Nublada

Today was the first cloudy day since I’ve been to Santiago. As the sun began to set I climbed into the car with my host family to go to dinner with their extended family. A light drizzle was falling intermittently. The streetlights came on and cast a dull yellow glow through the trees.

The rain had washed the sky clear, and looking behind me I could see a rainbow in the east arcing its way up from the base of the mountains until it slowly faded into the dark clouds above. It was as if a valve had burst, sending color steaming and gushing from the very heart of the Andes. The snow-dusted peaks showed their ridges and valleys in silhouettes to the setting sun orange in the west. Above the city the clouds lit from gray to fire and crashed like silent waves across the darkened faces of the skyscrapers, billboards and trees. The heavens thrust themselves upon the skyline demanding to be seen, demanding hyperbole, demanding awe. “We are here!” cried the clouds as they came pouring over the towering granite of the cordillera. “Aqui somos!” Splayed out like sheet lightning frozen purple and golden, the sky glowed silent and dignified until it finally faded to rainy black. The next morning there was snow on the mountaintops.

Concepcion Part II: La Santisima Concepcion

The city of Concepcion lies on a peninsula between the Biobio River and the sea. Like many Chilean towns, the Concepcion that we see now is really the second or third attempt at constructing a town in the harsh Chilean landscape. Shortly after Concepcion was founded, it was wiped off the map by a Mapuche Indian attack. Not to be deterred so easily, the Spaniards rebuilt and heavily fortified the town, and for years it was the last outpost of the Spanish Empire on the frontier with the fiercely independent Mapuche. The town was also subjected to a series of earthquakes, a common occurrence in Chile, the most seismically active country on the planet. Unreinforced adobe brick buildings don’t stand up well to tremors. The most recent disaster here happened the week before we arrived. Someone started a rumor that a tsunami was headed for Concepcion, and the rumor spread like wildfire via the near-universal medias of cell phones and text-messages. Thousands literally headed for the hills. At least three elderly men and women died of heart attacks.

In any case, the relentless forces of “modernization” have come to Concepcion, erecting glass high-rise buildings and modern transportation systems. As a result, the city remains charming, but a casual observer would never expect that it has been around for roughly twice as long as the United States of America has been a country.

Being the fine students that we are, we set out to learn more about the modern transportation systems that I mentioned before. The program arranged for us to have a presentation and guided tour from BioVias, the local government transportation agency that is currently in charge of the massive, modern development projects for the entire area. Chile’s current, left leaning government is very much determined to develop the country along humane lines, while still trying to maintain a competitive, free-market system (as I mentioned before, the Chilean economy is less regulated than even the United States’). The BioVias representative told us about how they wanted to eradicate the slum communities along the river and help move those families into apartments with electricity and clean, running water. There’s always a downside though; in some cases those new apartments are miles away, and the new tenants have to pay a small fee for rent. Sadly, this quickly become a problem for those on the very bottom rung of the economic ladder, who may make the rough equivalent of 200 US dollars a month. Nothing’s ever easy, is it? I can at least take some solace in the fact that the government is trying to make things better, which is more than I can say for plenty of other governments (both inside and outside of Latin America).

For our part, the hotel that we stayed at was quite nice. The best part (for me at least) was the selection of juices at breakfast every morning. It’s tough to beat fresh-squeezed raspberry juice. Incidentally, the word for “raspberry” is my new favorite word in the entire Spanish language. The word is ‘frambuesa” (pronounced frahm-BWAY-sah). Just picture Homer Simpson saying it and you’ll understand the word’s limitless appeal. Mmmm… frambuesa… gggggggaaaahhhhhhhh.

In the afternoon I played soccer in the park and was reminded of how rusty I am. In the evening, we went to the Festival Internacional de Jazz de San Pedro (International Jazz Festival at San Pedro) which featured an Argentine group with piano, bass, guitar, drums and Andean flute. After the concert ended, my friend Brian called a taxi. Hilarity ensued. “Si, estamos en la Ferria Internal de Jazz,” he said, which translates roughly to “yes, we’re at the Internal Jazz Fair.”

“Okay, what do you look like?” asked the dispatcher.

“Uh… gringos…” replied Brian. We laughed until we had tears in our eyes.

