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

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            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.

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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.