Failure

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....

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!!

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

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

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....

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

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

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!!

...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

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

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!

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.

The Saga of Salchicho

Am I officially obsessed with the street dogs here is Santiago? You be the judge....

The house is located in a heavily residential part of Santiago called La Florida. Here is a photo of our street:

Each house has a gate in front, tall enough so that dogs can't jump over and the bars are close enough together so that (most) dogs can't come in. Of course, whomever designed said gates was not thinking about Salchicho. He lives down the street, and is called Salchicho (or "Sausage") by us gringos because he is, you guessed it, a dachshund.

And he's not a street dog. He definitely has a home, with a gate, and his owners have gone so far as to put netting in front of the gate so that he can't get out. But he does, and can be seen around the neighborhood awkwardly running and wreaking havoc.

On my third day here, I almost killed Salchicho. It was a weird neck-in-fence-Lauren-not-paying-attention fiasco, followed by screaming and serious overcompensation to the dog who "barely escaped death". Needless to say, Salchicho lived on, without a scratch. Of course, I was a tad shaken that I had almost snapped a little dog's neck. For visual purposes, here is the front of our house, gate open:

Two days ago, as Luke, Morgan and I were walking to a meeting of the minds, Salchico joined us, as he often does, jumping and yapping and hoping we'll give him some veggie burgers (which we feed some of the street dogs...we have ALOT of them). We start to worry that Salchicho is going to far from home...I mean, does he think that he can come with us to HBH? I've never tried to bring a dog into a collectivo, but something tells me it wouldn't go over well.

And then, tragedy strikes: Someone has left open their gate revealing not one, but two GIANT German Shepherds who are PISSED that the little sausage has entered their territory. A nagging feeling tells me that that normally Salchicho, free from the confines of his front yard, yaps away at the restricted German Shepherds (whom I will call Boris and Fritz), taunting them will his freedom.

Well its payback, and a chase ensues. I have no idea how Salchicho's little legs are able to carry him to safety (I'm not entirely sure that mine will, for that matter...Boris and Fritz sort of have us trapped), but off he goes around around the corner. We all breathe a sigh of relief.

All is well until Salchicho, much more stupid than what we originally imagined, comes back. I'll never know why, but he runs straight for Boris who nearly takes off his tiny sausage head. We feel compelled to protect Salchicho, but really he's digging his own grave and I'm afraid of Boris and Fritz. Surely the protection part should be Luke's job, anyway. He is much taller than I am and speaks perfect Spanish.

There's no time for any of that, because the dogs are suddenly in the STREET (and I'm fully screeching at the sight) running in circles and freaking us out and then there is a CAR and the little sausage head is once again at death's door.

But Salchicho lives (and if he hadn't, I have no idea how I would have explained it to Rita), and by some miracle disappears around the corner again, this time for good. Boris and Fritz take up watch duty on said corner to make sure that he doesn't come back. As much as we're compelled to wait it out a little longer, we take off in the opposite direction, now running late for our Very Important Meeting.

Makes me glad my family always had mutts. I don't think my heart could take it otherwise.