Where have all the Cowboys gone?

Last night a French friend, Vincent was throwing a house party for his girlfriend's birthday- I've met Vincent a few times but I've been asking Sylvain to hang out with him because he's our age and I had a good first impression. We got a bottle of wine, got lost, almost gave up, and found the shack of a house twenty minutes later. When we sat down Sylvain commented on the degradation of the house Vincent shared- he told me when I first told him my parents lived in a log cabin- he imagined something not unlike this place - a real hillbilly shack abandoned on a plot of land... 

The girls here were drinking beer mixed with Fanta- something I thought seemed disgusting, but felt compelled to try sometime. We talked to a roommate who played Flamenco guitar, and Vincent's girlfriend who we both found really charming - she and Vincent met picking apples in New Zealand, she's my age and I loved her for it. We discussed the kissing greeting- how whenever a foreigner meets an American they often get Karate chopped by a hand plunged into the space between as they go in for a kiss- so that if they advance any further, they get a hand stab. It was the first time I understood how cold that must feel- the sort of way Oprah hugs her guests where she grabs their hands and pushes them away instead going in for the real thing. We also determined more than one cheek was unnecessary, pretentious and outdated. 

I've noticed that I am struggling to speak Spanish in situations like this - I use it regularly with commercial transactions void of opinions and feelings; but here I have the opportunity to practice and all I want to do is communicate as accurately as I can- ask the questions I have and share my experiences- all of which are often too sophisticated for my basic level of Spanish... 

Non-Americans are always making cowboy references to me- as an American I feel about as culturally identified with cowboys as I do with eskimos. In the Rosetta Stone Spanish language program I'm using they identify an American hat as a sort of black Mexican cowboy hat which I don't understand at all- ask any American and they'll chose a baseball cap as an "American" hat beyond any other. Sylvain is really into this cowboy identity stuff- and last night walking home he said this:

Sylvain: "Babe, you know the spirit of the cowboy?"

Me: "If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that."

Do we as American's have a cultural connection to cowboys? Because I have no idea what the spirit of the cowboy is- Sylvain had some explanation but I wasn't listening, because every time he mentions cowboys I wonder why foreigners assume Americans even understand this cowboy concept- if we do I doubt it's very developed. I have this feeling Europeans are writing 400 page Masters thesis' on American identity and the spirit of the Cowboy. I have one cowboy reference which is simply playing cowboys and indians- of which I never did, but I think maybe they did once on a Brady Bunch episode I saw. 

More death... and bills

Last night I went to yoga for the 4th time and with yet another teacher... On the way home I needed to break a large bill in order to give Sylvain some change. Conveniently, I also needed some tampons and so I went into a pharmacy - all products whether their pharmaceutical or not, are behind the counter here and you have to ask. So I am approached by a man and he says the spanish version of how can I help you- I tell him I need some Tampax (universal brand for tampons- like Band-Aid or Kleenex), and he gets a female coworker to assist me; even though they are directly behind him- she explains to me how many are in the box (duh) and other insignificant information (its not a car I'm buying, its tampons) and then charges me $4.50 for 8 tampons. There is no way the average Chilean could buy tampons at this price- it must be a gringo import.

I head home, wave to the old guy who works in the tailors- we've become waving friends- pet the kitten that looks like Manny and when I get home I run into Sarah at the door. She's sort of upset looking- as if she's been crying. I ask her if everything is ok- she says I have no idea what your saying and I repeat todo es bueno? She responds with a long diatribe of which I catch Papa- and I think maybe her dad has died (Sarah is about 40 years old)- since I have no idea whether this is the case, or just something bad, I say lo siento twice in a heartfelt way. She is my roommate but we are not close; we don't understand each other most of the time- I speak the kind of spanish she never understands, and I understand about every fifth word she speaks- she doesn't speak a word of English... I tell this to Sylvain- both of us seem to think her dad was recently diagnosed with cancer. 

Later Sarah comes in to tell us she's leaving for Santiago because her dad died of pancreatic cancer. She'll be gone for a week and that we should pay her rent at the end of the week and gives us her bank details. Whenever Sarah comes in I always stop what I'm doing and pretend to listen because I feel like I should, but I never understand more than what they are talking about- but none of the specifics- when Sylvain got up to hug her and give her a kiss when she explained what was happening, I knew her dad had probably passed- when she started saying banco a million times and writing down a number, I knew rent was due, but beyond that I'm ignorant to the specifics. This time I knew something was expensive- because Sylvain (whom, I can understand in Spanish) said wow that's way more expensive than France or New York... So, it turns out we had to pay $60 each for gas and electric every month... 

We are considering moving- Sarah doesn't seem to pay rent- between what we pay and what our other roommate pays that would more than cover what this apartment should cost... this sort of practice happens in New York, but what feels worse than getting screwed... On top of that the bills are insane... We have a nice apartment but it's nicer than we really need... So, we'll see if there's anything out there worth moving for...

Death, Incarceration, Art, and Marriage

I've had my sights set on visiting this cemetery here in Valpo for weeks now. It's the main view outside our kitchen table and every time I sit down to a bowl of cereal my curiosity is piqued. It's gated with a stone wall but from a distance the headstones seem worth taking a closer look. Yesterday morning Sylvain suggested we go have a look. We asked an abuela to point us in the right direction and she did, we found it in no time as it wasn't really too far from where we lived, but you have to go down the hill and then back up a different route. The cemetery close up was disappointing, it had not been kept up, and there were empty plastic bottles on the ground and general decay; besides us there were just 3 other American tourists taking photos. We walked around for a few minutes and then left. I could see from our kitchen window there was a lot of street art on the stone walls around this area and I was keen to have a look so I suggested we walk home another way, but as soon as we turned the corner we ran into an ex-prison Cerro Carcel. It closed in 1999 and the turned the space into an art park- it's walls are now full of colorful graffiti and you can walk in the yards and peek in the detention center and the rooms used for solitary confinement. After watching 3 seasons of the Wire and reading about Pinochet, this experience was more than a stop on the tourist trail... Sylvain told me this space is used to host art openings, theater and music concerts all of which I imagine would be that much more powerful considering the loaded implications of the space. 

A few years ago I worked for this woman Lois as a tutor for a summer school program, she was sort of retired but worked with funding from NYU to have a place inside supporting writing at Marta Valle middle school- we had both worked at Seward Park and knew a lot of the same people. She was a huge supporter of the arts, had tons of energy and was fun to talk to. After the summer program ended I was working at what had been the Seward Park annex and was now University Neighborhood High School, it was only a stones throw from Marta Valle, and we would meet once and a while for lunch at Schiller's- they gave us a teacher's discount and the food was good. Lately Lois has been on the hunt for street art which has taken her all over New York and around the world- most recently Bogota. She posts her findings on Flickr and her library of images is probably one of the most exhaustive sites available- if I can I will post her page: Lois in Wonderland.

Sylvain and I were discussing what broke up more marriages- finances or sexual issues and decided to do some online research. Anyway we found incomplete data on the subject, but most research concluded communication problems were a root factor. I mentioned that a lot of my family and friends had had to do a survey- pre-marriage questionnaire- during marriage counseling to facilitate full-disclosure and support open communication between the couple... It was easy to find one of these questionnaires online and so we decided to take it. We have been living together for more than 6 months at this point and so most of the questions we had long since discussed and we both wondered how anyone could get to the point of marrying someone without these questions having come up in regular conversation- much less the responsible discussions people ought to have when they get to the serious point of marrying another person. I posted the link on the right for anyone curious. 

