Apparently a Chilean blogger who keeps a page dedicated to the cafe we visited in Omue has postedpictures from the night we were there
You may remember my brief post on Olmue, a sleepy town that served as our launching pad for the La Campana hike. I talked mostly about being tired after the hike and frustrated about the lack of busses, but we actually had a pretty interesting experience the night before, too.
Our hostel owner recommended the cafe for dinner, and it turned out to be the only place open in the town that night anyway. When we got in there, they had a TV blaring American songs and music videos from the 90s. It was a blast of welcome nostalgia, as we ended up singing along for most of the dinner. Sad to say, we were slightly disappointed when they turned off the TV and a live Chilean began a set. So much for enjoying the local culture.
In any case, at some point or another this guy starts randomly taking pictures of us. At the time, we assumed it was because Kelsey was a blonde (who are few and far between in Chile). Turns out, he just wanted pictures for his blog! Who woulda' thunk?
If you read the captions and the blurb underneath the photos, somehow they got the (mis) information that we were all from Boston, and were visiting Olmue prior to beginning our studies at the Catholic University in Valparaiso. Not sure where that came from.
Oh, Chile. I'll miss you.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Winter Wonderland
It's nearing mid-June here in Chile, which means winter has entered into full swing. While so far it's been mostly cold and dry, looks like the rains may finally arrive this week. All in all, it's been just like December in Sacramento.
Which, of course, has thrown off my whole mindset. Part of me wants to put on sweats and curl up on the sofa, basking in front of the TV with a glass of hot chocolate. I even feel like I should be inundated with Christmas commercials, the perfect red-and-green antidote to the dreary grey skies outside. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you're one to hate the crass commercialism of the holiday season) all that is still half a year away. And in only a week, I'll be in the balmy confines of Sacramento, enjoying a week of mere dry heat before heading to the humid Washington DC for the summer. It will all be a shock, I have no doubt.
Which, of course, has thrown off my whole mindset. Part of me wants to put on sweats and curl up on the sofa, basking in front of the TV with a glass of hot chocolate. I even feel like I should be inundated with Christmas commercials, the perfect red-and-green antidote to the dreary grey skies outside. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you're one to hate the crass commercialism of the holiday season) all that is still half a year away. And in only a week, I'll be in the balmy confines of Sacramento, enjoying a week of mere dry heat before heading to the humid Washington DC for the summer. It will all be a shock, I have no doubt.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Taxicab Confessions
An interesting anecdote from the other day: had a great conversation with my cab driver, taking me home from the airport after dropping Avalon off for her flight early Tuesday morning. I had hoped that maybe chatting it up with the guy would save me a few bucks (didn't work) on the ride, or at least provide some interesting insights on the Chilean experience (did work).
While my Spanish was a bit shaky at 4 am, I think he was still happy with my attempts to make the 15-minute ride through the dark, largely abandoned freeways a bit lighter. He turned out to be a funny fellow, hailing from Maipu, one of the poorer sections of town, and quite opinionated about all things Chile (aren't we all).
When I asked him if he liked Santiago, he immedately replied no, because of "drogas." This briefly took me aback, as Chile is largely considered to be clean, modern, and drug free. So far, I hadn't seen that much of a drug
That I found surprising. The same military which produced the proud Pinochet and the strict, authoritarian government that ruled the country from 1973-89? The driver said his brother was in the military, and had problem with drugs, and that corruption was stemming out of control. Surprising stuff.
I then asked about the Caribineros, the civillian police that appear to be the army in everything but name. Apparently the Caribineros are immune, he said. I bet if US citizens were polled on whether they thought the military or police were more corrupt, the police would win (lose?) by a landslide.
Then I went back home and wrote a 10-page econ paper, sleeping from 8 to 9 am. So much for the vacation.
While my Spanish was a bit shaky at 4 am, I think he was still happy with my attempts to make the 15-minute ride through the dark, largely abandoned freeways a bit lighter. He turned out to be a funny fellow, hailing from Maipu, one of the poorer sections of town, and quite opinionated about all things Chile (aren't we all).
When I asked him if he liked Santiago, he immedately replied no, because of "drogas." This briefly took me aback, as Chile is largely considered to be clean, modern, and drug free. So far, I hadn't seen that much of a drug
That I found surprising. The same military which produced the proud Pinochet and the strict, authoritarian government that ruled the country from 1973-89? The driver said his brother was in the military, and had problem with drugs, and that corruption was stemming out of control. Surprising stuff.
I then asked about the Caribineros, the civillian police that appear to be the army in everything but name. Apparently the Caribineros are immune, he said. I bet if US citizens were polled on whether they thought the military or police were more corrupt, the police would win (lose?) by a landslide.
Then I went back home and wrote a 10-page econ paper, sleeping from 8 to 9 am. So much for the vacation.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Yes, I'm still here
Loyal readers (if there are any):
Yes, in case you're wondering, I'm still in Chile. I know it has been a while, but after the long weekend in Buenos Aries, I've spent the last week with a paper, group project, and visiting girlfriend all taking priority than blogging. And even though my camera now lies in the murky depths of the Rio de la Plata, I'll be updating several times the next week or so, as I'll be needing some study breaks for finals.
