As I sit in the conference room of a steel company, preparing to fill in for another teacher and contemplating how I’m going to spend 50 minutes talking about prepositions to a group of people I’ve never met, my thoughts turn (unsurprisingly) not to my imminent lesson, but to the past few months. Work, incredibly, has slowed down rather than sped up, and though I often find myself feeling more encaged with every passing day, I’m getting pretty good at keeping myself busy. Mostly (as always), this just means reading, exercising, practicing Spanish, and playing the guitar. I do these a lot.

            Through a fairly bizarre connection—the former gang member of a bicycle repairman I befriended—I managed to meet a guitar teacher who is willing to work with me for the practice he gets conversing in English. In truth, it’s just me playing Pink Floyd songs and him telling me how best to hold the guitar, but I really appreciate the insight all the same. My technique has improved tremendously, and it gives me the kick in the ass I want and need to practice daily. Guitar wasn’t exactly a skill I expected to learn, but of course it’s a welcome opportunity. Plus, next week he’s taking me to get “one of the best sandwiches in Santiago” for the English portion of our lesson, so I’m getting more out of it than I could have hoped.
            Spanish, though lacking in the sandwich department, is easy to find. I’ve gotten better at conversing with strangers and friends, which was more difficult to get in the habit of than I had initially anticipated. It depends on whom you speak to, but common problems include not thinking of conversation starters that you actually know in Spanish, and wanting to simply move the conversation along with people whose English is pretty good and whose thoughts you are actually interested in hearing. Intercambios, like the one I have with my guitar teacher, abound in this city: a lot of people have a basic understanding of English and will jump at the opportunity to practice what they know with a native speaker. For the most part these are just friends of friends with whom I end up drinking and setting an alarm to switch languages every 30 minutes or so. It’s a win-win. The other day I went out for drinks with some old students, which, as they were some of my favorites (don’t tell my other classes) was a real treat. We conversed for two beers (which, here in Chile, is a fairly long time, given the general pace of restaurant service) entirely in Spanish, mostly discussing linguistic nuances between South American countries, of which there are plenty. I learned a whole list of words never to say in Peru, and I've already forgotten them all. I’ve heard Peruvians are nice; I’m banking on that rumor.
            Though at the time of this writing, I’m taking a couple weeks off running to rest a bum knee, which I injured diving for a disc, that also means the Frisbee season has finally started anew, and with it’s arrival has come a fresh batch of new players and torrent of rejuvenated team spirit. We’ve practiced and partied all winter (“winter”) and our bond couldn’t be stronger. The Frisbulls, though not necessarily the most competitive team I’ve ever played on, are definitely one of the most passionate. Every single person on the team is in it for the glory, and it shows: the captains are always looking for ways to hone our competitive edge, and everyone takes attendance and participation at games, practices, and even team outings very seriously. Of course, none of this is to say that we aren’t good: this weekend marked the third of the league, and we were matched against the team that most closely resembles a rival, and after a close game we managed to come out victorious. We trained hard this winter, and it definitely shows. Sudaka, a tournament in Buenos Aires, is held in April. In the past players here have compiled a mixed-bag team of various members of the league. This year, however, we’re going “cien por cien como Frisbulls,” and intend to train hard to ready ourselves. It’s funny to have traveled to a different continent only to keep playing the same sport that I’ve always played, but I’m giddy with excitement all the same.

*          *          *

            One of the coolest things about a country so narrow as Chile is that you’re near all sorts of entertainment. Living equidistant to mountain and ocean means hiking and surfing are equally accessible. One weekend a few months ago I abruptly came to this realization and promptly hopped on a bus to Valparaíso. From there, it was a $1 bus ride to nearby Concón, a small town with an equally small but prominent surf scene—and, much more importantly, cheap rentals. Though the waves weren’t the biggest I’ve ridden, they were certainly the cleanest. Glassy waters were interrupted by pristine breaks at absurdly regular intervals, and though my friends (who had never surfed) were struggling, I did all right. Afterwards, we had some fantastic fried shrimp empanadas and went out on the town. The next weekend one of my classes was cancelled and I had a four-day weekend. Some friends from Rancagua, a tiny city about an hour to the south, came down to get into the hiking scene around Santiago, but after a rainstorm and a 6.4 earthquake*, mostly all we felt like doing making tacos and drinking in my apartment. I’ll never complain about that. A couple days later, I joined them on the bus on their way back to Rancagua, and after crashing on their floor that night, I caught the first bus to the tiny beach town of Pichilemu.

Punto de Lobos - Note the black specks (surfers) in the water. 

