Pictures from Patagonia - Torres Del Paine

Mountain



Hiking to our last campsite



Break for Lunch



Campsite View



A Nice View




A Nice Lake



THE Torres Del Paine



Part of the Hike



Glacier Grey



My Piece of the Glacier



Waiting for the Bus

Anywhere

Christmas day has never felt so unreal. I've been back in the United States for 11 days now, yet I am still re-adjusting to "my culture." Last night, my dear friend Kortney reminded me that I was not raised in the US (I was, but she used to joke around and say that my home was like an environment outside of the US; almost a mix of European, South American, Asian, and the unusual ways of my parents). Her comment made me wonder about my re-adjustment process. That I might never re-adjust because I was never completely involved. It's a pleasant and discomforting feeling to be in such a "limbo." For example, when I miss speaking Spanish I turn to my mother and am reminded my study abroad experience, and my Colombian culture. On the other hand, I now automatically - and passively - resist all those things that remind me of exploitation.

So my mom put up the red and green decorations, we, as usual, don't have a Christmas tree, friends and family are calling and texting, but something is lost about the holiday. Perhaps I still feel as though I'm up in the air: In a small airplane cabin flying between two cultures - two worlds. And though they both have shaped my life, occupying the space in between the two removes the meaning that they once had. And so the space we inhabit as cross-cultural individuals may be less of a limbo, and more of a possibility, for I suppose I can go anywhere now.

NYC, USA

Well, I'm back in my belovéd patria, and though I'm experiencing some reverse culture shock/unpleasant reminders of my past lifestyle, it is wonderful to be home in the city. My first two days in the New York were spent showing Katrina around my corners of the city. We did some Brooklyn touring, some downtown Manhattan touring, and even saw a Broadway show. It was such a treat to walk around my favorite places with one of my favorite people.

Though I'm a little more settled in, I'm still having trouble adjusting to New York City in December. When I left Santiago, it was about 30 degrees centigrade, and I was feeling quite comfortable in my Chilean life. Now, it's about 2 degrees centigrade, and everything feels extremely expensive and some things even feel excessive. I'm very reluctant to buy food that I don't need; to take the train ($2.25!); and to talk on the phone because I'm used to having a crappy pay-as-you-go phone that no one ever called or texted. I was particularly shocked by the amount of amount of fruit that is available: In Santiago, my host mom, Alejandra, never bought fruit that wasn't in season, and the fruit that was available was not the best quality because Chile exports all their good fruit to the United States. Such are our privileges in the world super power. And though I always knew this, the reality becomes more painful as I happily travel back and forth between the dominant and the dominated, connecting with people in both places, and wishing that exploitation didn't permeate the definition of our differences.

Since I am back in New York City, I will probably be blogging less, though I will post any updates that some might find interesting. Now that I have computer access, I'll also post some pictures from my Chilean adventures.

The End of the Continent, The Top of the World

Again, sorry for the extreme delay. Being without a computer + 4 essays + 1 exams + making travel plans + 2 stomach viruses = minimal time to blog. Anyway, I think I´m finally done with this semester. I will be back in New York City next Monday - whoohoo! I am quite excited to be back home, and to take a rest from a year of traveling.

Last week I took my epic trip to Patagonia to see the Torres Del Paine. Our flight arrived at around 4am, and though it was already light outside, we slept in the airport until taxis arrived to take us to the closest town. Two bus rides later, we were in beautiful national park, ready for five days of camping and hiking. After the walk to the first campsite with my (cheaply made, and quite heavy) backpack, the first night of no sleep in the freezing (apx 0 degrees centigrade) cold tent, and the six hour (8 hour? I don´t really remember) day hike to see las Torres del Paine, I didn´t think I´d last another four days. But I did. I actually slept when I switched to the tiny, and tropically warm tent with my Australian buddies; I took some weight off my shoulders when Aaron suggested that we switch bags; and I made it through the hot (like spring hot), sunny (sun burn sunny), cold (like fall cold), and windy (wind burn wind) day hikes by singing to my feet on the rocky trails.
Though getting in shape via nature hike is always fun, I most enjoyed spending time setting up camp and eating meals with my fellow hikers. On the last day we walked several miles to see the famoso Glacier Grey. When we saw it in full view, Row turned to me and asked if it was better than a postcard. He was referring to the first day hike we took in which I, in an exhausted frenzy, sassily said, "I bet it looks like a postcard." Apparently it was a "buzz kill," and although most of Torres Del Paine looked like a postcard (everything beautiful looks like a postcard, right?) there is something very special about being a part of such a grand image, especially when it is at the end of the continent that you call your own. It also really puts the whole global warming thing into perspective. Lost in our speedy modernity, we melt something that exists so peacefully, and so beautifully as the home of our destruction.

I didn´t take many pictures, but the others did. I will post my own as soon as possible, but for now, check out the Book of Faces.

More later.
Peace

Guess Who`s Back?

Boy has it been a while. Unfortunately, I´ve had a load of some stressful work, and a broken computer. So insted of spending hours in front of my handy dandy MacBook, I spend hours doing more productive things like playing the guitar, buying things that I need, writing, reading, and only occaisonally missing the convencience of a computer. A long time ago, I realized that I greatly dislike computers (and lots of modern technology), but a few weeks ago I realized why. In my experience, if I were my digestive system, my time spent on computers would be like chocolate: immediately satisfying but generally unsubstantial and unproductive. Anyway, here´s an overview of what I´ve done in the last few weeks (or what I remember of it):

About two (two and a half? three?) weeks ago I started working on my essay for Economic Sociology. I hadn´t done as well as I´d liked on the previous essay, so I wanted to make this one a good one. I even stayed in on Halloween (and splurged on some snickers bars) to get some work done. A few days later, my computer freezes, and when I try to turn it back on a blinking question mark pops up - yeah, bad news. So I am forced to work on my essay at the Social Sciences building computer lab (where I am now).
That weekend (last weekend) I went to La Serena and Valle de Elqui with my program from Friday morning to Sunday night. The essay was due the following Monday, but I was still able to enjoy swimming in the - quite rough and salty - pacific ocean; beatiful scenery; and the observatoray where we saw several constellations, Jupiter, and some far away galaxies. It was the type of trip that makes you wonder why one would spend time on essays when we are so small, and insiginificant, and nothing we do really matters. But alas, I choose to participate in our tiny little social world...

Monday morning I wake up with an upset stomach but make the trek to campus to finish my essay in four hours. By 11:00 am (an hour before the essay is supposed to be due) I my stomach feels like it´s being stabbed from the inside. I send an incomplete essay, and try to make it home without passing out. In tears, I attempt to hail several cabs but none stop for me. I take the bus and train home. Three people ask if I am okay, and I nod my head "no" as I try not to fall on the ground and burst into huge sobs. Finally I make it home and sleep for the rest of the day. Turns out 6 students from the program got sick as well.