And yes, I'm bummed we actually have to take finals. You mean this wasn't just a quarter-long vacation?
Yes, in case you're wondering, I'm still in Chile. I know it has been a while, but after the long weekend in Buenos Aries, I've spent the last week with a paper, group project, and visiting girlfriend all taking priority than blogging. And even though my camera now lies in the murky depths of the Rio de la Plata, I'll be updating several times the next week or so, as I'll be needing some study breaks for finals.
And yes, I'm bummed we actually have to take finals. You mean this wasn't just a quarter-long vacation?
Monday, May 14, 2007
It's the culture, stupid
There we sat, exhausted and hungry after a long day's hike in Olmue. We had just spent several hours on the trails of La Campana, having chosen the most difficult for our day's effort. The views at the top were spectacular, and we had incredible luck as the clouds came in only after we had begun our descent. But now we were tired, seeking showers, and ready to head home to Santiago.
But there was a problem. The bus company, who had assured us that busses running from Olmue to Santiago would come by every half hour or so. Apparently, in Chilean, every half hour or so actually means every hour and a half. So we had to wait, and Ulmue was out of bottled water (except, of course, "gasificada"--or carbonated--which some may find refreshing but I find lacking after a dehydrating hike).
This led me to once again question the inefficency and ineffectiveness that seems to plague Latin American business sometimes. Chile may be developing and considers itself European, but travelers still have to "go with the flow" as the customer isn't always right. This put me in a foul mood.
But, as we wandered the streets of Olmue, we encountered a competition of the "cueca," the Chilean national dance. There was a stadium packed with fans from every region of Chile, cheering on the pairs of dancers that represented them on stage. While not as unruly as the soccer fans, they were every bit as passionate, sounding noisemakers and throwing confetti to further their cause. The cueca reminded me of some traditional Mexican dances, as the outfits and music (Spanish guitars, accordians, bass, piano and drums all in the mix) were very smilar. It was free, and a delight to watch. It served as an important lesson why traveling to Latin America can be so great. You don't go there because everything works efficiently as possible. You go there because it has a character that you don't often find in the good ol' cold capitalistic US of A.
But it was nice to get a hot shower back in the city.
But there was a problem. The bus company, who had assured us that busses running from Olmue to Santiago would come by every half hour or so. Apparently, in Chilean, every half hour or so actually means every hour and a half. So we had to wait, and Ulmue was out of bottled water (except, of course, "gasificada"--or carbonated--which some may find refreshing but I find lacking after a dehydrating hike).
This led me to once again question the inefficency and ineffectiveness that seems to plague Latin American business sometimes. Chile may be developing and considers itself European, but travelers still have to "go with the flow" as the customer isn't always right. This put me in a foul mood.
But, as we wandered the streets of Olmue, we encountered a competition of the "cueca," the Chilean national dance. There was a stadium packed with fans from every region of Chile, cheering on the pairs of dancers that represented them on stage. While not as unruly as the soccer fans, they were every bit as passionate, sounding noisemakers and throwing confetti to further their cause. The cueca reminded me of some traditional Mexican dances, as the outfits and music (Spanish guitars, accordians, bass, piano and drums all in the mix) were very smilar. It was free, and a delight to watch. It served as an important lesson why traveling to Latin America can be so great. You don't go there because everything works efficiently as possible. You go there because it has a character that you don't often find in the good ol' cold capitalistic US of A.
But it was nice to get a hot shower back in the city.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
The South Chile Diet (Do not try at home)
"Sin Mayonesa."
They didn’t tell me this at the orientation events, but these have been the two most important words in the Spanish language during my trip so far. If you forget, eater beware, as more often than not you’ll get a whole lot more than you’ve bargained for, and on dishes you wouldn’t imagine.
Take the Chilean salad, which already leaves a little to be desired as it usually consists of a pile of lettuce and a stack of tomatoes, set next to each other. But when you add the mayo—and my host mother took a Jackson Pollack approach to one last week—it gets, well, even more interesting. The ultimate irony came yesterday when I was served an artichoke, a vegetable I actually enjoy dipping in mayonnaise, without mayo but with lemon juice. Go figure?
The typical Chilean diet would make an American nutritionist squirm: tons of white bread, fatty meat, salt, sugar and, of course, mayonnaise. While nutritionists in the states are pushing for multiple, smaller meals throughout the day, Chile has embraced the two huge meal-a-day philosophy with gusto. And when breakfast sometimes comes with a slice of coffee cake, and dinner is merely cake or white bread with tea or coffee, sweetness seems to reign supreme.
And sometimes that isn’t enough. When we were served a tamale-like dish (corn wrapped it its own husk and cooked, but without meat) after dinner the other day, I assumed it was merely another course. But after my host mom dumped a mountain of sugar on top (no joke, you could no longer see the corn) I realized dessert had been served.
To be fair, most of the food isn’t all that bad. To their credit, Chileans eat a lot of fruit and vegetables, and put avocado (palta) on everything as well, which is definitely a plus. The completo, a hot dog with avocado and tomatoes as garnish is the perfect late night snack—sin mayonesa, of course.