            Renowned for it’s pristine beaches and perfect waves, Pichilemu is a globally recognized surf paradise, much more so than Concón. After a sleepy three-hour bus ride, I arrived in the quiet and dinky yet charming surf town, with no idea where I was going or what I wanted to do. I hailed a cab and told him to head for a surf hostel, and not three minutes later I was dropped off at the foot of a remote dirt driveway. Hidden among the trees was a bamboo deck and ramshackle surf hut; with the rooms around the back, these features comprised the whole hostel. After tricking some Germans into thinking that I could speak Spanish, I checked in and headed to the beach, a mere five minutes away on foot. Punto de Lobos (Wolf Point…how cool is that), though the most popular beach in the town, was fairly devoid of visitors when I went. Probably because it was a Monday.** The beach, which forms a peninsula whose point is a giant outcrop of rock (the titular wolf, I guess), is hit by swells that break evenly from south to north 24 hours a day. The water, though crystal clear, is cold, and although the waves were supposedly small that day, I still struggled to get in front of most of them. I guess I need more practice, but I’m happy report that while I couldn’t hope to keep up with the locals who joined me among the waves, I was leagues ahead of the Germans. They were more the skiing type, anyway. That night I joined the aforementioned party in their quest for Pisco Sours. It’s interesting to spend time with people with a language barrier you don’t have to feel guilty about, especially after all the struggling I’ve done. I sat with them all night, contentedly oblivious to the contents of their rapid German and showing off whenever we needed to interact with a local. It was a great confidence boost.

On the mountaineering front, I’ve been doing my best to get into the hiking scene, and have met with moderate success. Some of these have been nearer the city, some further; some have been fairly easy, some challenging. Each has afforded an indescribable view. As such, I’ve been diligently taking summit pictures. Common wisdom about the relative values of pictures and words dictates that I should let these do the talking. Sorry that I'm bad at formatting.

By far my favorite of these excursions was at a national park called Altos de Lircay, just outside the city of Talca. We camped at the base on Friday night, took the day Saturday to make the 14km round trip, slept in tents again on Saturday, and were back in Santiago by Sunday afternoon. We even saw a fox!

 Midway point.

Steeper than it looks!

Condors can really get up there.

Provincia is a challenging two-day hike on the outskirts of Santiago.*** Unfortunately, we didn't have time to make it to the campsite at the summit, as it would have taken us another day to get back down. Even so, we spent a good six hours walking. It would have been seven, but as I went with some frisbee buddies, we decided to jog nearly the entire way down. My thighs hurt for two weeks.

"Freeze!"

To prove that I was actually there.

Located at the edge of one of the wealthier neighborhoods, Cerro Manquehue is a short but steep hike. Being so close, it affords a unique view of the city and it's 5 million inhabitants--try seeing NYC in this light (OH WAIT YOU CAN'T)--and from the ground it's visible from several neighborhoods. Namely, it's in plain view of the park where I used to play frisbee (we've since changed parks), and so I've wanted to check it out for a while now. My father and brother visiting finally gave me that opportunity.

From the ground...

...and from the top.

Love is letting someone borrow a shirt you know they're going to sweat through.

*          *          *

            The 18^th of September (literally called dieciocho by locals) is the day that Chile celebrates it’s independence, but the celebration here is customarily spread over the entire week. Unless you skipped all of my summit pictures, you know by now that my father and brother decided to come visit; knowing that the country would be in a celebratory frenzy, they chose that week to drop by. It seemed to me that when they showed up at my door, we picked up right where we left off, and the brief return to normalcy was more refreshing than I had thought it would be. I missed them before we were even apart. I still kinda do (don't tell anyone). We spent the week exploring as much of the country as we could as best we could, and it ended up being a pretty representative sample. On the first day we hiked Manquehue and got a view of the sprawl of Santiago; the next we went skiing high in the mountains; the day after that, we hit the waves in Concón, and returned to Santiago that night to explore some local ferias, essentially independence day block parties, where we got to eat empanadas and meat on skewers, drink terremotos, and dance to live music from a famous singer none of us had ever heard of.
            Their last day was the 18th proper, and we spent it exploring the city. The streets were all but abandoned on the national holiday, but we were able to check out some points of interest, including an Uruguayan barbecue restaurant (the restaurant open in a ten block radius), the Chilean White House, La Moneda (and the president!), a park, and a giant cemetery. It was a good day. That afternoon, on their way to the airport, they dropped me off at the bus station where I caught a ride back to Pichilemu to join up with the Frisbulls, who were spending the weekend celebrating their independence by drinking on the beach. It was also a good weekend.

Portillo Ski Resort - Again, steeper than it looks.

Pictured - The three classes of Santiago canine (right to left): domestic, stray and enforcer.
Not Pictured - The president, who made an appearance minutes later. I didn't get a good photo. 

Cementários

*My students casually posited during the following week that the shaking was a mere temblor and not a full-blown terremotto. While I admire their attitude, a friend observed to me the other day that while Santiago will casually shrug off an earthquake, a significant enough rainstorm will send the city into disarray. One of many bizarre cultural quirks.

**I love my job.


***The foot of the trail is located adjacent to a soccer stadium, within which was one of the biggest University games of the season. As we relaxed on the peak, we realized that we could hear the ghost of drunken Chilean chants echoing their way up the valley. Writing this made me think of this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CN2WDeTONlo

Catching up

As I mentioned in an earlier post, as work has picked up, travel has become more difficult, and interesting stories have more or less become a matter of weekend escapades. But to say that nothing has happened since my last writing wouldn’t be true: I am constantly meeting new people and learning new things, and finding different ways to improve myself and view the world. So, I wanted to write an update. Besides, it’s been an entire World Cup since my last post. So I guess I’ll start with that.

