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