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.