After witnessing first-hand what is always a debacle, the planning of weddings- I have been largely turned off by marriage- despite the fact  that in practice I have enjoyed helping friends plan theirs- I have never witnessed anything as ridiculous as wedding planning and the merging/compromises between daughters, mothers and mother-in-laws. Watching my friends go through it has been amusing, frustrating, and a compassionate experience. Moreover, I've watched as my society and television have turned straight marriage into a punch-line while all the while telling gay people marriage is such an important rite of passage their unions may not be sanctified- it's no wonder I have my reservations.  

This morning I got up 'early' and went jogging- I brought money to stop at Lider on my way home because we were out of milk and bread. Sport of any kind as far as Sylvain and I can figure is completely foreign to the Chilean's. They have a world class tennis player in Fernando Gonzalez and football of course is their national sport- but look for anyone doing anything resembling exercise and look in vain. In the Bronx I would get plenty attention walking down the street where I worked, like every woman was accustom to- here the same thing happens because I'm jogging. It never bothered me to get cat calls in the Bronx because it was a cultural norm to "appreciate women" but as I told Sylvain the other day, I don't like being attended to simply because I am jogging, and I hate that it draws attention when in New York jogging was as unremarkable as walking down the street and smoking.

At least once a week Sylvain comes home frustrated because he woke up and went to class and the professor didn't show up. The same thing happened to me Wednesday when I went to yoga and was told class was pushed back 30 minutes. It seems to be the status quo that timetables are either subject to change without notice, or not adhered to much. Yoga on Wednesday night was the same routine I went through with Pedro Aguilera but with a young woman about my age and 5 other women. Three of them stayed in the back row and were pushed to their personal limits on more than one occasion often sitting out the difficult task of arm circles and a set of 7 sit-ups. Still, despite the lack of any chance of breaking a sweat, I liked her as a teacher, and will return for my last class. Since my teacher was also dressed in white flowing pants and a white sweater, I'm guessing that, this is simply la mode for yoga in South America, black lycra hasn't seemed to have made it's way to Chile yet- not that I blame them- the yoga here isn't athletic enough to require it- I've had a couple hippie teachers in nyc that wear the baggy hammer style pants when teaching, but I generally found having leggings and fitted clothing is easier to work in- but there is something about the white gauzy material that is growing on me. Anyway, Sylvain's friend Saw (pronounced So, short for Sausane) said I could go to the yoga classes at their university and after next week I will check them start going to them- apparently it's mostly American's who show up anyway. Surprise surprise.

Thursday I am going to an art opening with the woman from the artist in residence program in Vina...

Little Earthquakes

We've had 5 or 6 earthquakes since I arrive about a month ago. While I was in my senior year at Smith I woke up one morning to an earthquake around 7am. It shook my bed and woke me but I turned around and went back to sleep- not computing what had just happened. At breakfast when I had heard what I had failed to recognize as an earthquake, I was disappointed in myself for not being cognizant enough to notice what I had experienced- I could now tick the earthquake box, but I had no idea what even the minor rumble had felt like. I know now...

I realized what was happening the first time here- Sylvain and I looked at each other and thought aloud, what was that? The second time, the next night, it felt like it came from the roof down, like some corrugated metal house of cards built on the roof had toppled- we exchanged looks again, wondering aloud what that was, and moved on with our lives. After that we've had several small earthquakes that have felt like some big hand was jiggling our building. We had a couple today and Sylvain decided if we had a big one, we weren't well situated. Apparently, this area is about due for another big one, the last being about 20 years ago. I told him relative to the situation in the Northern Hemisphere with Swine Flu, we were relatively safe.

Yesterday on my trip to Vina I bought some yarn and today I started making a scarf. I had a bit of a misadventure in Vina and after successfully purchasing the yarn I asked the woman how to get to one of the Universities in town, she told me to take a yellow collectivo just outside the shop. I did, and as excited as I was to take my first collectivo with a sweet abuela sitting next to me, I wasn't very excited when he charged me well over what I should have paid and dropped me off what wouldn't have taken me more than 10 minutes to walk- I find it really irritating here when people act like walking a mere 10 minutes is far to long to go on foot- I have found this to be the case more often than I can comprehend... The university wasn't a campus, it was an administration building and so that was even more disappointing... I couldn't post any fliers either because it was gated. So instead I walked around posting them of telephone polls. On my way home from Vina I got on the bus and said Vaparaiso por favor. It took me about 5 minutes to realize I was headed the opposite way from Valpo and although I was angry with the bus driver for not bothering to tell me he wasn't headed to Valpo, I stayed on the bus a bit longer to see the coast. Sylvain and I visited my friend Mike in San Fran in April and we spent a day driving up the coast in a zip car; the views were stunning, and the coast here reminded me somewhat of that drive, but far less breathtaking.... Eventually I got off and put myself in the direction towards home, but not without giving the bus driver a piece of my mind.

My Addiction

A couple years ago my British friend Dave started telling me about this American tv program called the Wire. I'd never hear of it, and figured if it was any good, there would have been a buzz- there probably was, but I didn't really watch tv in the first place and never had cable so I may not have been in the right circles. I ignored him. A few months later we met in Istanbul for a holiday and he brought it up again, making me promise I would go home and watch it. That promise remained an empty one. Four months later he's back in New York and we're on our way to our friend Peter's wedding in Minnesota. Again with the Wire... I go home and make no adjustments whatsoever on my Netflix queue; I don't even google it. Regular emails come, and Dave continues to pitch how great this show is- but I've just discovered Mad Men, Dexter, and Weeds, The Wire is going to have to stay shelved for the moment.

Dave comes to New York this July and we go on a road trip out west and of course he brings up the Wire. Finally, I can say, I knew you were coming so I put it in my Netflix queue just for you... I get the first season as I'm leaving for Africa I watch one DVD before I leave and I bring the other 2 DVD's with me to watch in the airport. In the Delta lounge at JFK I'm already hooked. But when I return from Africa, season 2 is listed as a "long wait" and I don't get to watch anymore before I leave for Chile. Hulu doesn't work outside the country, and so I end up looking on Surf the Channel and voila, all 5 seasons at my finger tips. The problem is, I'm addicted. I watch an episode in the morning, and at least a couple sometimes 3 at night, and I can't really see myself breaking the habit until I've exhausted the entire series- at this rate of course, it will only take me another week.  I do feel gross, I wish I could pace myself to an episode or two a day, but I haven't been able to... 

Dave used to go into this diatribe about why and how the show was so good- he was right, but it never made me want to watch it. All I will say is this: it takes place in Baltimore, MD, and I love the Omar character. 

Survey says...

The answer to this weeks survey: having to put the toilet tissue in the bin, and flushing with minimal water pressure...

I've been looking for day hikes within a bus ride distance from Valpo- in doing so I ran across a website of a young married couple whom I think are from Chicagoland. They spent a year traveling through Central and South America. I added the link because I find Lonely Planet guides to be a little dry. Well, a lot dry. I mean, everyone who goes anywhere goes to Barnes and Nobles and looks at what they might see and do and where they might stay when they get there, but they're cold, and the industry is known for recycling material and not being exhaustive in their research. Bessie and Kyle probably spent a lot of time looking through these guides, so I assume in their travels they covered the important stuff, and instead of reading them for yourself you can see a first hand account with pictures and what-not. 