I had always known the World Cup had the capacity to drive any country (perhaps outside the U.S.) crazy, but I suppose I didn't foresee the extent. Though Chile didn't play until day three or four, word of the initial games of the group stage began spreading from the day they started, and as people began tallying points and goal differentials, calculating whom our next game would be against, a real buzz began building in the city. Football was visible from the street on televisions in every shop, bar, and restaurant, and excited murmurs echoed in your ears from the mouths of passers-by as our game against Australia grew ever nearer. By the morning of the match, the whispers had turned into full-fledged shouts and cheers, street vendors had traded their regular wares for an entirely red, white, and blue pallet—probably making a higher profit than they had in months—and not a minute of silence passed without being broken by the sound of a horn from somewhere, be it a vuvuzela from the sidewalk or a car horn from the street. Walking to the market half an hour before the game, I passed face-painted fans cheering and walking arm in arm while hat-adorned produce vendors tuned away from their usual telenovelas in anticipation of the pre-game coverage. "Electric" is the word that comes to mind, and there was a palpable charge hanging in the air everywhere I went.

Plaza de Italia after our first win; by nightfall, this sea of people had become a sea of vandalism, mild arson, and tear gas

Though I watched the games in a variety of venues, ranging from giant beer halls in which each goal was an eruption of shouts, confetti, and beer foam, to smaller local bars with only a select few enthusiastic fans—and I want to stress this: they were always infinitely enthusiastic—I have one particularly vivid memory of the first half hour against Spain, to whom everyone had expected Chile would lose. Again, excitement had been building for days in the city—I had been woken up at 8am that morning to the sound of car horns and chanting. I had a class that afternoon and all my students, and perhaps more impressive, the entire office in which they work, were decked out in full Chilean flair. It felt only right to let them out a few minutes early to join their coworkers in pre-game merriment, but even with the time cushion, I found myself running late to meet with my friends, whose whereabouts I had had yet to confirm. I ended up at the house of a friend who was informing me over the phone as I stood in the company of his roommate of the bar at which he was stationed. The roommate (Chilean, great guy) and I quickly got into his car and sped to the bar in question, a feat which proved particularly simple because the roads were absolutely empty. There was nary a pedestrian in sight as we zipped down vacant streets; all available eyes were within shops or residences and glued to television screens. When I poked my head out the window as we were stopped at a traffic light, I noticed that the city was quieter than it had been in days: beyond the occasional horn blast from apartment balconies penetrating the dampening stillness, the only cheers we heard were perfectly synchronized with the rises and runs of the announcers dictating the play-by-play on the car radio. Though the report was in a rapidfire Spanish I couldn't hope to keep up with, the excitement in the announcer's voice as the ball advanced was hard to miss, and as he finally crescendoed into that characteristic Latin American cheer—a battle cry that a non-native speaker could recognize even if gol wasn’t a cognate—a wave of sound cascaded down the empty street like the impending gallop of a charging cavalry. By the time we got to the bar the count was 1-0 in our favor and our friends were getting good and drunk with the Chilean locals.

An excited fan waves a flag atop a crosswalk signal

Of course, the excitement was short-lived: our loss to the Netherlands put us up against Brazil, one of the closest and most nerve-wracking games I've ever had the displeasure to sit through. There was a palpable gloom in the air as we trudged home after the loss. Carlos found a very real sadistic pleasure in Brazil's game against Germany (but was it really even a game?), a pleasure I couldn't help but to experience myself. But in the end, though it would have been (for lack of a better phrase) absolutely fucking crazy had we advanced further, I'm thankful for the glimpse I was afforded. It was culturally insightful, of course, but more than that, it was an insight that I was able to experience, participate in, and share. It accelerated my immersion and made me more attached to this country than I could possibly have been before.

Excited Chileans posing as I try to get a picture of the crowd

Joe surveys the scene

*          *          *

            Since then, things have once again been relatively quiet. I've been settling further into teaching and enjoying my life as a resident here. Between classes, learning a language, regular movie nights, Frisbee, and weekend shenanigans, I’ve been keeping myself occupied just staying in Santiago. Around the fourth of July Allen’s girlfriend arrived visit—we had an Independence Day party that puzzled all the Chileans we invited and would have made any American proud—and the couple went touring around the continent. Judging from Allen’s pictures it seems they had a blast.

Students protesting...something. I was late to class that afternoon. Never a dull day in this city.

