Some thoughts on my love life:

It is quite interesting being a North American woman in Chile. While many apects of my experience are affected by this fact, the one I probably spend the most time reflecting on is how it affects my love life. The time I have spent in Chile has been the most vibrant and active of my life in terms of the opposite sex. I had effectively taken myself out of the game in Seattle for undisclosed reasons, and it has been quite easy to get back on the horse in Chile, because for one, I have nothing to lose, two, the men are beautiful and I am much like a diabetic let loose in a candy store, and three, if I fail spectacularly, it is easy to find someone to move on with.

On the other hand, cross cultural dating is inherently terrifying. Sometimes I feel like I have reverted back to junior high...the insecurity, the hand-holding, the confusion all feel so familiar, if ten years ago can still feel familiar. And I clearly don't understand the rules, after a night of excellent chemistry on the dancefloor with a gorgeous Chileano and a near hook-up ended in the two weeks later revelation that he has a girlfriend and would not, as it turns out, be responding to future text messages. After I indignantly told my cousin this man was a shitbag, Nacho flipped the responsibility onto me: "Well, you didn't ask him if he had a girlfriend, did you?" In response, I said, "Well, I assumed that someone who held my hand and invited me to stay over didn't have a girlfriend." Nacho: "Not in Chile." Me: "Oh, that's right, I forgot for a moment that this is a machista culture!"

Have any of my mini-affairs been particularly meaningful? The answer to this question is a resounding no. I find that my encounters have been limited to one of two different types of men. First, Type One is the aggressive, machista Chileano whose declarations I can never quite take seriously. The perfect example: Blue Sweater. I met Blue Sweater on a Saturday night at the Balmaceda, which is a dark, sweaty, dirty club frequented by university students in the mood to get trashed, make out and dance to reggaeton. Needless to say, it is my favorite place to be on any given weekend. Blue Sweater asked me to dance almost immediately, and I spent the rest of the night dancing with him, as I was specifically devoted that particular evening to overcoming my disappointment at the absence of another character in my saga, Green Army Jacket. We did not exchange words, really, until the lights came on, at which point I discovered that his brother is a student teacher at the school I work at and, incidentally, good friends with Ruby. Effing wonderful. So, Blue Sweater and his brother worked out some sort of scheme, and the following Monday I found myself on a double date that I had agreed to against my better judgement.

All that was revealed to me on this date is that (1) Chillan is a very, very small town, as the appearance of another recent affair at the date location proved beyond a doubt, and (2) Chileanos that want to date me after a brief night together at the Balmaceda are usually only interested in me because I am North American. Let me explain. After drinks at Louvre and the Universitario and conversations sufficient enough to confirm that Blue Sweater's brother is, indeed, gay and Blue Sweater is, indeed, boring, I found myself back on the dancefloor in a replay of our Saturday night meeting. After asserting that I was tired, Blue Sweater accompanied me back to my house and on the way, sprung the following sentence on me: "Quieres pololear conmigo?" Translation: "Do you want to date me?" Now, if any of you know me well at all, you know that a great dream of mine is to date a Latino. However, if you know me well enough to know that certain fact, you should also know that such a question uttered after such a short period of time will only send me running for the hills. Which is precisely what happened. I delivered a little speech I had spent all night preparing in Spanish about how I don't know you well enough, I like to get to know someone before I decide to date him, I enjoy my independence, etc. His rejoinder? "Well, I just really like you, you are so beautiful, blah blah blah." First of all, any time anyone says they like me so soon, I am instantly insulted. We can barely communicate, for one, so he can't know me well enough to like me. Second, all you can really know about me is that I am North American and terrible at speaking Spanish. Finally, I like to think I am an interesting and complicated person, and to assume that I am what you see in a few hours spent with me does nothing but horrify me. Finally, in a phenomenon I cannot explain, anytime anyone compliments my beauty, I have to choke back a bit of vomit because it is so cliche and kind of smarmy. This combination does not sound like a good basis for a relationship, and thus, Blue Sweater, although you were attractive and seemed like a good enough guy, I am not going to respond to your five calls and two text messages because, quite honestly, you are much too intense for me and I have a strong suspicion that you like the idea of dating a North American much more than you acutally like me. Maybe I should have given him a second chance, but the combination of his multiple tactical errors and the fact that I can usually tell if I am interested in someone based on a gut feeling I have within the first five minutes of conversation--a feeling utterly absent in our relations--resulted in the termination of our affair. Now, I only have to face his brother at school tomorrow, and take care from now on to get the facts straight with future amantes before I take the plunge to avoid such awkward arrangements in the future.

