeks ago, one of my girls came to class looking like she hadn't eaten in weeks, hadn't slept in days and was unable to focus or work. Something happened to her....anyone could see it.

But she couldn't tell me what had happened. She is shy with limited verbal skills. She sat in pain for an hour before one the tias finally said to me: "There is something wrong. We have to do something."

My first thought was of her brother. How during my first week, a tia sat me down and told me each child's horror story, of their poverty and neglect and abuse. I took it all in and didn't really hear it, not only because of the language barrier, but also because sometimes, there is only so much of what happens to children that you can really comprehend.

I put it all in the back of my mind, thinking my tia was being slightly dramatic, and trying to scare the gringa with how scary and horrible things are. I fooled myself into believe that because my kids had parents in their lives, they were better off.

So I knew that there was a possibility that my nine-year-old student was being abused by her brother. I knew and I didn't tell anyone. I assumed that if someone had told me, everything was being taken care of. It wasn't, and we were all to blame.

I blame her mother, for allowing her brother to live with her for so long. I blame the school's director, fo having to be convinced for an hour that we should call the police. I blame my tia for telling me that a child was being abused, and not telling me what to do about it. I blame everyone for putting me in a position that I wasn't qualified or prepared for. I blame myself for being the only one who saw that girl everyday and didn't say anything.

The nine-year-old told us, me and another tia who was helping me with the class, what happened to her. We had to coax her. Sunday had been her birthday. We asked her what she ate. We asked her about her presents. We asked her who hurt her.

The police came an hour later. They questioned us, asking over and over if we were sure we heard what we heard. I've never been more sure of anything. I feel asleep hearing her small voice repeating those three words. They took her away as quickly as they came. No one could find her mother (it isn't uncommon for people to change phone numbers, or not have a phone at all), so she would be at the gate at 1pm to pick up her daughter, and I'd have to explain why she wasn't there.

The rest of the school staff went to a meeting to discuss what happened. I wasn't invited, because I'm just a volunteer.

Life is hard. Choices are hard. The idealism that goes along with this job is a blessing and a curse. Its easy to feel like just by being in a child's life, with good intentions and a smile, is enough because so often it is. But there are times when you have to do more, when you can't be afraid to speak, or afraid to fail. There are times when idealism keeps you from seeing reality. There are times when you are going to realize that you aren't doing as much as you could be.

It all comes back to the little victories: The nine-year-old girl no longer lives with her brother, but in an hogar where we can visit, and check on her, and maybe put some constant volunteers. An autistic student finally learned my name. She asks for me when I'm not there.

We just keep learing. I'm convinced that my failure will actually make us better and will teach us something. At least I hope so.

Celebrating Death....

2006-12-11T12:44:00.000-05:00

These past three weeks have been, in a word, a nightmare. I just learned this word in Spanish (there are lots of words I just don't learn because I can use something else to describe them...nightmare/bad dream, all the same when I'm crazy-talking in Spanish), so I think that its a fitting adjective. We had a new crop of volunteers come in (they're cool) and we had the big event (the PR Director in me is saying IT WAS GREAT; the crazy-sensitive-sleepdeprived-caterer in me is saying not so much). Needless to say, we are not a well oiled machine. But looky looky at my beautiful food:And my beautiful ladies in their beautiful dresses:

Does anything else really matter, if you're wearing a new black dress? I think not.

Once the event was over, and I stopped feeling like a lunatic, our next big stress was the move. The organization finally has an office in the center. For anyone who has been reading this from the beginning, our old office was a house in the Santiago equivalent of Flushing, Queens. Or "the chucha" if you want to be vulgrrr about it. I lived there, for a while on a mattress on the floor that made me what to cry. "We" decided that living with 8 people, and trying to work in an incoveniently located house was maybe not the best for business. So! "We" rented a three-bedroom apartment, which is our new home/office. "We" are the administration of a non-profit and "we" are getting more and more official every day!

Of course, as things go, our big move came on an even bigger day for Chile, and for Latin America. Pinochet, former dictador, died on December 10th. We were standing in the house, taking furniture out onto the lawn to wait for the Flete when we got the call. "Pinochet is dead. Be prepared for some celebrations in Plaza Italia." Which is, of course, exactly where our new office is.

We moved our furniture in, with the help of some insanely nice building men, as the noise from the plaza swelled and swelled. At first, random shouts and chants. Over two hours there was a unified presence of Communists, Socialists and random young people celebrating the end of an era.

I walked out to the Plaza, at first just to see what was going on. We walked down the street to have a drink, and sat in a little schoperia watching the people stream down Alameda throwing confetti and drinking Escudo. Later, we joined the crowd (awesome fotos to come) for a while, just as they starting singing "Cumpleaños Feliz". And I got really uncomfortable.

Agosto Pinochet was a dictator, who tortured and killed thousands of people. Under his regime, Socialists and Communists were taken from their homes and families, never to be seen again. Last week I visited Villa Grimaldi, the most famous torture site in Santiago. Its an eerie place, recently turned into a park (Parque de la Paz) and open to the public. You can take a walking tour guided by an actual survivor, who describes in detail what went on there. If you want to find out more about Villa Grimaldi, or Pinochet, click here: http://www.villagrimaldicorp.cl/ (they have a site in English).

I've never been happy that someone died before. I've never felt compelled to take to the streets and mock a dead person's family, and mark the day as one of celebration. Its difficult to explain the effect that Pinochet had on this country, or the fact that half of its citizens are currently mourning him while others are declaring victory over evil. Most dictators are revered and loathed simlutaneously, or else they wouldn't be in power to begin with. But even after hearing the horror of what happened under his rule, and talking to people who lived through, I still can't help but feel pangs of guilt for cheering and dancing and singing because and old man died.

So I went home.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

2006-11-27T15:24:00.000-05:00

Thinking about the next two weeks is giving me little twitches, so I decided that I needed a little vacation.

The wonderful thing about Chile is that you are always close to the beach. When your country is shape like a snake, and lines the coast, the ocean is always just a two hour drive. Or bus ride. I'd like to take this opportunity to tell you about Chile's (or Santiago's, I should say) fantastic bus system:

1) You can take a trip on a fancy, semi-cama (half-bed) bus for less than $10. Buses always leave on time. They will leave without you. However, they will also stop if run after them screaming and holding an ice cream pop. Of course, ice cream pop is optional.

2) You can drink on the bus. In fact, you could have a romantic dinner for two in your semi-cama seats. I suggest: Roast chicken, steamed carrots, chocolate chip cookies and a nice carmenere in a nalgene bottle. I am all class.

3) The bus station is the absolute greatest place in the world to get to know the locals. You can get to know some very colorful phrases about the female anatomy. This trip is just such a learning experience.

A few more travel tips:

4) When approached by an old paco(carabiniero)/young paco team for a traffic violation, chances are you are not going to talk your way out of it. Especially if you speak perfect Chilean spanish. And are 6 feet tall and look like a Mormon. And don't have breasts. If you are going to break any traffic laws in Chile, its best to be a girl and not speak Spanish. Trust.

5) When in a Chilean bar (and this is very important) always assume that one golpeado of tequilla is worth two American shots. This is infinitely important when trying to adhere to the "three tequillas, too many tequillas" rule. Also, just because Luke's mom says its ok, you still shouldn't drink tequilla out of a tumbler.

6) Dancing is always ok.