            Carlos and I had an equally good time exploring the bars and restaurants in the area, which are plentiful and pleasant. Santiago is shaping up to be a great city. It’s large enough that there’s always somewhere new to go (one would hope as much from the nation’s capital), but homey enough that I am beginning to recognize streets, structures, and landmarks. It’s a well-designed city, with unique artistic features everywhere you look and compartmentalized to a degree that each area has an aesthetic that is matched from its roads and houses to its metro stops*. I’m finding exploring and getting to know the infrastructure invigorating; I constantly find new things about familiar locales, and every time I find myself somewhere new I get a rush. It’s the largest stomping ground I’ve had in my life—Burlington was (in terms of size) a joke in comparison, and while I’ve lived near NYC my whole life, I didn’t really feel free to explore it until the months preceding my journey here. It might be some special form of sacrilege, but between learning routes and buildings, speaking to locals, making friends, learning of favorite shops and bars and restaurants, having an apartment, and working, I’m beginning to feel like more of a resident here than I ever did in New York City, which, honestly, is one of the factors contributing most strongly to my enjoyment. I’m reminded vaguely of a paradox known as the Ship of Theseus**, in which the elements of an ancient warship, as they slowly succumb to rot and decay, are replaced piece by piece: first, the floorboards beneath the deck are redone; next, the captains quarters is refurbished; then, the mast needs replacing. Soon, the entire ship is composed of new parts, in which we have our paradox: if no part of the ship is an original component, is it still the same ship? Now, I don’t want to be misunderstood: I love my home and the more I think about it, the more I miss it. Friends and places that I can’t wait to see again are still in the front of my mind, and if someone can mail me a pizza, regardless of sanitary practices, I will smuggle anything back across the boarder that you ask for. But there is a certain part of me that has created memories here. Nutrients from having lived on the food course through my veins, and the smog-thickened air lingers in my lungs. Then again, though, I also had Subway for lunch the other day, so maybe I’m just being overly romantic.

Some characteristic street art in my neighborhood 

One of the only pretty pictures of Rio Mapocho in existence

            




























Recently, most of my friends working in schools have been on vacation from their more regular schedules. As such, the residential life I’ve just so heavily romanticized has become particularly dull. Of course, I can always find peace in my routine, my work, and my studies, but with the end of the term for one business—Canal 13, who I believe I’ve mentioned before—the activity of the former two have decreased substantially. At the same time, that’s left me a lot of time (an absurd amount of time, really) to really work on the latter, which I’m proud to say I’ve actually been keeping up with. It’s a great feeling to be able to teach a class, read literature in two languages, catch up on current events, plan more lessons, practice an instrument, exercise, cook, study more grammar, and still have time to play video games and mess around on the internet, all in a single day. Even so, though, when one visits Facebook and is daily bombarded with a steady stream of pictures from Maccu Pichu, the Atacama, Pucón, and countless other locales I hadn’t even heard of, one is overcome with just a small hint of jealousy, especially because despite the fact that traveling the country was one of my goals for this trip, I’m tied to this city by a mere seven hours of weekly work, just out of reach of the experiences I could have been having had Santo Tomás given us a better vacation schedule. This, of course, hinges on the fact that I currently have seven hours of weekly work. So I’m not really complaining. 

Right-- one of the best things about this city, look in the right direction and the Andes are almost always visible.
Left-- one of the buildings where I work, and the second largest in Chile: the Torre Titanium.

            A couple weeks ago I was visited by a couple that I met through Teaching Chile who are on one such trip but who, because of their residence in nearby Rancagua, had made a point to visit Santiago as one of their vacation spots. Lucky me. I always enjoy their company—they are a hilarious duo, beautiful people with smart, progressive heads on their shoulders; as a illustrative anecdote, these were two of a group of five who, instead of staying in hostels and paying for tours during their stay in San Pedro de Atacama, opted instead to rent a van, drive to the popular tourism spots for themselves, and camp out on the side of the road. What struck me most about our conversation was their plan for the post-teaching phase of their South American adventures. They clued me in to services that allow you to, through a craigslist-style interface, find volunteering and working positions in any region. Obviously this includes Latin America, throughout which I was pleased to discover a thriving and active community for adventure volunteerism. It has now become my adamant goal to spend time living in this manner. Hopefully, this means that this blog will get much more interesting once I don’t have a salary, but it might just mean that I spend a few months as a bum without internet access before running out of money and stowing my way onto a flight to the United States. More on this as it develops.

 *          *          *

Despite the official league having ended for the season, ultimate is still in full force here. The Frisbulls are determined to continue their training regimen: we’ve been practicing biweekly, which I’ve appreciated immensely. A few weeks ago, Santiago had its own proper ultimate tournament, dubbed UltimatePo***, and although the ultimate community here is only large enough to fill the same four teams we've been playing with since I started, there was enough enthusiasm among those four teams to play an 8-game tournament. I’ve always loved tournaments for the opportunity they afford to get in the flow of the game with your team, and this one was no different. While I was close with them before, I felt that after this tournament I truly clicked with a lot of my teammates, both on the field and off.

Potentially evidencing this, last weekend I was invited to one player’s country house in nearby Melipilla. We spent Friday hanging out, drinking, and playing games. For those wondering, Cranium is especially difficult in Spanish, but poker is more or less the same (that doesn’t mean I won any money; inebriation brings its own challenges). The house was in a secluded compound of similarly designed houses, far removed from urban bustle and noise pollution. The trip reminded me of the Barn—obviously no substitute, but it was nice to get away. They had an outdoor brick oven (not homemade, don’t worry Frederique) and we baked two giant pizzas—which, after having mentioned it twice in this post, I’m slowly coming to realize is the food I miss most from home. On Saturday, after getting empanadas—which I’m slowly realizing will be the food I miss most from here—for breakfast/lunch, we spent the day lounging in the backyard, tossing frisbees, napping, and looking at local wildlife. There’s some really interesting plant life in this region, and I think I saw a Condor, but I’m not sure.

