Feliz Año Nuevo!

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

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

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...

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

The Best (and Worst) Omnipresent Christmas Music

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

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!

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!

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!

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

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....

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

What's Up?

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

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...

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

Desperate...

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..

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

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....

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

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!

De Nuevo

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?

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

"Poor Kids"

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sip it up.

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

50 cups of coffee and you know it's on

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

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...

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

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...

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

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

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

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!

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

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

Always the Best Friend, Never the Bride

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

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

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

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

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...

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?

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

When we break free....

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

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

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.