It begs the question: how is the entire nation not massively overweight like the U.S.? Everyone seems to be in decent enough health, and obese individuals are few and far between. Still, considering the diet, it’s hard to imagine how the country isn’t a walking triple bypass.
But that’s the kicker: walking. As in, everyone walks everywhere. Sure, the Metro and busses are necessary to go long distances, and cabs and personal cars clog the streets during rush hour, but there’s a good amount of pedestrian traffic that U.S. cities, at least residential areas, sorely lack. Even at 11:00 on a Friday night I see elderly couples on walks around the neighborhood.
Hopefully the U.S. will take notice and start building its communities around mass transit and pedestrian traffic avenues. Unfortunately, in its zeal for modernization, Chile’s press has been hyping the idea of cars for all families by 2018. If that happens, the personal freedoms Chileans gain by driving may come back to haunt them, both in smoggy skies and expanding waistlines.
They didn’t tell me this at the orientation events, but these have been the two most important words in the Spanish language during my trip so far. If you forget, eater beware, as more often than not you’ll get a whole lot more than you’ve bargained for, and on dishes you wouldn’t imagine.
Take the Chilean salad, which already leaves a little to be desired as it usually consists of a pile of lettuce and a stack of tomatoes, set next to each other. But when you add the mayo—and my host mother took a Jackson Pollack approach to one last week—it gets, well, even more interesting. The ultimate irony came yesterday when I was served an artichoke, a vegetable I actually enjoy dipping in mayonnaise, without mayo but with lemon juice. Go figure?
The typical Chilean diet would make an American nutritionist squirm: tons of white bread, fatty meat, salt, sugar and, of course, mayonnaise. While nutritionists in the states are pushing for multiple, smaller meals throughout the day, Chile has embraced the two huge meal-a-day philosophy with gusto. And when breakfast sometimes comes with a slice of coffee cake, and dinner is merely cake or white bread with tea or coffee, sweetness seems to reign supreme.
And sometimes that isn’t enough. When we were served a tamale-like dish (corn wrapped it its own husk and cooked, but without meat) after dinner the other day, I assumed it was merely another course. But after my host mom dumped a mountain of sugar on top (no joke, you could no longer see the corn) I realized dessert had been served.
To be fair, most of the food isn’t all that bad. To their credit, Chileans eat a lot of fruit and vegetables, and put avocado (palta) on everything as well, which is definitely a plus. The completo, a hot dog with avocado and tomatoes as garnish is the perfect late night snack—sin mayonesa, of course.
It begs the question: how is the entire nation not massively overweight like the U.S.? Everyone seems to be in decent enough health, and obese individuals are few and far between. Still, considering the diet, it’s hard to imagine how the country isn’t a walking triple bypass.
But that’s the kicker: walking. As in, everyone walks everywhere. Sure, the Metro and busses are necessary to go long distances, and cabs and personal cars clog the streets during rush hour, but there’s a good amount of pedestrian traffic that U.S. cities, at least residential areas, sorely lack. Even at 11:00 on a Friday night I see elderly couples on walks around the neighborhood.
Hopefully the U.S. will take notice and start building its communities around mass transit and pedestrian traffic avenues. Unfortunately, in its zeal for modernization, Chile’s press has been hyping the idea of cars for all families by 2018. If that happens, the personal freedoms Chileans gain by driving may come back to haunt them, both in smoggy skies and expanding waistlines.
Are you ready for some futbol?
Last night I finally attended my first Chilean football game, and it was quite the experience. The home team, Colo-Colo (think the NY Yankees of Chile) won 2-1, but lost its matchup as it had fallen in the previous game 3-0 (the aggregate score matters in football tournaments). Thus, the opposing team, America (which hails from Mexico) played very defensively, keepin six or seven players back to guard the goal throughout. Nonetheless, Colo Colo kept up its attack, and despite some frustrating occurances, the quality of play was much better than the other Chilean games I'd seen on TV.
The Chilean fans were just as rowdy as I had hoped: loud, proud, and yes, sketchy. We were confronted countless times between the metro stop and the stadium entance by teens in slighly grungy Colo Colo jerseys asking for money--some claiming only to need a few more pesos to pay for a ticket, others a little more upfront). But apparently our group had it easy, as they tried to reach into my friend Eddie's pockets to get his iPod (which doesn't make sense as the's the biggest guy in our Stanford cohort here) and the girls were asked to perform a number of explicit sex acts which I will not elaborate on here.
Based on what now appears to be bad advice, we arrived to the stadium more than two hours early, and thus stuck out like a sore thumb. Although we weren't with the rowdies in the cheap seats (center of the field tends to be a little pricer; we paid rougly $15 each) we still got plenty of looks. The nearby fans nearly gave the girls a standing ovation of hoots and hollers when they came down the steps (blondes are in high demand here, it seems). A group of kids (I'd guess between eight to ten years old) decided to befriend us, posing for pictures and sweet talking the girls. Only when their dads, who had been sitting a few rows back watching with subtle amusement, decided enough was enough did the kids return to their seats. Of course, the chosen method of shutting their kids up was giving them each a cigarette.