In the next few days, I spend most of my time in computer room as I have another essay due that Friday. Finally Friday came and it was all over. To celebrate finishing our essays, my friend Mim and I decided to have a little music party at her house the next day. We (well, I) also decided that it would be fun to cut all my hair off.
I arrived at her house on Saturday evening and the party began. It was actually one of my favorite nights here in Santiago. Her brother had just arrived from Australia, and he is also a musician, so we had a little jam session for Mim´s host family. Then we took a trip to the supermarket to buy a comb so that Mim´s haircutting friend could do the job. Back at home, Mim played the violin, her brother played guitar, and I sang, all while several inches of my hair fell to the ground. And now I have a mohawk. We documented the whole night and had a jolly good time.

That´s all for now. I am off to a meeting about an epic trip that 10 of us are taking to Torres Del Paine aka the end of the South American continent.

Peace

Movies and Afterthoughts

Last weekend a bunch of Tufts people (and others) and I went to see a movie called Dawson Isla 10.
Short movie review courtesy of Chilean Embassy:
“Dawson Island” 10 is a film that recounts the experiences of a group of approximately 50 senior officials and close aides to President Salvador Allende who were imprisoned on Dawson Island, a few days after the Pinochet military coup in 1973. Located south of the Strait of Magellan, this island became the southernmost political prison that existed in the world.
ese men, ministers, senators, and deputies, who embodied the dream of Allende, were subjected to forced labor in the frigid inclement weather of southern Chile.

Anyway, at one point in the movie one of the prisoners was talking to the head commander on the island about the military coup. After a quick disagreement about what American presidents were doing, the prisoner exclaimed, "Everyone knows that without the authorization of the United States, the coup would not have happened!"
Oh dear, thought I. Of course I was aware of this information, but what a friendly reminder of the splendid nation that I was born in.

I later began to think about the passing relationships that I've formed here and Chile and how my American identity has affected them. These relationships often occur when I stop to buy earrings, or fruit, or a guitar (yeah, I bought a guitar and I'm learning to play!!). Knowing from my appearance and from my accent that I am not Chilean, vendors will ask me where I am from. It usually takes me a second to answer, as I decide whether to say that I am from Colombia or from the United States. Usually I give the most accurate response, which is that I am from the United States. I say this mainly because I often lack the vocabulary and culture to pull off being 100% Colombian.
But, to be honest, I would much rather say that I am Colombian. Since being here, I've been asked many a time about where I am from, and why my accent is so good, and yadayadayada. These questions have driven me to think more about my national and cultural identity. And I've come to the conclusion that since my American national identity is mostly just a product of human exploitation for economic gain, and my American culture is imperialist and indulgent, I would much rather be associated with Colombia (not that Colombia doesn't have problems as well, but that's a whole other conversation). In reality, I greatly dislike patriotism, but I can't really say that I'm not from anywhere.
So after this friendly reminder from Dawson Isla 10 (oh, and Dead Prez. They always remind me that the US -for lack of a better word- sucks), I am attempting to step away from my American side and embrace my Colombian side (sorry father). This is not an attempt to be something that I am not, but rather an attempt to encourage something that I am. And how privileged I am to have this dual sense of identity. Well, it's a bit of a blessing and a curse, but all's well for now.

P.S.

Last weekend Ben, Katrina, Christy, Aaron, and I (a.k.a. Tufts-in-Chile people who will be staying for the year) went down south to Temuco and Valdivia. These cities are not super-duper far south, but do check ‘em out on the map.
As I told Katrina earlier today, I was not too excited about this little trip that I did not do any of the planning for (I didn’t know where we were going until a few days before we left). However, I ended up having quite a nice time. Maybe it was because I’d finally had a weekend without having to worry about a paper or a test, or the sitting in McDonald’s at 7am, or the long chats on the overnight bus rides, or the strawberry banana milkshake at the trendy bar, or the sea-lions on the river, or the traditional café’s that serve delicious cake, or the meal that Ben Katrina and Aaron cooked, or the dancing ‘til 3am, or the delicious lunch in the countryside, or the massage train, or the beautiful lakes and mountains, or the company of my lovely friends. It wasn’t such a bad columbus day weekend after all. I would put some pictures up, but Aaron has my camera…facebook?

The Devil Beating His Wife

It rained today. The sky wasn't particularly sunny or cloudy, but the thunder started around 17:30. As I worked intently on my new ceramics project, I heard the muffled sounds of Chilean thunder (or truenos). Several people in class moaned at the sounds of thunder and pittle pattle on the roof, but I continued shaping my clay in an over-tired creative trance, as if nothing were happening.

Unlike every other day in ceramics class, I was the last student to leave. Normally I leave with my Tufts friend, Emily - after the California kids and before the Chilean kids. But today I slowly cleaned up my spot as if to avoid the down pour that was now banging on the roof. As I washed some tools, I smelled the familiar smell of summer rain in Cali, Colombia. That ever so slight whiff of my past awakened the nostalgia that seems (now more than ever) to grow like weeds - like dandelions - in the spaces between cemented thoughts.

And so, led by memories, I said bye the Professor, and headed into the rain. I walked quickly through the almond sized raindrops, and though disappointed by the lack of familiar smells, I noticed that there was an unusual amount of golden light on the sidewalk. The sun was shining. Sun and rain? What a lovely juxtaposition in nature. My father (I think it was my father) once told me that if sun shines while it's raining, "the devil is beating his wife"... or so they say. "They" being those who believe in the devil, and beatings, and wives.

The Adventures of Alfie and Me

It was a warm and lovely evening. My fellow exchange student friend from Australia, Mim, and I had just left our Economic Sociology class, and were headed home for the evening. As we walked through the campus gates, we chatted about the cultural priorities (like food and family) associated with Latin Americans.
And that’s when I saw her. She was sitting alone by the kiosk looking rather comfortable. Her tiny silhouette in the sunset was the cutest thing that I’ve seen in a long time. I quickly bent down and picked her up. She couldn’t have been more than six weeks old. And that’s when my Latin heritage immediately kicked in, and all I wanted to do was feed her and make her a part of my family. Thinking that she belonged to someone nearby, I asked the woman who owned the kiosk if it was hers. “No no no!” the woman exclaimed, “llévatelo, llévatelo tú!” I felt a little uncomfortable taking her away from where I’d found her – did she belong to somebody? Was her mother near by? Another girl, who had also been petting our new friend, affirmed that I should take the kitten with me. And so I did.
About two minutes later, I realized that I really couldn’t take this kitten home. Mim suggested that we at least bring it to her house (which was quite near by) and feed it. Upon arriving at Miriam’s house, I was warmly greeted by her host mom and host dog. We quickly put our stuff down and took our friend – our female friend, as we’d discovered after some snooping around – to the supermarket to buy some milk and kitten food. On the way, Mim and I pondered some names. Eventually, Mim came up with the brilliant name of Alfajor. An Alfajor is a layered small cookie-like cake thing with some kind of sugary creamy filling. They’re quite popular here, and quite delicious. And so we named her Alfajor – Alfie for short. I pointed out that Alfajor sounds more like a boy’s name, but Mim reminded me that we could defy gender norms by giving her this seemingly masculine name. Perfect.
As Mim and I wandered through the supermarket looking for food and milk, I kept Alfie in my jacket to keep her warm, but mainly to people from seeing that I brought a stray animal into the supermarket. Thankfully, she was asleep most of the time and the worst thing that happened was that Mim and I got a really dirty look from an old lady whilst picking out a flavor of cat food.
Back at home, Alfie caused lots of chaos. First because the dog, Lua, wanted to play with her, then because she kept running away when we fed her, then because she escaped from the box we’d left her in, then because she’d pooped on Mim’s desk, and then because the Lua kept breaking into the room and scaring Alfie while we tried to have once. Everything finally calmed down, and we had once in peace. We drank tea, and ate homemade bread and apple tart. I very much enjoyed talking to Mim’s host family – they are such warm, intelligent and beautiful people. Something about Mim’s house and family made me feel more at home here in Chile. Perhaps it was the rugged kitchen and patio that reminded me of Colombia, or her host mom’s cooking, or the huge smile on her host sister’s face when she spoke to me. I ended up staying for much longer than I’d planned because I was enjoying everyone’s company so much.