The other type of Chilean I have encountered here is quite the opposite of Blue Sweater. Incidentally, it is the second type of Chilean I usually find my gut propels me towards, and quite typically, it is the second type of Chilean that is much more difficult to have reliable communication with. The Blue Sweater syndrome of constant calling, texting, declarations of feelings and such are utterly absent in the Type Twos, and as such Type Twos are much more frustrating, much more intimidating, and yes, I will admit it, much more alluring. However, while Type Ones seem to be attracted to my North Americanness like a moth to a flame, Type Twos tend to be afriad of it. For example, my most recent affair with a man called Green Track Jacket was all my doing because if anything was going to happen, I was obviously going to have to take the reins (a task, incidentally, that I also find much easier here, because of, I believe, the three reasons stated in my first paragraph). So, I met Green Track Jacket at a pub one night, and despite obvious chemistry, repeated exchanges of smiles and eye contact, and hand-holding, he ended up getting trashed and making out with some Chilean girl, leaving me alone on the dancefloor wondering "Wha happen...?" A rematch at the Balma a few days later was almost sure to produce the same results. Green Track Jacket and I were awkwardly chatting, when he left to get some beer and his friend informed me, "He likes you but he is really timid, so if you want something to happen, you are going to have to do it yourself." Fine advice, and I was grateful to the girl who took pity on my awkward situation to give me a pathway to salvation. Upon Green Track Jacket's return, I firmly took him by the hand, led him to the dancefloor, and moments later we were making out to the drum machine beats of my favorite reggaeton song.

However, despite the allure of the Type Twos, I know deep down that I will largely be unsatisfied with these sorts of exchanges. My friend told me the other day, "I am so tired of the club scene. I just want to date someone." While this statement is a little drastic for me (I could not possibly tire of the club scene and the thought of dating someone makes me seize up with panic), I hear where she is coming from. I am secretly pulling for a Type Three, and I have my eye on one; in my head, I refer to him as Leather Jacketed, Stringy Haired, Beautiful Lipped, Solidly Built Sexy Dancer Guy. He is just aggressive enough that I know when I see him at Balma, we will have an exchange of sorts without my having to work hard for it. On the other hand, he plays it cool enough to keep me intrigued--I am not sure how he feels about me, and for that matter I am not sure how I feel about him. And this time, I feel no rush to grab him by the hand and find out what kind of kisser he is.

Let's see where I can get with Type Three, shall we?

How does it feel to be on your own?

Right now, I am listening to the playlist my friend James posted on his blog. James has always had a special talent with mix tapes, and even more talent for naming them. I am in a strange mood tonight, kind of missing home in a lazy, uninspired way, and his soundtrack is the perfect backdrop for ruminations of this sort. Thanks James.

Tonight, it is true, I am bored in Chile. At some point in the last two months, I have become accustomed to the endlessly social Chilean way of life and used to the constant bustle of people in the house, to the point where I seem to have forgotten how to happily be alone. I never thought such a moment possible for me. Yesterday, Felipe returned to classes in Conce. My host mom has been gone since Friday on some sort of spiritual retreat. For one whole day, I have had the house to myself, with the exception of Zuni during the day today--a fact I would have celebrated at any other moment in my life, when I reveled in spending time alone.

This weekend felt like college again. The gringos and I went out and did a lot of drinking, spent Saturday hanging out around the house together, hung over and lazy, and stayed up late talking, giggling and eating junk food Saturday night. After so much time spent in the company of my new best pals and over two weeks of Felipe's constant companionship, the house feels that much more empty tonight. I ate onces by myself in front of the computer two nights in a row, and my meager cup of tea and hockey puck shaped bread was much less filling with only the company of the Modest Mouse and Blue Scholars videos I was watching on YouTube.