7) Always Always Always ask a neighbor for keys, if you find that yours are not working. This is infinitely important, and doing so can avoid situations like this:

Careful viewing above the above photo will alert you to the fact that the fence next to me is padlocked, as was every other door to our little house in Algorrobo (a ocean-side resort town, slightly more down to earth than Vina del Mar, where we spent the day). You'd think that three good friends could figure out some way to open the gate (or turn on the gas, but that's another thing altogether). We couldn't. You know who could? Juan, our neighbor. Of course, he didn't tell us this until this morning, as we were making our last climb OUT of the house. We also never asked.

8) Whether or not you are a beach person (which I'm not. I find the woods to be much more serene) there are certain things that will always make you happy. One of them is the sunset by the pier, with a good friend, and a cold Escudo.

Thanks Chile!

Puppies & Rainbows

2006-11-15T12:36:00.000-05:00

I have this conversation often:

"Hey Lauren, how did you like the club/bar/party/whatever last night?"

"It was ok."

"Yeah, you should have been there three months ago when all of these awesome other volunteers were here. That was the best time ever ever of my life. God, I wish it was like that now."

"You mean, everything was puppies and rainbows?"

I think you get the point. When my undeniable insecurity/jealousy rears its ugly head, at least I have a joke for it.

The other day a friend of mine (the one reponsible for the above conversation) used "Puppies and rainbows", snarkily, while talking about the current state of our organization. Its not puppies and rainbows here. Its the opposite, whatever that is. Luckily, we're all happy in this constant state of flux, because it means lots of work, and the opportunity to see things change fairly quickly. It also means instability, and frustration and tears. I don't begrudge any of my compañeros their reminiscence of the simpler times, when the organization was more about fun than about structure. But I do realize that what we're all working for now is that state: puppies and rainbows. I think we'll get there soon. In the meantime, there's this:

¡Colo Colo es Chile!

2006-11-09T12:24:00.000-05:00

In my house, we watch football. Of course, there is no ban on baseball playoff games, or the occasional tennis match during somebody's Open. But really, when you come down to it, football is our sport. Giants football to be exact.

My father, on more than one occasion, has so utterly terrified me with his yelling at the television screen (more accurately yelling at the referree within said screen) that I had to leave the room. I also used to (along with my mother) get so nervous during the last game-deciding field goal of the game that I would hide in my closet. I would say that we, as a family, were a pretty intense sports family.

If I had grown up in Chile, or any Latin American country from what I hear, most people would laugh at that statement. They would say that I know NOTHING of what it means to be devoted to a team, or to show loyalty. Loyalty in sports had always been such a funny concept to me. Really, you would follow a team which you have some geographical connection with, be it your hometown, your college town or the town you currently live in. If you are lucky enough to have TWO teams in your city, you just sort of pick one. The teams are always changing (QBs, coaches, crappy place-kickers, etc.) so the whole loyalty thing seems so arbitrary. Fun, nonetheless. I know a guy who, being from New York and having attended college there, is a Miami Dolphins fan. There is no reason for this. I'm very glad that you liked Dan Marino. Everyone liked Dan Marino. But he doesn't play there anymore and you're a chump.

And I'm the one who gets made fun of for liking the Patriots because they have the same team colors as the Giants!

Seeing true, intrinsic team loyalty is watching fútbol. I went to my first match this past Sunday. I felt like I was cheating on the Giants, but as I can't watch them here anyway, and Eli Manning still managed to pull off one of the greatest fakes I've ever seen, I think that they'll forgive me. I was really nervous going to the game, because it was a big one (think Giants/Eagles with more shirtless angry men and rock throwing), and because I stick out so much. In Chilean fútbol, you sit with your team much like American Football. But that's not all. If you are found out to be a supporter of the opposing team (or any other team for that matter) you are ejected, with force. The stands are a mob of crazy colocolinos, chanting singing and fist pumping for two hours. The 30 minutes before the game begins is spent trading mildly to acutely insulting chants with the fans from the opposing team across the field. If you don't know these songs (as I didn't) you better do something, like wave an article of clothing or shout obscenities. Participation is mandatory. I managed, after hearing one chant fourteen times, to learn the last few lines. Just imagine me punching the air:

Chi- Chi- Chi-
le- le- le-
Colo Colo es Chile!

I really went for the tough one.

I don't know what it is about fútbol that brings out the maniac in all of us. Why does the shirtless man to my left think that his three year old should be shouting "Concha tu madre!" every five seconds? Why do no less than 20 carabinieros stand, in full riot gear, in front of the stands having random shit thrown at them for an hour and a half every week? Why do the referees (brave brave souls if you ask me) have to be escorted onto the field by the carabineros before each half, because they are so universally hated?

The answer, as my observation of one game has led me to believe, is this: The show is in the stands. I'll fully admit that the fútbol players in Latin America are stellar, and that the game itself is fun to watch. I'm no convert, and I still think that I could convince Jeremy Shockey to marry me, but fútbol is enjoyable. But at these games, there's no sideline hullabulloo. There's no zaniness on the big screen. There's no halftime show. What they do have, which is better than any Britnet Spears/Aerosmith/Mary J. Blige monstrosity I've ever seen, is true, die hard loyalty. There is unity and cheers and claps and colors. There is a giant banner covering half the crowd to welcome the team onto the field. There is a man with a drum keeping us all in rhythym. And best of all, there is a flare gun shooting fireworks that turn into little parachutes.

Did you hear me Giants Stadium? Fireworks that turn into parachutes. Works every time.

Adulthood

2006-10-31T21:08:00.000-05:00

It's Halloween here in Chile. I was told, by a somewhat reliable Chilean source, that in Chile the kids don't really do Halloween. What he told me, exactly, was: "If they want candy today, why won't they want candy tomorrow?" I reminded him that we work with kids, but that didn't have much of an effect.

But the kids came to our little casa in droves. Lots of princesses and superheroes. The obligatory baby pumpkin (he got most of the candy). We hadn't expected them, so we all emptied our pockets of the candy that we had acquired throughout the day and gave it to the little kiddies, who had previously (along with their parents) been afraid of the houseful of gringos, whom they thought were Mormons.

I dressed up, as I thought it was a requirement of the small party/meeting we were having. I had my costume picked out since I arrived. The Chilean teen has a very distinctive look: Lots of black, short denim skirt, piercings, tights and high boots. I have these things. That was it. I celebrated my briliance.

As I live with a Chillena, and have Chilean friends, I thought I might offend someone. So I made a point of saying that I was a Chilean teen. Teenagers, by definition, can be made fun of, no matter where they live. So I went with it. Brilliant.

During the party, I spoke to my parents. I'll admit that with my choices, as they are, I feel like a little kids in their eyes right now. I need help. I need money. I need support. But for all of that, every day I realize that I have adult problems. Problems that when I left, I had no idea I had.

Each day is a little more about perspective. I try to remind myself that compared to most of these eight year olds, I have it pretty easy. I try to remind myself of this when I'm pissed that I've had to stop buying shoes and bags. Or DVDs. Or the good toilet paper. That it isn't just about money. Its about having the security, and the knowledge that no matter what happens, someone will help you. My kids don't always have that. That's the perspective.

I'm trying not to preach, or be too dramatic. I'm lucky to see that the children in my class have moms, or dads or someone who loves them. So many of the other volunteers never get to see that. They don't see my kids hugging their parents when I let them out of the gate at the end of the school day. They don't see the well-packed snack. They don't see the love.