Once the game started, the fans' attention shifted to the field of play. The game itself was a blast, I didn't catch on to all the cheers (most featured some sort of insult at the opposition's mothers) it was still great to be part of the crowd. One of the Spanish teachers, who is only in her late twenties, I'd guess, came with us and tought us a few of the chants. There was a fight in the stands on the other side of the field, and while the tides of onlookers rushed to catch a glimpse of the fray, they immediately reversed and fled the other direction as a cadre of menacing-looking policemen clad in full-out riot gear charged into the fracas. A few fireworks were set off from the crowd, and the police had to chase down an unauthorized sandwich vendor, but it didn't look like anyone was stabbed, so I'd say the game was a victory for all.
The Chilean fans were just as rowdy as I had hoped: loud, proud, and yes, sketchy. We were confronted countless times between the metro stop and the stadium entance by teens in slighly grungy Colo Colo jerseys asking for money--some claiming only to need a few more pesos to pay for a ticket, others a little more upfront). But apparently our group had it easy, as they tried to reach into my friend Eddie's pockets to get his iPod (which doesn't make sense as the's the biggest guy in our Stanford cohort here) and the girls were asked to perform a number of explicit sex acts which I will not elaborate on here.
Based on what now appears to be bad advice, we arrived to the stadium more than two hours early, and thus stuck out like a sore thumb. Although we weren't with the rowdies in the cheap seats (center of the field tends to be a little pricer; we paid rougly $15 each) we still got plenty of looks. The nearby fans nearly gave the girls a standing ovation of hoots and hollers when they came down the steps (blondes are in high demand here, it seems). A group of kids (I'd guess between eight to ten years old) decided to befriend us, posing for pictures and sweet talking the girls. Only when their dads, who had been sitting a few rows back watching with subtle amusement, decided enough was enough did the kids return to their seats. Of course, the chosen method of shutting their kids up was giving them each a cigarette.
Once the game started, the fans' attention shifted to the field of play. The game itself was a blast, I didn't catch on to all the cheers (most featured some sort of insult at the opposition's mothers) it was still great to be part of the crowd. One of the Spanish teachers, who is only in her late twenties, I'd guess, came with us and tought us a few of the chants. There was a fight in the stands on the other side of the field, and while the tides of onlookers rushed to catch a glimpse of the fray, they immediately reversed and fled the other direction as a cadre of menacing-looking policemen clad in full-out riot gear charged into the fracas. A few fireworks were set off from the crowd, and the police had to chase down an unauthorized sandwich vendor, but it didn't look like anyone was stabbed, so I'd say the game was a victory for all.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Friday Flashback
Yesterday was a day of sequels: a return to the doctor, sushi, Spider Man 3, and the ugly American rears its oh-so-ugly-head once more.
First, to the doctor, where I was to have a specialist examine my month-broken left ring finger that is still abnormally swollen. The doctor was a veritable Chilean Santa Claus, complete with white beard, jolly demeanor, rosy cheeks and a red shirt to boot. After hearing my labor to describe my symptoms in Spanish, he smiled, explained how he had just returned from a trip to the U.S., and began his diagnosis in near-perfect English.
Great.
As it turns out, the type of fracture I have (infinitesimally small) take a long time to heal, and there’s not a whole lot I can do. Except physical therapy.
Why not?
The physical therapist was nice enough, although I was a little weirded out by the routine, which included dipping my hand in paraffin, ultrasound (I felt like an expecting mother) and concluding with minor electric shocks. Of course, halfway through the session she politely asked if she could practice her English. Of course, I don’t mind, I responded.
After a routine trip to the gym (where there was a TV news crew filming god knows what) I returned home for a quick, light dinner, then jammed into the Metro at rush hour to meet the crew for sushi and Spider Man downtown. While the sushi joint (which offers half price discounts after 8, since most Chileans eat large lunches and small dinners) had been all but abandoned the Tuesday night we had been there a few weeks past, they had no room for our 10-person party this Thursday. But they did offer take out.
What did we do? Simply eat our 100-odd-piece sushi dinner family style, sitting on the floor in the lobby outside the restaurant. Other than a minor incident involving soy sauce, a spilled beer, and countless awkward looks from Chileans, all went well. Once you come to terms with being the annoying gringo and embrace it, things get much easier.
This came in handy when we next went to McDonalds and I dropped my cone (still holding out on eating actual McDonalds food) while, being the philanthropist that I am, attempting to donate my 30 Chilean pesos in change, I dropped my cone. But due to my acute Spidey senses, I caught it with my (recently rehabilitated left hand). The server gladly offered to replace it, being that I would have to now lick the ice cram off my hand (I wasn’t that graceful in my rescue). Initially, imbued with false American pride, I politely refused, but then noticing the looks my friends were giving me, and the imploring face of the McDonalds employee, I sheepishly accepted.
Of Spider Man, there’s not much to say, except that it was terrible. There was even one scene where he blatantly poses while soaring across an American flag. To remedy our image abroad, we elected to boo the screen. Not sure if it worked.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
A Hard Day's Off
If there's one things Chileans take seriously, it's soccer. Judged by the riots that broke out this weekend after "the greatest match in chilean football" ended in a tie, I learned one should stay off the metro on Sunday evenings. But if there's another thing Chilenan's take seriously, it's days off.