Quaint! Secluded! Rural!

Some Frisbulls lounge by the pool. Cami and Consu wave to me and definitely not to the camera that Andres (in yellow) is holding.

Empanadas empanadas empanadas

That Sunday my roommates and I took a day trip to Pomaire, incidentally very near Melipilla and known mostly for its pottery and other clay artifacts, thanks to the rich natural clay mines in the surrounding hills. We walked down street after street populated almost exclusively by shops and alleys filled to the brim with ceramic goods. Carlos told us it’s common wisdom that any money you bring to the commune will be lost to the allure of souvenirs, and even after spending an afternoon there with an empty wallet I’m inclined to agree—the artists known their trade. That night Carlos’ parents invited us to their house for dinner for a bounty of empanadas, the leftovers of which we’re still eating. Carlos’ parents are as charming and welcoming and he is, and Sunday night was no exception to the principle that watching friends interact with their families brings everyone closer. We stayed up late drinking wine, sharing stories, and looking at old photo albums. Carlos was delightfully embarrassed.

Carlos surveys some pottery

Da Scruffies

For now, friends from vacations are beginning to return, so things are going to start getting back to normal. I’m still hoping to get to the mountains before the ski season ends (a ski season in August! I can’t get over it!), and I’m sure I’ll be up to something in the coming weeks. So keep an eye out. In the meantime, I love and miss everyone, and I look forward to the day that I can say I’m ready to come home. Until then, though, I’ll try to keep things interesting.  


*While I mention it, the metro system here is incredibly well put together, a fact that Chileans are aware and very proud of. It’s also apparently one of the most crowded metros in the world, which can suck, but doesn’t impose on its status as one of my favorite means of travel through the city.

**More reading here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ship_of_Theseus

***A fun fact on language: Chileans, ever unique in their endless use of modismos, have a habit of dropping “po” at the end of phrases. I’ve likened it to the use of “eh” in Canada.

I have to look at them every day so you should have to look at them at least every blog post. Plus, this one is kind of at sunset and you can see the moon in the top left.

In an unexpected turn of events a couple weeks ago, Andrés informed me that he got a job offer in the South of Chile that he intended to take. Though I was happy of him, I (naturally) focused a lot more mental energy on my freshly-jostled circumstances; luckily, I had a couple of friends who were looking for a room to fill, so what could have been a very unfortunate situation for me actually resulted into just about the best possible outcome. It's a shame about Andrés, though. He was easy to live with (and now he can't take me climbing), but I have to admit that the move came with a serious upgrade.

Where my old place was in the heart of downtown Santiago, my friends (now roommates), Allen and Carlos, have been living in an artsier district uptown. Up here the graffiti is livelier and the shops have more character, and the sheer volume of people at any given time is much lower on average, which has been very nice. The place itself is a palace compared to my old place. With what probably amounts to twice as much space, I now have a kitchen you can fit more than one person in, a couch that I don't mind napping on, TWO big screen TVs, and a WiiU. The bed in my room is probably one of the nicest I've ever slept in. Carlos pays for a woman to clean the apartment every week. And although our building has a rooftop terrace, even the view from our 15th story balcony is markedly improved. I though my southern facing view was good, but the real mountains are to the east. Here's a picture I took (again: from the balcony) a couple weeks ago, after a hefty chunk of smog was cleared away by rain:

:D

So, I'm pretty pleased. Other than the move, things have proceeded fairly normally. As work has picked up, adventures have slowed, and I'm falling into the flow of urban life. Teaching continues to be both a challenge and a treat. I find myself spending a lot of mental energy on lesson plans which I internally scrap and rethink, the result of which is very few tangible lessons. But as with everything (and I feel this is becoming a bit of a catch phrase), I'm improving. Outside of work, the nightlife in Santiago is always fun, and frisbee is as frisbee does. I suppose I'm trying to rest and enjoy life in the city before I start thinking of grand adventures. Between learning a language and a profession and trying to meaningfully assimilate myself into the social scene, there's plenty to keep me busy. Unfortunately, it's probably not the most interesting thing to follow. Stay tuned for more random thoughts, and I'll update when something happens.

Last weekend was my birthday, but there isn't really much to report. It coincided with a long weekend and I found myself in Valpo once again. We explored the alleys, which I've done before but is really infinitely entertaining. It's the kind of city where you could live there and explore a little bit every day and still find new and interesting places. Little streets and alleys wind their way up the hill, crossing and overpassing one another, and just as you're getting sick of the street your on a staircase will present itself and lead you to a terrace that overlooks the entire walk you've done thus far. And it will always be a different terrace. Every inch of wall is covered with the artisans' graffiti of elaborate tapestries and portraits. It's a cool fuckin' city. The people all seem to be the seaside artist type, but maybe that's my confirmation bias talking. As the sun set we made our way to a cafe that was repurposed out of an old abandoned train car. It had a piano inside and we were treated to ragtime as we sipped mediocre coffee out of styrofoam cups (it's an atmosphere thing, not a beverage thing). Then that night for my birthday we went dancing and I was drunk enough both to participate enthusiastically and also to fail thoroughly. It was a good time for all.