After once, Mim and I had to decide what to do with Alfie. Mim’s family couldn’t keep her, and I was pretty sure that my host mom wouldn’t want a cat. So we decided that I would take Alfie either back to where we found her or leave her somewhere near by. Before leaving I called one of my friends from the Tufts program to see if she would take Alfie, “Well, we already have three cats, but I’ll ask,” she said. Hoping that my friend would call me back with good news, I took Alfie with me on the bus home.
On the walk home, Alfie meowed so loudly that I began to wonder if she knew that I’d taken her away from her home. By the time I got to my house, I hadn’t yet received a call from my friend, so I figured that I would let Alfie sleep outside of our apartment, and hopefully see her the next morning. When I put her down, she followed me through the gates, which made it way too hard to part with her just then. So I took the risk and brought her inside. When I walked in, my host mom didn’t seem to mind that I had a kitten with me. I asked her if she wanted to keep the Alfie, but she said quickly said, "No". So I brought Alfie to my room and played with her for a while. Finally, it was time to put Alfie outside for the night. I left her wrapped in my scarf in the stairway outside of our apartment.
The next morning, I awoke early - What happened to Alfie?! I thought. Then I heard a familiar meow just outside of my window. I opened the curtain and saw tiny little Alfie, sitting in the morning sun on the sidewalk across the street from our apartment. Soon a car stopped, and a woman got out to pet Alfie. I thought she might even take her home, but instead she moved Alfie further away from the road. But Alfie wouldn’t stay still. Worried, I ran outside and brought Alfie back to the safety of my scarf. I quickly showered and got ready to go so that I could take Alfie back to campus where I’d found her - better to abandon her where I'd found her, right? :(
On my way out, however, Alfie wasn’t there. I wondered if someone had taken her in, or if she had just wandered away. I hoped for the best, and began walking towards my friend Katrina’s house. I walked slowly, saddened because I’d lost Alfie.
About a block later, I looked left and right to cross the street, and there she was! – her tiny little self, scurrying across the street too slowly to avoid oncoming traffic. I ran over and picked her up, happy to be holding her, but sad to know that she was still a street cat.
When Alfie and I got to Katrina’s block, we sat down and I fed her some breadcrumbs. Soon Katrina arrived, and despite her indifference towards most animals, Katrina thought that Alfie was very cute.
30 minutes later, Katrina and I were on campus, and it was now time to leave Alfie once and for all. I felt horrible leaving such a tiny creature on its own, but I hoped – I hope – that a student would come and feed her, protect her, or take her home. I said goodbye to Alfie, and began walking toward our class. When I turned around, helpless little Alfie stared at me as I walked away, as if to ask me why I was abandoning her one more time. It was quite sad, but such is life. Worse things have happened. I can only hope that Alfie is safely scampering around campus with a family and a full belly.
And who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other one day.

Dear Reader,

It seems that it has been a while since my last post. Sorry.
Unfortunately, after spring break I was greeted with the task of completing a hefty paper for my Economic Sociology class so I spent most of last week whining about writing six pages in my non-dominant language. By the by, If anyone with a PhD in sociology is interested in clarifying some theories for me, it would be greatly appreciated. Anyhow, I am finally done with the paper, and in the process of getting my proverbial mierda together.

HIGHLIGHTS:
Two weeks ago was spring break down here in the Southern Hemisphere. Most of the Tufts in Chile group traveled up to Peru to see the famous Inca ruins as well as other quite lovely man made and natural attractions. Instead of going north, Aaron, Christy, Katrina, Frank, Ben and I headed east to Argentina. We made three stops. First in Mendoza, the city just over the Andes, known for Malbec wine. Appropriately, we rented some bikes and took a wine tour for our one day in Mendoza. The weather was perfect, and the wine, delicious.
That night, we took an overnight bus to Córdoba, a city north east of Mendoza in the middle of Argentina. In Córdoba, we spent the night at a gringo hostel (Ben and I both noticed that this hostel looked exactly like Prudence’s house from Across the Universe), enjoyed an outdoor barbeque with some backpacking Europeans, went to an art museum, and an artisan market – all in 1.5 days.
Another overnight bus later, we were in Buenos Aires (BA). Buenos Aires was a striking city. The arrogant New Yorker in me says that Buenos Aires is a “real” city as opposed to the large towns that some people like to call cities. We did lots of touring, so I didn’t spend much time absorbing the character of BA, but it felt good to be a part of the rhythm for a couple of days. I had the privilege of staying with my closest friend from Colombia in her cute BA apartment. I often refer to Carmen as my Colombian older sister, as I spent most of my yearly trips to Colombia with her. Despite seeing three Argentine cities, going salsa dancing, drinking great wine, and taking epic 17-hour bus rides, the best part of spring break was spending time with Carmen. Her accent, her presence, and her knowledge of my life experience in South America made me feel so at home.

Crossing the Andes:





Córdoba:


Buenos Aires:









After crossing the beautiful Andes, we arrived back home in Chile on the 18th, just in time for Chilean independence day.