But I do. I see it in my kids, and in my own family. Adult or not, problems or not, I have love waiting for me in NYC.

So thanks for that.

Toma

2006-10-11T19:55:00.000-04:00

I hear the same handful of phrases from my little ones daily: No quiero (I don't want), No puedo (I can't), Quien eres tu (Who are you?...a personal favorite, since I've been working there for four months, and the same little girl asks me everyday. she's not so good with names, as it turns out) Toma (Take). The last one is so frequent, that I start to wonder why I never noticed how often children ask you to take things from them in English. When they are done working on something, they say toma: "Take it, I'm done now. " Or in the case of my non-verbal boys, they just shove things at me and grunt. Its the same basic idea. Sometimes, one of them will find a piece of paper on the ground and say toma: "Take it, tia, its garbage." I've stopped finding it odd, but the word still manages to catch me off guard every now and again.

Our esteemed subdirectora (Assitant Director, Liz) began working at a Jardin Infantil (nursery school) in a campamento (shantytown) in Santiago when she first arrived here a year ago. Its official (?) name is the Toma de Peñalolen. I'm the first to admit that I don't fully understand the politics of what goes on there. I know that a group of about 400 people lived on the land for years, and there was an ongoing debate as to whom the land actually belonged. The families lived there in makeshift houses of cardboard, wood and metal. They had running water and electricity, proper addresses and streets, and an overwhelming sense of community. Five months ago, the government sent the police in to move most of the people out. They built tiny wood shacks, which were offerred as placement to those who could afford the down payment, or qualify for a loan to buy their new house. During my first visit to the toma, I watched people take their homes apart, piece by piece. The jardin was gone, and the remaining children and tias moved them into one of the few remaining buildings, and old church, where they remain for now.

There are so many things about this situation that I don't understand. I don't know whose land it is. I don't know why Santiago needs another soccer stadium, which will be built on the as soon as everyone vacates. I don't know how the jardin remains open, when the families pay only $4 per child, per month. I only understand half of what is said to me. I don't know how to tell a child to be careful playing outside, amongst the strewn garbage and rusty metal and nails of their former homes.

What I'm beginning to understand, what Liz has tried to explain to me on our micro rides, is what a happy, community strengthening place the jardin continues to be. Utility workers pay continuous visits, sometimes staying to eat lunch with the tias. The carabineros know the Assitant Director by name from her visits; during a particularly tumultuous day she was the only gringa allowed inside as people were being cleared out.

Children can be the most difficult, and the easiest people to know. They can't express everything that goes on in their developing minds, yet they provide amazing insight. The children of the jardin are sweeter, and more compassionate than most of the children I see in my school everyday. They enjoy life. They love to pretend they're Superman. So much so that my back starts to hurt from all the flying. They love listening to Liz read stories. They say toma, "Take this tia" when they finish a drawing. Not because they're done, but because they want me to have, to take it home with me and hang it on my wall, to think about them when I'm not there.

The jardin is dirty, and hot, and doesn't have a proper bathroom. There isn't always running water, so bottles are kept under safe watch, and water poured only on request. I made the mistake of carrying my giant bottle or carbonated water in my hand the last time I walked in to the old church. I was attacked by three thirsty children, begging for a sip. They watch the bottle for five minutes afterward, mesmerized by the bubbles shooting to the top. Our Executive Director, who has yet to visit the toma asked for a run down after my first visit. "Really cool," I said, ever eloquent. He paused and answered, "But in a sort of depressing, bad way, right?" That's it exactly. Happiness and despair playing together in an old chruch. And somehow my fridays at the toma are the highlight of my week.

I wear a lot of hats here. Tia by day, PR Director by afternoon, Volunteer Coordinator when needed. A volunteer needs to talk. The office needs a new computer. We all need better health insurance. I'm adding jardin activist to the list, knowing the threat of closure is constantly looming. We'll write a grant. We'll find people to help. Hopefully, when its all said and done we'll be able to say toma: The jardin is yours again.

I feel like I'm still allowed my small bit of idealism at 26.

Land Of Missed Opportunities

2006-10-01T22:40:00.000-04:00

I've never wanted to look back on my life and wish I'd done something. Which isn't to say that I haven't made mistakes, or missed my fair share of opportunities. I'd sit on the subway (or stand, or lean) and think about all of the other places I could be, or all the places that I wanted to go and think "why not?"

At the end of September, we were going to buy a car. I spent most of the month saying "Don't worry about anything, we'll have our car by October." It seemed like a little thing, and a giant thing all at the same time. A way to transport ourselves, our resources. A great idea.

We didn't get a car, and I'm devastated. I feel the failure more than all of the little triumphs that I've seen since I moved here. One of the first things that I was told as a grant writer at my last job was that people are going to say no to you, and that disappointment goes with the territory.

But its not just that someone said no to us. We had a great opportunity laid out for us, and I didn't put enough of myself into it. My failure. My missed opportunity.

I've come to realize in the past weeks, that there are opportunities everywhere. There are resources aplenty, along with proposal deadlines that come and go, and complicated requirements, and people who drag their feet. There are setbacks and victories. And as it turns out, a world of disapointment.

A twenty-six year old, I'm one of the oldest people here. I've held a real job. I've had a lease. Me, and others who are willing, have to be administration, cheerleaders, and promoters of the positive. Yet I've found myself, in recent days, becoming run down by negativity and the feeling that I'm, we're, just not doing enough. Three months is almost six, six months will soon be twelve. And then what?

I imagine I'll be back on the subway. Sitting, reading ads for The New School or the Freelancer's Union, listening to my music. I'll think about all of the things that I could have accomplished here, and all of the things I did. And be happy that I didn't miss the opportunity.

Mortification

2006-09-25T14:40:00.000-04:00

After three months in Chile, I've yet to hit anything resembling a "stride" or "groove". Normal, everyday activities (such as grocery shopping) that formerly gave me no problems at all are now nightmarish tests of how badly I can embarrass myself. It makes the days interesting; I'm never bored for too long.

Chilean grocery stores hum with the kind of nervous energy most people feel in doctor's offices, none more so than the big chains (Lider, Jumbo, Santa Isabel). Being in a WalMartian atmosphere in a foreign country, in a foreign language is an experience unto itself, but much like their North American counterparts, people in these mega-stores charge up and down the aisles full of purpose, often leaving a path of destruction in their wake. Even so, the weekday evening/weekend shopping experience can take hours.

As people in Chile love to eat, so do they love to shop for food in miraculously large quantities. Chileans eat the most bread, ice cream and coca-cola per capita than any other country in Latin America, and Lider reflects this perfectly. There are aisles devoted exclusively not only to these foods, but to mayonnaise, yogurt and powdered juice. The bread section or Panderia, is a personal favorite as I often watch middle-aged housewives scrambling to get the fresh, inexplicably cheap bread by the ton.

While the grocery store (Lider, to be exact) can be a source of amusement for me, I am a constant source of amusement for its staff and patrons. I attract a lot of attention from men, due to my blonde hair, a lot of attention from their wives, because of the attention from the men, and even more attention from the shelf-stockers, who cannot understand why I’d rather pile things on top of me than use a cart. They don’t realize that I have no idea where the carts are, and am too afraid to ask.

