Beau Garrett • Chile
Torres del Paine from Beau Garrett on Vimeo.
“Pasta, por favor” was my response to the flight attendant who was asking for my lunch selection, two hours after I had scarfed down a substantial breakfast also provided by Sky Airline. I’ve never been offered so much food on any flight, but I wasn’t about to complain. I figured I’d need some good energy before I embarked on the 7-day circuit trek.
Patagonia is beautiful as seen from a plane, scattered with volcanoes, mountains, lakes and greenery. As we approached the landing strip from the east, flying over a huge lake, the strong winds rattled the plane to the point that I thought we were going to do a barrel roll.
Nevertheless we landed safely, found our transfer to Punta Arenas easily, and found Adam waiting for us. After a giant parrillada dinner, we hopped on the bus and picked up Mike, Haley and Elan at the airport on our way to Puerto Natales. A random lady was waiting at the bus stop and drove us around to get our passes to enter the park as well as tent and sleeping pad rentals, and ending up and our hostel. She must do that sort of thing all the time, but she really saved us and kept our trip on schedule. The people at our hostel were all thinking “who are these crazy college kids who think they can just show up at a hostel at midnight and begin the Torres del Paine circuit at 7:00 the next morning?”
In reality, we were much crazier than that.
Elan was coming from Rio de Janeiro, where he had been studying, and almost missed his flight to Punta Arenas. Mike was visiting Buenos Aires, where Adam had been studying. Melissa and I went from Machu Picchu to Cuzco to Lima then back to Santiago and way down to Patagonia in a matter of 3 days. Haley was in Santiago and feeling sick the week before our excursion. How we all met up in the same place at the right time with the right attitudes and just enough food to keep us alive for a week is beyond me.
Perhaps we just felt total reassurance the moment that the intense Spanish-speaking Israeli who rented us the equipment mapped out how we could complete over 130 kilometers of backpacking in 7 days and concluded with his thick accent “it’s fucking easy, man.”
On second thought, I’m pretty sure we were thinking, “this dude’s a whackjob. Let’s just wing it.”
The next morning, we arrived at Torres del Paine National Park via bus and began our easiest day of hiking.
Day 1: 10 kilometers, 5 hours. The main obstacle: 80 kilometer per hour wind. Thus the trail along the lightly trodden 6-inch wide dirt path was awe-inspiring but not quite relaxing. There was one point when the wind actually began to blow me out of control to the point that I had to hit the deck in order to prevent flying away. Little did we know that what lied ahead of us would be no more comfortable.
Day 2: 28 kilometers, 10 hours. This day combined two traditional days of hiking in order to make up some time. It was hillier than the first day after we got through the initial pampas and forest to unleash beautiful vistas of surrounding mountains and eventually glaciers in the distance, the first that I had seen in my life.
Day 3: 18 kilometers, 8 hours. We nearly were stuck at the campsite due to snowfall. We were told to travel in groups because parts of the trail were not visible, which was tough in the wintry forest and gargantuan John Gardner mountain pass. I lost feeling in my hands but unfortunately not in my face as the wind ferociously whipped it for hours. There was no turning back but it also looked as though we would never reach the summit. The beginning of the descent offered an eerie view of the crackled, blue-tinted Glacier Grey. The latter half of the day was calmer and followed along the glacier with the snow and grey sky creating a vignette effect all the way to the edge of Lake Grey, where our campsite was situated.
Day 4: 25 kilometers, 7 hours. We reached Refugio Grey after an hour, which was a nice quick first leg to motivate us. The second leg brought us to a hotel where we broke down and had burgers and beers due to our frustration with our low provisions. It felt like reaching one of those General Stores in the wilderness on the Oregon Trail. Our last leg was through the light rain for 11 kilometers, ending at the base of the French Valley with views of the Cuernos del Paine (Horns of Paine).