As I made my way back home, I was reminded of the things I see everyday in Santiago. These are the things that I forget about when I travel – the tiny cultural differences that I quickly get accustomed to. Though I imagine I’ll notice more differences when I go back to New York, here are some of the little things that help define my daily life in Santiago:

1. Couples kissing. I see at least two of these per day.
2. Stray dogs. I’m pretty sure that Santiago has gained a serious reputation for stray dogs. I see at least three non-stray dogs per day because they live on my block. I see at least 5 stray dogs per day because they are actually everywhere. They are like the pigeons in New York City. But these dogs are way more interesting than pigeons. They are of all shapes, colors, breeds, and sizes. As my friend pointed out, they also act a lot like humans. They sleep on the street, curled up in little balls, or sprawled out as if they’re dead. I’ve also seen several male dogs try a little too hard to hump female (or male) dogs. It sometimes makes me uncomfortable. Especially when the victim clearly does not want to be humped, or when he/she is clearly sleeping – very human like.
3. People looking at me like I escaped from the circus. This was actually the first thing I noticed when I got back to Santiago.
4. Metro! The public transportation in Santiago works quite well. My only issues with it are that a) every stop looks exactly the same (what happens if you can’t read?!), b) there are TV’s at the stations and in the trains that show commercials (I’d rather not be bombarded with commercialism every minute of my life, thanks), c) it closes at 10:30pm, and d) there aren’t enough metro lines. But other than that, the system is great, and runs a lot more efficiently than the New York City subway.
5. Different pluming. This is common in several South American countries (and even in the US). You are not to put toilet paper in the toilet, or it will get clogged. It seems silly, but it really changes the whole going to the bathroom process when you’re putting toilet paper in a trash can instead of in the toilet.
6. Starch. Because of the peasant culture, lack of any influential immigrant culture (except maybe Peruvians), and American imperialism (or just the influence of the hot dog) most Chilean food is made up of meat and starch (and lots of avocado and mayonnaise). I wouldn’t call it bad, but I wouldn’t call it delicious either. Luckily, my Chilean mom is a good cook, so I’ve got some variety.

Until next time,
KT

P.S. Last weekend we took a field trip to the largest copper mine in the world: El Teniente. From the outside it looks like a giant mountain, but once inside, it's like a little mining city.

Outside the Mine:


Inside!:

Reasons to Shave My Head

Last weekend, I put my trust in my fellow human being. These things happen when you are not a part of the dominant culture…

About a year ago I decided to commit an act of symbolic violence (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symbolic_violence) and chemically – and permanently -straighten my hair. I’d like to say that I did it for a change in my look, or to experiment with something new. However, I can’t ignore that I am exposed to - and conditioned by -the societal preferences for Eurocentric beauty. So despite my political beliefs, despite my closest friends and families’ political beliefs (and objections), and despite my knowledge of how unhealthy and dangerous hair relaxer is for the body, I decided to give in to The Man and do the white girl thing…as if I’m not “white” enough already.

So here I am now, in Santiago, where there are very few Afro-Americans, and very few people who look qualified to put such harsh chemicals on and around my scalp. Luckily, I brought the horrible and dangerous hair-straightening products with me to Chile, so the only challenge was finding someone who could help me fry the roots of my hair when they’d grown long enough (about every 6-8 weeks). I considered asking my host mother to help me out. She dyes her own hair, which is a similar process, but not quite as dangerous. I considered doing it myself, but I don’t trust myself to correctly apply relaxer, especially to the back of my head. Finally, I considered asking a random black woman on the street. And so I did.

A few weeks ago, as I walked through the Santiago streets, I saw a young black woman with long braided hair. I got up the courage to ask her who’d done her braids and if that person could relax her as well. She was very nice and gave me both her own number and the number of the woman who’d done her hair. She said that if her hairdresser, Cruz, couldn’t do it for me, that she would do her best to help me out. I was also quite excited when I found out that Mode is from the same city that my grandmother lives in back in Colombia.

That night, I called Cruz and made an appointment.

Last weekend, Cruz met me at the subway stop near her apartment and greeted me with a big hug and kiss. I could tell that she was Colombian by her warmth and her accent. When we arrived at her house, I met her children, and two friends who were also from Colombia. As Cruz combed my hair, I sat in her small living room with her and her family. Although they spoke a fast and vulgar Spanish that I never heard my mom speak, the Colombian accent made me feel at home. When I asked if they liked Chile, they told me that they appreciate Chile for the work and living opportunities, but that they much prefer their own country. I then began to remember the unbearable poverty that I only had to witness on my short trips to Colombia.
It was fascinating to see Chile from a black immigrant perspective, to see Colombia from a working poor perspective, to see the mystified look on their faces when I said I was from the US, and to see myself somewhere in the middle of all of these “identities,” unable to reconcile exactly why they separated us, and why they brought us together. And on top of all that, chemicals were burning through my hair and scalp. For a student of culture, the whole experience was a bit of beautiful chaos.
We continued the rest of the day talking about the great food is in Colombia, American music lyrics, Afro-Colombian and Peruvian immigrants in Chile, family, and more. Mostly, they talked among themselves as I tried to follow. By the end, I’d had lunch with Cruz and her daughters, and I had given Cruz’s daughter some of my hair products (though I cringed to see a little black girl get so excited about putting chemicals in her hair, I certainly understood her desire to “soften” her thick texture. I also had to wonder how her own psyche has been affected by Eurocentric ideals of beauty, for I don’t have the experience to make that judgment). I’d also been officially invited back whenever I wanted.
I think I’ll be back. If not to fry my hair, to be comforted by the loving voices of a people that I’ve never been enough a part of.

So Much Sand

So much happens in a week. The weather went from about 27 degrees centigrade to about 13 degrees centigrade...what?! Yes, it was quite deceiving. I can't wait for it to really warm up down here.

Some scattered news:

1. I started my internship! I am assistant teaching in 11th and 12th grade English classes at an all boys semi-private school. It's really a lot of fun. The boys are very cordial and generally well behaved. I mostly help them with pronunciation and grammar. Our interactions range from questions about their work, questions about America’s Next Top Model, singing American songs for their classes (I’ve heard ‘We Are the World’ about ten times today), and questions about my personal life.

2. Went to Valparaiso, a small port city about two hours away from Santiago. It was just a day trip for the Tufts program, but a few of us decided to stay over. We stayed in the most amazing hostel I’ve ever seen. It was basically a house with giant beds and acrobatics. My upper body still hurts from climbing that stretchy cloth thing. At night, the six of us went to a giant club called “Huevo.” Lots of floors, lots of Chileans, lots of dancing. It was a good time. The next day we took a short bus ride to the sand dunes, where we spent most of the time taking TONS of silly pictures.












3. Earlier last week (when it was warm) A cat crawled into my lap while I was writing in my journal. Supposedly there are two cats that hang out between by the science building (where I was sitting) and cuddle with/steal food from students. The cat that sat in my lap was the cuddle cat. The food-stealing cat came later, and literally meowed on my lap and in my face until I generously allowed it to drink some of my yogurt.

Cultural Differences: Kissing

In addition to the power-point presentation on “the abroad experience” the Tufts in Chile pre-departure meeting included little chit chat session with some Tufts in Chile veterans. This session was quite helpful, as they gave us some cultural tips about Santiago. One student made a particularly memorable comment. He explained that we would witness many couples making out on park benches, in the streets, and pretty much any public space. He explained that this was because most Chileans live at home until they get married, and therefore need to find places other than their parents’ houses to make-out. I wouldn’t say that this is the only explanation for the PDA (public displays of affection) in Santiago. I believe that it is also more culturally acceptable to publicly express ones romantic emotions. Very Latin.