My video watching was fueled by a strange need for all things Seattle lately. Ashley sent me a package and it arrived last week. I felt so loved, and it was really fun opening the box and discovering the treasures that lay in wait for me. However, the combination of the new Death Cab for Cutie cd, a copy of The Stranger (the Seattle weekly, not the book), and some deliciously rich espresso-flavoured Seattle chocolate affected me in an unintended way...and I found myself missing home even more. The nature of such feelings is surprising to me...it is not a deep, aching melancholy, but just an irritatingly unsettled feeling. I can picture Seattle in summer right now, the views of the city from Alki beach, the perfect weather that is rarely too warm and simply comfortable, the pink glow of the sky at dusk. As I devoured The Stranger and read about preparations for Pride Week, and accounts of familiar neighborhoods, bars and restaurants, I can picture myself in these places, and the stark contrast of these images with the biting cold as I huddle next to the stove, my best friend right now in this empty house, exhausts me.

Part of my disappointment today can be attributed to the fact that I overslept this morning...my rigorous party schedule has reversed my sleep schedule, and I found at 2 p.m. last night I could not fall asleep...and after rushing off to school and scarfing down two hockey pucks with cheese on the way, I discovered the school still shut up tight, with an officer of the student body standing out front turning students and faculty away with promises that tomorrow there will be class.

I will believe it when I see it. For the last three weeks, my schedule has been affected by paro, the Chilean word for the education strike that started with the students and was carried through last week by the teachers. From what I can gather, they are protesting the law that unfairly allocates more funding to Chile's semi-private schools than it does to the public ones, which obviously only increases the sharp divide between rich and poor in this country. At first, I was pretty impressed with the organization it takes to call students to a national strike and actually have them follow through, coming from my two years working in an American high school and witnessing first hand American teenage apathy. However, I have since readjusted my impressions, as I see that for most of my students, paro means only the absence of class and the hassles of the classroom, and to be honest, it has been such for me as well. Although, now my school will not have a winter break, and so until I hear from my director, my $220 of bus tickets to the desert up north are in limbo. If all that gets accomplished by this paro is that I lose 200 bucks and my carefully planned trip to the desert oases, beaches, astronomical observatories, mines and ghost towns of Northern Chile, I am going to be pissed. It was a pretty phenomenal sight, walking home on the first day of protests and passing the Liceo de Niños. Three boys were perched above the concrete wall that separates the school grounds from the streets, resembling guards in a prison yard. During student protests, the students physically take over the schools and refuse to let faculty on the premises. The chainlink gate at Liceo de Niños was covered with desks and chairs whose legs had been woven through the links, creating an errie and foreboding impasse. I wish I'd had my camera.

I have been out of school so long, I have almost forgotten what it is like to teach. Today, I was struggling to reply to an email from one of my contacts in BioBio asking about my working conditions and responses. After so much time off, I feel very uninspired to trudge back into my classroom and struggle through lessons.

However, my current lifestyle is not sustainable. I have spent six of my last twelve nights in Chillan in some sort of pub or club. After an incident on Wednesday in which Felipe's coat was stolen, and some interactions with unsavory people on Friday, I find myself overcome by a sense of impending doom--enough is enough. And so, I grudgingly welcome the return of some sort of schedule in my life. It is for the best. Hopefully both my students and I can shake the fog of paro out of our heads and get to work.

Turning 25 in Chile looks like this:

The night began with a special onces at my house. Mama Ema prepared goat and longanizas (a delicious sausage Chillan is famous for), and consequently, I was burping goat all night! But it was excellent!

My guests: Steph, my cousin Nacho, Mama Ema, Felipe, my cousin Emilio, Ruby.