Day 5: 18 kilometers, 8 hours. This day was technically optional but not for our adventurous souls. Scrambling up boulders and through forest for a few hours, we ended at an amazing lookout and then descended back to Campamento Italiano with some daylight still ahead of us. We decided to cut a chunk out of the next day’s hike by continuing almost to the next refuge, but instead opting to save $10 each and camping next to a beautiful rock beach.
Day 6: 14 kilometers, 5 hours. Carolina, a charming Chilean working for an environmental organization in the park with whom we hiked the snowy pass on the 3rd day informed us that there would be an atajo (shorcut) that would save 2 hours of hiking on this day. It grew to be a mystical icon in our minds for 3 days, as we were weary and looking for any kind of break on the trail. We arrived early to Campamento Chileno and celebrated with box wine.
Day 7: 23 kilometers, 8 hours. Waking up at 3:00 AM was somewhat difficult but it allowed us to reach the Torres del Paine by sunrise around 6:00 AM. The climb to the summit was strenuous and lit by a couple of headlamps, a flashlight, and at times my iPod when I felt that I was going to trip. The six of us brought sleeping bags to smother ourselves with once we reached the Mirador Torres del Paine. I found it incredibly easy to fit in a nap before the sunrise could spread itself over the craggy fog-covered towers. We took some pictures and headed towards the finish line that was once our starting point, which was mostly downhill, but still about 17 kilometers away.
That night at an inviting Puerto Natales bar, we said our goodbyes to some international friends we met on the trail, and only a few hours after shutting my eyes I began my journey home. Exactly three days to get from Torres del Paine National Park to Puerto Natales to Punta Arenas to Santiago (to the airport with nearly 200 lbs. of luggage) to Atlanta to Dayton to Cincinnati to my bed in my home – it was a miracle I made it without any issues. However, what seems to me even more miraculous is the fact that such beauty exists as that of Torres del Paine National Park in Chilean Patagonia, and I can attest to that.
El Camino Inka from Beau Garrett on Vimeo.
4 days, 3 nights, 49 kilometers, 10 porters, 1 guide, 7 students abroad, 4215 meters maximum elevation, 3 languages spoken, 1 final destination: Machu Picchu.
It is difficult to express how it felt to complete the Inka Trail. The terrain was treacherous, the views were incredible, and the food was gourmet.
I’ll leave this post short and sweet and let the video do the talking (watch full screen in HD on Vimeo).
(Video created in iMovie. Song: TTV by Telefon Tel Aviv)
I planned my South American vacations with complete disregard for my exam schedule.
Of course my plan worked without fail, with a little help from my “gringo card” as they say. I was just short of meeting the requirements to exempt myself from my Hydraulics and Thermodynamics exams, but according to the professors, I apparently had a good enough average to not have to take them, which was just perfect because I already knew I would be in Buenos Aires while some less fortunate students would be suffering.
On the other hand, Structural Analysis had been somewhat of a disaster, and I knew that there would be no exemption for me there. Thus, weighing my options, I decided to take the exam 10 days early, on the day after Thanksgiving, which was also the day Melissa and I would leave for Peru. Hectic? Yes. A huge load off my shoulders before the last 2 weeks of vacation? Definitely.
Thus I was off to “BsAs” with little to worry about except for transportation. Argentina is so cool that Americans have to pay $140 to enter by plane, so I decided to fly to Montevideo, Uruguay, take a 2:00 bus to Colonia, and a 5:00 boat (see picture) to Buenos Aires to avoid the fee.
My plan: get a cheap taxi to La Rambla, the highway that follows the Río de Plata, to catch the sunset, then gorge on meat at the Estancia del Puerto and chill at Shannon’s Irish Pub until I had to get to Tres Cruces to catch the bus to get to the boat.