Today I decided there were 2 things I miss about my homeland. One is being able to flush the toilet with paper in it, and the other is being able to run outside with varying terrain. There is basically one long boulevard ending at the Paris store, but there and back is only about 30 min, it's completely flat and really monotonous; my only other option is to scramble around streets but it's not the kind of jog where you get in a grove and zone into your jogging, it's awkward, difficult footing because of dog poop and deep and uneven crevices and broken steps, and it's easy to get sort of but not really lost.  The day before I left I stayed at my aunt Nancy's in the Chicago suburbs; they have a young golden retriever who is well-trained and I took her on a jog the night before I left. They live in a nice suburb and we jogged on the sidewalk and through a nearby park; I hadn't done anything like that since I was in high school when I trained for track and cross country navigating icy footing and hot summer nights in the neighborhood I grew up in. I loved running with a dog, and in some ways the familiarity of those suburban blocks (because all suburban blocks are cut of the same cloth, are they not?) and the companionship of a golden retriever were more welcome than I had expected.  Maybe it's that my parent's home is no longer the one I grew up in and hasn't been for a longtime, so I actually never really "go home" and there's part of me I guess, that sometimes wishes I could...

I found cream, you can all breath a sigh of relief...

Happy Hour here ends at 10pm, so last night we had a bottle of wine with dinner but decided to get out of the house for once and went to a place near the beginning of our trek uphill called Kabala. I brought 3.000 and change just barely enough for us both to get one drink- about $8. We both had some sort of lime mixed drink that might have been made with sugar a few limes and the rest something like vodka. It was easy to feel like maybe one drink would be enough because near the end of said drink I was challenging Sylvain to a race uphill to our flat- an obnoxious idea because of both the trouble of running uphill for 10 minutes and also the opponent being the progeny of two of the best runners in France (his mother being the French champion and his father, who looks like Jacques Cousteau and still runs marathons at the ripe ol' age of 63). 

So this morning was an easy Sunday morning- most people don't like Sundays, but I do. I drink coffee in the morning on the weekends and so when I was living in New York, the best thing to do - especially in fall is go to the Tamarind bodega, with my New York Times get a coffee and a chocolate croissant (or cheese danish, you never know what you're in the mood for) and head to the park where you can pick the perfect bench and spend a few hours catching up on what Nickolas Kristoff has to say about Darfur and what smart but misguided things David Brooks is reporting about the economy (Brook's is a ham so if you don't have time for reading, David is always the voice from the right on various talk shows or NPR- not that that makes him opinions any more palatable). Since the Times don't deliver to Valpo I've been getting my frosty opinions, NYC real estate, and frankly as of late- recipes online- I definitely miss the coffee (only instant here) and the fall air outside, but it's much easier to share articles with friends when your still snug in bed, sitting up with your laptop on your lap than with the paper edition, and of course, better for the environment.

After the Times it's on to Arianna Huffington's website for the Huffington Post- I didn't really know about her until, (once again) one night in New York when I was driving home from a class I was taking at FIT she was on NPR talking about a party she had hosted where John McCain had told her he didn't vote for Bush (this isn't progressive rhetoric- it's widely known McCain didn't vote for Bush in the 2000 election, not dissimilar to most Americans) and that there was no love lost between them. Obviously my interest was piqued- the radio program was about an article she had written for the Huffington Post and I went home and got acquainted. 

But the guilty pleasure is always reading the new secrets posted on postsecret.blogspot.com we read them together and also read the version francaise, but I can tell I enjoy them far more. I have to thank David Darts my dept head while I was at NYU for sharing this site with us. He said while he was doing his Ph.D he had his students make and anonymously share a post secret one time during the semester and that each week he would show the results in the first few minutes of class- he had no problems with attendance.

To kindle or not to kindle?

Does anyone reading this have an opinion on the kindle? As a world traveler- wouldn't it be easier to carry around a kindle than lug books with me? Ok, your opinions in the comments section please. Christmas is near at hand and I'd like to get my letter swiftly off to Santa.

Yesterday was Chile's version of the 4th of July, and they celebrate it by clearing the streets of any pedestrian traffic, locking their doors and staying out of sight. Sylvain and I had been planning a trip to the big neighboring gringo city of Vina del Mar and with his classes canceled we planned our 7 minute by bus getaway. Turns out the people of Vina celebrate their national day in the same way they were celebrating it in Valpo- closing shop and disappearing from sight. So as a ghost town it looked like a lot of commercial interest without a lot of commercial traffic- well that is if you're into pharmacies, optical stores (as in reading glasses) and money changing offices/banks. We walked around, and got an ice cream at the boardwalk beach which was overly tourist and gross. There was a guy playing a keyboard at the boardwalk cafe, but he seemed only to know one song and we put our annoyance into imagining the sort of revenge he was enacting on the customers and staff at the cafe. Everything at these boardwalk tourist destination cafes are sticky and sweet with layers of whip cream and blech- it's why I'm so satisfied living in Valpo- Valpo has character- a lot of American's will tell you it's not safe- I am afraid after living in Harlem, Bushwick and Bed Stuy and working in the Bronx, its about as unsafe as camping out in your grandma's backyard. I'm not saying you won't get your fancy camera nicked, but you definitely won't get gang rapped in some back alley or be held up by knife point. Maybe what they meant was, you won't find a Gap store. Vina has nice houses and lots of tourist restaurants in addition to McDonald's, Pizza Hut, and Domino's so it's also really vapid and sad, or at least where we spent the afternoon strolling it was- there are a million hotels vs the quaint and charming B and B's and cute hostels in Valpo- and a hotel casino. Put it this way, it's easy to see where the money goes. If you're looking for a beach resort with an opportunity to gamble your money away- I bet you could find better options somewhere closer to home. 

We ended up deferring a night out at Playa Ancha- a ten minute bus ride away where all the "festivities" were happening for a night in with a discount 40. You can buy 6 packs here but it doesn't seem like anyone drinks beer unless its from a 40. It seems less like the American youth culture of getting your of-age older siblings to buy you and your friends 40's where you'll go find some park somewhere and drink your high school weekends away making fuzzy memories with big bottles in brown bags, and more the culture where you drink beer out of glasses so a 40 is sort of like family size- similar to a bottle of wine. Sylvain had finance studying to do and I was happy to worry about my money holding out (that recent post about living like a poor- well I've decided poverty need not be a requirement for living consciously) and watching Californiacation on my laptop with Japanese subtitles.

By whatever time it had gotten dark some local band and by local I mean traditional accordion music with a thumping bass was playing in yet again what seemed to be our backyard- this carried on through the wee hours of the night except for two songs around midnight that were 60's American pop reminiscent of Elvis, but not. I woke up at some wee hour to pee and they were still at it; like a birthday, the Chilean National Holiday on my watch, had expired.

Living like a poor

It's easier to be poor by yourself. I spent a year mostly eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cereal and I enjoyed it. It was 2005 and a few months earlier I had just moved to unsavory but livable for the starving artists of our time, Bushwick but now I was moving out of my sublet with a fellow subletter and we were both poor. We moved further into the ghetto and 9 months later when we were robbed I would find that this new neighborhood came with a slogan of it's own "Bed Stuy, do or die." The police officers who came to investigate the break-in advised me to get the hell out and move to Queens. 

