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.