Reality: get in a Mercedes Benz taxi and ask how much it costs, then get out when the dapper driver tells me 700 Uruguayan pesos and find the bus that costs 28 pesos; miss the sunset by a few minutes but nevertheless enjoy a peaceful walk along La Rambla, watching people fishing and drinking mate; discover that Estancia del Puerto is only open until 18:00 but find a meal of a heaping plate of steak, fries 2 pieces of bread and beer for about $10; find street performers (musicians playing instruments I had never seen or heard before, singing Marios and Luigis in mime makeup, and a drunken Michael Jackson impersonator); wander around beautiful Plaza Independencia; walk by the bars and pubs and decide not to go in with my heavy backpacks; find a café with massini and Wi-Fi so that I could Skype my mom; get to Tres Cruces.
I met a nice Uruguayan named Agustín who was also traveling alone to Buenos Aires and so I had a travel companion for the night and also got to hear the slight difference between the Uruguayan and Argentinian accents. He was gone when we arrived at 7:00, so I was on my own to not get ripped off by a porteño cab.
My time in Buenos Aires was mainly spent being a typical tourist, running like mad across town to see and do as much as possible. Haley, Melissa and I met up with some Northwestern friends and hit famous landmarks such as the Plaza de Mayo, Café Tortoni, Plaza Francia, Recoleta Cemetery, Malba Modern Art Museum, the Palais de Glace art museum, Feria (artisanal fair) de la Recoleta and Feria San Telmo, El Ateneo Grand Splendid bookstore, the Japanese Garden, as well as a tango show, the neighborhoods of La Boca and Puerto Madero and nightclubs Kika and Sunset. I highly recommend all of these places if you ever travel to Buenos Aires!
Don’t forget to treat yourself to the amazing pizza, empanadas, parrilla meals and alfajores that BsAs has to offer, and if you plan to use public transportation, hold on to the monedas (coins)! And make sure you arrive to Jorge Newberry Airport extra early, since planes actually take off from an airfield 1 hour away. Just want to make sure you wouldn’t miss your connecting flight to Santiago and have to spend the night in the Montevideo airport. At least they had free Wi-Fi.
11/8/10
I don’t know how I contracted a stomach bug late on Wednesday night, but at any rate I was puking my guts out from 1:00 until 7:00.
“I guess this means no surfing on Saturday,” I thought to myself.
However, I uncharacteristically recovered very rapidly; by Thursday afternoon I felt I could handle more than just Gatorade, and by Friday I was ready to take my Hydraulics test and look forward to surfing the next day.
The beach at Maitencillo was spectacular, and the weather, perfect. We got lost for a little while but the driver finally delivered us to the venue just north of Valparaíso and Viña del Mar around noon. After squeezing into my wetsuit that I thought resembled a cicada Power Ranger, I was ready for a light jog and yoga before the surf instruction started. There didn’t seem to be much to teach, but the instructors were friendly and patient while we figured out how to catch a wave.
After failing many times, getting chopped in the arm by the fin of my surfboard, swallowing a gallon of water through my nose, and suffering various other scrapes and bruises, I never thought that I would still be out in the water at 19:00 when the buses were about to leave. But that is where I found myself, along with Christian and Johannes, telling myself “okay, this is the last wave” over and over like a little kid. It was addicting in a strange way, but tiresome as well, and I knew I’d need my rest before spending my Sunday at the Estadio Nacional watching Colo-Colo take on Universidad de Chile.
The rivalry between these teams is definitely the biggest between any teams in Chile, and the most common thing I heard in response when I told people I was going to the game was “you are going to get hurt.”
For 6 lucas (about 12 bucks), I gained access to the legendary matchup, and would be standing in the section of 2,000 Colo-Colo fans that would have a nice view of the 45,000 hinchas de la U. de Chile, the home team fans.
It all began when Melissa, Mike and I met Haley and waited for our Chilean posse at the Bellas Artes metro stop. The Chileans showed up about 20 minutes late, which was no surprise, but we found out it was partly because Javier had gotten punched in the face when an U. de Chile fan had seen his white jersey poking out of his coat.