The cake was a delicious chocolate and rasbperry affair...my favorite combo, and Ema guessed!
Engineers: Steph's cousin Julio and my brother Lito, at a pub near our house.
I wish this picture wasn't blurry, because it is so cute!
Steph, Ruby and Stacey at Louvre, a pub we frequent.
What a cute family we are! Me with my host brothers.
Chilean pals at The Balmaceda, our favorite trashy place to dance.

From here, things got a little out of control...
Nacho, me, Tomas, Christian.
This is my favorite picture of the night, because it is such a hot mess!

I adore my host brother!

So, one of my biggest fears about coming to Chile was that I would fail to make meaningful and lasting friendships with people. It has been hard to accomplish, especially with the language barrier, and how do you fill people in on enough of your personal history to feel close to them in the short time you have in Chile?

The one person it has happened naturally with is Felipe. I am so thankful that he is in my life. It is through him that we have made other attempts at friendship here. He is my constant companion on weekends, and has taught us the ins and outs of Chilean nightlife. He is funny, sweet, and deeply cares about other people. Again, I can't believe my luck to be placed with this family.

I remember a few weeks into my stay in Chillan, I still felt really awkward around the house with Felipe. He was pretty quiet and shy, and spent most of his days on the computer. We didn't say much to each other, because his Spanish is difficult to understand because he talks fast and doesn't enunciate certain sounds, and at that point my Spanish was almost nonexistant. Plus, it is a pretty odd and uncomfortable experience to, in the midst of thousands of new experiences, be given a complete stranger close to your age and live with him as a brother. I have a real brother the same age as Felipe, so I had certain expectations of him, and hope that we would have a close enough relationship that when I began missing my real brother, my host brother could help fill in the gap a little bit. However, as I am finding more and more, I am not a patient person, and I distinctly remember having the thought one day, after awkward silence at the dinner table with Felipe, "I am just not going to try. I don't have to be best friends with my host brother. I am just going to let go fo that dream."

However, as I came to find out, Felipe is just so damn loveable that even if I had given up (which I didn't), it would have been impossible not to love him. One night we went out together and had a blast, and since then it is not even a question of me inviting him or him inviting me, it is just like, "What are we doing this weekend?" One night, I was telling someone something and I directed the phrase, "Your house," to Felipe and he grabbed my arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, "No, it is your house too." I really appreciate how he accepts me, welcomes me into his family and home, shares the computer with me all the time. I think of how hard it would be for me to do...look at how much I struggled having roommates! But it seems so easy for him. One night, I asked him if his mom ever even asked him if it was okay with him that a foreigner would be coming to live with him, and he said no. I asked him if it was strange or hard for him, and again he said no. I was stunned, because it would be very hard for me if the roles were reversed.

The amazing thing about Felipe is that he always understands what I am trying to say. Obviously, my Spanish is far from perfect, and I make ridiculous mistakes all the time, and Felipe always laughs with me at them, but always gets the point. When other people ask, "What did she just say?" he always knows the answer. It used to irritate me that other people couldn't understand me because of my accent or whatever, and Felipe would repeat exactly what I said, and then they would be like, "Ohhhh..." but now, it is kind of like a joke with us, and I am so grateful that he is always around to help me communicate. It goes both ways, too, because some Chileans...well, it is just impossible for me to understand them, and so all I have to do is look at Felipe, and he will put it much more slowly and simply for me. I have trouble with verb endings in the past tense, and I am always mixing up the first person and third person endings. So when I am talking and telling a story in the past tense, I tend to drag out the verbs while I am thinking of the proper ending. For example, "Hoy dia, trabaaaaaaa.....je" (Today, I worked...). One night, we were out at a pub with some of Felipe's friends, and I was calculating the ending of a verb, and he filled it in for me, knowing what I was thinking and getting at, and at that moment, I knew that I just loved this kid.

One night, we went out to a pub in the middle of the week, drank a lot of beer together, and whined about our love interests. Felipe is interested in an American friend of mine, and I am interested in a Chilean acquaintance of his, and it was really great to bond over our cross-cultural relationship woes. Neither of us have ever dated a foreigner before, and it is quite confusing. Since that night, we have become so close it is sort of unbelievable that I have only known him for two and a half months, or that I usually only see him on the weekends.