Thus I found an abandoned city on my walk to school this morning (more on the walk another day). I made it to the center faster than ever with traffic all but absent, and have spent the day getting my photos online (you'll notice the new shots with my entry on La Serena: "All Right Now"). I'll probably get somerthing up about this weekend's trip to Pucon later this evening, unless I choose to follow the Chilean example and just stay in my room and watch TV all day. We had classes off today, which is infuriating only because we DID have classes yesterday, which killed any chances of the dream 5-day travel weekend. Of course, several of my Stanford counterparts said "to hell with this" and went to Buenos Aires the whole time anyway. Probably a good call. But apparently the Chileans didn't even have class yesterday. What gives?!
To be fair, it is International Workers Day, which apparently is "international" everywhere except the good old US of A. As such, nearly every store, restaurant, and cafe is closed down. I'm going to search long and hard for a gringo sports bar to catch tonight's Warriors/Mavs game. Of course, I'll be pulling for the NorCal upset over Texas. Go Golden State!
With everything closed, we had to hunt to find food for lunch, eventually just going to get sandwiches from the nearby supermarket. McDonald's was open, but I'm trying to resist giving in to McD's for as long as possible (the rest of the crew already folded and got McFlurries, but I held strong).
As we were heading downstairs from the Stanford center, an odd smell was wafting up the staircase. At first somone said it was incsense, but it got stronger as we approached the lobby. There, as we left the staircase and passed the open door to the parking lot, sat the parking lot attendant, cheerfully smoking a joint right in the open--odd considering Chile's usual conservative sensibilities. While I thought my first encounter with drugs in South America would be with a Columbian cocaine warlord, this was more entertaining, as the attendant smiled and gave us a bigger-than-normal "buenas tardes" and wave of the hand.
Happy worker's day to you, too, sir.
Thus I found an abandoned city on my walk to school this morning (more on the walk another day). I made it to the center faster than ever with traffic all but absent, and have spent the day getting my photos online (you'll notice the new shots with my entry on La Serena: "All Right Now"). I'll probably get somerthing up about this weekend's trip to Pucon later this evening, unless I choose to follow the Chilean example and just stay in my room and watch TV all day. We had classes off today, which is infuriating only because we DID have classes yesterday, which killed any chances of the dream 5-day travel weekend. Of course, several of my Stanford counterparts said "to hell with this" and went to Buenos Aires the whole time anyway. Probably a good call. But apparently the Chileans didn't even have class yesterday. What gives?!
To be fair, it is International Workers Day, which apparently is "international" everywhere except the good old US of A. As such, nearly every store, restaurant, and cafe is closed down. I'm going to search long and hard for a gringo sports bar to catch tonight's Warriors/Mavs game. Of course, I'll be pulling for the NorCal upset over Texas. Go Golden State!
With everything closed, we had to hunt to find food for lunch, eventually just going to get sandwiches from the nearby supermarket. McDonald's was open, but I'm trying to resist giving in to McD's for as long as possible (the rest of the crew already folded and got McFlurries, but I held strong).
As we were heading downstairs from the Stanford center, an odd smell was wafting up the staircase. At first somone said it was incsense, but it got stronger as we approached the lobby. There, as we left the staircase and passed the open door to the parking lot, sat the parking lot attendant, cheerfully smoking a joint right in the open--odd considering Chile's usual conservative sensibilities. While I thought my first encounter with drugs in South America would be with a Columbian cocaine warlord, this was more entertaining, as the attendant smiled and gave us a bigger-than-normal "buenas tardes" and wave of the hand.
Happy worker's day to you, too, sir.
Monday, April 30, 2007
I left my heart in Valparaiso
While I just got back from a weekend at adventurer's paradise Pucon I'll hold off on writing about it until I get the pictures up. And now that it's been a couple weeks, I figured now would be a good time to reflect on my favorite weekend excursion so far:
Imagine a city where rolling hills meet the glittering Pacific, where fishermen sell their wares from rusty boats docked on the wharf, a city where rows of houses of every color imaginable are crammed together so their sides are touching, where the Bohemian architecture marks a countercultural hotspot, all nearly destroyed by an earthquake in the early 1900s. Sound familiar?
No, not San Francisco. Turns out Chile has a gem of its own: Valparaiso.
Some Chileans will even call the comparisons with The City valid, recalling the sailors who dubbed it "Little San Francisco" during its golden age of shipping before the days of the Panama Canal. But there's a distinct Latin American twist to this coastal town, where aged mechanical elevators called ascensors take tourists up the hills for a nominal fee--not quite cable cars, but since when do SF residents put up signs in their windows protesting a hike in cable car fares?
In Valparaiso, the charm rests in the interchange between native culture and modernity, a microcosm of Chile's grappling with its repressive, authoriarian past and its recent capatilist reforms. Take the town jail, for example, which was converted into a public museum. We were the only ones perusing the dusty confines of the ex-carcel on that Sunday, and to say the experience was surreal would be an understatement. Stone busts of topless women, murals, grafitti, worn down soccer fields--all contributed to a truly haunting experiece, the ghosts of the former inmates ever so elusive as we peered into the cells and out into the courtyards.