Being robbed made me even more poor, because I ended up losing the only thing of any value I owned at the time, my Mac, which as a student needed replacing, and then because the reality of the fact that my neighborhood was unsafe moving became necessary. But, I didn't move to Queens, I moved to hipsterville and spent the next year wondering how I ever could have lived anywhere else!

Today I had to withdraw money for the first time since I got here. I wasn't exactly sure how much I had originally withdrawn but it had lasted about 3 weeks. I have three expenses here- groceries, wine, and cortados. I am hoping to stretch this withdrawal out for a month. Since my major expenses are groceries I think the days of $8 jamon serrano are over (it wasn't labeled so I didn't know).  And lets face it, the wine budget probably needs to be tightened a little too. 

I don't mind being poor this time, after all I'm safe, and I'm quite happy, but I started to think about being back in New York in January and I had been thinking of visiting Cambridge to visit friends and primarily to nosh at my favorite restaurant the East Coast Grill, but the reality is, I'd have to pay for the bus, and lets face it, at least 2 or 3 meals out at at least $25 bucks a pop- I probably couldn't afford to spend that kind of money. As a single teacher in New York I was making enough money not to have to think about a weekend away or occasional frivolous spending; my reality has changed considerably. Still the truth is, I'm far happier now than I ever was with money to spare. I was considering this and I figured, there is something to be said for living consciously- considering how you spend your time and money. I know my parents didn't have a lot when they first got married and had me, but I also think those were times when we shared the best memories. Maybe that's nostalgia talking, but we didn't spend our time shopping, in front of the tv or eating out, it was at the cottage trying to stand up on inner tubes and play air guitar or roasting marshmallows on the grill or the bonfire, or in someone's backyard at a bbq celebrating a birthday or holiday. My cousin Joey and I really knew how to have fun for cheap, we rummaged through his parents garage and found repair work that needed to be done - we painted the dog kennel, we put on carnivals for the neighborhood kid with big ears, and made flower arrangements with his mother's supplies selling them like hotcakes to the neighbors- our entrepreneurship never ceases to amaze me, I'm shocked neither of us have made our millions yet. 

I guess my point is, in the 3 weeks I have lived in Valpo I've made more lasting memories than a lot of the time I spent in New York eating out and buying dresses. That isn't to say I didn't have a great 5 years in New York, because I did, spend an afternoon with my friend Jon and he'll end up dislodging a tooth during brunch and making a scene on the slip and slide when McCarren Park Pool was still a great way to spend your Sunday afternoon... but somehow everything is a conscious choice here and not a conveyor belt moving you forward without your expressed consent. 

Why drink the water when the wine is so cheap

In New York I drank water like I breathed in air. After the first week here, I noticed I'd stopped drinking water because I spent all my time drinking warming tea and sipping new varieties of juices unavailable in the states. After the second week the juice was gone and replaced by wine, and I figured out why I wasn't drinking any water- I didn't like the taste of it. We had a cottage growing up with a strong iron taste to it, it was unpalatable; and here I'm finding I'm turning into one of those people I hate- bottled water buyers. My latest roommate disaster had a mountain of empty water bottles in his bedroom, but why when:

New York City drinking water among cleanest in world, report says

May 2008 A new report says New York City has some of the cleanest and least expensive drinking water in the world, thanks to solid investments in watershed protection.

New York has the largest unfiltered water supply system in the world.

They're drinking it up in New York

New York City's tap water has been called among the nation's freshest. It's so good that a young entrepreneur is bottling it and selling it for $1.50.

It is, after all, one of the nation's healthiest water supplies -- so fresh that in 2007 the Environmental Protection Agency said it did not need filtration. New York pizza and bagel makers have long credited local water as a special baking ingredient. It goes down soft, without hints of tart-tasting minerals or chlorine like other public water systems.

The water comes from a system of 19 reservoirs and three lakes in upstate New York -- some flowing to the city from as far as 125 miles away. Most of the supply is protected and filtered by the natural processes of upstate ecosystems. It dissolves natural minerals while traveling over land or through the ground.

So I don't like the taste of the water in Valpo- I'm not the only one buying bottled water, Elspeth and Claudio had large jugs of bottled water that they filtered in a Brita- sheesh, my roommate Sarah seems to use bottled watered as we have a few empty jugs in the kitchen, but I am not about to carry one of those jugs up our hill, and I am equally opposed to paying for a collectivo to bring me home from Lider Express after shopping. In 1992 when drinking bottles of Evian was all the rage, I was the first at school to replace my Capri Sun with a bottle of Evian and this habit didn't stop till I got to Smith and the whole world was saving the environment from dangerous and unnecessary plastic consumption with their Nalgene bottles. Still drinking out of a Nalgene, in 2007 I heard a report of NPR that stopped me from buying bottled waters, sodas and juices even if I had left my Naglene at home. I will add the link on the right- please check it out- the bottled water afterlife...  

Yoga with Pedro Aguilera

Last night around 7:15 Sylvain walked me to my Yoga class, we arrived 20 minutes early, and Sylvain said a toute and went home to do work on his powerpoint while I sat on the couch and then took a tour of the duchas and the banos and the noticia board. Eventually Pedro Aguilera rocked up and the check in woman told him I was there to join his class tonight... what her?! he asked with some surprise. He brought me upstairs to another room only large enough to fit two students and a teacher and 15 minutes later he came back wearing some lose white garb and traditional hand knit socks that every Chilean Yoga enthusiast young or old I've met thus far also wears. Pedro was short with a round Santa belly on maybe a smaller scale and was about 60. When given a starting time, I have a need to start at said time or just after and so when my my one and only classmate, and Pedro started to fiddle with the clock I was like, come on guys lets get started already- but of course I didn't say that, because frankly I wouldn't know how- then I changed my perspective and figured the 2 hour class would be long enough, they should take their time. When finally we did start Pedro asked me if I did Hatha yoga and I confirmed that I did, but he asked about another, and I replied that I was a student of both Hatha and Vinyasa but otherwise didn't know what he was talking about. Since it was explicitly written on the large banner outside- Hatha Yoga Studio- I didn't think there would be a problem, but Pedro seemed smug and said something like "Fine he'll do whatever Yoga, and you'll do Hatha, that'll be just great." 

He started me out on another series of what seemed like nice stretches but completely foreign to any Hatha Yoga I had done before. In my New York yoga studio Hatha yoga practice held poses for longer and Vinyasa was about flow, both emphasized breathing. For most of the hour we actually practiced I did really odd squatting postures and arms circles around my ears (which were harder than you might imagine) and later we ended up doing things that were slightly more familiar: strange hybrids of downward dogs and push-ups, weird inverted backbends that included rocking back and forth on your rib cage, and some really strange belly breathing that felt more like belly dancing and my embarrassment was only heightened when at that moment a potential student joined to watch and he laughed and said, sure join us, we have rambo a serious yogi student over here and some gringa--- I mean North American who doesn't know her left foot from her right, you might as well join our Motley Crew. I had no idea exactly what he wanted me to do, his knees were bent and he told me to inhale making my belly full and then exhale and to either keep my hips straight or to move them like an exotic dancer I wasn't sure- with an audience and having just been called a gringa, I was dealing with mortification of expanding and emptying my belly and jolting my hips sideways when I didn't seem to be meeting Pedro's expectations. 