For the last two weeks, we have both been out of school because the students are on strike (an event that deserves a post of its own), and so we have had a lot of extra time to hang out. During the day, we watch movies, play with the dog, run errands together, and chat online with our Chilean friends. And at night, of course, we go out. In the last two weeks, though, it is not unusal that after getting home at five in the morning, the two of us will stay up two more hours, talking. (Btw, mostly because of him I think, my Spanish is getting awesome!) When we got home on Saturday, we were having a heart-to-heart, a really sad conversation about family separations, and he started crying and I honestly felt my heart breaking as I hugged him and let him cry. It was the same way I feel when my real brother is struggling with something. I just wanted to protect him and make it better in any possible way, even though it is totally his deal. After he pulled himself together, he told me, "I can't believe how much I tell you about my life. We haven't even known each other that long." I told him that I know, he is my best friend in Chile. And he said that I am his best girlfriend in Chile, because all of his other girlfriends have abandoned him out of pissiness that he hangs out with gringas all the time--another theme that deserves a post of its own. It makes me feel really good that we have bonded and that he feels comfortable with me and I with him. I love waking up after a night out, giggling and gossiping with him about everything that happened the night before. And all of this happened, it feels, largely without me having to try very hard to make it happen.

A few more Felipe moments that I must share, because I feel they reveal the kind of relationship I have with him: on the night of my birthday, our mom was out visiting someone, and Felipe did not want us to have a normal onces by ourselves, so he took me out for pizza! (Incidentally, that kid loves pizza.) It was just so damn cute, I didn't even know what to say. The night we went out to celebrate my birthday with all our friends, I got in a fight with our cousin Nacho, and in the car on the way home at seven thirty in the morning, Felipe knew I was really upset, and kept asking me if I was okay, said that he didn't want anything to be bad for me, and then said that he loves me. It was so sweet and precious, and really did make me feel a lot better about being screamed at. Also, on Saturday, we had a grandma of some sort over for a huge lunch for her 89 birthday, and at the table, it was Felipe, me, and four old ladies. Cute, but seriously, after a lunch on Chilean time (meaning piles of food and an endless stretch of time), I had my fill of both food and old lady chatter. Knowing I am terrified of being rude or seeming ungrateful, Felipe excused himself, grinned at me, and said under his breath in English, "Come on!" and we made our escape. One of my favorite things is when he speaks English at random to me. His favorite phrases are "Thank you very much," which with his accent comes out as "Sank you," and nearly kills me every time because it is so cute, and "Relax!", which has become a running joke with us because he always tells me to relax when I am getting too excited, ranting, or yelling about something--all frequent occurrences with me!

I am grateful for his companionship. I would probably be a lot more lonely without him here. I look forward to weekends when he comes home, because things are always more lively with him around! We share similar opinions about a lot of places and people in Chillan, and it is so easy to be around him. He is nothing close to a replacement for my real brother, but I do love him in the way you love a family member, and every time I think about the fact that one day I will leave him, leave Chile, and my weekends will not be filled with the craziness of our nights out, heart-to-hearts, gossip, movies...my heart constricts and I have to stop thinking about it. Sometimes, I cannot avoid the knowledge that I am going to spend the rest of my life missing Chile. And now, missing my host brother, my companion, the person who has made me feel most welcome here, my first real Chilean friend.

I had to include this photo, because it is so terrible. It is evidence of a running joke between us, because somehow, no matter what the circumstances are, we always manage to take the WORST pictures together. And this one is, by far, the worst! Haha!

Calzones rotos

On Saturday evening, I helped my family make some sort of pastry called "calzones rotos." They are comprised of a sort of heavy, dense dough fried and then covered in powdered sugar. I know, amazing, right? I LOVE THIS COUNTRY! Basically, you roll out the dough, cut it into strips, slice the middle and then fold one side of the pastry through to the other side.

Mariela is frying and Felipe is dusting the calzones rotos in powdered sugar, which he enjoyed pretending was cocaine!