Getting to the prison/musem from our hostel was an adventure in iteself. The city is arranged like a game of chutes and latters, with the ascensors, staircases, and even slides helping to navigate the hilly terrain. Several turns found us practically in residents' backyards, but such was an up-close, down-and-dirty view of Chile that we had not yet found in Santiago.
The hostel was also a rousing experience, which we shared with several of our Stanford counterparts, as well as a creepy dude from Connectucut and some more aloof Europeans. It was as magical as Valparaiso itself, every wall painted a different color, and the rooms are all situated around a central atrium, which we filled with songs and guitar playing deep into the night (thanks, Canadian dude whose name I cannot recall, for letting me borrow your axe). Of course, my broken finger is still paying the price for such musical indescrecioins, but it was well worth it. I found myself considering how amazing it would be to open up and operate a hostel in Chile, perhaps owning/managing a vineyard on the side? We'll see how journalism goes...
The other attraction of that weekend was Vina del Mar, a more touristy destination for the less-Bohemian inclined. It boasts cleaner streets, more polished architecture, and an actual beach. While it lacked the cultural vibrancy of Valpo, it was great to walk up and down the shore checking out the artisans' stalls, watching the Chilean kids fly their kites in the sea breeze, and just dig my toes into the sand. The ritzy hotel even had a casino on its main floor, but Zach and Patchez had already lost decent sums of money before I could place my bet, so I politely abstained. Finally, we were graced with one of the more magnificent sunsets I've seen, the vast expanse of the Pacific topped with cotton candy clouds.
Thanks to Zach for providing the photos, as my camera was down for that weekend. I got it back up and running, however, and once I get the pics online from Pucon, I will give this week's true update.
Imagine a city where rolling hills meet the glittering Pacific, where fishermen sell their wares from rusty boats docked on the wharf, a city where rows of houses of every color imaginable are crammed together so their sides are touching, where the Bohemian architecture marks a countercultural hotspot, all nearly destroyed by an earthquake in the early 1900s. Sound familiar?
No, not San Francisco. Turns out Chile has a gem of its own: Valparaiso.
Some Chileans will even call the comparisons with The City valid, recalling the sailors who dubbed it "Little San Francisco" during its golden age of shipping before the days of the Panama Canal. But there's a distinct Latin American twist to this coastal town, where aged mechanical elevators called ascensors take tourists up the hills for a nominal fee--not quite cable cars, but since when do SF residents put up signs in their windows protesting a hike in cable car fares?
In Valparaiso, the charm rests in the interchange between native culture and modernity, a microcosm of Chile's grappling with its repressive, authoriarian past and its recent capatilist reforms. Take the town jail, for example, which was converted into a public museum. We were the only ones perusing the dusty confines of the ex-carcel on that Sunday, and to say the experience was surreal would be an understatement. Stone busts of topless women, murals, grafitti, worn down soccer fields--all contributed to a truly haunting experiece, the ghosts of the former inmates ever so elusive as we peered into the cells and out into the courtyards.
Getting to the prison/musem from our hostel was an adventure in iteself. The city is arranged like a game of chutes and latters, with the ascensors, staircases, and even slides helping to navigate the hilly terrain. Several turns found us practically in residents' backyards, but such was an up-close, down-and-dirty view of Chile that we had not yet found in Santiago.
The hostel was also a rousing experience, which we shared with several of our Stanford counterparts, as well as a creepy dude from Connectucut and some more aloof Europeans. It was as magical as Valparaiso itself, every wall painted a different color, and the rooms are all situated around a central atrium, which we filled with songs and guitar playing deep into the night (thanks, Canadian dude whose name I cannot recall, for letting me borrow your axe). Of course, my broken finger is still paying the price for such musical indescrecioins, but it was well worth it. I found myself considering how amazing it would be to open up and operate a hostel in Chile, perhaps owning/managing a vineyard on the side? We'll see how journalism goes...
The other attraction of that weekend was Vina del Mar, a more touristy destination for the less-Bohemian inclined. It boasts cleaner streets, more polished architecture, and an actual beach. While it lacked the cultural vibrancy of Valpo, it was great to walk up and down the shore checking out the artisans' stalls, watching the Chilean kids fly their kites in the sea breeze, and just dig my toes into the sand. The ritzy hotel even had a casino on its main floor, but Zach and Patchez had already lost decent sums of money before I could place my bet, so I politely abstained. Finally, we were graced with one of the more magnificent sunsets I've seen, the vast expanse of the Pacific topped with cotton candy clouds.
Thanks to Zach for providing the photos, as my camera was down for that weekend. I got it back up and running, however, and once I get the pics online from Pucon, I will give this week's true update.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
All Right Now
You may have heard about a 6.2 magnitude quake that rocked Chile last weekend. But, rest assured, I am fine and dandy as we spent the weekend in the north and the quake was centered in the remote south.
We spent the weekend in La Serena, a peaceful (yes, and serene) coastal town most famous for its antique lighthouse that doesn't work. We kept asking our tour guide why it doesn't work, but all she would say in response, with a wry smile was, "no funciona" (it doesn't work).