We boarded the metro and when our compadres realized they were safe on the train, the shouting, banging, beer drinking and jumping started. In fact, they made the entire metro bounce up and down on the tracks. Access to the stadium was via Estación Ñuble and then a short walk to the special entrance for our section. We arrived before 14:00 though the game started at 16:00, for safety purposes.
I have repeatedly described the scene as if it came straight out of a war movie, as there was heavy freezing rain, mud and gravel lining the entrance, and heavily armored riot police on horseback or in armored cars. We had to traverse sideways around a metal gate to avoid a very deep puddle, but I was apparently the last one allowed to do this, as one of the Carabineros shoved me in the chest with his club and explained “no se puede hacer eso.” Everyone behind me had to trudge through the deep muck.
The entrance was reminiscent of a medieval coliseum, and I was the gladiator, with hundreds of fans planted on the grand staircase that led to the viscera of the arena, chanting and anticipating the arrival of fellow weones.
I was distraught that I could not bring my camera to the match, but the odds were not in favor of me arriving to the 90th minute and beyond with my camera intact, in my possession, and not waterlogged. So instead, I can only describe differences between the Colo-Colo and the American game-watching experiences. There is no national anthem before the game, no food, no giant scoreboard or even a clock to show the minute, and no one thinks of moving from his (there seemed to be 99 males to each female fan) seat, not even to go to the bathroom.
I can’t remember the last time I saw an army of riot police inside and outside of a stadium, nor spiked fences between the sections of stands that separated the fans, nor fans jumping over the minute fragment of said fences in order to escape the hostile fans in the mixed section of the stadium, nor separate exits to mitigate rampages. I’ve never seen people bribe security guards (riot police) in order to bring flares to ignite and thousands of rolled up paper strips to hurl towards the field. I’ve never seen such a colossal prop as the rolled up plastic U. de Chile jersey that crept over the crowd as it was unrolled, covering what appeared to be at least 5,000 fans as it was fully stretched. I have never heard chants and fight songs such as the ones that the Colo-Colo fans belted joyously in the freezing rain while standing on their seats and pumping their fists to the beat of the gigantic bass drum that one fan lugged into the stands to command the fútbol mantra. Chants ranged from abrasive (“To be champions is in our blood, and you have to accept it, you savage motherfuckers”) to supportive (“The uncontrollable white claw jumps, the white which I follow, and doesn’t ask for anything! Even if you’re losing I keep on supporting, because in my soul I carry the black and the white!”).
The fans never booed their own team, and the moment they conceded a goal, they just screamed and chanted louder in support. Both sides scored off set pieces in the first 10 minutes or so, but the next goal didn’t come until early in the second half. U. de Chile controlled the ball and looked like they were going to win for sure until Colo-Colo scored in stoppage time to tie the game 2-2, which caused everyone to go ballistic. Turns out, the player was offsides, but the line official “dropped his flag and missed the call” as a Chilean later described to me. He was likely bribed.
One more detail that cannot go without mention is the public service announcement that appeared on the screen at the end of the stadium. Mike said he thought it was to discourage the use of the word maricón, which is commonly used as “faggot,” but when I watched it closer the next time it appeared, I realized that it ended with the line “‘maricón’ es el que maltrata una mujer” which I understood as “he who mistreats a woman is a faggot.” I was astonished upon the conclusion of this seemingly paradoxical example of extreme Chilean machismo, in one sense being reprimanded, but in another sense, reinforced. (After further research, however, it appears the gay community of Chile approves of this message, as it takes a shot at domestic violence as well as it reinforces the use of the word maricón as “coward” rather than having anything to do with sexual orientation [see link above].)
I was glad that the game ended in an empate (tie), as it gave both sides slightly less fuel to want to kill each other, but nevertheless, I heard one of our Chilean friends ask Melissa “¿tú sabes cómo correr, cierto?” meaning “you know how to run, right?” when people began throwing boulders at the Carabineros and their armored cars. One of the large stones almost hit her as it bounced off of a truck full of Carabineros who were ready to jump out and attempt to apprehend and/or beat the raging fans.