Exempli Gratia…
The other day I was riding the train (or the “metro”), and there was a couple making out about a foot and a half away from me. I don’t want to say it was disgusting, but it was disgusting. I could practically smell their breath. (In case it hasn’t been made clear yet, I am an immature pre-teen trapped in a bitter twenty-year-old's body. Though some people seem to think it’s the other way around). So, being the asshole that I am, I turned to them and said (in Spanish, of course), “I’ll give you 200 pesos if you stop making out.” They looked at me in utter disgust. Luckily I don’t have too much of an American accent, so they couldn’t call me a stupid Gringa. They quickly moved away from me as a nearby woman tried to restrain her laughter.
Okay, so that didn’t actually happen. Unfortunately, I’m not that audacious. And, luckily, I’m not that rude. Despite my prudish prejudices around where it is appropriate to make out, I often find the PDA endearing. As an advocate for peace, acceptance, unity, and all that other gushy stuff, I can certainly appreciate people expressing their love for each other. So go ahead, Chileans, make out all you want. Thank you for not fighting in public, or killing each other, or dropping bombs on foreign lands.

Another Kind of Kiss:
In my experience, Salutations around the world can be confusing. In Japan, bowing is customary. In Europe, one might shake hands, or kiss on the cheek two or three times depending on the country. Here in Chile, and in many other Latin American countries, the appropriate way to say ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ is to kiss once on the cheek. This goes for meeting someone new, or for greeting an old friend. In the US, however, I find that just saying a friendly, “hi” or, “bye” will suffice to be considered polite. Some people even go for a hug if they’re feeling joyful. And when we meet someone, we generally shake hands, or do an apathetic wave.
In a country where kissing is customary, however, extending a hand is seen as a bit cold. So us Gringos have to adjust to the warm ways of Latin American culture. It can be a little awkward when you forget that you’re in Chile, and you go in for the handshake, and they go in for the cheek kiss (almost as awkward as when you go in for the cheek kiss and they go in for the real kiss). Either you have poked them in the stomach, forced them to back away from you, or ungracefully bumped into their face.
Some people are really good, and do the arms wide-open thing. That way they can go for a hug, kiss, or handshake while also appearing quite friendly. On the other hand, apathetic waves and bows don’t work so well after that.
I would say that the best thing to do in a foreign cultural salutation situation is to take a small step forward, and/or wait to see what the other person does. That way you can do an apathetic wave, bow, hug, kiss, or shake hands without making an arse out of yourself. The only problem is that they might be thinking the same thing. In that case, I just rock/paper/scissors my salutations and hope that they pick the same one.

Exempli Gratia…
Today, after Sociología Economica, whom do I run into at the bus stop? None other than the professor who’d just given the day’s lecture. !! Despite often feeling like a spastic cat on the inside, I’ve learned to keep a calm and collected composure on the outside. Today was no different. Though I was flipping out throughout the bus and train ride home with my professor, I managed to articulate short sentences, and keep up the small talk. He even told me that I spoke well and had a nice mix of Gringo (boo), Chilean (eh), and Colombian (yay) accents. On the train ride, he told me about his work as a musician, and his research with the United Nations on gender inequalities. As the train pulled into my stop, I began to worry. Ahh. How is this goodbye going to work?!, thought I. Professors often kiss their students of all ages, but this logic did not register as I stood there swooning. Luckily, he leaned in for the customary kiss on the cheek before I had to make any decisions (whew).

Esquiando

I went skiing for the first time last weekend. What a privilege it was to ski in the Andes. The trip included a bus ride to the mountains, ski rentals, a ski lesson, and lunch. It was quite an unexpected treat (although I guess I did pay for it through my tuition).
Skiing was as thrilling as I imagine skateboarding or rollerblading would be, minus the danger of traffic, concrete, and a lack of coordination.
Katrina (another newbie) and I practiced together all day. For our last run, Alli, the semi-professional skier, took us to the big(ger) beginner slope. Both Katrina and I wiped out a couple of times, but it was quite enjoyable to be "dominated" - as Katrina put it - by the snow. And Alli got a good laugh out of the whole thing. I think there's even a video floating around somewhere...

Studying?

Since I’m studying abroad, I suppose that I should post some information on my academic experiences now that my classes are finalized.

Class número uno: Historia Social de América Latina, a sociology class for first year sociology students. I think it’s known as a “gringo class,” or an easy class that Americans take, but, unlike other gringo courses, there are a lot of Chileans in the class as well. I wouldn’t say that it has been that easy so far. Taking notes in a sociology lecture in Spanish has its challenges. I’m sure that studying for the tests and writing the paper won’t be such a breeze either.

Class number two: Sociología Económica. This is NOT a gringo class. It is a class for third year sociology students. Perhaps I should explain the university education system here in South America. We Americans, have the option of prancing into college and taking a variety of classes in a variety of fields, and (sometimes) picking major to focus our education. Here, however, students are forced to pick their carrera (career) immediately after high school. They enter their university in a specific carrera (like sociology, for example) and take classes in that field for the next five years. Both systems certainly have their pros and cons, eh? So anyway, for me to take an Economic Sociology class with people who have been studying pure sociology for the last two or three years (compared with my five sociology classes) is a little daunting. But the topic is quite interesting, and the professors convinced me that I would be fine, especially since half of the reading is in English. We’ll see about this one….Actually, when the class met this past Wednesday, I went in feeling quite confident. I sat next to my Australian friend, Miriam, and her Chilean friend, Betsy. There were only a few setbacks, but they were all mainly due to surmountable distractions as opposed to a lack of sociological knowledge.
Distraction number one: Sociología Económica is taught by two young and, uh, not unattractive men. I thought they were students at first. Not, not, NOT students. Distraction number two: five minutes into the lecture, a dog walked into the classroom. There are stray dogs ALL OVER Santiago (I’ll talk more about this in the future), so it wasn’t too surprising, but it was a little funny. One student tried to shoo the dog out, but the professor told the student to let the dog stay. So the skinny Dalmatian curled up into a ball, and slept through the three-hour class. Distraction number three: Smell of stray dog sleeping two feet away from my desk. Distraction number four: My thoughts wandering after not understanding Parsons’ quadrants of social economics. Luckily, everyone else in class was lost as well, and the professor said he would clarify next time.

Class number three: Cerámica y Vidrio. This class is a lot of fun. It meets twice a week for four hours. The Chilean art students work on their amazing pieces while us gringos learn how to make clay and elementary projects out of glass. There are five students from the United States in the class. One is my friend Emily from Tufts, and the other four are from the University of California program. It’s really nice to have a designated time to work artistically and socialize with Americans and Chileans.