As the girl and Pedro sat back and watched my progress he told her Rambo's style of yoga was really physical and hardcore, and mine was light and pathetic. Then he sort of did this flowing tai chi-esque routine and said she would be able to do that for 2 minutes after a few weeks of working with him. Eventually she got bored and left, and said maybe she'd come on Jueves. Good, she can have fun doing belly dancing and fish flops on her 1982 gym mat. 

After she left, Pedro spoke to me about the shower situation and I said, ok fine, I'd go wash myself since in the last hour I had not quite broken a sweat, but whatever I get it, cleanse, rebirth whatevs. I went to the mujer duchas and washed my face, went to the toilet, and ran the shower for a minute without doing anymore than sticking a hand in. Then I went back to our room and we had quiet time with a stick of incense. During corpse pose I considered how much I enjoyed incense and essential oils during yoga practice but whenever my ex-roommate Josh burnt incense, which was all the time, I found it nauseating. 

When we finished with or quiet time, Pedro asked me something about my level of understanding of Yoga and seemed to further imply I was an idiot, but I am not an idiot, I am simply not fluent in Spanish and so he spoke about asanas, and I nodded- we had lecture time in abuela yoga last week, but it was more along the lines of eat healthy and don't smoke, and the abuelas added their own two cents for good measure. For the last half hour of class we did balancing and twisting poses clenching all our muscles including the genitals, quads, glutes and abdominals. Instead of the whole namaste routine I have been a student of, Chileans start and end class by taking their left hand and placing it on their stomach and their right hand is held up with thumb inside palm and I'm pretty sure they say "Peace". 

With class finished Pedro asked if I spoke Spanish- I found it surprising at this point he chose to ask figuring he could have gleaned as much in the last 2 hours that I didn't, but fine, obviously not, at least not as well as I should. He asked me when I was coming back and so I said Saturday, but he told me no, come on Monday. I had felt like the whole 2 hours of class had been him trying to test and intimidate my commitment to yoga, whether I was some silly gringa with her purple mat and fancy yoga pants. He had intimidated me, but not with the Yoga he had me doing, only with his patronizing looks and Spanish. But I guess now I had something to prove.

Just as Sylvain came to the door he asked me what my sign was. What? What's your astrological sign he said. Um Gemini. With this he gave my classmate a knowing and somewhat approving look and nodded to him. Logic told me that maybe Rambo was a Gemini too, and for whatever significance that held, he was. 

This photo I took this morning on the way down our hill, I think this place rents rooms.

Sunday in Quilpue

We woke up around 9:30...ok 10am on Sunday to get the train to Quilpue. The train was 1.200 each for a single, and we had to buy a student card which you fill up when you want to use it. The train was really clean and new, similar to the style of trains in London. We had about 10 stops, and I joked that it would be like taking the 1 train downtown from our apt in New York. 

When we got off at Quilpue Claudio was waving at us from across the street. I told Sylvain- hey that guy seems to knows us, is he waving at us? do you think it  could be Claudio? it really seems like he knows us look at him waving. We had imagined we would have to call him when we arrived for a ride, but there he was waiting for us in his red Volvo station wagon. He greeted us in Spanish and I let Sylvain ride in front so that I could sit back and listen rather than try to hold up the conversation in my novice Spanish. Elspeth met us at the door, and she looked exactly like a Smithie. It was comforting, in a way. Their house was open plan which was convenient but difficult to heat, and thus, as always in Chile, chili. The only time I am ever warm here, is in those morning hours in bed when you've been tucked in tight conserving body heat all night long and nestled in layers of wool. 

They put out a plate of cheese and I dug into the blue without any hesitation. Cheese is sort of  a luxury here. Today, I'm  somewhat curious as to what other varieties were on offer, cause yesterday I was inhaling the blue wondering to myself if i would have any pockets of space left to stick Argentinian beef and grilled vegetables.  Apparently I did, I ate more than I can remember eating in a long long time. Sylvain often reminds me he's just a belly, but I think I put him to shame yesterday, and if I didn't surpass his consumption, I was his equal. 

Claudio and Elspeth were lovely hosts with two young boys, Rafael and Miguel. Rafa was eager to pull up a chair and join us noshing on cheese, but was equally able to entertain himself with a mini football and a grill brush. They took us on a walk around the property where in the last year they seemed to have planted about 50 trees and in years to come will enjoy fruit, herbs and grape vines in their garden. Elspeth and I talked about days at Smith, how parallel our lives have been- our time as teachers in New York, taking leaves and moving to Chile and both doing an MA in education at NYU. Claudio at 41 had just retired from 20 years as a police officer and was a student again learning Web Design. Their main residence was in Santiago, but they had gotten a lump sum of money when Claudio had worked for the UN for a year in Haiti and with it they bought this property, otherwise salaries in Chile were shockingly low buying property almost impossible, and very few can afford any hope of middle class status without foreign money. Around 5:30 Elspeth drove us back to the train and we sunk into our seats headed back to Valpo. 

Tonight I will give Yoga with Pedro Alguilera a shot and hopeful there won't be a shower break 30 minutes into class. 

Here's a photo from the market next to Sylvain's school. I bought a pear and some golden raisins for a dollar there today. 

9/11 end of socialist revolution 9/18 national day- one week of holidays

Lately we wake up to band practice somewhere seemingly outside our window. The other day while jogging I saw them marching near the bus station. This is all in preparation for the national day and the ensuing week of NO SCHOOL festivities. 

Last week someone knocked on our door- oftentimes we ignore it unless someone is expecting something, once a little boy asked Sylvain for some food, and no one really feels like running downstairs to open the door for a solicitor of some sort so it's only when the mood strikes us that anyone is moved to put aside what they're doing and answer it. So last week when Sylvain was moved by curiosity  to answer it there was a guy selling Chilean flags, we of course were not really interested in flags; but the man told Sylvain if we didn't hang them from our window on the national day we would incur a fine. We debated whether this was actually true, or a load of bull, and then Valentin came into the kitchen and joined the debate. No one was entirely convinced but an air of "could this really be true" lingered; eventually we checked online and in fact, it is no fiction $60 if you're caught without a flag.

To get from one place to the next in Valpo there are a few options. The ascensors are a traditional option and Sylvain likes to take them, especially after a trip to Super Lider, but more often than not I convince him that as long as our legs work, we will be walking home. There are two types of taxi's as well, the first is a traditional taxi, you hop in, give the driver directions and off you go. The other option is a collectivo taxi which waits by the curb until it's full and drops the off passengers one at a time. I've never taken one of these but when Sylvain and Valentin have been late for class they take them for a dollar or two. There are buses here that take people where they want to go, they're cheap, but slow, and oftentimes a collectivo is a better option. I haven't really seen any bikes except for once while I was waiting outside the university for Sylvain. A young student had a bike but as he mounted it he knocked the seat off with his leg, the seat was not attached to the bike itself, he just rested it where it was supposed to sit. 

I'm still trying to wrap my heads around why things are packaged the way they are. The manjar or dulce de leche comes in a bag- its caramel, and squeezing it out of a bag is a messy endeavor. You can also buy yoghurt in a bag as well as jam. Tomato sauce for pastas and whatnot come in cardboard boxes similar to juice boxes, but squeezing the last bit out is impossible; of course there's always the option of buying it in a bag too. Almost everything you can imagine comes in a bag or a box; some things have a little spout on them, like the mayonnaise and the ketchup which I think are a vast improvement over our squeeze bottles and jars, but without the spout your refrigerator and hands are destined to sticky skid marks from dripping bags.