One fan picked up an abandoned umbrella and ripped off the top, engineering a mangled spidery metal weapon and displaying a huge toothy grin as he shouted “¡esto me sirve para la batalla!” which means “this will serve me well for the battle (against the U. de Chile fans)!”
When we reached the metro station Ñuble, so many people wanted to enter that the riot police had closed off the gates and would only let a few people in at a time. Though we were crushed, no one was shouting or rioting, and it was relatively peaceful, although daunting to be smashed up against an armored Carabinero with bludgeon in hand and apparently tear gas at his disposal.
That’s right. I slipped into the metro station and away from the gas lacrimógeno a couple of minutes before it was released upon the ever more fidgety crowd, which included Melissa and a couple of Chilean friends.
Needless to say, we were ecstatic to arrive home safely with nothing more than a little tear gas in Melissa’s eyes and sopping wet clothes.
I can’t wait to go again.
I have 39 days left in South America.
Wow.
Technically 17 days left in Chile, after I subtract the 1 day I will be in Montevideo, Uruguay, the 4 days I will spend in Buenos Aires, the 8 days I will be traveling in Peru, and the 9 days I will be backpacking in Torres del Paine.
I apologize for not posting more frequently, but let my current facebook status assure you that my last month abroad will be no less than insane: “Last month in Chile, here I come!!! Surfing, crazy fútbol game where I might die, awards ceremony for placing in a photo contest, Creamfields electronica festival, exams, labs, Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Peru/Inka Trail, and Patagonia/Torres del Paine!!!”
I will be sure to write about each of the above listed events as they occur, but for now I would love if you could vote for a picture from the above slideshow (some have been used in other posts, some haven’t) that you think I should display in the exposition that La Católica will be putting up to display the recent work of students from the extracurricular photography classes it offers!
¡Gracias, y hasta pronto!
I am a dog lover. Big time. So when I came to Santiago I was both pleased and dismayed to find that there were hundreds of dogs roaming the concrete jungle that is their home. They do seem to find enough food, whether from the garbage or a kind civilian, and seeing the same dogs in the same places in certain parts of the city indicates that many also stake out their own blocks and street corners where they know can successfully sustain themselves. For fun, they enjoy chasing after cars as they speed by, narrowly escaping death every few seconds. In fact, if a car slows down, they immediately lose interest and wait for the next, hopefully faster, vehicle, intimating that they are hungrier for a thrill than for sustenance.
Yet the fact remains that they are stray, and that stray animals cause a number of problems for any given city. While it is rare that a stray animal would attack a pedestrian, being able to spot more than 10 ownerless dogs on one street corner not only taints the public image by suggesting that a city can’t take care of or even control the animals, but it also creates hazardous transit conditions.
There seem to be conflicting ideologies regarding the plethora of canine species. Some citizens believe that the strays are an integral part of the essence of the cities in which they live, and are against culling them. Others understand that there is a problem that needs to be solved by means of de-sexing, vaccination, and controlled release, or alternatively, the more cost effective method: simple elimination. Another approach that is documented as feasible and ready for action is to collect the vagrant animals and offer them up for adoption (or perhaps euthanize them after time). I haven’t seen the enaction of this option firsthand in Chile, but that may just be because government officials aren’t getting the job done.
As an outsider I would agree that the dogs (and cats, though there are fewer) definitely add character to Santiago and especially Valparaíso, and as long as they are able to cut out tough but tolerable lives for themselves, I pray that governments decide that a protracted but most humane method of reducing the number of furry vagabonds over time is worth the money.
I mechanically shuffled onto the metro to head towards Ave. Sucre 2688-E and got off at Estación Irarrázaval, as I knew that the rush hour trains would either have a green or red light, and that while both colors come to Irarrázaval only the green metros could lead me to the next stop, Santa Isabel, which was where a micro would be waiting, the loyal emotionless machine that it was, at the corner that is just out of sight upon exiting the station.