My final “class” will be my internship, in which I will teach English to high school students.

Cultural Differences: Staring

Before leaving for Chile, all 20 of us Tufts-in-Chile-ers were asked to attend a pre-departure meeting. In this meeting we were given information on a variety of topics such as classes, travel tips, and cultural differences abroad. During the “cultural differences” section, we were warned - I was warned - that black women are particularly sexualized in Chile. I had already heard rumors about the lack of black people and the sexualization of women in Chile, but I wasn’t expecting to get an official warning. I immediately cursed American media (damn you 50 Cent/VH1/industry producers/the man for putting naked black women in your videos and disseminating them abroad – yeah, I saw that video at a bar last weekend). Later, I was informed that the sexualization of black women may have also come from Brazil (I am not in the position to curse Brazil).

So I’m thinking that this sexualized-other thing is going to slightly influence my experience here in Chile. It may be too early to make real judgment, but so far, I have felt no more sexualized here than I do on the streets of Brooklyn. Obviously, in Brooklyn I am not one of 17 other Black women in the entire city, which I assure you, makes a difference. But it really hasn’t been that bad. I was once called “chocolate,” but that’s the only instance in which I’ve been singled out as a black woman.

Still, I’ve still been somewhat paranoid about being the alleged sexualized other here in Santiago. As a result, I have been particularly receptive to the way in which Chileans behave towards me.
Mainly I’ve noticed that people stare at me for longer than I find to be acceptable in a large city. As a New Yorker (and I won’t speak for all 9 million of us), I usually feel concerned, offended, violated, or threatened when a stranger deliberately looks at me for more than two seconds, and makes no attempts to hide the fact. See, it’s generally not a big deal if you catch someone staring at you, and then they quickly look away. So, naturally, my New York crazy (or just my own crazy) sets in, and I immediately feel violated (I am the sexualized other, right?) when people stare at me, and do not look away when I look back at them SEVERAL times. I’ve noticed that men, rather than women or children, like to look for longer periods of time.
I later spoke to my fellow New Yorker friend, Katy - who could probably pass for a Chilean - and she finds that people stare at her as well. I’m not so sure if she gets the curious stares, the mindless stares, or the “you’re pretty” stares. I mostly get curious stares. So maybe staring is just a little more socially acceptable here in Santiago. Or maybe it’s all a self-fulfilling prophecy. Either way, I figure I’ll just have to adjust to the culture and stare back.

I am, however, keeping my eyes open for neo-Nazis. Our program director told us that there is a group of about 50 neo-Nazis roaming the city. They aren’t huge fans of blacks, Asians, and probably a number of other social categories of people. There are probably A LOT more neo-Nazis in and around New York City, but I’m in Santiago where I stand out a little bit more. Since there are probably three more black folk than there are neo-Nazis, (and I’ve only seen about eight people that look like they might be of African descent) I shouldn’t be too worried about running into serious racial problems.

By the way, my demographic numbers are not accurate. I just find it hilarious that I chose to study abroad in one of the few South American countries that only has 12.5 black people. This phenotypic “minority” thing is not new for me, as I grew up surrounded by people who didn’t look like me. Hell, even the entire maternal side of my family doesn’t look like me. It’s not really a big deal. Not like it has contributed to any personal identity crisis or anything. ;) Oh, life. Ya gotta love it.

On Being American

It is likely that I will write several posts that comment on my country of origin. Perhaps, I have already conveyed a distaste for the United States and for Americans in general. (Even the word “American” bothers me. Why do we decide to call ourselves “American” as if to ignore the two full continents of people who are also from America?) I blame my dislike for the U.S. on my parents (thank you, parents), for they have always been critical of the United States and American culture. I must emphasize that I do not hate Americans – that would be a silly generalization. In fact, my best friends are American, my father is American, and I consider myself to be more than half American. But, as Tim Wise (timwise.org) claims to hate Whiteness, as opposed to hating White people, I just hate American-ness. But what is American-ness? It’s a bit difficult to define, but I’ll give it a shot. In my opinion, American-ness is an unquestioned ignorance about the foreign cultures that are exploited in order to support our lifestyle, an apathetic comfort with imperialism, a sense of entitlement to anything and everything around the world, a desire for power and a lack of responsibility, always viewing ones self as heroic, material indulgence, insensitivity to people of other nations and cultures, Hollywood, and probably a lot of other things. I can’t really blame American-ness on any one person, or even on Americans themselves. Like whiteness, it is something that us Americans are taught to not see, or question, or destroy. After all, how could (and why would) such powerful society breed self-destruction?

So why am I so critical of the U.S. if this American-ness is not even an innate quality of ours? One: because I like to analyze society - if it’s all a social construction than it can be changed, right? Two: I believe that whenever there is a social power imbalance, the group with the most power should be criticized in order to resist the forces of a destructive hegemony. Three: because I am American, and believe that I have the responsibility to be self-critical.

As noted in my previous post, I slept all day today. Now I can’t fall asleep. So I decided to go to one of my favorite news sources, Frontline on PBS.org. I could watch Frontline documentaries all day, for they are truly fascinating. This time, I clicked on a short video clip about illegal immigrant workers from Guatemala. My internet connection was slow, so I read through the comments before watching the short clip. And there it was. American-ness. To be fair, some people made constructive points. But the, “If you don’t have money, don’t have kids” comment was pretty insulting. I think that fits into, “insensitivity to people of other nations and cultures.”
But then again, what do I know? Seriously. I come from a set of prejudices, and so does he. Why should I get to say who's being "insensitive"?

Here’s the clip: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/story/2009/08/that-summer-barbecue.html

To relate all of this to my current country of residence (and my other nationality), Chile “nuanced criticism” of Colombia’s decision to host U.S. army bases. There we go again, exercising our sense of entitlement and imperialism around the world. Though Chile was not as critical as Venezuela or Bolivia, I appreciate the slap on the hand.

The article: http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/20783/

Being Sick Isn't So Bad

Despite having no academic work (or any work at all) since leaving Tufts in early May, I feel as though I’ve been going non-stop all summer. Two weeks after school ended, I packed a small suitcase and flew to Basel, Switzerland, where I would begin a semi-independent trip through Europe. I saw five countries in five weeks. Thankfully, I had the comfort of staying with my godmother and my parents’ friends for most of the trip. However, I always had the excited discomfort (is that some kind of anxiety?) of not knowing where I was, of not knowing the language, of not feeling integrated in the culture, and of not really traveling with any friends, aside from the five days that I crossed paths with Lily. On the other hand, Western European cultures are not that difficult to adapt to, especially since they are equally – if not more – luxurious than American culture. In addition, so many people speak English that any important transactions can be done fairly smoothly. Ten days after arriving in the United States, I packed three seasons worth of clothes, and flew to Chile. I can’t say I’m not living the good life. Still, the luxury of so much travel can be a bit tiring. Tiring in a good way - but tiring. Or, perhaps, what I mean to say is that I’ve been kept on my toes this summer.