Last Wednesday was a very special day for me at Lider. I arrived with a very short, very specific shopping list.

condoms, candles, corona, safety pins

I had exactly an hour to leave my friend's apartment, get to Lider (15 min walk), buy my four items, and return. It was an ambitious mission.

The Lider ambiance is always a bit off, with strange musical choices adding to the lazy urgency of the shopping experience. On this day, I was treated to an instrumental version of "I Just Called to Say I Love You". It struck me because I found it very difficult to recognize without Stevie’s lyric and voice; I kept thinking that it had to be another song. I only had a moment of certainty 10 minutes later, when I was on instrumental version three of "I Just Called to Say I Love You". And counting.

No two Lider’s are the same; they have drastically different floor plans, and carry different items at opposing prices making most people loyal customers to one particular store. I’m not one of those people, and I live for the challenge of finding everything I need. Given the complicated list I was holding, and the time constraints, I had to choose my path carefully. Easy items like beer (also having its own monster-aisle) and candles (which I buy often) were checked off within minutes.
Safety pin is not a word that you learn in college level Spanish; perhaps in Spanish for Seamstresses or something. I called a friend to ask for a translation, but with the shaky cell-phone connection, blaring fake-Stevie Wonder and Chilean catcalls, I forgot it about five seconds later. I searched my vocabulary for some words that I could use to describe safety pin and came up empty until it occurred to me that I might have a safety pin on my person, so I dumped out my giant black backpack (containing: tampons, a small, useless dictionary, Carmex, mascara, rubber gloves, confetti). Happily I did find a safety pin, and marched up to an innocuous-looking woman behind a shampoo display and asked her where I might find more of the little object como se llama.

They don't sell safety pins at Lider.

To buy the condoms, I had to go through check out and wait on line at the farmacia where, of course, only judgmental-looking men work. This was partially due to the fact that like most predominantly Catholic nations, condom use in Chile wasn’t exactly widespread, and is in many ways discouraged. Expecting mothers of any age are highly revered, and even get their own line at check out, making condom purchase something out of the ordinary.

There was no line at the farmacia, for which I was grateful, so I blazed on up to the counter and asked for condoms, which I believed to be the same word in English and Spanish. I vowed to brush up on my vocabulary as judgmental-pharmacist stared blankly at me. I summoned the courage to speak again.

“Condoms, por favor,” I said, two notches above 'audible'. There was now a line forming behind me.

Again I received only a blank stare in return, and I studied the man’s face to be sure that he wasn’t making fun of the obviously frazzled, obnoxiously blonde American girl, who is apparently promiscuous. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, because so often in restaurants or stores, people of different native languages have a harder time communicating than they might in other situations because 1) They are so nervous, that they slur their speech or swallow words 2)They assume from the beginning that they won’t understand what the other person is saying, and never really hear them

This happens to me a lot, but I still felt like there were larger forces at work here and I came to the realization that I might have to ACT OUT what I wanted. With panic rising and the clock ticking, I managed to remember that I do actually know quite a few words in Spanish, and I could surely find something to serve me in the Chilean pharmacy.

Using the words I knew for “safe” and “sex”, I said to the man “Necesito una cosita para sexo seguro.” Seguro turned out to be a poor word choice, as I said something closer to “I need a thing for sure sex.” Had I chosen any other word, or even just said “sexo” I may still be able to frequent that Lider. But I went with seguro, which is really translated more like "sure", so I told the man that I want a thing to have SURE SEX. He smirked at me. I turned red and looked at my watch. He repeated back to me sexo pumping his fist back and forth. I said yes, because I had no choice. He laughed, turned to his left and asked me which kind I'd like.

So I chose from the GIANT display case, which had been right in front of me the whole time.

And then I fled.

Subtlety

2006-09-18T12:49:00.000-04:00

Its kind of a running joke, or fact really, among my gringo friends here, that Chileans lack subtlety. Like a tia asking you within two minutes of meeting you about your polollo (boyfriend). The question is not "Do you have a polollo?", but rather "Who is he? Where does he live? When will you get married?" Answering with "I don't have one" just makes you a liar.

Its kind of refreshing, the directness. As all the new people arrived (our September Class is here, in all their freshfaced glory) and we tried to dish out advice, there was so much to say about talking to the people here, and how it can be confusing. They will call you fat. They will tell you that you look sick. They will make fun of your Spanish. To your face.

Today, the 18th, is a big day in Chile. Its Fiestas Patrias and unfortunately, it cold and gray. Its a day of barbeques, and kites and chicha and general merriment. There are carnivals all over the city, no one is working and the Chilean flag is everywhere. The celebration will last until tomorrow, with many taking the whole week (my school included) as a patriotic vacation. Seeing another country celebrate itself like this is exciting and alienating at the same time. But this is Chile, and the holidays are just as blatant and blunt as the people. Everyone dances, gringas included. Did I ever think I'd be standing in a Chilean bar, listening to traditional music and dancing with anyone and everyone who comes within two feet of me? Not really, as most who know me understand that I'm not so much a dancer. But something about the way that Chile chooses to celebrate feels real. Viva la Chile!

Oh, and I know we've been on the edge of our seats waiting for pics of the Tortugas Ninjas. They are a bit dark, but still completely awesome.

Tortugas Ninjas!!!!

2006-09-01T15:41:00.000-04:00

Blogger Beta? Totally killing my world. Well, that and the fact that we 'accidentally' blew out our cable modem while we were rearranging the office. Thank goodness for neighbors!

I'm not particularly inspired at this very moment, and as usual wish that I had some wit and witticism for my (3? 4? readers). At this very moment, all I am is tired. Preparation for the new class (the first ones arrive tomorrow) is exhausting, even though I'm not all that involved. But the general energy of the organization is GO! GO! GO! and it’s the sort of this where if you don't have something to do, there must be something wrong with you. Right now, it is 11pm and we're all in the office, working. I've been designing place cards for PalooooZA, which is our celebration of the work we've done in the last few months. It’s a big deal. I even got a new dress. ROCK!

And the kids are frustrating. Everyone in Chile is pregnant, so my tias have been sort of rotating, leaving me solita in my class with no idea what I'm doing. Mostly we do puzzles and work on letters of the alphabet when I'm left to fend for myself. Or we play Abajo! Arriba! which is just as complicated as it sounds. But they love it, because jumping is fun.

My kids are rotating, too. My little favorite (not Ojos, the one who gives me the finger) has been out for almost a month, as he's apparently prone to illness. I miss his constant shooting at me (he brings fake guns to school, and I've yet to figure out the translation for 'recipe for disaster'), and the way that he mocks the other kinds with no malice. I think about the way that we all mock each other and feel like its a healthy part of growing up. If you can't call a friend out on something ridiculous, are they really your friend?

They've also placed me in another classroom for part of the morning, since another volunteer left. Its the jumpy jumpy room for an hour, which flies because of one little boy who thinks he's Superman. He has multiple Superman t-shirts, and wears one everyday. I can just picture his madre in the morning, trying to get him to wear something else. He probably just screams, as they all do, because they can. Its standard practice at my colegio.

Chile loves Superman.

I'm working on getting some photos to post of Dia del Nino, which is bigger than Christmas down here. I recall myself asking my dad at some point when I was growing, that if there was a Mother's Day, and a Father's Day why wasn't there a Kid's Day.

"Everyday is kids day," he said. My dad is no joke.