Concepcion Part I: In Transit

This weekend, the entire Stanford program flew south to Concepcion, Chile’s third largest city (after Santiago and Valparaiso). The trip was paid for by the generous patronage of the Bing family, a kind, wealthy couple whose generosity to Stanford is evidenced by Bing Wing of the main campus library. I am now, as ever, very grateful for the opportunities that they have provided for us.

I struck up a conversation with our cab driver on the way to the airport. He was in a talkative mood, and pointed out some of the major landmarks that we passed as we drove along the road that curves north of the city and then back down towards the to the west.

“You can see all this new construction here. They’re widening the road and putting up more of these tract housing developments. If you have the money, they make a very good investment; about $15,000 US dollars and you own your own home.” He gestured toward the right-hand side of the car. “They’re putting up a big mall over there where the “Almancenes Paris” sign is. The government wants one in every borough so people don’t always have to commute to Las Condes or Maipo. Oh look, there’s the old colonial houses.”

“Who lived there?” one of us asked.

“Don’t know,” he said smiling. “Some Spaniards with money, I guess. One of the presidents lived there for a while too. Now it’s a museum.” Now he directed our attention to the left. “Over there on the other side is one of the poorest parts of the city. It’s where people live if they don’t want to work hard.” The last statement stuck with me for a while, and I thought about it as the taxi weaved its way in and out of traffic.

The day was dry and blisteringly hot, just like every other day in Santiago during the summer. Smoggy air roared in through the open windows, blowing back my hair. On the right, the brick wall of the city’s main cemetery snaked its way along parallel to the road. On the left, an eclectic collection of condos, construction sites, office parks and the occasional intransigent clump of chipping plaster and haphazard corrugated tin passed in quick succession.

”I’ve lived in Santiago all my life,” the driver told us. “I consider myself very lucky to be in Chile. There’s not so much crime like in so many other places. We’re good people. Our fruit is the best in the world, our wine is the best, our beaches and mountains are the best.” He smiled again. “Our beef… not so much. Our water… eh.”

We crossed over a concrete-lined stretch the Rio Mapocho. It was narrow, frothy, and impenetrably dirty and dark like chocolate milk. The driver continued.

“I have two kids, and both of them went to the university. My son speaks English and… German I think. And I like my work. I tell my friends that I’ve have met thousands of people from all over the world doing this. I just give thanks every day. I believe in a higher power. I thank God for every day.”

At the airport, he helped us unload our luggage. “Thanks for being such a good driver,” I said, “and guide and professor.”

“It’s nothing,” he replied. Give me a call if you ever need a ride to Mendoza. I can give you guys a discount. A really great rate.”

Street Performers

Santiaguinos are rarely short on opportunities to buy ice cream. Apart from the normal ice cream parlors, ice cream trucks, and ice cream stands, there are also vendors who will climb on bus after bus carrying boxes of ice cream and drinks. “Helado!” they shout. “Helado bebida! Helado bebida cigarillos! Helado bebida!” Ice cream. Ice cream and drinks. Ice cream drinks cigarettes. Ice cream and drinks.” The rhythm is both familiar and comforting, the strangest sort of urban lullaby.

It is not at all uncommon for vendors to walk out through lanes of traffic to sell ice cream, drinks, and fresh produce to waiting motorists at red lights. Street performers will do the same thing. And when I say street performers, I mean it in the most literal sense. They confidently walk out in front of stopped cars while juggling or twirling plates on sticks. They do a short performance, and somehow always seem to budget enough time to walk through the traffic to collect their fee. Today I saw a man wearing a clown nose juggle and balance batons on his forehead while riding an extra-tall unicycle. I cursed myself for not having my camera with me.

La carta por favor: A Chilean Menu

The following is a brief description of some of the most common foods that I have encountered here in Chile. Trust me, they're good:

palta: avocado; used on almost everything, but especially in salads and on sandwiches, such as the "ave palta" (chicken and avocado) and the churrasco palta (roast beef and avocado).

jugo: juice; delicious, often sweetened; includes such old standbys as orange and apple, along with cantaloupe, honeydew melon, watermelon, pear, and a plethora of others.

pastel de choclo: literally "corn cake"; a sort of meat casserole including beef and corn (here called "choclo" instead of the more common "maiz").

barros jarpa/barros luco: sandwiches of hot ham and cheese/hot roast beef and cheese, respectively; each one is named for the former Chilean president who supposedly prefered it.

pisco: the Chilean national liquor, although it is named for the region in Peru where it was originally created; distilled from grapes and therefore technically a type of brandy; its most commmon uses include the pisco sour (pisco, sugar, lemon, and sometimes egg whites) and the piscola (pisco and cola).

schop: draft beer; Cristal is the largest Chilean brand; often sold in schoperias; it can also be mixed with fanta to create a schopfanta, though I haven't been daring enought to try it yet

filet/pollo/bifstek/ etc. a lo pobre: literally "poor man's filet/chicken/steak/etc.", it has little to do with ones economic status; indicates meat served with a fried egg on the top and french fries on the side.