Straight Talk

I've never actually been hit by a car before. Living in New York I was involved in more than a few driving do-overs, the first when a lorry truck tried to renegotiate it's spacial parameters into and over me, and most recently when trying to pull into bumper to bumper traffic I tried to assert myself a few inches into the driver in front of me. Still, 5 years of living in New York, and as a pedestrian, I've never even had a chance to shout obscenities at reckless New York drivers. Today though I unleashed a tirade of four-letter words I realized afterwards probably weren't all that familiar to the ladies who tried to run me down after rolling through a stop sign; but maybe the fact that I was straining to push the cars forward motion backwards- Superhero style and the hyper-active gesticulating at the stop sign she'd just driven by got my point across. Still I made a bit of a scene and even on a street with very little foot traffic I had earned myself an audience. It's one of those moments when time sort of stops and your head keeps repeating, a car is hitting me, a car is hitting me, but that doesn't compute because there is a stop sign and I was in the road before she got here, the car is still hitting me, doesn't she see me, I'm right here in front of her, why does she keep driving into me? After my denunciation of her driving I didn't wait around for a verbal aftermath, I kept running, she stared after me mouth ajar- I was sort of expecting her to yell at me- everyones initial reaction to situations like this is to place blame elsewhere; but I had beaten her to the punch here, because she continued to drive into me long after I had started shouting and pushing her car away from my legs.  So relax mom, clearly I am not dead, or severely injured, frankly I walked away more or less unscathed; though indignant and self-righteous to be sure. 

Yesterday's heightened anxiety has been quieted with a resolve to embrace uncertainty. Recently a friend has been writing me about her agitation with her husband's friendship with his ex's, I've never had this problem because jealousy isn't really my thing; yet I realized that in the advice I'd given- "The jealousy thing- total waste of your time and energy" there was a nugget of truth for my own anxieties concerning where next for Sylvain and I, after all, I have no way of influencing where he gets an internship or whether I will be able to join him or not. At this point I feel like everyone in the room is on the same page concerning the facts regarding our bank account details and career growth opportunities. Plans cannot be made for the future at this juncture, so we shall all sit back, relax and live in the moment.  

At lunch I taught Sylvain how to make teriyaki sauce, and now he thinks I'm a genius. He told me the first time he had had teriyaki was at Subway in Canada (mdr- mort de rire- die of laughing- similar to our LOL but with a stronger emphasis considering the death element). He had figured teriyaki was a traditional Native American dish. Um, no. 

Control Freak

Sylvain has had to do powerpoint presentations in two of his classes in the last two days the latest one was on a French company called Publicis - they do phenomenal adverts and marketing campaigns. With his laptop power adapter going to an early grave he has had to use my laptop- it being a Mac he has needed some help adjusting from a PC. Me being a creative type, I have largely taken over his powerpoint projects, they're in Spanish so I haven't added any material but believe me the teacher in me is coming out "well have you added a page about their philosophy/approach- what about the awards they've won? What about their team, who are they recruiting, from what fields!" I'm gently, sometimes not so gently pulling my laptop away from his so I can do the research myself, adding hyperlinks, graphics and trying to figure out how to insert a video. What is my problem? I totally want to be making these powerpoints. I'm taking over. It's a scary side of me, I'd rather not explore. I hope his professors start giving him assignments with less creativity involved. Sylvain told me about Publicis a while ago, when I was asking him about his upcoming internship and what he wanted to do. I have since become a huge fan of their work, they are super creative and I have always been gigantically jealous of the creative minds/teams that create work like theirs, I'm starting to think advertising and graphic design would have been really interesting fields to have studied; but then I could say that about a lot of things from the gauntlet of creative fields I've taken classes in. As with design, and interior design, I've always found it exciting to have a sort of math equation- you need to come up with a certain product that works on an aesthetic level but it also has a certain amount of parameters to it; the final product being functional. Its why I've always found design so much more exciting and accessible than when I was a painter- when I was painting I didn't know where the hell to start, or what to do. With advertising, interior or graphic design you have a client, and they give you your assignment. Relief. 

In keeping with the control freak theme of today's post, I might mention that Sylvain's upcoming internship is giving me an ulcer. I mean not really, but he keeps talking about China, and I don't want to go to China anymore than I want to go back to NYC. Realistically he won't end up in China, France maybe, but right now the focus is on Spanish speaking countries- Mexico, Peru, Buenos Aires and Spain too. I want to stay in South America, live cheap, teach, explore, hike and continue to learn Spanish. Generally to get into an MBA program in the states you need to have several years of work experience under your belt, in France you don't need anything but money (it's the only schooling in France that costs money, and frankly Sylvain doesn't have any, so he has taken on significant loans), and in France, working before you finish school is a social stigma. So Sylvain has no work experience and I have no idea how he would manage to snag an internship in the states, in these economic times, unless there were a business looking for someone who has been around the world and could speak a few languages. Sylvain and I agree he would be the perfect expat restaurant owner like his friend Phillipe at the Filou de Montpellier. It would suit him to a T. He loves being an expat, he has no "real" aspirations for swimming in pools of money, like me he is happy with the equivalent of a teachers salary and like me, the perks are ideal- for me its my summers off, for him having the month of the slow season to go home or travel, being able to be your own boss and the various social aspects of restaurant life (not to mention the food). I'm really struggling to imagine him really doing anything but this, and so as he looks for his internship I'm worried he'll be unhappy, let's face it, interns brew coffee, run errands and make copies, 6 months of doing unpaid grunt work is no fun for anyone.

In this photo: Welcome to McDonalds may I take your order?

Songs in the Key of a Quiet Afternoon

My ex-boyfriend (current friend and climbing partner) gave me Songs in the Key of Life when we first started dating. It remains one of both of our favorite albums. Today though I've been listening to Kate Bush, I got into Kate Bush my first year of college and she remains a favorite on quiet afternoons. So her songs today feel like Songs in the Key of Quiet Afternoons.

The weather here is beautiful in the morning, and so I try to go jogging just before or after 10am. I can get in about 30 minutes jogging from our flat to just past Sylvain's University where the shopping plaza of Paris and Jumbo are located back to where the bottom of our uphill climb starts, its gotta be about 3 miles or just under. It's really flat and mostly pavement which is not good for my weak arches, but I miss my daily jogs. Today I headed out for more work making photocopies and posting my fliers, I finished around 1 and headed back home the sun was strong enough to make me take my light jacket off, but I stopped for a coffee and did some prelim sketches for the design I plan to paint in our room (I'm doing a sort of 3-D geometric wallpaper design) so I headed back home around 2pm. Around 4pm here the wind builds up to an angry attack; it has been like this all week and it is chilling both inside and out. Last night we went out in the evening when Sylvain got home from school to Cafe Vinilo and had a glass of wine and another plate of tapas- this time half rounds with a sort of eggplant tapenade topped with sun-dried tomatoes and creme anglais; yum. Our two block walk home was bone chilling and I shivered for the next 2 hours. 

Sunday we have been invited to the home of a Smithie who has a second residence in Quilpue. She lives and teaches in Santiago with her Chilean husband and 2 young children. I sent her a cold call email before leaving New York, along with the 3 other Smithies living in Chile. She responded immediately; apparently she has a parallel story- she was teaching elementary school in New York, took a leave of absence and moved to Vina del Mar (right next door to Valpo). She ended up meeting her husband and I guess she'll fill in the rest of the details this weekend. 