In Chile the respect for kids (and soon-to-be-mothers) is EVERYWHERE. There is actually a special line at the grocery store for those who are expecting, which includes those with little ones. So Dia Del Nino was a huge frackkin deal. Our celebration included: A dance contest (you haven't lived until you've seen the girls in the hogares dance to the reggaeton....it's an art), an art contest (which I missed because I was at dance central), a presentation by the Carabineros and their perritos which I will totally not explain to its fullest hilarity without the aid of photos and.....wait for it....the Tortugas Ninjas!!!!!!!!

Remember them? Raphael, Donatello, etc? As it turns out, in addition to Superman and knocked-up women....CHILE LOVES THE DAMN NINJA TURTLES!!! So much in fact, that the carabineros have a show where they dress up in costumes, do motorcycle tricks and JUMP THROUGH A RING OF FIRE!!! Possibly, the most awesome thing I've ever seen. Besides, of course, the first season finale of LOST.

So that's what I got. The men are still men. The kids are still kids. And the tortugas, well, they're gonna live forever.

Slack On

2006-08-21T15:31:00.000-04:00

Oh, happy day of all happy days! The sun is shining, the birds are singing and our eerily early spring weather has lifted our spirits! Too bad I just bought a hot water bottle.... but bygones.

My happiness also stems from the fact that I am typing this from my brand-spanking-new laptop. The deterioration of my first laptop, a mere month old, had me in a tizzy for quite some time. My reliance on not only my files and the Internet, but mobility (read: ability to work at Starbucks in Las Condes) made me kind of depressed these last few weeks. Rather than get to the root of the problem, or attempt to fix it, I just got a new computer. HAPPY GIRL!

Somehow, we are two weeks away from the arrival our new class of volunteers. How did this happen? I feel like I've been here for years, like I've known my kids since birth, and at the same time, I still have now idea what the hell I'm doing.

I have mixed feelings about new people. Just when you begin to get you bearings, everything shifts. Things have to be explained over again. People leave. I'm getting a new roommate. I don't think that I'm particularly adaptable, but I'm doing my best.

Everything here happens with such intensity. Part of the reason I feel like I know everyone so well is because I know their secrets. I've read the files on my kids. I know what they've been through. There is a campaign in Santiago (possibly all of Chile) called "Una cama para un nino" or One Bed for One Child. It is common for families, siblings, etc. to share beds because of the expense of buying a bed for every child, or the lack of space. Extended families commonly live altogether, but not everyone can afford to live in a giant house, with each member in their own room. I understand, now, why my Ojos never sits in her chairs. I constantly have to tell her to sit down and work, instead of leaning on the table on top of me, scribbling and babbling and repeating everything everyone says. Of course, it completely freaks her out is I say something in English, which I occasionally do out of frustration. I'm surprised that she hasn't picked up the phrase 'Seriously, why are you doing this to me?'

She hasn't. My English confuses her and she sits back down, obviously uncomfortable. Because at home, she doesn't sit. At home, there isn't a chair.

I don't think that there is a Chilean phrase for personal space. If there is, I don't know it. People, children especially are so used to living and breathing on top of each other at home, that they either forget or don't care when they are out in the world who they are touching. My kids, whose special needs compound their lack of appropriate boundries, touch me all the time. I'm not a touchy feely kind of person. I'm not a hand-holder. At least not without tequilla. On my first day of school, my kids were so desperate to hold my hand that I let them crawl all over me, anxious for their affection and acceptance. Kids will be kids, and they're too cute for me to get overly frustrated with the fact that at any time, in any location, and under any circumstance, I could just be grabbed, or punched or kicked (the kicking, however, is generally b/c someone needs their shoes tied). What more can you expect from a child who shares a bed with as many as three relatives? Still, sometimes I just want to scream.

The adults, I actually scream at. Not the lady on the micro with the fourteen shopping bags, one of which is in my lap. Nor at the man in the collectivo in the business suit who has both of his shiny feet on my side of the floor and WILL NOT MOVE THEM. No screaming necessary. Better just to scuff his loafers with my beat up Birkenstock clogs.

But I scream at men in the bars. While I tried to devote the majority of this blog to work and travel, I'm not going to deny that I like to go out and have a good time. I like Escudo and Pisco and Tequila. I love dancing, and singing all of the worlds to the english language music so that I make friends with the group of Chilenas next to me, who are trying deperately to hate me because I'm rubia. So with the singing, and the dancing and the drinking, come the men. In most places, its fairly easy to pick me out of the crowd. I don't blend, and as a result, and the target of some of the stupidest pick-up lines, in English, that I've ever heard. To add insult to injury, these are generally spoken to me from about 3 inches from my face. Invading my personal space to insult my intelligence and butcher my language when I am perfectly capable of talking to you in the language NATIVE TO THE COUNTRY THAT WE ARE STANDING IN is not ok. I scream.

I scream that my blonde hair does not make me easy. I scream that yes! I can speak spanish, and you saying 'I love you" in english over and over again does not do it for me. I scream that no, I'm not a student, or a backpacker, or rich. I scream that why can't a dance be just a dance?

But such is life. Its true that all women love attention, and I'm not pretending that I'm the exception. I just wish I could remember the exact moment that I surrendered all of my privacy. I guess it was that Friday that I got on the plane.

The Poor Man's San Francisco

2006-08-09T13:32:00.000-04:00

2 posts today, since I'm a little behind....

This is how someone decribed Valparaiso to me. And visually, its true: the place is steep and hilly. There are cafes with funny looking cups and live music, walls covered in poetry and It has a general sense of calm, especially compared with the crowded and cautious feeling in Santiago. But more than San Francisco it had....culture? Not to insult my second favorite city, but I always felt as though it had a more 'J.Crew meets bohemian' quality to it. I love its tolerance and politics, but still, its a clean and friendly city. Valparaiso isn't clean, but it is beyond friendly. We stayed in a Residencia, with a perfect view of the ocean, run by an older woman who had color coded the keys, so that we would have an easy time getting in at night (ahem..morning). She served us breakfast in a sun room overlooking the port. She brought us extra blankets. Really, what more does a person need?

And then there's the elevators. Because of the hills, there is a system of elevators running up and down throughtout the city, taking people to all of the important places. I am afraid of elevators, especially ones built in 1887. But I'd be liar if I didn't say that sitting in a clattering wood lift, looking out over the ocean in Chile wasn't one of the best experiences I've had so far.

Of course, there was also the great coffee, salsa dancing, insane 'other' dancing, non-Chilean beer, cobble stone streets, intimate conversation, no-work, fish market, Pablo Neruda, Flea Market, Muebles (oh, my sweet muebles), and colo colo records. Not bad for a 1.5 hour bus trip.

Funny in Spanish....

2006-08-07T17:34:00.000-04:00

I have to begin this post by saying that I am wearing four shirts, and a jacket, while sitting at my computer in the casa. It is cold, but it's always cold. Today has felt colder for a simple reason.: They turned on the estufa (heater) at school today, and I think it completely ruined my resolve. I had actually forgotten what it was like to be warm, without being in bed or a collective, and was perfectly happy that way. But today...everything has changed. I'm WEAK! But with the cold, you also get this:

Today was a kind of weird day for a number of reasons. Once again, the rain prevented most of the kids from coming to school, but instead of going home I insisted on staying and doing whatever everyone else was doing. Little did I know that our activity would be one of my favorites: gossip. Man, so my tias love the gossip. So we had our tomasito, and chatted, and they made fun of the fact that I carry a small dictionary everywhere. I learned that Tia M has a ridiculously good-looking (jovencito) son in the military, and that she really misses him. I learned that another tia has been nuts since her divorce, and knows three phrases in English: "Of course" "I am English" and "Go to the window".