So, family togetherness in the kitchen was made a little awkward by the fact that I thought the calzones rotos resembled a key part of the female anatomy. The pictures don't necessarily do the comparison justice, but trust me! So I was quietly reflecting on this fact to myself, when Mariela asked me if I knew what "calzones rotos" meant. I decided that since the word "calzones" sounds exactly like the Italian word "calzone," so I said, "Un tipo de comida italiana?" ("A type of Italian food?") Mariela started cracking up, and told me in actuality it is a slang term for vagina. We giggled for a long time, and I felt vindicated in my early impressions of our tasty treats!

Pre-fried calzones rotos.


Our creations are ready!

Onces near the stove--so cozy!


In unrelated news, have I mentioned how much I adore Mariela? She is a friend of the family, and she owns a store in the market two blocks from our house, so she comes over a lot for onces. She is super fun since she talks a lot, and the themes of her verbosity revolve around one of my three favorite things: food, travel, and men! When she is not talking, she is usually singing. Not only that, but since she works in the market she is really interested in and knowledgable about indeginous art. I enjoy her immensely.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

The weather here is so confusing to my senses right now, because my internal clock is telling me it is time for summer, but all the leaves have fallen off the trees and Chile is now freezing! It is crisp and cold, and no matter what I do, my nose and fingers are never warm. Felipe is pretty sick of hearing me whine about my nose looking like a cherry, I am pretty sure. In reality, the outside weather is no different from what I experience during Seattle winters, but since there is no central heating in our homes, being inside is never a relief from the painful cold. Sometimes, it is even colder inside than out! The temperature gage on my alarm clock hovers between 50 and 54 degrees in my room, I can see my breath in the house, and when I get out of the shower, the steam rises off my skin. I spend most of my time at home cowering under the covers of my bed (seriously, sometimes I go to bed at 9:30 and wake up at 9:30), wearing long johns under sweatpants, two sweaters, a sweatshirt, wool socks and mittens. The cold is all anyone ever talks about--lots of "hace frio"s and "super helado"s. After two days of this nonsense, I asked my family how long it is like this for...apparently the next three months! Boo! At least I am going to the north for two weeks during my winter vacation for some warmth!

When I was little (and even sometimes as an adult) I always looked forward to power outages and weather-related disasters because I found it so appealing to watch my parents build a fire which we would then crowd around for hours, to eat soup by candlelight, to use flashlights to go to the bathroom, to lounge around on the couches under piles of blankets while the weather raged outside, to play board games and cards. The shakeup of our regular routine seemed so exciting, romantic, and old fashioned to me. Passing the winter in Chile seems a lot like an extended power outage in some ways, and for all the discomfort, it appeals to me in the exact same ways. I love when we all gather around the stove, Felipe on the computer, me reading, Ema working at her little table. I love when we set up onces next to the stove. I love when we all sit around drinking cup upon cup of tea to stay warm. I love when Felipe or Ema offer me their hands as proof of how freezing they are. I love seeing everyone else all bundled against the chill. It is a very homey feeling, like we are all in this together, we are going to survive, and we are going to do so cheerfully. I adore it!

Along with the romance of our fight against the cold, it feels like at any minute, it is going to be time for Chirstmas, with turkey and stuffing, garlands, Christmas lights, spiced wine, all the joys. In reality, it is a week from my birthday, my first time celebrating my day of birth during the winter. It feels very strange.

When it isn't pouring down rain, I really enjoy my walks to school in the cold. It is so pleasing to watch my breath puff out in front of me, feel my cheeks turn pink, smell the bread as I walk past the bakeries (much more joyful than walking past the carnicerias on my way home and smelling the piles of meat or seeing the entire body of a huge pig draped over some man's shoulders). I enjoy being free of my car, and this whole experience has reminded me how necessary it is to live somewhere where you don't need to rely on a vehicle. I feel like I experience so much more and am so much more aware of the beauty of my surroundings.

An interesting side-product of winter here--the cat calls have died down in the streets! I cannot tell if everyone is just more cranky because of the cold and thus in less of an amorous mood, or if I just don't look as cute in my bulky parka!