Gracias a la Vida

Preamble: Sorry for the sap.

Even the most chaotic adventures in Chile would have seemed meaningless without the people who embraced me as family and made my life there matter. The footprints I left on sand and streets may fade, but wherever the future takes me, I will carry these people in my heart. Nunca los olvidaré. Los quiero muxo.





"Gracias a la Vida que me ha dado tanto
me ha dado la marcha de mis pies cansados
con ellos anduve ciudades y charcos,
playas y desiertos montañas y llanos
y la casa tuya, tu calle y tu patio."

-Violeta Parra, Gracias a La Vida

Que Lástima pero Adios

Six months have come and gone, but not without proper goodbyes from every corner of my little life in Chile.





Goodbyes at La Aurora de Chile

The last week of teaching was nearly impossible. Every day children would spend their recesses latched onto my legs or holding my hands with sticky fingers. They gave me curious little presents: a (potential) voodoo doll (maybe that was why I was sick 3 of 6 months?), action figures, heart-shaped notes, stickers, used lip gloss, home made hemp bracelets, and lots of candy. In return, I gave them copies of pictures and wrote recuerdos on the back of each one. With hand cramps and words failing me, I was relieved when I ran out of pictures and could resort to hugs.



On the last day the teachers surprised me with an acto or an hour of children singing, dancing, reading poems, and eating cake. I looked around the school patio and realized I had a huge family. There are over 800 children at Aurora de Chile and I hugged and kissed each one at least three times.

Walking out of the big blue gates, I turned around to look at the bright yellow school once more. The seventh graders saw me, leaned out their classroom window, and shouted at me wildly. I blew them one last kiss and kept walking.



Goodbyes at Home
After saying goodbye to my students, leaving my host family was next. My mamita. I measured her and decided there is a possibility she could fit in my suitcase. But if that doesn't work, how will I ever leave her? She is my family and my life has changed in the presence of her warm heart and open arms.





My host mom was set on spending Christmas together, so on friday night we had a secret Santa gift exchange. Imagine Santa in swimming trunks and sunglasses and you can understand that the concept of a "white Christmas" is foreign to Chile. Despite the heat, the volunteers and some host families gathered for a premature Christmas celebration.



By now we knew each other by heart and could pick out perfect gifts: a fanny pack for Scott, a silver stallion for Kelly, jewelry for Cami, jewlery for Laurel, a wallet for John, cooking supplies for my host mom, an Aerosmith cd for Niko, and wine for me. SUCCESS!








Bottle Shop Blues

Friday passed in good spirits, but Saturday was a messy adventure. When my host mom and I left to get pedicures, life was normal. But when we returned with shiny nails from our mother-daughter bonding, chaos had broken.



Estranged family made a surprise visit to Rancagua, but they refused to visit my Aunt Isabel. Apparently someone had wronged someone else at a wedding three years ago and the two parties haven't spoken since.

Now, readers should be aware that my Aunt Isabel seems to attract drama, but not in a catty desperate housewives way. Isabel is 4 ft 11, 100 pounds, with a deep smoker's rasp, and grey hair. She cares for a 22 year old boy named Felipe who was mentally impaired after contracting menangitis as an infant. Her life revolves around Felipe and the bottle shop where she works 60 plus hours a week.

Earlier this summer she was robbed and beaten at the bottle shop. Later, she had surgery for an ulcer. Soon after, Felipe had a heart attack and her son, Rene, had surgery for a vague stomach problem. She has been through a lot the past three months and we presently find her in a serious depression.

With her depression as bait, my host mom and brother managed to pursued the new family to visit her, to forgive, to forget. So we left for Isabel's. At Isabel's there were tears, some bickering, and the relief of long lost embraces.

Amidst all the emotions, my host mother blurts out: I know what would make everyone feel better. A weed cake!

Me: You have weed?

Host Mom: Yeah, I have it at home. It's in your closet actually.*

Me: Huh. Interesting.

Host mom: I'll go get it.

Isabel: No, you don't have to. I have some right here, but I don't know what to do with it.

Isabel pulls a bundled tissue from her pursue and unwraps a bag of weed. My host mom picks at it, pulling out "the good parts." Meanwhile, I rapidly text Laurel because I find the situation unbearably hilarious.