I don't consider myself especially friendly. I have friends, but I've never been the girl that everyone wants to know or anything. In English, I probably still would't be talking to my tias, or finding out about their lives. I'd be reading in the corner or pretending to watch ViVa! Humor, in my mind anyway, is what I have to offer, and I'm usually to shy to try to make a joke. What I realize now is that to my tias, and presumably Chillenos in general, I'm funny just for being here, and being blonde, and wearing a blazer. And carrying a dictionary.

As I found out last night, after giving a presentaion to my voluntarios about the Colegio, I can be funny in Spanish. This is a great shock, as the line between being laughed at and being laughed with is even more blurry when its being translated. Our meetings, even though most of us speak English, are conducted in Spanish. It makes me incredibly nervous, because presenting to a bunch of English speakers, many with perfect Spanish, and a bunch of Spanish speakers, many of whom have perfect English, makes you the asshole. I don't want to be wrong, and I don't want to insult anyone. But oh, the importance of tone! You can say just about anything, pause, say it again, and get a laugh. Its quite the confidence booster. And besides, how could I really be intimidated by these people?

El Planetario

2006-07-25T23:25:00.000-04:00

Hola a todos!

I think that this might be the longest I'm gone without posting. This past weekend, the whole June class spent a fantastic weekend in Cajun de Maipu for Jornanda, which is a Reflexion weekend. We talked about our week, each other and our place in Chile. It was overwhelmingly positive for all involved, and judging from the shift in momentum for the past two days, I believe that goods things are coming. A full post about Jornanda, complete with photos, will follow.

Today was a great day, since we were able to take the kiddies to El Planetario (The Planetarium) anbd thanks to many people's coopperation it was gratis. It was especially fun for me, since I haven't seen my own kids in many days, and the rest of the children in the hogares who have been off from school could really use a few hours in a new place. Of course, it didn't hurt that the space show was followed by a dance dance revolution-type laser light show, complete with much clapping and giggling. Since I'm not really allowed to post photos of the kids, you'll just have to take my word for it.

And then there's the dog problem. After jornanda, I arrived home to an excellent surprise: Salchicho was visiting. Here is an awesome photo of him, taken by the fantabulous Rita, and he is officially my new personal mascot.This time, Salchicho brought a friend. An obviously well cared for Cocker Spaniel who, for some reason, was under the impression that he lives in our house. We have an unspoken "don't adpot a street dog rule" but since we let Salchicho in, in came Crazy the Spaniel. We all know that Salchicho typically comes in to our house, pokes around for a few minutes, and leaves. And he did this on Sunday. Crazy.....not so much. Crazy wanted to stay so we put him outside (heartbreaking in and of itself) and hoped he would go back home.

But no. Crazy set up camp on our porch for TWO NIGHTS. Pawing, scatching and crying at the door. It rained, it was cold, and Crazy stayed. Crazy darted into the house everytime the door opened, and we had to put him out again. He followed us down the street when we left, and after being chased by Boris and Fritz, returned. Today was the first day he wasn't waiting for us, I'm hoping this means he figured out where he lives so that we are no longer being held hostage by a delusional canine.

Now, I'm a dog person. I grew up with dogs. This one definitely HAS a home. In a perfect world, we'd love to adopt him and make him our own. But a group of transient gringos simply cannot care for a dog...in all honesty, we can barely do our laundry. The rules are so different in Chile. People just let their dogs out, and they come back. The dogs that are actual street dogs for little cliques and posses and some survive. They have territory and secret meetings and talk about dog things. It is possible that Crazy's owners got sick of him and drove him to Jardin Alto because they couldn't decide what else to do. Perhaps the next stage of the organization should Voluntarios de los Perros...from around the world for the street dogs of Chile.

I've had an overwhelming number of emails asking me "Lauren, what do you do in your free time?" That is absolutely untrue, but I'll tell you anyway. I've taken to reading quite a bit, because to my delight, we have a pretty decent library of books in the house from volunteers past. It is also fairly common to have a seat on the Metro and read if you have a long ride. Not for normal people, mind you, but for gringos who aren't content drawing to attention to themselves just by being there.

Damage

2006-07-18T00:31:00.000-04:00

Today is the first day of winter vacation, which means no Ojos, pelotas, stabbings with needles, besitos or 'No, tia' for two whole weeks. I'll miss my little ones, but there is much to do, and a whole city to see.

And many people. As my struggle with Spanish continues, I have (with some help) taken matters into my own hands and accepted the fact that when people say "When you live in a foreign country, its really easy to pick up the language" they are dirty liars. So now I have a language partner, and he is as eager to learn English as I am Spanish, which works out quite well.

Thursday we had another VIM (Very Important Meeting) where we all get together and talk about something very important to our work, so that we can think about what we are doing here and why. Many of us don't know why we're here, just that it feels right. As I'm often reminded, I've only been here for a few weeks, which is not necessarily enough time to shape the meaning of your life. So I find these VIM's (my name for them) useful, if for no other reason than I find out a but more about the other voluntarios.

The article up for discussion was 'When Charity Chokes Justice' by David Hilfiker. I wasn't a huge fan. Great ideas, not much follow through and what seemed like a whole lot of complaining. However, it managed to spark a discussion that was unexpected, and different, and not the usual liberal politically correct nonsense that I tend to use in all discussions about social services.

Being around so many Americans (and Hungarians, etc.) I sometimes forget where I am. Sure my tia talks to me about how Santiago is bad, and I'm learning that Chileans feel like bread is the solution to all problems ("The children are cold! Their teeth are chattering! Someone go buy some pan!), but I haven't gotten to the point where I can have one of those conversations yet...about ideals, and goals and family life of a real Chilean. For whatever reason I'm just not willing to ask the right questions because I'm not sure I want the answers. I talk about helping, but I don't know if I'm ready to face how difficult and different life is here, and in turn confront my own guilt.

There are limits to charity. Charity does not solve problems, but symptoms. Sometimes, treating a symptom too well causes the problems to be overlooked. This is Mr. Hilfiker's argument.

And the discussion: I agree that sometimes we're doing more harm than good. Sometimes helping people gives the world at large the sense that everything is ok. Other times, we can actually damage people by giving them something that they should be able to get themselves (that is, through government programs and the like). If charity is too successful, will the government decide that all is well in the world? Will they forget WHY people need our help in the first place? And most importantly, is it all our fault? Does charity equal damage?

We didn't really decide, but we talked about it. Languages and Escudo flying, passion and ideas with no real answers.

When I got home from the discussion, foremost in my mind was that I'd learned the word damage. For some reason, I thought this would come in very handy in the coming days.

But I didn't know how. Until Saturday. It was supposed to be a repair weekend, a chance for us all to get together and complete a project for a hogar. Except, so whatever reason, no one signed up. Well, no one but me, J and C (the Organizer). Since the project was supposed to just be pulling a few posts out of the ground (rock bar? shovel? AmeriCorps?) in the patio of the hogar, we figured we could just get in done, the three of us. But what happened instead was chaos, Chilean style.

