I've stayed in a hostel before - in the tiny mountain village of Grindelwald (very pretty; must go back) - but when you're on your own, you're in your twenties, and the majority of the other guests are not only also on their own and in their twenties but also Americans who are there by the same machinations as you...it's really a different experience. I know I keep making this comparison, but forgive me for making it once more: it's like a college dorm. Except that almost everyone has presumably already lived in a college dorm, and - more to the point - has practiced partying in a college dorm. You can imagine the chaos. The staff were incredible, though: I went back yesterday to hang out with my fellow teachers still apartment-hunting, and they let me get in on taco night. I'm hoping that I made at least a couple lasting friends among them. And on top of that, you obviously have people from all over the world traveling for all sorts of reasons, so you can really make some interesting friends. The australians in particular, I found, loved talking about Australia. I'd like to go there someday, too, but I'm trying to be cautious about making lofty travel aspirations before I've lived abroad even a full month. So I digress. One more note about the hostel: it was immensely fun, but the all-encompassing communal aspects can be exhausting, especially when you're trying to do something like find a clean plate, a clean pair of underwear, or an open spot in the fridge for a carton of eggs. When you're trying to live, basically.

So, it's nice to be in my own place.

And it's a nice place, too. To be perfectly honest, I'm ecstatic about it. It's on the 15th floor of an apartment complex with a southern-facing balcony. You can see the entire south side of the city; at night it's as gloriously luminous as you could hope to expect. Look left (east) and the Andes loom over all the tallest buildings. Inside, it's cozy - the "kitchen" is a disquieting flashback to the apartment from my junior year - but certainly livable. My bedroom has a desk, I get my own bathroom, and there's a little TV and a speaker with an auxiliary cable (which, admittedly, was a big selling point - along with the neighbors who don't mind loud music). I'm not about to pretend to know anything about furnishing and decorating, but I will say this: to my eye, it's been tastefully done. I feel like I'm living in a real home. And now it's mine, which is indescribably comforting. In no small part is that a result of my welcoming, patient roommate, Andrés.

If I'm being honest, HE was a big selling point. When I came to first see the apartment, I kept asking detailed questions about amenities and whatnot, until he finally stopped me and said, "if you take the apartment, everything here is yours." And that's been absolutely true. He's very good about sharing, both objects and labor. He's relaxed, and doesn't mind if you leave your dishes for tomorrow (although, given my history with dishes and general penchant for sloppiness, I've been trying to take care of cleaning ASAP). An anecdote to illustrate my point: when I moved in Thursday, I hung out on the balcony reading (DAD THIS NOOK IS INCREDIBLE) for a while, looking wistfully at his guitar. My hunger finally getting the better of me, I mustered the courage to forage for the supermarket. I bought rice, peppers, and a bottle of wine to share. When he got home with a 40oz bottle of beer, of course also to share, he showed me the "Chilean way to cook rice," which involved frying it in the pot before adding the water, diced my veggies for me while I stirred the rice, and when, after both bottles were depleted, I finally mustered the courage to mention the guitar, we spent a good ten minutes taking turns playing (or failing on my end) and singing Pink Floyd (his taste in music was yet another selling point). He used to be a contractor, but now he is in some form of food sales. He's got binders and folders and notes about his business cluttering his desk and all the living room shelves. And he's really into outdoor sports: a mountain bike hangs by it's front wheel from the balcony roof, climbing gear - helmets, shoes, chalk - sits idly on the top shelf, though I'm sure not for long, and along one wall are several pictures of him on top of various mountains - I have to remember to ask him which. I think he's 30 years old but he looks like he's 20. Overall, a very cool dude, whom I look forward to speaking in mediocre spanish with for the next several months.

That's it for now, I'll describe more about the city, my work, and my friends in another post. I'm not really sure how often I'll be updating, so for now keep an eye out. My guess is that by next week I will have written a little something else. Probably (hopefully) sooner, but I don't like to feel accountable - a word for which, incidentally, there is no direct spanish counterpart, so while I'm down here I feel perfectly justified in that statement.