Except it wasn’t rush hour. Strange that I was still in auto-mode from my July schedule, I thought to myself. Realizing my mistake, I could only wait a minute and get on the next train. But for the first time ever this one was completely empty. Too weird, I thought to myself. Regardless, I got off the train at the next stop and was glad to see other humans itching to board the train I had previously occupied by myself, though they did seem to trudge onto the train in perfunctory, mechanical fashion.
Sure enough, the micro was waiting around the corner. Waiting around for me. Always. No matter what time of day. At least I had a friend in the micro.
But I hate the micro. It’s either too crowded, or you have to wait too long to catch one, or in rare cases, it just drives by the stop because the driver doesn’t feel like pulling over. That’s the worst.
I felt pretty alone, solo, when a handful of Northwestern friends left in August. I remember understanding that I wouldn’t have time to give everyone a proper goodbye, plus I was sick during the weekend when they left. It almost left me in tears when I saw Laura, Christina and Rachel drive away in the van that would take them to the airport, and leave me to walk home. I tried calling Zach, but I assumed he had used up the remaining balance on his prepaid phone or had turned it off forever. I felt so hopeless, so instantly disconnected from the gringo-laced Chilean world I had known for the past month.
A few weeks after the improper despedidas I climbed onto the micro once again, and as the doors shut I heard a mentally handicapped boy screaming a song in monotone. He only paused to say permiso as he wanted to get past someone to claim a seat. With headphones on, he shouted “Nada es igual, nada es igual” over and over until I knew that I would have to google what was going to be stuck in my head when I reached home. Nada es igual translates to “nothing is the same.” Now I would like to thank that boy for reminding me of an important lesson; the world is constantly changing, people are constantly changing, and though that message can be taken in different contexts (Kudai have chosen to use the message to create a sentimental pop rock hit) what I take away from it is that I must savor the change in my life, because each day can unfurl with or without anticipation, for better or for worse, a completely different story.
I now embrace that I am the only American in any of my classes, that I am apparently the only person in Chile that uses pencil instead of pen and white-out, that I am the only one who uses a binder and paper with more than 2 holes punched in it. I now embrace and even laugh at the hardships that I have encountered, such as:
1. Getting punched in the face
3. Running around Santiago for 2 months to get my student resident card due to insane bureaucratic ineptness
4. Registering for classes without help, and failing a quiz and missing a mandatory lab in the process because they occurred before the registration period was even over
5. Contacting people from abroad (appeasing International SOS, finding a subletter, bouncing around Gmail from adviser to professor to different adviser to figure out my class credits and NU life plan, etc.)
Occasionally feeling alone in a city of 6 million people can really be a valuable lesson. Negative events that used to seem like a big deal are not such a big deal anymore, and it is even embarrassing to think that I felt so strongly about them at the time. I can confidently state that studying abroad has given me a new outlook and humanity in my life, and I will continue to count my many blessings and cherish all of the ups and the downs, because we all need a bit of contrast to distinguish achievement from failure, discriminate joy from sorrow, and differentiate being in good company from feeling solo.
I finally convinced myself to keep a spreadsheet of my expenses to make sure I’m not going to squander all of my life savings on life abroad. I found out two things:
- I am going to squander all of my life savings on life abroad.
- If the exchange rate were the same now as it was three months ago, I would’ve saved 93 bucks during my last encounter with the fickle ATM.
The cajero automático has deducted a different amount from my bank account each time I’ve solicited the same service from it: just 380.000 pesos, please. Yes, the decimal means comma and commas mean decimals in this country (having to express so many of my answers as 0,[numbers] in my engineering classes may just make me unaccustomed to the system in the states when I return).