The excursion was our Bing Trip, the legendary weekened that each Stanford overseas student gets to spend with all expenses paid. We took a 45-minute flight to Santiago on Friday, and spent much of Saturday bussing around the Valle de Elki. While the Valle had magnificent sourroundings (pics will be uploaded soon), Gabriella Mistral's house and museum paled in comparison to Neruda's (I'm not cultured enough to make the same comparison about her poetry). And the grand finale of the day, a trip up to one of Chile's many observatories (the atmosphere is thinner here, I guess) was spoiled by cloudcover. But-lo and behold-the skies cleared up on our trip back to La Serena and we pulled our two buses over on the side of the highway and spent 15 minutes soaking in one of the most magestic starry skies I've seen.
The other highlight came the next day. BC and I decided to skip the all-day, $36, bus-riddled penguin excursion to stay in La Serena and chill out. We spent much of the late morning exploring the city and its markets, streets and Japanese Garden. But we hit pay dirt when we decided to check out a bar and watch soccer. The bar was packed, and everyone in attendance was decked out in full. For some reason they all were rooting for Santiago-based Universidad de Chile--La U, for short--and they sang and chanted the entire game. We bought pitchers of cheap beer (to fit in, of course) and tried to learn some of the chants. It was a blast. Next step: go to an actual game in Santiago. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Gringo = asshole
I was walking down the street the other afternoon when I passed a group of scruffy-looking Santiagans. They were moving about towards the bus station when a disheveled-looking woman took a dive in front of me. But I rejected years of Cub Scout training and continued walking along, looking ahead as if nothing had happened. Why, you may ask?
I was told to. Because, who knows, her 10 year old kid could run up behind me while I was helping her up and steal my wallet, or something along those lines. Get it?
Such is the case when you're an American abroad. While I don't dress flashy or do much to attract attention (ok, I should probably get a haircut and the aviators may verge on ostentatious--but I bought them for $5 at Walgreens, really!) I still feel like Tupac sometimes, because all eyes are on me. Sure, I'd imagine it would be worse to be a blonde female or something crazy like that, but no matter what, if there's something about you that screams gringo, it gets picked up quickly.
And it's not just pickpockets or people trying to get your money; sometimes it's with the best intentions. The worst part was when I approached the airport counter, having recited the proper Spanish vocabulary 100 times in my head, only to be greeted by, "Hello, sir, how are you doing today?" I know they want to make us tourists feel comfortable, but damn!
At least my host family tells me they are impressed with my Spanish. And being that they've hosted several other students in years past, I'll gladly take the compliment. Hopefully that will translate over to my classes (all in Spanish). Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to don my red, white and blue jumpsuit and ignore the street vendors trying to hawk their wares at me.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Pablo Neruda stole my laptop and made this blog
Location, location, location. It's not just important for real estate. I remember hearing somewhere that the best way to understand the literary greats is to visit where they spent most of their time. OK, I now realize that this came from the movie Orange County--but it still makes sense. And even though Neruda had three houses in Chile, he alledegly sepnt the most at Isla Negra, where we took a day trip with the whole Stanford group.
And what did we find?
The house was, simply put, picturesque. Ironic, of course, given that my camera broke so I don't have any pictures. But I digress. Isla Negra is a beautiful, down to earth beach town that could fit right in along the Pacific Coast in Northern California or Oregon. The house is perched right over the sea, with every room set to offer breathtaking views of the waves crashing over the black rocks. Inside, historians have preserved much of Neruda's collection of art and artifacts. The first room we stepped into was martimep-themed, filled with compasses, statues, and ships in a bottle. The subsequent rooms boasted ancient globes, maps, and tribal masks. It was a fantastic collection, inspiring in a way, although not enough for me to spring any cash on the various trinkets the street vendors were selling outside.
We also spent sometime exploring the beach below. The craggly rocks are good for hosting tide pools, and luckily we had BC in tow--fresh out of Stanford's program in Monterrey--to explain our findings. The weather was fantastic, and it had been a while since I enjoyed a day at the beach. All in all, Isla Negra was impresive. I could almost say that if I spent most of my days there, I could write some award-winning poetry, too.
Almost.
There's no pictures yet, but once the rest of the crew shares theirs I can put a couple up. I'll also be posting some of my journal entries from Valpariso and Vina del Mar, our other destinations this past weekend, in the next day or two.
And what did we find?
The house was, simply put, picturesque. Ironic, of course, given that my camera broke so I don't have any pictures. But I digress. Isla Negra is a beautiful, down to earth beach town that could fit right in along the Pacific Coast in Northern California or Oregon. The house is perched right over the sea, with every room set to offer breathtaking views of the waves crashing over the black rocks. Inside, historians have preserved much of Neruda's collection of art and artifacts. The first room we stepped into was martimep-themed, filled with compasses, statues, and ships in a bottle. The subsequent rooms boasted ancient globes, maps, and tribal masks. It was a fantastic collection, inspiring in a way, although not enough for me to spring any cash on the various trinkets the street vendors were selling outside.
We also spent sometime exploring the beach below. The craggly rocks are good for hosting tide pools, and luckily we had BC in tow--fresh out of Stanford's program in Monterrey--to explain our findings. The weather was fantastic, and it had been a while since I enjoyed a day at the beach. All in all, Isla Negra was impresive. I could almost say that if I spent most of my days there, I could write some award-winning poetry, too.
