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.