This week work really picked up--relatively speaking, at least. I teach two classes twice a week at the local Canal 13 TV station. All my students are adults and they're all nice and fun and willing to participate, for the most part. As far as the job itself...well I've got a few thoughts. First, the negative: lesson planning is a chore and I definitely feel like a dork standing in front of a room full of fully-grown adults trying to make a foreign language not horribly boring and terrible. The school has also been very concerned about our methodology in the beginning: we were called to a couple meetings and spoken to by the University about exactly what they want from us, which seemed to be pretty inconsistent and what most of us thought we were doing anyway. It doesn't help that the progression of my Spanish is comparable to a particularly gummy molasses and whenever they want to tell me something when I'm actually at the building I have to give them four successive blank looks before I pretend to understand what they're talking about and then ask one of my colleagues for a rough translation five minutes later. I really hate to complain, though, and it is definitely a good gig. First, the lessons, and their suckiness to plan, are becoming easier to prepare each successive week, and I'm chalking up my initial aversion to a lack of experience; in other words, I'm definitely improving, planning better lessons more efficiently. On the second point...I don't think I can get much lamer than being a substitute at a suburban middle school, so at least it's a feeling that I'm used to and that I can work with. Plus, I'm still working criminally few hours each week and getting paid a full salary. So I'm not complaining.

As far as the Spanish goes, I think I exaggerate and I'm overly modest. I'm definitely improving. Every short conversation feels like a minor victory. But it can be frustrating. I read a comment on reddit the other day that really spoke to me:

"I remember when I was a little kid, a few times when I got really, really bored, I’d turn to a Spanish television channel and I’d try with all of my might to just do it, to just force myself to understand Spanish. I had nothing to work with at all, besides your basic hola mi nombre es. But I’d just sit there and try to will those words to make sense in my brain. And obviously nothing was happening, but it wouldn’t stop me from holding out just a little bit of hope. I mean, these people were communicating, there had to have been a way for me to access what was going on.

It’s like, I see some Chinese text on a billboard in Flushing, or the Korean church van that passes me in traffic, it has symbols or pictographs or glyphs or whatever they’re called scrawled along the side. And a part of me still tries the same trick. Like, come on, reveal yourself to me, just tell me what you’re trying to tell everybody else.

And again, there’s nothing there. But still I can feel my brain doing its best to stare intently at the line configurations, the two characters that look familiar except for maybe a slight difference that a non-native reader wouldn’t be able to pick up. Well look at that, I just picked it out. That’s something, right? What does it mean? Why can’t I read Chinese?"

http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/24zilp/what_makes_perfect_sense_until_you_think_about_it/chc7isr

He rambles on further (much, much further...if you're into that style, here's a hilarious commentary on Starbucks posted by the same user: http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/1nkrwk/reddit_what_are_you_not_afraid_to_admit/ccjhioh), but at times it really does feel like that. When I listen to people talk or read a piece of text longer than a sentence found in my textbook, I feel like I'm trying to just will it into my brain. But of course, my study habits (though not stellar) are better than all that. I write things down and reread them and translate endlessly in my brain, and the patterns really are forming. It's kind of neat to watch unfold and my friends are all telling me the same thing. But I've got a long way to go. So, in case you were wondering, that's how the Spanish is going. 

Last week I trained with my frisbee league again, and after finally shelling out for a pair of decent cleats (!!!), I'm once again the discus machine that I used to be. Well, not entirely, but it feels nice to be able to legitimately compete. All the great things about the sport are present here: the spirituality, community, joking and party culture, and intense love of the game on the field. It's different, it has a bit of a Latin American flair, but it's all there. A few of the guys actually really know what they're doing, and although their more technical understanding of the game seems just a shade below top-tier, they know at least as much as I do, and I have to work hard to keep up with the quicker ones. But I hold my own. The league is small, only four teams, and I would put it at about the level of a summer league. There are some really talented players mixed in with some new players, but everyone works hard and has a good time. Some of the best games I've played have been in a summer league; it's just a different set of variables that you have to work with. After the games, the two competing teams get in a circle and give each other compliments (presumably, at least: they're all delivered in rapid fire Spanish). It's actually very adorable. And the camaraderie within our team is like nothing I've ever seen. Everyone welcomed me in as soon as I showed up for my first game of pickup, everyone is friends and invites everyone else to all their parties, and I have a good personal relationship with most of the players on the team. We have a group chat in WhatsApp that gets roughly 200 new messages every day, most of which are silly photoshops of players at games from weeks past (and emoticons...they are very good with their emoticons). I think it's just a cultural difference: for instance, every time people arrive somewhere new, they say hi to everyone--re: shake every man's hand, kiss every woman on the cheek, and introduce them self to everyone they don't recognize. It's a very friendly way to operate which I feel directly contributes to everyone hanging out with each other outside the league games. There are some gringos on my team, who are all hilarious, and they and I agree about this one: on the bus ride home from practice on Thursday, after getting honked at by four cars driven by teammates as we waited at the bus stop, one of them uttered "what a find." What a find, indeed. 

