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?