As Isabel has not eaten more than scraps of bread in days, my host mother urges Isabel to eat dinner first. We walk to the bottle shop where I help Rene grill some cuchifli (pork meat kabobs) outside. While I wonder where I am and how I got there, the whole family is laughing and dancing around the bottle shop. Maybe they didn't wait to "feel better" until eating after all. Crazy Chileans. I will miss them.



*My host mom is what I like to call a "witch" doctor. She can cleanse people through meditation techniques, herbal remedies, and of course her touch. She can also predict the future, but I can not testify to her abilities.

Pisco Sours in La Serena

85 degrees, ocean breeze, white wine, sunsets, pisco factory, hole in the ozone layer...with these powers combined La Serena surpassed our expectations and weathered our ingenuous, gringo skin.



These might look like barrels of wine, and knowing my vineyard frequenting history, it would be fair to assume that they are. But, surprise! I am interested in more than just wine. Peru and Chile still argue over who rightfully "owns" Pisco as its national drink, but regardless of borders, pisco is delicious en todos partes.



Although more like rum than wine, pisco is made from grapes and heavily produced in the Elqui valley (below), just miles from La Serena.



If you are craving an adventure, but don't want to go far from home, pick up a bottle of pisco at your local liquor store. Advice: Don't buy anything below 35 proof and opt for a brand called Mistral, named after Gabriela. And ask yourself: Why don't we name our liquors after famous poets, diplomats, or feminists?



Pisco Sour Recipe:

Ingredients:
2 ounces Pisco
1 ounce Lime Juice
1/4 ounce Simple Syrup
1/2 Egg White
1 dash Angostura Bitters.

Directions:
Shake hard with ice. Strain into a champagne flute. Use the bitters as a aromatic garnish to the top of the finished drink.



The rest of our weekend on the coast, we spent arguing with Cami's host parents over the best hangover food: Is it greasy hashbrowns and a cheesy omelette or ceviche. Ceviche? This concept is crazier than my chilean mom's diet advise. See previous post. Ceviche is basically raw fish cooked by lemon juice. Reduce or induce vomiting? Try it yourself:

Chilean Ceviche Recipe

Ingredients:

2 pounds corvina, or salmon, or sea bass
1 red pepper
1 green pepper
1 onion
1/2 cup of chopped parsley
½ cup cilantro finely chopped
1 cup lemon juice
1 cup white wine
2 spoons of olive oil
¼ cup vinegar
salt

Preparation:

Cut the fish in squares of about an inch per an inch, after you take all the bones out of the fish.
Put the fish in a glass bowl and in layers, the fish, the vegetables cut in little squares,
and pour over it after each layer, the mixture of juices and wine, and vinegar.

Don’t move the fish. Cover it all with the liquid preparation.
Let it sit in the refrigerator for 3 to 4 hours.
Serve it over lettuce leaves or in cups. And serve also a very cold white wine as a drink.




Whether or not we were up for fish breakfast at 10 am, the weekend was nothing but smooth sailing. We spent time with Cami's host family, tanned our hides, and regained our sanity before our last two weeks of teaching in Chile.

Chliean Nutrition Consultation

Me: "I don't want to eat a lot of white bread this month. I'm trying to lose weight before going home."

Host mom: "Very good. I will make toast instead of bread. Toast has fewer calories."

Me: "Wow. That book might actually sell in the United States."

Host mom: "¿Comó?" (Three minutes later) "Oiga, hija! Don't wear sandals, you'll get chronic sinusitus."

Me: "I thought you said sinusitis was caused by sleeping with wet hair."

Host Mom: "Si Si, los dos."

Me: "Well, it's 85 degrees outside, so how bout I blow dry my hair but risk the sandals."

Host Mom: "Silly gringa. I'll go make you some toast."


Dedicated to Laurel Benz.

Bluth Family Reunion in Mendoza?

If you don't watch Arrested Development, you should.











If you do...I KNOW! George Michael doesn't get less awkward after puberty and a couple glasses of wine.

Bienbebidos a Mendoza

Our stay in Mendoza would have been as tortuous as the roads we took to get there if the views and vinos didn't compensate for the potential calamities.