Last weekend was Easter weekend. The general word was that Santiago would be relatively uninteresting during the long weekend, so a few friends and I began planning an excursion. After some hiccups in the planning procedure we eventually made a plan Thursday night to make the trip out to the seaside commune of La Serena.

Allen--who I've mentioned before--has a roommate, Carlos, who, in turn, has a car. So Wednesday night he handed me a stack of blank CD's, informed me that they take mp3 format, and ordered me to get busy. On Friday morning (around noon) we packed up the car, popped in the first of my playlists, and were off. It was the first proper road trip I'd had in far too long, and it was simple and beautiful and refreshing. Carlos is the most avid gamer I've met here besides myself. We met by means of Game of Thrones, which is known, of course, to forge the most lasting of friendships (not kidding). He's also got a sharp sense of humor so we've been getting along famously. We bonded over books and movies and games we all like while Allen, the film nerd from Brooklyn, shot windowed vistas from the passenger seat. He said he would edit them into a neat little video, so if he ever finishes I'll post it here. We tried to speak only in Spanish; I'd say I improved a little just from the weekend. Carlos is a very good teacher.

That night around 7:00pm we rolled into La Serena and found an adorable hostel for a reasonable price. We quickly aimed to hit the town: there was a casino nearby in which I didn't feel comfortable gambling because I couldn't understand the dealers' rapid spanish and was interested in keeping my limited cash supply. Next time. It was nice enough to get out and about, and the drinks were cheap, presumably to loosen the wallets of the patron gamblers, so we had a good time just sitting around talking for a bit. Afterwards we got some pizza and called it a night. It was relatively tame but we all had great fun.

The next day we hopped in the car and drove over to Valle de Elquis, about an hour away. We parked at a supermarket, grabbed some cold-cuts, and wandered to a nearby park for a bite of lunch. Dogs took notice as we ate and wandered over carefully, craftily, masterfully, clearly practiced at their beggar's game. We gave offered them bread--some took more fondly to it than others, who let it fall from their mouths. There's a saying about begging and choosing that seems appropriate. The park itself was cheery and tranquil and just all-around pleasant. We left to go on a tour of the Capel facilities (makers of the infamous Pisco liquor) which was actually pretty fun, despite my complete failure to understand any of the facts the tour guide was rattling off. After the tour we went back to the park and it was teeming with community: a group was playing live music nonchalantly and an abundance of parents had brought their children to climb about the fountain and architecture. It seemed like a really good place for a family on a Saturday afternoon.

That night, we went on a tour to the Cerro Mamalluca Observatory. Valle de Elquis is a good distance from any of the major urban centers and several hours north of Santiago. While it's not quite in the desert region, the climate is dry enough and there is so little light pollution that it's home to one of the clearest night skies in the world. Understanding the immense tourist potential of the skies visible from the area, local municipalities have created an observatory whose instruments are open to the general public. We met at a small booth in town, from which point we caravanned through town in our car, up an arid, dusty hill, to the observation point where the facility was set up. As we climbed the dirt road my companions and I were chatting idly, listening to music and passing the time, until we noticed the road lights marking the way beyond the confines of the civilization below. As we realized exactly for what we were in store we turned our eyes skyward and were instantly stunned. Constellations I had never seen before mingled with familiar constellations in unfamiliar orientations who had a backdrop of stars I had never been able to notice, while further in the background still the milky ghost of our galaxy spanned the sky. The walk to the observatory proved difficult with what seemed like every patron's neck craned and chin pointing straight up.

Courtesy of: http://www.welcomechile.com/vicuna/mamalluca-astronomical-observatory.html

We finally made it inside and were led up a winding staircase to a domed observatory. Our guide began pointing out--in English, as it was the only tour available--the various constellations that we could see. Orion was lying on his side and surrounded by such a cluster of stars that I barely recognized him; scorpio was seen with resounding clarity; the cross, not visible from the northern hemisphere, serves as a beacon for astronomers seeking the polar axis, akin to our north star, polaris. Soon after his explanation, the guide punched some astronomical coordinates into the computer ("astronomers used to carefully plot maps using the constellations in order to point their telescopes; now we have GPS") and the entire dome shifted while the telescope at the room's center began carefully orienting itself. We were each invited to look into the lens at the clearest images of the universe that I have ever seen first-hand. We were able to make out individual stripes on Jupiter, the shape of the clouds of the Orion nebula, and the reddish hue of Betelgeuse. Quite simply, it was awesome. There were some smaller telescopes outside that we could use freely to observe the sky once the tour was done; I never really wanted to leave. Apparently the area is an open camp-zone, allowing you to spend the night after your tour. I've carefully added a night's stay to my travel list.

That night we stopped in a local jazz club for a quick dinner and headed back to La Serena for the night. The next morning, Easter Sunday, we headed into the center of town to check out some of the more touristy things. We stopped at the fishing docks and the entire area was vivid: people danced and celebrated while costumed heroes flitted about--Captain Jack Sparrow was offering boat rides on three separate Black Pearls for two luca apiece (ch$ 2.000 = ~$4USD). We made our way into one of the restaurants and were treated to some of the freshest fish I have ever had. Afterwards, as we relaxed by the railing and looked out at the fishing boats, a group of seals popped up their heads, presumably returning to their favorite human food feeding spot. We then headed to the beach to scare a particularly large flock of seagulls. Carlos got pooped on. It was magical.