The "posts" were huge column-like structures, supporting a canopy covered in branches. If I had remembered batteries, there would be photos now, and all of this would make more sense. If it wasn't 11:45pm I might even draw you a picture of them. These posts were huge and precarious, and embedded in concrete.

But we had a plan: Remove the branch from the top of the canopy, remove the canopy itself one wooden slat at a time, take out the posts one by one. J brought gloves. There were shovels. We could do this.

We went forward with "The Plan", when suddenly 5 Chilean teens (?) showed up and, seeing that we had gotten to work, started pulling on the top of the canopy, causing all of the delapidated posts/columns to bend and shift and make me incredibly nervous. The three of us stopped working to brace the posts while the Chileans pulled away, seemingly unaware of the danger of what they were doing. We tried to tell them to stop, but it didn't register, until finally the posts (wood wrapped in a very heavy plaster) began to fall. This got their attention.

Time to regroup: We exchanged ideas in broken Spanish and got back to work. Our original plan wouldn't work because a) the canopy/columns were just too unstable and b) the alleged "Branches" were still attached to a tree, which we originally did not notice (have you ever felt so stupid that your head hurts and you want to pay your parents back for college? that was me at 11am on Saturday morning).

The new plan involved a big shove, sending the whole structure crashing to the ground. I'm not sure at what point this registered as a "good" plan with everyone, but we all agreed on the course of action. Uno, dos.....calamity.

The force of the falling canopy caused one of the posts to shoot backwards, shattering a window.
The crash sent the kids (who were in the sala, watching all of this unfold) running towards the glass, because that makes sense, gasping and saying "oooooh, tiiiiaaaaaa." The Americans all froze, taking in that one moment full responsibility for everything that had happened and knowing that we blew it. I could tell that the potential injuries shot threw our minds at the same time, as did the feeling of total failure. Is it worth it to take down a few posts if you break a window? Is it worth the damage?

But no one cared. At a hogar for children who are removed from their homes by the police while their parents battle for custody, or go to jail, or kick drug habits, this was not a tragedy. This was a piece of glass that would soon be replaced. The tios were actually satisfied that the sturcture had come down so quickly and that we could now get to work removing all of the wood, chopping down the tree with its tricky branches, and digging what was left of the posts out of the ground.

No one was hurt. We would be more careful going forward.

Then came the sledgehammers and saws and tools that I could not believe were being so freely passed around, but served to very quickly remove the rest of the structure in such a controlled kind of chaos that I can't really remember it. The kids came in and out of the patio, grabbing crumbling, splintered wood with their bare hands to feel helpful and involved. They begged the Chileans to let them use the tools. They asserted that this hogar, however temporarily, was their home, and that they wanted to be a part of it. C cleaned up the broken window, and no one remembered that anything had happened.

I wish I could end this post with "And we left the patio beautiful and new" but I can't. I don't know what it looks like at this moment, because it isn't my hogar, and renovations aren't always completed in one day. After a while we were given the very unglamorous task of scraping old paint off a window because it just needed to be done. The fumes from the paint thinner made us crazy, and the term 'Manpants' was born, for better or for worse. We worked together: volunteers, tios, kids, Americans, Chileans. We learned that there are many kinds of damage, and all you can do is try to fix one thing at a time.

Salchicho Lives!!

2006-07-12T19:26:00.000-04:00

...and just tried to eat my face!

Since we hadn't seen Salchicho in a while, we started to get worried. Was he jealous that another sausage had been born on our block and we were talking about him? Was he angry that we didn't have his back enough after the German Shephard incident? Did he know that we fed the last of the veggie burgers to Bif the mangy mutt?

Apparently not. He came to visit on a random sunny day, and proceeded to make himself at home. We kicked him out after he invaded the bathroom.
As an aside, I have a new email address to accompany the blog: chilelle@gmail.com. I'm using it specifically to receive messages about the blog, so I'll still be checking the hotmail, etc. Apparently if you don't have gmail account here you are utterly worthless, so I hopped on yet another bandwagon. Feel free to send any Salchicho sightings. Paz.

Rain City

2006-07-11T16:08:00.000-04:00

I'd like to preface this post by noting that my laptop screen is totally dying. There is no contrast and everything has trails, so its like I'm working on acid. In all likelihood, I will have to send my laptop back to the U.S. to be fixed, which will make me cry a river of tears. If that is the case, I may not be able to post for a while, since in my house I share a computer with about 300 other people who don't share well. Does anybody know how much a laptop screen usually costs? Pobrecita!!

It is winter in Chile. I've been told that Chilean winters are similar to those on the West Coast, where rain is the precipitation of choice and snow is primarily for show on the tops of mountains. This is true here, except for one small detail: On the West Coast, buildings are heated.

I was talking to a friend (ok, a guy I met in a bar) and somehow the phrase "I live in a bubble" came up. I don't really remember the context, and probably would not have remembered at all had I not had to ask someone how to say "bubble" in spanish (the answer is 'burbuja' but it doesn't really translate). The thing is, I meant it. I have been living in a bubble, one where heat and regular hot showers and normal mattresses aren't a luxury. And for all of my talk about wanting to help people and knowing that I was going to be living a simple life, I was still taken by such surprise when I realized that our house can't be heated until its "really cold" and my school doesn't have any heat at all. Ever. The chiquititos bundle themselves up and try to learn, distracted by their chattering teeth and gloveless fingers. In many ways, it feels like you will never be warm again.

But from what I understand, the Chilean people are just used to it - this is life. Life in Chile is paying for cans of gas and hoping they last. Life in Chile is not having a hot shower everyday. Life in Chile is taking a collectivo because they blast the heat for the 15 minute ride home.

Of course, life in Chile is also dancing, and pan, and the family that still sells garlic off of a horse-drawn wagon. Difficult and wonderful, cloaked in a vague brand of tradition.

We had a meeting tonight, and on the ride home noticed that the UniMarc (local supermaket) was dark. I had never seen it like this, as normally it is my beacon, signalling that I will be home soon. Closed at 9 was not a possibility.

We noticed, winding up the hill to Jardin Alto, that all the lights were out - the rain had cut off the power in our little part of La Florida. The lights filtering out of our windows were candles put out by my roomates already at home. They had opened wine, cooked pasta and were ready to discuss the events of the day by candlelight. I talked about my run-in with an angry 8-year-old with a sewing needle. Morgan spoke of her day spent running errands for the babies. Nicole was excited to move into her new apartment. Life in Chile.

At midnight the lights came back on. A few flickers, then full on power. Instead of the cries of delight, all seven of us in la sala said "Turn the lights off. The night is not over." Another night in Rain City.

Another day, another holler

2006-07-07T14:10:00.000-04:00

After an entirely strange morning, involving the "jumpy jumpy" room, Papi "Jeck" and a little rain, it becomes clear to me that many people think I am German. After being warned that people in South America can spot an American from a mile away (not true) and automatically hate them (not ALWAYS true), it surprises me how many people, upon hearing me speak Spanish, assume that I'm from the land of great beers and sausages.

I guess it stands to reason, being tall(er than most Chileans) and blonde, that I might be from somewhere other than the U.S. And of course, I only know the assumptions of people who actually come up to me and ask me where I'm from. As for those who stare at me from the other side of the street, or the micro, or from behind the counter while I buy empanadas (which I can totally do in Spanish with no problem...little victories), I assume that they think I'm from Mars.