The sore throat and runny nose that crept up on me two days ago hasn’t gotten my spirits down as sickness often does. In fact, it has taken me off my toes, forcing me to slow down, and let go of feeling unsettled in my environment. It didn’t start off too well. Sitting through my Historia Social de América Latina was a little miserable. Nasal congestion and sore throats make it difficult to listen to lectures and take notes in ones non-dominant language. Later, In my ceramics class, my friend (Yes!! I have a Chilean friend! Her name is Mariluz. She’s friends with all of the gringos. She even invited us to her birthday party!!) suggested that I take “Tapsin,” which, I assume, is similar to NyQuil. When I got home, I told my host mom, Alejandra, that I wasn’t feeling so hot. She checked if I had a fever. No fever. She asked if I was going to take any medicine. Yes - Tapsin! She then immediately refilled my hot water bottle (called a Guatero, a.k.a my personal heater and best friend), and told me to get some rest. Later, she brought my dinner to my room so that I wouldn’t have to get out of bed to eat. And she’s been attending me ever since. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time in bed. I’ve had all three meals (plus once) in my room. I watched some Chilean television, I tried doing some reading for class, I talked to my real mom, and I sent some emails. Most importantly, I slept. Plus, I’m getting better.

As Promised

Pictures!!
Last weekend we went on a day trip to Pomaire, a small town known for its hand made pottery. We got to see the whole pottery-making process, and we later had the opportunity to use the pottery wheel. The potter who did the demonstration made it look all look so easy...


We began with a delicious breakfast. Later, we walked to the Potter's house.


The earth ditch where the clay comes from.


Potter puts clay in the earth-pounding-clay-making machine.


Kneading the clay.


The potter at the wheel.


Pot!!


And then we all got a turn to make a pot. With the help of the professional potter, we made some pretty mediocre -as opposed to terrible- pieces.

A Day in the Life

This is what my walk to the train looks like. It's truly amazing use the Andes as geographic orientation in the city. In New York, I use the Empire State Building to orient myself, which isn't exactly on the North/South axis, but it's close enough. Here, however, the mountains are a huge topographical marker that stretch across the continent. It's an epic view. When I look towards the mountains, I am reminded that on the other side is Argentina, that my ancestors may have gazed at this same body of land, and that nature - something so terrifyingly beautiful - must be respected.


Where else does one see palm trees, bare trees, snow-capped mountains, and highways in one setting?


A Day in the Life...(woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head...)
Note: The following is not really what most days here are like. I just felt like writing. It's in question and answer style, which is appropriate because most of this dialogue actually occurred in my head.

9:45am: Why is it freezing? Because there is no central heating in this city.
10:00am: Why am I still in the shower? Because it is the first time it has been this hot for this long in days.
11:30am: Why am I still at home studying my astrological chart when I meant to leave two hours ago? Because the only thing I really have to do today is buy school supplies and pick up my stipend from the Tufts office. Relax.
12:00pm: Is Home Center the Latin American version of Home Depot? I'm going to say, yes.
12:10pm: Is my Spanish advanced enough to find the materials for my ceramics class in this Home Depot look alike? No. Must find help.
12:20pm: Why is this Home Center worker asking for my phone number? Because he has no Chilean friends that are his age. Great, that makes two of us.
1:00 pm: How much do I enjoy going to the Tufts office and finding people from the program sitting around eating lunch? A lot. Meera, Tilly, Katrina and I had a nice chat about thesis writing.
3:15 pm: Why don't I get to go to Spanish class and socialize with the rest of the Tufts in Chile group? Because the teacher said it would be a waste of my time. Instead I should take three classes at UChile that are going to take up tons of my time.
3:30pm: Am I going to survive Sociology of Economics, the class with a 7 page syllabus, in SPANISH? Hopefully.
4:00pm: Why does Chile not have normal sized papayas that I can replicate for my ceramics project? Perhaps because Santiago is too far south to have plump and delicious fruit (not that I think papaya is delicious - yuck).
4:05pm: Why did that girl look at me like I forced her to trip over my bags? I still don't know.
4:07pm: Why do old ladies think it's okay to weigh their banana(or "platano" as they call it in Chile) ahead of you when you were obviously waiting there for the man to weigh your mini papayas? Okay, maybe she was waiting too, and I just didn't see her...
4:18pm: How did you manage to say your phone number incorrectly and put 5000 pesos on SOMEONE ELSE'S phone? Because you clearly don't know the difference between the numbers 44 and 45 in Spanish. See, I do need that Spanish class.
4:25pm: Why didn't I ask Carmen Gloria about picking up my Chilean ID card at the Registro Civil when I was in the Tufts office? Forgetfulness. Typical.
4:40pm: Why have I been sweating profusely for the last four hours? Because it's about 21 degrees centigrade, and I'm wearing a NorthFace coat. Plus social anxiety doesn't help.
4:45pm: These directions are not difficult, so why can't I find the Registro Civil? Because there's a sauna inside my coat, my feet hurt, these school supplies and groceries are getting heavy, oh and I'm in a foreign city.
4:50pm: Why didn't Carmen Gloria tell me that the Registro Civil would be CLOSED? Murphy. Or she thought that I knew that it wouldn't be open after 14:00 hours. Blast.
5:00pm: Should I sit and rest in this unpopulated area under the bridge? No - must avoid robbery, especially after picking up weekly stipend. Must keep walking.
5:15pm: When did I leave this 1000 pesos in my pocket? Don't know, but I'll give it to this homeless woman begging by the metro station.
5:20pm: How badly do I have to pee, and how much do I regret buying a huge bottle of water that would weigh my arms and my bladder down this much? Have to pee very badly. Resent the water even though it kept me from eating fried street food and sugary snacks.
5:40pm: Why do groups of 8 year-old-boys look at me like I'm the Ice Cream truck, and yell at me from their soccer bus windows? Maybe because I look like a 10-year-old girl? Probably not.
5:42pm: Why do 40 year old men look at me like I owe them some kind of sexual favor, or stare at me like I'll do a dance/turn into a wild animal/give them magical powers if they look at me for long enough? Maybe because I often feel like a 40-year-old woman? Probably not.
5:47pm: Will coming home to once (once, is like tea time at 6:00pm. It's meant to be a snack between lunch and dinner), and my host mom watching Chilean talk shows about teen relationships make my day? Yes.
7:49pm: After writing this entry, does this day seem as cruddy as it felt? No.

Yum Yum

Check out the fish that my country of residence is feeding us:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/27/world/americas/27salmon.html?_r=2



(blogspot is messing with me. where is the friggin normal link, blogspot?!?!)

Fried

Yesterday, as I trotted from La Historia de la Expansión Europea en Latino América to Cerámica, I was quite deceived by a snack along the way...