And, of course, mayonnaise on everything.

Plaza de Armas

Today I paid my first visit to the Plaza de Armas, the old center of Santiago. All Spanish towns are built on grids around a central plaza, and you can tell that you're getting close to the center when the streets start to run at right angles to each other--the only point in the city where they do this. The plaza itself is gorgeous, populated by tourists and locals, painters and musicians. The centerpiece of the whole place (in my opinion) is the Santiago Cathedral, which is unlike any other building I have ever seen. Stanford's memorial church is a hovel in comparison. The only sounds are the hushed whispers of prayers and the echoing clap of the soles of shoes on ancient stones. I'll be back again soon, and this time with my camera.

Marcela

My host mother is an energetic mother of 2 in her early 40s named Marcela. She has long, curly, bleached-blond hair and might crack five feet tall if she were wearing thick-soled shoes. She is full of energy, which has its positive and its negative aspects. On the one hand, she’s a lot of fun to be around. On the other hand, she speaks about a mile a minute. “If you can understand her Spanish,” one of my host brothers told me, “you can understand anybody’s.”

Our apartment is small, but it is comfortable and it is in a safe, middle-class neighborhood, with a police station located all of 100 feet away. Marcela works the front desk and as a dance and fitness instructor at the Gimnasio Lembel, a swanky gym in Las Condes, the richest part of town. She puts in very long hours, and often doesn’t make it home until 10PM or later.

Her ex-husband pays nothing to support her two children (my host brothers) Claudio (22) and Mauricio (18), even though he lives only a few blocks away. When she refers to him, she laughs and makes a cutting motion across her neck.

In Chile, divorce has been a legal option for just 6 months. It was the last democratic country in the world not to have a divorce law, and, as it stands now, a long bureaucratic process means that a divorce is still fairly difficult to obtain. For Chileans, unlike many other Latin American countries, the institutional Catholic Church (e.g. the church hierarchy) still garners a fair amount of respect from the common people. While other Latin American countries are of course very Catholic, the influence of the actual hierarchy has been eroded over the years by the church’s continual political support of the wealthy, the powerful, and the autocratic at the expense of the poor and needy. In Chile, this tendency was much less pronounced, and this may have something to do with the tardy implementation of divorce, which the church heirarchy still vehemently opposes.

Before the new law, the only way to separate from your previous spouse and legally marry another person was through an annulment: a ruling stating that the original marriage was somehow illegal, and thus never a valid marriage in the first place. In fact, annulments became surprisingly common in pre-divorce Chile. Couples would intentionally misspell their names on their marriage certificates so that, years down the road, they could go back and claim an annulment on the grounds that the original marriage certificate wasn’t valid. I’m not sure which, if any, of these methods Marcela used, though the whole situation just goes to show you how hard it is for a democratic government to stop its people in a from doing what they want to do.

Whatever her marital status, Marcela is a blast to live with. She heads up a relaxed, fun, and informal house. She’s also made a promise to my friend Matt, the Stanford student who stayed with her last quarter who is currently trekking throughout Patagonia. She swore that by the time he returns to Santiago (sometime in early February), she would have found herself a boyfriend. I’m rooting for her.

Alf the Sacred Burro

The winner of the Alf the Sacred Burro contest is none other than Mr. Brendan Lehnert, who will receive the promised award of US$1 upon my return. If he wishes, he may instead opt for the Chilean equivalent of US$1, which is roughly 560 pesos. Alf the Sacred Burro is originally from Jack Kerouac's novel Big Sur ("...an ancient sacred myth character motionless in the sand---Alf the Sacred Burro I later called him..."). It was one of the few names I could think up that wasn't already taken. Sorry Janet, you were right, but you didn't get your answer in soon enough.