The exchange rate has fluctuated from 540:1 to a measly 475:1, showing an 12.03% reduction in the value of the USD against the CLP. Thus, when I took out nearly $775 in order to buy a $10 round trip bus ticket to and from Valparaíso because I didn’t have enough money with me, I figure that taking out 380.000 pesos in July would have saved me (775USD * 65CLP depreciation / 540CLP old rate = 93.29USD slurped up by the effect of time on exchange rates). This led me to do some research on why exchange rates fluctuate daily, since I really had no clue. You can find some answers here, clearer than I could summarize them, but to me it is still a rather nebulous matter. I knew Economics was not for me after taking Mr. Davis’s class my senior year in high school.
At least I can say that I was well over halfway to being a millionaire last month! In Chilean pesos, right before rent was due, that is.
Yeah, so…anyone have any good part-time jobs I can snag when I get home in the winter?
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must leave home. I just didn’t quite know what it would be like the second time around.
It was my plan all along to split my experience in Chile between a host family and an apartment to learn how to live independently. Living in the beautiful Bellas Artes district of downtown Santiago where I can see the top of Cerro Santa Lucía from my bedroom definitely has its perks. It cuts my travel time to school in half, it is a two minute walk from the metro, it finally has faster Internet (after changing networks 5 times), the apartment complex has two gyms and an enclosed rooftop pool with a view of the entire city, the Express Líder grocery store is next door, and it is cheaper.
But what I save in money I will be costing myself the opportunity to speak Spanish and share life with a great family. With two weeks under my belt at Merced 562, Torre C Dept. 509 I guess what’s keeping the balance of mixed feelings in favor of the new situation is my addiction to the excitement of change and new experiences.
The other day I noticed a missed call after a quiz and checked to see who it was:
Abuela.
I hit “send.”
“¿Aló? ¡Ahhh, mi hijito! ¿Cómo estai?”
Abuela informed me that a letter had arrived for me at the house, so I told her I was on my way.
I actually felt like a stranger going back to the place I called home for 10 weeks without my key ring with the red elastic lanyard that Justin tossed to me as it was his turn to leave Casa E back in July. But my fear of estrangement was nullified as soon as a beaming Jaime met me at the door and greeted me warmly, the same as he did when I first met him at the airport on July 5th, but this time with a certain recognition in his eyes.
I retrieved my letter from Northwestern (damn, forgot to change my address on CAESAR), and stayed for a little while to tomar once (literally, “take eleven,” which usually consists of having tea and marraqueta bread with butter, pâté, or cheese). It allowed me to reflect upon the great times at the casa that helped construct my abroad experience.
I will miss tomando once, usually just with Abuela, and usually around 17:00. I will miss all of Abuela’s funny stories and her ability to transform the mundane into something interesting. I will miss her inevitable air of indignation when cousin Jorge Ignacio would tease her or Andree would try to convince me that she was crazy or deaf.
Although dinner was always the same as lunch (which was sometimes the same as dinner from the night before), I will of course miss Abuela’s Chilean cuisine, which was always made with her love for taking care of the family. I will miss the misspelled little paper sign that intended to say “for Beau” to reserve my late plate.
I will really miss not having to wash or iron my own clothes. I’ll still have to feed myself and wash my clothes, but I think ironing and making the bed every day won’t make my list of things to do in the new apartment.
I will miss learning Spanish from Jaime and Andree and hearing Jaime enthusiastically telling me in English that something is “in-CRY-able” (“incredible” in Spanish is increíble).
I will miss the big weekend lunches, when Jorge, Susana, Iván and Romi would join Abuela, Jaime, Andree and me around the cozy round table.
I’ll even miss the construction on Casa A that littered the gateway to the line of houses, the paltry efforts of the estufa, the lack of sensitivity of the calefón that once burst into flames as the knob fell off of it, the dangling charms and chimes that everyone over 4 feet tall would run into, and my 1-foot wide bedroom doorway; all the little quirks of the house where so many memories lay.
And when I leave Chile in December I will miss the whole darn family at Ave. Sucre 2688 Casa E, knowing that Jaime told me that I can come back whenever I want, for whatever I need, because as I was leaving he said “mi casa es tu casa.”