The drive through Los Liberadores, the gateway between Chile and Argentina, was a long and winding road. With purple mountains on every side, the view left nothing to be desired—until we saw the line for customs. Colorful buses teetered on the dirt cliffs while hundreds of passengers stretched and yawned.

After two hours of lines and a few furrowed brows when examining our "temporary" visas, we were back on the bus and headed for Mendoza, but not without photographing our first steps (since Buenos Aires) on Argentine soil.



The rest of the ten-hour drive flew by thanks to increasingly beautiful scenery. We savored views of Mt. Aconcagua, the highest peak in the Western hemisphere, expansive vineyards, and indigo lakes misplaced in the middle of the desert.



All that was lovely, but trouble started when we reached our hostel. Somehow, the hostel booking was impaired after the last minute addition of Scott's Chilean polola (girlfriend) and the subtraction of John. Somewhere in the equation our beds failed to add up.

Tired, aggravated, and unamused by the over-animated clerk, I pulled a turbo-assertive Laurel and scared the clerk into finding us beds; hammocks; lawn chairs; whatever. It was a holiday weekend in South America, so hostels were full of like-minded travelers. With nowhere else to sleep, I pardon my aggression.



Meanwhile, our next problem was congealing as we continued our pursuit to change our bus tickets back to Santiago. Schools in Rancagua were going on strike, so we had an extra day to spend in Mendoza. Since we had bought our bus tickets online, we tried calling, e-mailing, and of course, stalking the Andesmar bus offices to change our tickets. Ignored and practically derided ("Silly gringas, don't you know that the company's main office is in no way affiliated with the online branch?"), our attempts failed to solve our transportation troubles and we instead bought new tickets.

After one last e-mail of condemnation, the company replied five days later, promising to reimburse us for the unused tickets. Still awaiting that transaction.



While our living and leaving issues permeated the weekend, the charms of Mendoza were overpowering. No one could stay in a foul mood and as we road bikes through wine country Saturday morning, we were even singing a little Mungo Jerry. "In the summer time when the weather's fine, you can reach right up and touch the sky, when the—"

Right in the midst of the chorus, Cami's camera was snatched by another biker...with a motor. Outmatched by his horsepower, we drowned Cami's sorrows in dulce de leche liquor and olive tapanads. Feeling courageous after a couple wine samples, Cami started wearing her wallet on her wrist. Just consider stealing from her again.




On the ride back to Mr. Hugo's bike rental service, we tried to stay to the right of the white line, heed pedestrians, and manage our questionable breaks, but the task proved difficult. A local police car decided it was in our best interest to follow us slowly and toot his siren every time we veered off the bike path. Judging by his patience as he crawled at 5 kph for 3 kilometers, it seemed like a typical part of his job description.





With our wine-fix fixed, we spent the rest of the weekend strolling through Mendoza's broad, tree-lined avenues, enjoying the sunny cafés and saucy nightlife.



Palm heart pizza: an absolute rarity. As this pizza should be.



Sushi for four, or, the three of us. One of our better decisions.



The Central plaza of Mendoza, where artisans shops line the sidewalks and verdant trees shade romantic benches.



Too soon, the weekend was over and Mendoza drifted away like the snow off the purple backs of the Andes. We were back on the road again. Back to work. Back to school. Back home.

Cami's Chilean Cumpleaños

Cami's host grandmother: Cami, how did you get to be so perfect? Your parents must have taken their tiiiiime making you! Wink.

Disturbing imagery? Yes. Lost in translation? Absolutely not.



Cami Nakano clearly has perfect hair and teeth (the x-rays of which are probably framed on her dentist's desk), but she's more well-rounded than her effortlessly styled bob. Clever, graceful, and compassionate, Cami is that heart of gold Neil Young has been searching for.

She may be overzealous about Christmas carols and slow to make "hard" decisions (Where's Cami? Oh, she's still staring into the closet), but I guess we all have our flaws.



To celebrate the life and times of Miss Cami Nakano, we partook in three nights of intercultural celebrations.

Night One: Carrot omelets, manjar cake, and Episode 4 of Glee. Special appearance by my little host mom.