Classes

Classes have finally begun in earnest. Everything here is taught in Spanish (no cop-outs for the lazy), so most people take as few units as possible. I’m taking 12, which gives me some wiggle room for later on in the quarter. The classes are:

Director’s Seminar (2 units):
A once-a-week class focusing on local politics, art, and culture. The professor is the director of the Stanford Center, Dr. Edmundo Fuenzalida, a sociologist by training. The man radiates a quiet, intellectual dignity. He has a white mustache and combed back white hair, and looks every bit the respected South American intellectual. He counts Ricardo Lagos, the current President of Chile, as one of his boyhood friends.

Cinema of the Southern Cone (3 units):
This class focuses on the movies of Chile and Argentina. Profesora Paz Haro is the instructor, a visiting professor of Spanish from the main Stanford Campus. She is an eccentric Spaniard who is too old to be middle aged but still seems to young to be called “old”. She also seems to enjoy standing with arms outstretched in front of the air conditioning vent. Come to think of it, so do I. This class should be a good one.

Latin America in the International System (5 units):
This class, listed under Political Science, Latin American Studies, and International Relations, looks at international politics in Latin America. The professor for this offering is Doctor Claudio Fuentes, director of the Chilean branch of FLACSO (the Spanish acronym for the Federation of Latin American Social Scientists). He is an engaging professor interested in discussion, and he’s also a former Tarheel. He says that we’re much easier to understand than his former, North Carolinian colleagues.

Language Tutorial (2 units):
A one-on-one class to improve my Spanish skills. This class is typically offered to native speakers, heritage speakers, and those who have already taken Spanish 13. I belong to the latter group, and there are probably many people here that speak much better Spanish than I do, but are taking much more time consuming, lower-level classes. Since the rest of my schedule is light, I plan to take full advantage of this opportunity.

All You Need is Love Parade

For those of you that aren’t up on the latest eurotrash trends, a love parade is not a 1960s era form of social protest, nor is it a weekly feature on an early morning children’s TV show. Instead, it is a massive outdoor electronic music festival. Tens of thousands of people dance in the streets as DJs slowly drive in a circuit around a public park blasting techno music from the backs of flatbed trucks. It lasts all day. Berlin has a huge one every year.

Santiago held their first ever Love Parade today. An expected crowd of roughly 60,000 all turned out in the scorching heat to dance their hearts out. I was one of them.

I can honestly say that the Santiago Love Parade was one of the most incredible, unabashedly fun things that I have ever been a part of in my life. As the DJ floats snaked their way through streets flanked by stately apartment buildings on their way back to the main park, the residents of the apartments leaned out their windows and dumped buckets of water on the grateful, sweating partygoers below. Everyone dances, jumps, and chants to the music, and the street vendors sell the dancers bottles of cheap mineral water, half of which they promptly shower on anyone within range. The bomberos (firemen) stand proudly on their trucks in front of the stately old Museo de Bellas Artes (Museum of Fine Arts), then turn their fire-hoses on the joyfully bouncing crowd below. I was drenched. After four hours, my friends and I left, completely exhausted. I can still here the music from my room as I write this now, echoing and reverberating off of the city’s stone streets and concrete walls.

Calefón Update

While I can’t claim to have conquered the calefón, I feel that I have at least reached an uneasy truce with it. It gives me hot water and allows me to take a shower without running the risk of hypothermia. However, it also toys with me. The calefón wants me to know it’s still the boss in our relationship. It scalds me with hot water to remind me of its power. It freezes me with cold water to remind me how much I need it. And it gives me just enough water at the right temperature to keep me from ripping the darn thing out of the wall. It is a cruel and unyielding master.

¡Justin! ¡AAAAAAAAAAAA!

It has come to my attention, with the help of a pair of drunken Spaniards, that my host brother Mauricio (18 years old) bears an uncanny likeness to the former N’SYNC teen heartthrob Justin Timberlake. If Justin had olive skin, of course. Because of this, he has acquired the nickname “Justin, AAAAAAAAA!” (in the parlance of a squealing teenybopper) which, when pronounced in Spanish, sounds more like, “Joosteen. AAAAAAAAA!” Nicknames just don’t come any better.

I Get Myself into Hot Water

When you think about it, having hot water on tap, 24 hours a day is an extravagant luxury. None of us takes a shower at 4 in the morning, yet many of us pay a gas bill every month to keep our water heated 24/7. Why heat water all the time when you only need it a few hours a day?