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When I got here, everyone told me what a special year it was to be in Chile. It just happens to be Chile’s bicentenario, celebrating 200 years of being an independent republic.
On Thursday there was a show at La Moneda and there were so many people packed in there that I had no fear of getting trampled to death because it was impossible to fall down. The crowd teetered back and forth as a group of people would push, shove, or just balance and ignite the rippling domino effect of people forcefully leaning on one another. Other than the girls throughout the night who were hyperventilating or fainted from the asphyxiating effect of the crowd, the fireworks and graphic projections on the presidential palace were amazing.
Ever since I arrived in Chile I was told I would get a week off from school for these Fiestas Patrias, which is apparently true for all other schools except for mine, La Católica. At least we got a four-day weekend.
I ended up buying tickets to go to Valparaíso with 10 friends from my July Spanish course, and I am so glad that I did. I really got to see an entirely different Valpo than during my brief visit last month, and the weather was much better. I was excited to take tons of pictures. Everyone chortled when Greg exclaimed “Great! I have a black-and-white film camera and we’re in the most colorful city in the world!” which led to a discussion of how he did a color photography project in monochrome and furthermore to a debate on how people perceive color.
We rented an apartment for 6 people but squeezed 11 in there, so it was really cheap. First stop: supermarket, to get our supplies for the weekend. We bought a grill for 8.000 pesos, ($1.45 per person), charcoal, about 100 pieces of marraqueta bread, 9kilos of longanizos (sausage to make our choripanes) and tons of drinks. We had to taxi our groceries back to the apartment with an amazing view.
While everyone else relaxed before we fired up our first asado of the weekend, I decided to get lost and go on a mini photo excursion (photos from “Valpo peek-a-boo” to “Circular reflections”).
The first asado was a great success. The food was delicious and our dinky grill did just fine. We ended the night by watching a magnificent fireworks show from the side of a hill. We yelled “Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-le-le! Viva Chile!” and Greg, Fred, and Alex started a wrestling match between themselves as the fireworks ended, which got the attention of the 2 carabineros who were patrolling the area. Rather, it amused them more than angered them, and after a while they just told us that if we are going to be acting rowdy like that, we should not go downtown to el centro, as we would likely get killed.
Saturday was “have another asado, but this time on the beautiful beach in Viña del Mar” day. The 45-minute bus ride cost us about 60 cents each. It was one of those “this is the life” days, as I was soaking up rays while a couple people were grilling, others were kicking the fútbol around, and Christian was flying a kite.
Being the actual day of the bicentenario, we decided we should do something cultural, so we made our way to a huge fonda at night. Food, dancing, carnival rides, terremotos, and people everywhere. We stayed until about 4:00 and then the separated pieces of our group found their way home. My way just happened to be the longest.
I walked for 2 hours, all the way from the fonda to the apartment, with Fred. We ran into Alex on the way and he joined us, right before we ran into two Chileans who argued about the best way for us to get back. We listened to the girl, and sure enough, we made it home…at 6:00. Seeing Valparaíso at dawn was beautiful, but I just wanted to be asleep.
On Sunday at a gas station next to the beach, I randomly ran into Todd and Adam, two Northwesterners who are studying in Buenos Aires and hopped on a bus to Valpo for the weekend. Small world.
Dinner was at a tiny place down an alleyway that only served two things: chorrillana, and something else which doesn’t matter because we knew we were going to get chorrillana. It was one of those rare times when a table decides “we’ll order this much now, and more later if we need to” and follows up with ordering more. My end of the table just couldn’t get enough of the greasy fries topped with beef, egg and onion and dipped in spicy ají. Two men came in to serenade and solicit tips and we were in a generous mood.
To top it all off, while I was writing some of this post, there was a 4.0 earthquake at 1:43 which shook the apartment building. I was wondering why all the dogs started going crazy so late at night, but now it makes sense.
Overall, there was less cueca, more sunburn, and way more good times in my weekend than I had expected.