Sylvain's laptop is struggling. He's been using mine for a Spanish powerpoint he's presenting tonight on some Virgin Mary Holiday they celebrate here Dec 8th. There is some problem with his power cord, when he plugs it in the light doesn't turn on and doesn't charge, so there must be some faulty connection. This is a bit of a pain, you can buy replacements on Amazon, but what if it's a bigger issue than buying a new cord- and could he find a cord here and test it, he has and ACER laptop which I thought was probably a French brand because I'm only really familiar with Dell, HP and Mac, but it seems after a little online research that ACER's are available in the states. 

Everyday it seems, wind, drafts, laptop problems and dirty kitchens, I'm grateful I did this. I don't miss New York at all, it sounds dramatic, but I feel like I escaped. I was festering, uncertain where to go, when to move, and the stagnancy was doing my head in. I went to New York because I loved visiting and it seemed like a great way to get away from Boston, a perfect opportunity to get my MA in Art Education and an adventure of it's own. Over the years I imagined leaving, I plotted my departure for San Fran and then aborted that plan; on slow days at work I would waste hours looking at apartments on Craigslist in cities other than my own, wistfully imaging cheaper rent, outdoor space and more room. Ask anyone and they'll tell you I loved London best, it wasn't their charming accents nor the fish and chips, it was the living abroad. Naturally curious and independent, the experience suited me, and I find here, whether Valpo has ideal weather, or whether the city itself is well-suited to me (which I find it is), the experience again of living abroad is what I find most thrilling. I love the challenge of learning Spanish, of assimilating, of never feeling completely settled, of being an expat, discovering cultural differences; everyday offers new experiences. I'm lucky this opportunity came to fruition but even more lucky I'm not the type of person to let it pass by. 

Spanish yoga and mas abuelas

Finally made it to yoga class, so at least that was a success. Unfortunately I made it to yoga class for seniors. I kid you not, we spent 5 minutes opening our eyes as wide as we could and looking in each direction, right/left, up/down etc. we even held a finger in from of our faces and moved it back and forth starring at our digit. Not that I had the highest expectations in the world, and I do appreciate the fact that I ended up in the "adultos major" (older adult) class but I might mention that Life in Motion where I take- nay took yoga in New York had set the bar high. One of the things I really liked and now miss, about LIM was the fact that we started and ended each practice with chanting- my first class I found this a little strange, since by that point I had been practicing yoga for a few years on and off, and had never had chanting as part of the experience, but I soon found that it was a really great way to bookend your practice, and it sort of got everyone on the same page. Yoga, for me, is not a way to lose weight, or for exercise- stretching my limbs and getting (mentally) strong is certainly a part of it, but my purpose tends to fall more in an active meditation practice, and I love it. I also love that the last two weeks in New York I was working out at the gym a lot and lifting weights, so I was starting to be able to do really fun stuff; I've always been flexible, but rarely strong and I was hoping to continue where I left off. So imagine going to Spanish Yoga class, and discovering that all the yoga we were going to do that day, was going to be in the first 15 minutes of our 2 hour class. In hatha yoga you do a sort of routine, we did a sun salutation, downward dog and upward dog, for about 10 minutes and then we did a few push ups, sit ups, and then time for showers! I was totally confused, our yoga teacher, said I didn't have to take a shower, it was optional. Um, ok, well, I think today at least, I will opt out, since I didn't bring my shower sandals and all. I stayed on my mat and worked on crow pose, wondering if I went to the wall and did some head stands, if I would get in trouble, I likely wouldn't know what anyone was saying to me if I got shouted at, because so far all I really understood was cambio (change) and various body parts doing things to the left and the right, he kept telling us to do everything profundamente which I interpreted as profoundly but Sylvain told me later it meant deeply. Still I would probably be able to figure it out by the tone of their voice and any wild gesticulations that might accompany their anger. So I stayed on my mat and considered doing a wheel, but soon the ladies were back, and we did our corpse pose. Class over I figure- corpse pose is where you relax lying down on your back and empty your mind- after an hour + of difficult yoga practice, this feels great, but after 15 minutes of yoga warm up, and a shower, this felt all wrong. After corpse pose class did not end, we then had an HOUR of mind numbing stretching to get through- this would include the eye rolling section. Abuela next to me told me later that the  "mas fuerte" classes are in the afternoon, good to know.

After class I went to Jumbo, bought groceries and managed to find coconut milk- expensive but oh so worth it. I met Sylvain for lunch at his university and we ate at this place above the market that had cafeteria quality food for like $2 and change. The options were pescado frio and lasagna. The food was decent and there was a lot of it, but little would I know, I would soon be having my second lunch of the day in Spanish. When I got home the cleaning lady was over again- it didn't surprise me that she still had cleaning left to do, but she was cooking lunch again and we chatted about how I had just posted my new fliers around Sylvain's school as I was looking to get some extra tutoring work. She told me about a website and then invited me to eat with Sarah and her, I tried to tell her I had just eaten, fried fish no less, but she insisted I join them and I knew there would be no way of getting a way with having a "small" piece. So we ate and for the first hour, it was a great because I was speaking Spanish and understanding a lot of the conversation; by hour 2 I couldn't take anymore Spanish but was stuck because frankly I didn't really feel comfortable leaving my dish there, even though by this point I had come to understand that I wasn't going to be allowed to clean it. Hour two from what I could divine involved Sarah and Pauloma discussing the suckiness of Pauloma's baby daddy. I should mention that in Latin America, as Catholic as they are, marriage isn't really part of the story- it's not as in America where you have random baby daddies and baby mommas all over the place, they more or less hook up young and stay together, but either because it isn't deemed culturally or socially relevant or the cost of a wedding makes it impossible, you have more of the common law living situations. In this case Pauloma has been with this guy for 14 years, they have 3 kids and she has left him 5 times. Marriage certificate or not, we've all heard this story before, and they all more or less end the same... Sadly.

This photo is from the house across from ours; this cat is always sitting on the window sill looking in.

Alice from the Brady Bunch drops by

This morning I woke up around 8:30 to go to Yoga at 10, it would be my first time here in Valpo, and I had debated between going today on my own, or going tomorrow with Sylvain on his way to class. I felt like getting my week started out with yet another new experience in Valpo, but I had this uncertain feeling that the studio would be closed. So when it was, I wasn't too surprised or disappointed. The cleaning lady seemed to tell me tomorrow it would be open, but whatever she was telling me, was mostly gobbledy gook to my ears. There are times when I can have a very successful exchange in Spanish, and others when I don't understand any of what my interlocutor is saying to me. This was one of those mornings because afterwards I went to this store to buy some large envelopes as I needed to send my last Netflix DVD back to the states- I had planned on keeping my subscription so I could download videos here in Valpo, but they don't let you, so I cursed them and canceled my subscription- FYI hulu and my daily dose of The Daily Show are also under "access denied" status. Instead of asking for an envelope- an unfamiliar word for me, I had planned on asking for a paper for the post office- figuring that if in addition I showed the envelope the Netflix DVD came in she would get the picture; but I said ficha de correo, which means nothing- essentially "a date of post office" eventually she brought me a large padded manilla envelope and then we worked from there to just large enough white envelopes which cost $250, but I saw $2500 and tried to overpay by almost 5 dollars. It was not my day, but this place was strange, you got helped at a counter, behind which all the products live, then you had to go- without your item to the cashier, pay for it, and receive a receipt, which you then took to another desk where you picked up your bagged item. 