Chileans have solved this problem with a remarkable invention: el calefón. A calefón is a small hot water heater that you turn on when you need hot water and turn off when you’re finished. Since gas is considerably more expensive here than it is in the US (water too), the calefón makes perfect sense.

That is, of course, if you know how to use it properly. Let’s just stay that I didn’t entirely master the art of the calefón after my first lesson. I showered with my back against the wall, lathering quickly and darting in and out of a thick stream of cold water. When my host brother Mauricio returned home, I told him:

“Mauricio, I need another lesson on how to use the calefón.

“Why?”

“Well… I had a very cold shower this morning.”

He smiled and patiently showed me how to use it again. I’ll let you know if I do better next time.

Miracle Cure

Today was my first experience with the cornerstone of Chilean public transportation: la micro. These dingy yellow busses are nothing if not unique. Micro after micro rumbles by during rush hour, their stops displayed on painted signs in their front windows.

Chile has one of the most open, privatized economies in the world (more so than even the United States). As such, the micro drivers are not paid a regular wage; instead, they earn a percentage of the fare of every passenger they carry. What results is an efficient, ruthlessly Darwinian system that always seems to me like barely-controlled chaos. Drivers weave in and out of traffic, racing each other to be the first one to make it to the next stop. Similarly, the micro’s riders have become equally efficient. They try to present exact change, sprint to hail their bus, and leap from moving vehicles so the bus doesn’t have to waste time making a full stop. As I was stepping off, a man got on, carrying bags of pain medication with him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I have today the most powerful pain reliever available, approved by the Ministry of Health..." I couldn't hear any more as the bus rumbled away.

Mayonnaise—It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

You only have to be here for a day or two to realize that Chileans love their mayonnaise. They inhale prodigious amounts of the stuff, putting it on rice, pasta, hot dogs, and even dinner rolls. Here, mayonnaise doesn’t come in jars, but in squeezable bags to make sure it makes its way to all corners of your plate. Now, there’s nothing wrong with this, but my sense is that it still gives most Americans the willies. The most important Spanish phrase for an American in Chile is “dónde está el baño?” which means “where is the bathroom?” But only slightly less important is this one: “sin mayonesa, por favor”. Without mayonnaise please.

I Accidentally Arrive in Style

After a three hour layover in Atlanta, it finally came time for me to start my journey. Delta flight 147 began to board,beginning with passengers in Zone 1. I looked down at my ticket, and it read “Zone 9”. After everyone else had boarded the plane, I was still in the terminal, leaning against a support column. When the call for Zone 9 came, I confidently strode up to the gate and handed my ticked to the the airline employee. He fed it into the machine.

Errrp.

A red light flashed and the the machine croaked like a dying swan. My heartsank.

Errrp.

Errrp.

Errrp.

“I´m sorry,” he said, “go ask at the ticket counter.” Shaking with hesitation, I approached the counter and handed the woman my ticket. “Won´t work,” I croaked. Saying nothing, she took my ticket and ripped it in two. The seconds tickedby excruciatingly slowly, punctuated by the frantic clicks of her fingers onthe keyboard. Finally, a new ticket came out. “Here you go,” she said,“seat 2A”

“Thanks, I mumbled.”

I stepped on the plane, the last one to board, and the doors closed behind me. Before me, I saw seat 2A, padded and leather upholstered, with a complementary bottle of mineral water, and seat 2B occupied by a stern-looking Argentinian businessman in a very expensive looking blue sweater. Buisness class! I was horrified. I don´t know how to “do” business class.

Quickly, I came up with a plan of action: play possum. Immediately after takeoff, I leaned back my seat and pretended to fall asleep. After about an hour, a flight attendant came by. 'Blast! I thought. I´ve been found out!

“Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?” he asked. No, I wanted to say,I´m planning on going skydiving in about 20 minutes, so I won´t be sticking around.

I ended up ordering fruit, cheese and water, despite the repeated attempts of the flight attendant to get me to try a nice pinot noir. I was worried the airline might try to charge me for the upgrade, and I figured it would be pretty hard to argue my way out of it after eating grilled salmon with a lemon-caper sauce and downing (illegally, of course, I´m still underage) half a bottle of wine.

After dinner, I tried to sleep (for real this time) and began to wish that Ihad taken the flight attendant up on his offer. I slipped on my headphones, listened to some Miles Davis, and settled back for a long, sleepless night,bouncing with the turbulence up and down in my wonderfully comfortableleather seat.