Night Two: Family party at Cami's where we belted our off-key hearts out while Cami made thirty seconds worth of wishes. One was likely: Never again let me eat manjar.



Twenty three trick candles mean wishes don't come true.

Night Three: "Ethnic food" in Bella Vista. Our love affair with choripan having officially been denounced after Sept 18th gluttony, we ran off to gringoland and spent a night in the boho-hip Barrio Bellavista searching for the perfect birthday dinner.



Our goal was ethnic food. Isn't Chilean food ethnic? I won't dignify that question with a response. Instead of the typical potatoes and meat kabobs, we pursued "Mexifoods,"as advertised on the fajita lids. If nothing else, it almost had spices; the "hot" pico de gallo even bordered on mild. We were impressed.




Sunday afternoon we strolled in wanderlust through the shaded cobblestone streets of Bellavista. Amidst the electric houses, bohemian boutiques, and art dealers, we found a way to be our classy selves at the always popular...Emapanatodos! Per usual, Laurel food-models the most recent empanada creation straight out of the avant garde street vendor's fryer: an apple pie empanada.



The weekend's only disappointment was saying good bye to Emma, our witty Welsh friend who we all but kidnapped from Buenos Aires. Though she is quick to patronize our banal vocabularies and horrid accents, we all know Emma is like, a super hardcore fan of the US.



Caught: A red, white, and blue-handed Emma, amidst efforts to forge an alliance with Team America.

With or without the most up-and-coming empanadas, giant manjar cakes, or ethnic mexifoods, Cami's Chilean cumpleaños was a success. It doesn't take a special occasion to see how much Cami is loved in Chile, but we did need an excuse to use that overpriced gem-studded tiara. Maybe those trick candles didn't fail us after all.

Chi Chi Chi — Le Le Le — Viva Chile!

The long-awaited Chilean Independence week was served on a heaping plate of meat, wine, and cueca. Every day passed about the same: asado (barbeque) for lunch, singing and dancing, asado for dinner, dancing and singing. The only variations were the asado menus. Will there be choripan (sausage hotdog) or antecucho (meat scewers), or both?!



Above, antecuchos. Below, a myriad of meats; choripanes are on the left.

Note: Laurel, Cami, and I have already claimed intellectual property rights to a Chori Stand enterprise in the US. Genius, I know.



During the celebrations, many Chileans travel with their families to the coast, namely Pichilemu, but my family stayed in Rancagua to have a quiet holiday. Quiet, I learned, is a relative term. While in Rancagua, my school turned into a dance hall and my family formed a traveling band. In both instances, meat was plentiful.




The kids performed cueca after cueca, but also some indigenous dances. There were bare-bellied gypsies from the sixth grade following an exotic Isla de Pascua rhythm and some hooded and caped third graders zooming around the dance floor like superheroes (above).



At night, I attended a few family celebrations where tíos gathered around a table of meat madness and took bites between sing-a-longs. I don't know how it's possible, but everyone in my host family is artistically endowed, except me.





They hoped I could carry a tune as well, but singing is not one of my redeeming qualities. Laurel and I belted out a few lines of "Quiero Ser Libre," by La Noche , a famous Cumbia band in Chile (below), but were surprisingly not begged for an encore.






After much family fun, Laurel, Cami, and I decided to infiltrate John's host family's cabin (below) in the popular beach town, Pichilemu.



There, the environment was just as patriotic with streamers falling in the streets, barbecues on the beaches, and Chilean flags bordering every driveway, but the vibe was more youthful. Folk music was traded for reggaeton and wine for piscolas.









We were in Pichilemu for less than 12 hours, but danced for 5 of those at una fonda. The Fondas are local, tented areas that sell inexpensive drinks and typical foods (you guessed it: choripanes, empanadas, and antecuchos) where the crowd expands to the horizon and pisco is the elixir of life. We didn't leave the cabin until 2:30, we are on Chilean time mind you, so dawn broke our fall from the dance floor.





After a very late night in the name of patriotism, I thought——no prayed——Sunday would be a day of rest. Instead of calling it quits after a hard week of parties, I came home to yet another asado just kicking off on my back porch. How do they do it? Chilean stamina may evade me, but at least I can now verify the unparalleled reputation of el dieciocho de Septiembre.