Almost.
There's no pictures yet, but once the rest of the crew shares theirs I can put a couple up. I'll also be posting some of my journal entries from Valpariso and Vina del Mar, our other destinations this past weekend, in the next day or two.
Who let the dogs out?
Here in Latin America, the elephant in the room seems to be the dogs in the street. And there are tons of them. Some estimate that there are almost 500 million stray dogs out there in the world, and from my informal estimates a decent portion of that is in South America. Even this weekend, spent in sunny Valpraiso, I couldn't walk the street for more than 100 feet without running into a stray dog or two. It was the same in the southern regions, such as chilly Puerto Natales, and in Santiago--to a smaller extent.
Paola, our cheery host at Nikko's II, informed us while speeding down the Puerto Natales streets in a van that the stray dogs were rampant throughout South America, not just Chile. Very few seem to be fixed, and they get by rummaging through trash or scraps dropped by friendly neighbors. Nobody seems to mind them, or want to do anything about them. They're as much part of the steet culture as renegade taxis and grafitti murals.
Even the dogs with owners aren't fully under control. I learned this walking the hilly streets of Valpo, as I looked up to find a small dog nearly fall out a second-story window, barking at the rogue cannines on the avenues below.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Free the Finger!
No, this isn't about my good buddy Taj.
But my left ring finger, which I had broken over a week ago at Torres del Paine, is now splint-free. But now that it's not being supported, it's starting to hurt, and typing is still a chore. So there still may not be regular blog entries for the week, and I'm still going to refer to the park in Patagoia as Torres del PAIN. In any case, I tried to play a guitar at the Santiago mall the other day, to no avail, so hopefully I can make progress there now that I'm liberated. We have weekly Thursday musical jam sessions, "jueves musicales" as they're being called here, so by next week I should be up to speed.
Speaking of health, the Chilean health care system is remarkably modern and efficient. They had me in and out of there in 10 minutes. And the doctor was cheery and even seemed to understand my broken Spanish. Hate to promulgate stereotypes here, but it's good for a Latin American country. Of course, the Chileans will be quick to point out that Chile's life expectancy is only nominally behind the US, 77.85 to 76.56, respectively. Not bad for a country that wants to put mayonnaise on everything...
But my left ring finger, which I had broken over a week ago at Torres del Paine, is now splint-free. But now that it's not being supported, it's starting to hurt, and typing is still a chore. So there still may not be regular blog entries for the week, and I'm still going to refer to the park in Patagoia as Torres del PAIN. In any case, I tried to play a guitar at the Santiago mall the other day, to no avail, so hopefully I can make progress there now that I'm liberated. We have weekly Thursday musical jam sessions, "jueves musicales" as they're being called here, so by next week I should be up to speed.
Speaking of health, the Chilean health care system is remarkably modern and efficient. They had me in and out of there in 10 minutes. And the doctor was cheery and even seemed to understand my broken Spanish. Hate to promulgate stereotypes here, but it's good for a Latin American country. Of course, the Chileans will be quick to point out that Chile's life expectancy is only nominally behind the US, 77.85 to 76.56, respectively. Not bad for a country that wants to put mayonnaise on everything...
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Journal Excerpt 1 (3/25/07)
“The world just seems too big” – Less Than Jake
It’s supposed to be a hostel, but it’s so much more than that. The humble Nikko's II, where we’re spending the night before heading up to Torres del Paine, has everything one could ask for. We rented sleeping bags, tents, pads and the helpful owner/manager gave us tips on where to shop and eat.
We arrived today in the afternoon. A three-hour bus ride from Punta Arenas was uneventful, and I slipped in and out of sleep. The vast expanses of Patagonia, however, were captivating, and somehow Less Than Jake were singing a line that goes “the world just seems too big" on my iPod as I peered out at the largest sky I’ve ever seen.
The flights from San Francisco, through Santiago, were fine. I slept on and off while working on the assigned reading, a novel about Pinochet-era Chile called Nation of Enemies. BC was next to me most of the way, and Zach and Kelsey were on the first flight as well. Patchez caught up with us on the last leg. At the airport, we ran into two Stanford students who just completed their quarter in Santiago and are now going to spend a couple days in Torres del Paine as well. They didn’t have much to report, other than they had a good time. One is currently living with the family Zach will be living with in a week. She claims, “he has it made.” We’ll see if that beats BC and the 27-year-old host mom…
Welcome!
Hello readers! I've decided to create a new blog, instead of posting on my old one. I intend for this one to be more personal and informal, more of a travel journal than random political ranting. I've been keeping a paper journal--I know, I sound like a dinosaur--and will likely transcribe selected entries from Torres del Paine for you all to enjoy. Hopefully I'll keep this up regularly, but no guarantees.
Also, since I broke my left ring finger (it's not serious, and I should have the splint off Tuesday, so don't worry) typing is difficult. Thus, I may not be updating this as regularly as I'd like until later this week. Until then, enjoy what I can throw together here in my host family's Santiago apartment, where the empenadas are fresh and the internet connection is spotty.
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