You see, had eaten lunch at around noon, and entered Historia de la Exponsión Europea en Latino América at 2:30. This class, or "ramo" as they call them here in Chile, was filled with about 30 first year history students. The class felt a bit like the public high school, or the "standard" American high school that I never went to. And I mean that in an uncertain, as opposed to a condescending, manner (I was told by one of my fellow Tufts students that her host family called la Universidad de Chile a "ghetto public school" as an insult. Oh, how I love the bourgeoisie. But that's a different conversation). Anyway, I got a real high school vibe that I never really felt growing up. Students giggled with their groups of friends, the professor had to ask the everyone to stop talking several times, a few students were reprimanded for having cell phones, two girls left the class holding hands and looking very concerned. They never came back. Surprisingly, the classroom dynamics were a lot more interesting than the class itself.

But back to the story. When this class ended, I had to run to ceramics, where I would be for the next two hours. By this time, however, it was about 4pm, and my small lunch was not holding me up too well. So, on the way to "la facultad de artes" I stopped at one of the food/snack vendors on campus. In front of me was a plate of "berliners" - fist-sized balls of bread with a slice down the middle that were filled with "manjar" (manjar is a light brown, creamy paste made of cooked milk and sugar). They were 250 pesos each (1 dollar = about 500 pesos), so I bought one to scarf down as I walked to my next class. As I bit down into my nutritious ball of dough, I realized that not only was this a chunk of bread stuffed with milk and sugar, but it was a fried chunk of bread stuffed with milk and sugar. Fantastic. So much for trying to stay healthy. It was like eating three deep fried doughnuts and seven tablespoons of warm caramel. It was delicious. Still, I thought I might have a heart attack from running to class and eating this thing at the same time. Needless to say, the berliner held me over until dinner and beyond. I think it's still sitting in my stomach, which is why I wrote this post.

Pieces

Oh boy. I’m finding it difficult to sum up this week. Each time I begin to describe it, I then begin to contradict myself. It was the first week of classes, the first week in my new home, and the first week that I was responsible for getting places on my own. It was exciting, yet uneventful and relaxed. It was slightly stressful, yet not at all difficult. It was a new culture, yet my feelings of uneasiness and intrigue were quite familiar. The only consistency was that my mind, as usual, was filled with ideas, criticisms, comparisons, and general thoughts on my experiences.

On Classes:
I went to five classes this week. I am only going to take three classes (plus an internship teaching English), but it is “shopping period” where students go to several classes before making a final decision. Of the three sociology classes I went to, only one – Sociology of Gender – was interesting enough to face the challenge of a high level seminar in Spanish. After class, I spoke with some of the students who had been in class with me. They expressed mild interest in the North Americans, but were very generous when I needed help finding the “fotocopiadora” where everyone copies their course materials (copyright laws here are pretty lax). Later that week, I went to The Social History of Latin America, which is known to be a class for “gringos.” Unfortunately, it was cancelled. Finally, my ceramics class was hands on, and quite enjoyable. I spent most of the time making clay with four other American students from California. This was not helping me make any Chilean friends, so I went around chatted with some of the art students whose projects were quite impressive.

On Campus:
The Universidad de Chile is a large university that has several campuses all over Santiago. Fortunately, I am taking all of my classes at one campus, which houses the departments of social sciences, visual arts, humanities, journalism, and philosophy. This campus looks like a mix between a public high school, the east village, and Wesleyan University. The students, who mostly still live at home, pack their lunches or eat at the various cafeterias on campus. They sit in their groups of four to 12, converse, eat, drink and study. I felt like the new kid in 12th grade as I walked through the campus sans amigos. Although I have never been the new kid, the feeling of apprehension and a need to fit in and make friends was familiar, perhaps, just from years of being in the social world. Anyway, most of the students rock a trendy/indigenous/rasta/punk look. And the political graffiti on all the buildings adds an appropriate sense of protest to the whole atmosphere. I am comforted by the normality of the mood of resistance, as it is in line with my own politics.

On Homelife:
Things are going well at home. My host mom, Alejandra, is still cooking great meals, and giving me hot water bottles to keep my feet, warm at night. She’s also given me some pointers about surviving in Santiago: make sure that taxi drivers don’t over charge you, and don’t tip them; only use your cell phone in stores, so you don’t get robbed; don’t carry too much money; make Chilean friends so you can have fun Chilean style.

I’ll try to put up some pictures soon. I’m a little sick of the semi-exploitative-touristy-picture thing I’ve been doing all summer, but what are Americans for anyway?

Fun Activity:
Today, two of my Tufts friends and I did some Bikram Yoga, aka Fire Yoga. It was HOT. The room was heated to about 40 degrees centigrade, which was a nice change from the 13 degrees I've been feeling all day. Lots of profuse sweating in the class, but it felt really good.

Familia, Day Uno

Today was the big day. We were all a little nervous after packing up our huge bags, and carrying them the four flights down the hostel stairs. It was the end of orientation, and the beginning of our Chilean home-stays. We waited outside in the back patio, surrounded by suitcases, chatting about what to say to our families. I had only been downstairs for about five minutes when Carmen Gloria (the program director) announced that my family had arrived. My first greeting with my host mom, Alejandra, was very pleasant. She gave me a hug and introduced me to her granddaughter, the five-year-old Javiera. We brought my bags outside and loaded them into Alejandra’s daughter’s (Carola) car. On the drive home we made friendly conversation about the city, my interests, the family, etc.
Upon arrival, Javiera immediately lost any shyness that I had seen at the hostel, and began helping me unpack. As she removed items from my suitcase and referred to me as ‘la gringa,’ I learned that Javiera is really a wild and audacious little girl.

Later, the three of us had a delicious lunch (Chicken and rice – exactly what I’d been craving for the past two weeks of orientation. See, I have this expectation that all Latin American countries should have delicious variations of chicken and rice, but I had yet to have some in Chile). Carmen Gloria told me that Alejandra is known to be a great cook, and she was right. Over lunch, we mostly discussed my culinary likes and dislikes. So this should be a pretty good semester, food wise.

After getting settled, Alejandra, Javiera and I walked to the nearest metro station so that I could get a sense of the neighborhood. On the way back, we stopped at a playground, and watched while Javiera could ran around. Soon, Alejandra and I jumped into short discussions about her past experiences with exchange students, NYC September 11th (In Chile, September 11th 1973 marks the date of the Coup that would bring about Pinochet’s dictatorship), health, education, and economics. It is nice to know that my host mom also has some interest in the sociological issues that I am so passionate about.

Back at home, we had a cup of hot tea and crackers to warm up from the cold. Javiera chatted and walked around restlessly as we had our snack, afterwards when we did some drawing, and even during dinner. It was endearing to watch Alejandra strike a balance between yelling at her granddaughter about her bad manners, and lovingly feed her dinner and dessert. This reminded me of my own mother, and how she is so caring in everything that she does for me no matter what she is saying at the moment.

And now I am warming my feet with a hot water bottle as it is 4 degrees centigrade in my room.

Warmly,
KT