The Correo (post office) was another joke. I went in the other day and I literally walked up to the counter, which has never happened to me anywhere in America. Today there were 3 people in front of me, 3 old people. At most post offices there is an established queue, this one was roped off and you were meant to stand where the ropes ended. But this was not the case, all 3 old people were huddled up completely crowding the breathing space of old lady #4 trying to send a parcel somewhere to her granddaughter in Santiago probably. If I had had my camera with me, I would have taken a photo, if not a video to capture this scene, it was incredible. I have seen anxious customers hover, but this was unbelievable; not only because it was 3 people, but they were all short little pumpkin people. The parcel was taking a long time too, so it wasn't as if the line was moving much, finally the other desk became open and one of the biddies moved on, now there were just this old man and woman breathing down abuela's neck- literally keeping her warm with their body heat. They were touching her, if not gently jostling her- it didn't make any sense because you could tell the transaction wasn't even near over, abuela still had her crumpled money in her tiny fist. When grandpa moved on to the next window, the last old biddy figured her time was near and she literally moved in next abuela and put her hands on the counter next to her, as if they were sisters, together; but they weren't and when grandpa's transaction seemed to be going faster than abuela's she started moving around the girth of abuela to get to the other desk quick if it opened up first. It didn't and finally abuela's birthday parcel was sent and ready to arrive on Thursday. FYI it cost about $2 to send my Netflix DVD back to the states.

I came home and figured I'd just go for a jog, there is a lot going on in our neighborhood, and I wanted to check out what else I hadn't seen. Frankly there must be 20-30 hostels or bed and breakfast places within a half mile radius. I ran into a textile art place that was closed, but I will go back another time, and the Silver Jewelry place I saw my first night when Sylvain brought me to Pastis. The guy who makes the "joya" is Victor Hugo, self-taught and originally from Brasil, but has lived in Valpo for dozens of years. He works with lapis lazuli, amber etc, and has been to New York 4 times during the 90's. He was a handsome older man and we chatted for 10 minutes or so. His studio was right there in his house - he had turned a room in his small house into a studio/store, but it wasn't any bigger than some bathrooms I've been in, in the states.

When I got home I told Sylvain the kitchen was disgusting, and suggested he wash a few dishes. He figured, no, the cleaning lady was coming today. I said- but Sylvain, she doesn't come to wash our dishes and pick up after us- thats not the right attitude, she's not our slave- yup, I actually said that. But apparently I was wrong, because even Sarah who had had friends over last night, had a tray full of leftover food, and dirty dishes in the kitchen. It seemed to me like everyone but me had decided the last couple days that leaving their dirty dishes and food scraps out for the cleaning lady, was entirely appropriate. At first I just figured, well maybe she comes over and cleans for a few hours, and whatever she gets done, she gets done, but then I realized not only did she clean and wash everything in the kitchen and bathroom, but she made Sarah lunch... Well, apparently, she is paid well.

Here's a photo of the colorful shipping containers from the port when I visited the other day.

French People

Last night we were invited to go watch the futbol match between Chile and Venezuela with a group of 5 French Sylvain knows who live together. Valentin, Sylvain and I left around 8:30 to meet them at their apartment and we would go together on what would become a bit of a wild goose chase to find a bar called Liberty. On the way to Hadrien's flat (the French add a silly H to the name commonly known as Adrien), there was talk of this idea that shaving your face saps some of your energy, and makes you weaker. Early on in our relationship we had a bit of a face off between the idea that going outside with a wet head will give you a cold. While my mother often told me the same thing growing up, I had read IN BOOKS, legitimate and veritable sources told me that colds come from VIRUSES and not wet heads outside in cold temps. This confrontation had to be settled; neither of us would accede our position. I have no tolerance whatsoever for foolish wives tales as such and if Sylvain were American I would most certainly write him off as a hopeless cause and avoid social interaction with him henceforth; but as he is from France, I find these matters- golden opportunities to stockpile being right, and his ignorance, quaint and cute; like the way he pronounces midget, widget. So I called my friend Char who is one of the smartest people I know, and also happens to be a doctor, married to a doctor. I asked her, she affirmed I would be the one with all the bragging rights on this issue, and to confirm, I made her get a second opinion from her husband. Today's modern medicine puts me up 1, France nil. 

So the other morning I tell Sylvain, kissing is out of the question until he shaves, lest my face become victim to a sandpaper attack. He insisted upon putting it off until the evening because he was going boxing and wanted his energy. Imagine my perplexity; excuse me, some explanation needed here novio. Apparently, against all sense common or otherwise, he believes along with his compatriot Valentin (who at this point might just be siding with France, rather than logic, it's too early to tell; the French are naturally suspicious people and I am still too foreign to start taking sides with) that shaving saps your energy, as your nerve endings are close to the skin and - well the rest is impossible to tell me because he can't explain in English. But of course. He promises to give me a more definitive answer after he speaks with his friend (who is a "real" doctor, and by "real" I mean student doctor) because obviously my resource is compromised, her being a friend of MINE, she would naturally have the same hesitation positioning herself with anyone but her compatriot and childhood best friend.

So today Sylvain woke up with a cold which worked out well because I had planned to make chicken soup today anyway. Around 3pm we went down the hill to call our families neither of whom were home to answer; and I also needed some carrots for the soup, which Lider didn't have so I ended up buying from a guy with produce in a truck outside our house. It's quiet in Valpo on Saturday and Sunday, which frankly works for me, I'm happy to tuck into a good book and cook. This whole cooking thing in Valpo is pissing me off a little more than I had anticipated. Imagine, carrots, the staple of any vegetable cooking and eating; imagine just not having them available. Cream! How do I cook French food, without cream! Does anyone know a substitute for cream? Should I get a cow and milk her? 

Last night we came home from the Futbol game a little early; I enjoy soccer, and the family who owns the place had just sat down to eat and were sneaking us samples of their mussels, fried fish, seafood soup and pisco sour frappes, but what can I say, 6 French teenagers just wasn't my crowd. I could probably handle two. Sylvain is always really accommodating and knew I was ready to go, he finished his beer and said his goodbyes. I'm sure to a gaggle of 19 year old French I am either a grandma, or totally uncool, but this is my burden to cast off and get over. On our walk home it was drizzling softly and we had a dog follow us up our hill and seemingly anticipated he was going to be joining us curled up at the foot of the bed this night. I absolutely love dogs (medium-large, in my opinion small dogs are worthless and for my money they'd be better off as cats) and it has been particularly hard on me having to leave my Manny in New York; and last night, it was particularly difficult putting this dogs "street" qualities aside, not to at least imagine allowing him to follow us inside on this unpleasant evening. I knew it would never fly, the streets are rife with dogs and this one was no different- dirty. Still. in order for us to get inside without him sneaking in between our legs I had to walk down the block with him nipping at my heels and then with my heart breaking at my cold-hearted fake-out, sprint back to our door before he could catch me and then slam the door in his little doggy face. 

This photo is from Plaza Sotomayor, the square I mentioned in a blog a few days ago. The Valpo's are really proud of this, they're Navy Building. It's also just a block or two from the Liberty Bar where we watched the futbol match.