I don't know what prompted the man at the Parada to talk to me today. I was pretty closed off, buried in Orwell's 1984 (I've never read it...and I'm so freaked out) and not wearing a smile. You can't smile while you read 1984. And generally, the fact that I'm reading a book in English is enough for people to ignore me, which I welcome after working a full morning at the Colegio.

But the wait at the Parada was becoming unbearable and, considering the short distance that I had to travel and the fact that I would have just walked had I not already waited for 45 minutes, I must have looked agitated. Not as agitated, however, as Pepe my new Chilean friend. I noticed him immediately, because he was trying to flag down every collectivo that passed with his crutch, and he was carrying groceries. I thought to myself that the other people waiting had better let him into the first collectivo that comes, because he obviously needs to sit down. When he started pacing and talking to himself, I became pretty certain that he was going to start talking to me. In New York, I would have put my iPod on or walked the other way to avoid having an awkward conversation about how much it sucks to wait for the Micro and how every collectivo is always full. But I need to practice my Spanish, so talking to strangers is actually convenient.

The Chilean people ask me the same questions, in the same order: Are you from Germany? No. Are you from the U.S.? Yes. I've been the the U.S. x times. Which city? New York. Wow, so you were there on September 11th? and so on....

The obsession with September 11th is surprising. It seems so long ago and so close at the same time, and I don't particularly enjoy talking about it. I can't really imagine what it was like for anyone outside of New York to see that happen, or react to it. But it is one of those unavoidable questions, so I've stored my answer (I wasn't in the city at the time. Yes, I knew people who worked there. No, I don't like talking about it.) along with a few others that come in handy on a daily basis:

No, I'm not a student. I graduated in 2002(No soy un estudiante; gradue de universidad en dos mil y dos)

Please let go of my hair. (Suelta mi pelo, porfa)

No, I don't get paid (No tengo us sueldo)

Can I have two Escudos, please (Puedo tener dos Escudos, porfa), which is often followed by "Sure, handsome Chilean man, I'd love to dance" (Si, gibberish).

None of these really did the trick with Pepe who, after the September 11th question, launched into a somewhat inteligible speech about water. I understood about 33% of what he said, which is really low for me. Was it his lack of teeth? Or the fact that he was only 4 feet tall? Is tough to say. However, I'd give anything for a recording of that conversation. These are the details as I remember them:

Number of times I said "I don't understand": 10
Number of times he said "Rain in the streets": 25
Number of minutes it took me to understand that "Rio Hoffson" means "Hudson River": 8.5
Number of times he patted my arm and winked: 27
Number of times I thought he was going to ask me to marry him: 2
Number of times he asked me to come over to his house for dinner: 3
Number of dogs he hit with his cane: 2
Number of dogs that I fed, prompting them to come over to me and get hit by Pepe's cane: 2
Likelihood that a random Chilean man will want to talk about Six Flags Great Adventure: 1 in 1,000,000
Total length of conversation: 55 minutes

Finally, the micro arrives. I'm ecstatic because I get to find out what happens in Room 101, yet I'm sad that I can't talk to Pepe anymore. When we get on the micro he says "This is the right one, do you have enough money?" I do, and he is offered a seat. Minutes later so am I, and we are separated. Oh Pepe, I really want to come over for dinner. I don't think you are creepy.

And then, my favorite moment since I arrived in Santiago happened: The Micro stops halfway up Rojas Magallanes. I hear the doors open, but I'm reading and don't really care. There is a commotion. "Rubia! Rubia! Tu companero!" People are pointing and ttapping and alking to me. "Rubia" almost always means me. I follow their fingers to Pepe who is frantically waving. "Get home safe," he says. "We'll meet again." And I melt.

He's off the micro, standing on the sidewalk and watching me drive away, waving. I wave back, saying goodbye to my first friend in Chile.

Word on the street (thanks Gill!) is that you can't post a comment without being a regular blogger or registering or something...what is with this blogging thing? Have I fallen victim, like so many others, to the delusion that people actually care about all the minutiae of my life? Is it physically possible for everyone in the universe to simultaneously be blogging? I can't think about this anymore. My head is going to explode. I'll stop begging people for comments now.

Ojos!

2006-07-04T17:41:00.001-04:00

Eyes are important in Chile. Their color, their size, their shape. When you toast, you must look everyone in the eye or else....well, its a horrible fate. I'm told many other cultures share the tradition. The eyes have it.

My kids don't usually look me in the eye. They are everywhere at once, coloring while looking out the window, closing their eyes all together while eating their colacion. They can't concentrate, and when I look them in the eyes for too long, it makes them nervous. A part of me wants to find out if I can understand what's going on in their little heads...what are they trying to tell me, or anyone for that matter? But they move, constantly. Their eyes, their bodies, their thoughts.

We aren't supposed to have favorites in our instituions, but everyone does. Initially, my favorites out of my small class of seven at School were the ones who couldn't speak and didn't try to punch me. As I got to know them, my favorite became a little boy who hated me, brought knives to school and gave me the finger whenever his tia wasn't looking. But in the past few days, there is one girl who really gets to me. Not because I favor her, but because I find myself trying so hard to understand her. She's Ojos.

We made up this game at School. In fairness, calling it a game is sort of a stretch. But I suppose if on the playground running is a game, this could qualify. What I may lack in game-making-creativity, I make up for in enthusiasm. For whatever reason, I have somehow created something that allows me to communicate with a girl whose disability I cannot understand and who is afraid of bread.

She's adorable...a Chilean beauty, with brown hair and brown eyes. She's tiny, but tough. In a class of mostly boys, she can really hold her own and I admire her for that. At the same time, she makes me unbelievable sad. She is twelve and she can't color inside the lines. She can't write her own name. She likes to say the word manzana.

But the things that she does know, she loves to share. She knows eyes, or ojos, so once, when I covered my eyes (out of exhaustion/frustration) she screamed "Ojos!" and covered hers as well. I started to do it more often...to calm her if she freaks out for whatever reason (if there is bread near her, for example). She starts to whine and - in a flash- my hands go to my eyes.

Then one day: "Ojos!" she screams. We laugh and the others join in.

They're all playing what they believe is a game. But what's next? Surely Tia Lauren must have a plan for the next part.

In that moment, I came to the realization that my kids and I are the same. We are struggling to express ourselves. They can see that I have all of these ideas of what to do and no way to say them. I see their 5 faces staring at me as I search my mind for the right word for nose. I look at them and - they will likely never find their words.

Finally, I remember. "Nariz!" I say. Hands to noses. My kids know the parts of the face. Who knew?

It all comes back to me now. "Boca!" I say, and they tap tap tap their little mouths. "Cabeza! Pelo!" I've now completely exhausted my knowledge of facial features in Spanish. (I've since learned ear/oreja and cheek/mejilla)

But the beautiful, tiny girl with all of the problems and giggles says "Manos, tia, manos." She shakes her hands like a dance. The others follow suit (minus one, who is hopping on one foot singing reggaeton and is worthy of another post altogether) and the game has ended. I have no idea what just happened. Is it over? Was that it? Was that even fun?

They beauty of the game is that everyone can play. If there is a lull in our schoolwork work, its time for Ojos. The kids are proud of what they know, and want to show me. But even better, it forces us, for a few minutes a day, to look at each other. When the kids say "Ojos!" their little hands cover their eyes. After a few seconds they realize that they can't see what I'm going to do next. So they peek through their fingers, each one, and look at me directly. 10 seconds. Right in the eyes.