After we had had our fill of local wildlife observation, we headed back to to the car to make our way home. The drive back to Santiago proved to be much more trying than the drive there because of the influx of citygoers trying to make it back in time for work on Monday. The CDs we had burned began to grate on us and my iPhone ran out of batteries so I was woefully without my gameboy, but we had a good time of it all the same.

This week work really picked up--I finally started some real classes--which has been refreshing. Notoriously bad at managing time, though, I had trouble finding time to update. I'll try to get back on here soon.

Bookends

It's been criminally long since I updated this thing, I think almost two weeks. So maybe not quite long enough to get shipped off to prison, but I still feel bad. It's the kind of thing where if you're in the habit of updating, you will do so more often, but let one event pass without feeling that it's remarkable enough to write on and soon they start piling up. I haven't had the most exciting two weeks but a few things happened that might be interesting to some:


Two weeks ago I was in Valparaíso for the weekend. My friends finally got an apartment and it's got a view. It's surreal. I'll upload a picture. As I wasn't really working, I had no obligations in Santiago so I ended up staying there for quite a while. It was a relaxing time. A couple days later an earthquake around 8.3 in magnitude occurred off the coast that rocked the northern part of the country. The city I had been in was on tsunami warning in the wee hours of the morning. Nobody was hurt--there was talk down here of Bachelet having seriously gotten her shit together since the disaster of 2010, during which it took days for the military to hit the streets and control the lawless looting, according to my roommate--but my friends were treated to a tsunami day, a neat concept if not a little foreboding. But again, the country was prepared: a state of emergency was declared well in advance of event's actual repercussions.

I made it back to the capital on Tuesday morning (on a 5am bus) to meet my first student. He's a quiet but very friendly man who knows practically no English. To be honest, I shouldn't describe him as quiet, now that I think of it, as I'm sure I come across as quiet to most of the locals; my Spanish is leagues behind his English. But he's an eager and appreciative student, even when I'm a less-than-stellar teacher, so I do my best to earn his business. My other student, who I met later that week, is a professional with an intermediate grasp of English. His lessons are much more conversational, which is a treat, during which I get to really flex my grammatical muscles--admittedly also a treat. Between the two of them, I've been keeping busy enough planning lessons to keep from going insane, and the extra cash is proving to be essential.

At the behest of a friend, I ran in the annual Maratón de Santiago with essentially no training. Okay, it was the half-marathon event, but I still only trained for two days after having been off the track for a month. So I'm fucking proud. It was really surreal: running for two hours straight among a sea of people with encouraging shouts not only from all directions but for essentially the duration of the race was, in a way, cathartic. It really made me feel like a part of something, like I was running for my place among the people--even if after the race I walked straight home without talking to anybody. Hopefully I can find the motivation and courage to start practicing my Spanish with strangers sometime soon.

My roommate took me rock climbing on Friday, which was exhilarating and refreshing and therapeutic. Despite having never actually got into the sport, all that time at the climbing gym I spent in high school really made me feel like a part of the culture, and I didn't realize until this weekend how much I missed it. So it was nice to get back into it. My forearms are still sore, too, which is a great feeling. Afterwards Andrés took me out with a couple of his buddies and we got good and trashed at a bar on cheap beer. It was a real treat.

Yesterday (Sunday) I spent the day with a couple friends who I hadn't seen since before the beginning of the events of this post: we went to brunch at a posh little cafe where we ate melon and prosciutto and drank fresh watermelon juice, hit up the local fine arts museum and spent a relaxing afternoon contemplating various visual mediums, and finally settled in at their place to watch the much anticipated Juego del Thronos (!!!!). It was a good day. What I hadn't anticipated, though, was the news that I had missed after spending one of my only full days away from a computer.

Apparently, in Valparaíso where I had so recently spent a four day weekend, a fire broke out on Saturday afternoon that is still burning fiercely. The blaze has swept up and over one of the hills that the quaint city was build upon, tearing through hundreds of homes, claiming a dozen thus-confirmed lives, and leaving thousands homeless. From what I've heard, you can't find someone who through only one or two degrees of connection doesn't know someone who hasn't lost everything they own. And I feel the need to reiterate the fact: the fire is still burning. It's a national tragedy whose human suffering is only magnified by the loss of generations of historical and intellectual character that was until now preserved in the artistic and magical city. I'm currently looking to donate--I've never been one to solicit but I am posting the information in an effort to raise awareness. And just in case you're so inclined, here's a link to the Red Cross's page in Chile: http://www.cruzroja.cl/donaciones

Read more here:

In English - http://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-27007884

With good pictures - http://www.fresnobee.com/2014/04/12/3875187/forest-fire-destroys-150-homes.html

Minuto a minuto en español - http://www.emol.com/noticias/nacional/2014/04/14/655364/minuto-a-minuto--incendio-en-valparaiso.html

And my pictures:

Taken by me two weeks ago. Beautiful fucking city.

Taken by my friend two days ago. Not the same hill as depicted above, but it give you a good idea of the severity of the incident.