Food, Poetry, Wool, and Tragedy: 8 hours in 1000 words

By the time we made it to the Mercado Central, we were later into the afternoon, about 4 o’clock. Immediately, the perfect empanada became our quest. Not only did we find that, but so much more. Inside the market, there’s a lot of annoying touristy restaurants vying for your gringa attention, and stanky water with iced raw fish. Lots of glassy fisheyes and yucky fishermen staring at us, me worrying about fishgunk getting on my favorite flats, me searching for an escape route from the pits of tourist hell – all the usual problems. 

With raw meat shops on the outside, no major improvement was made upon escape, but fresh air did help. We crossed the street to some fruit stands. Noting we were foreign, a lady tried to way overprice 2 apples. Pissed off, I coolly reasoned with her that 2 apples should not cost three-fifths of 2 kilos if 2 kilos is 12 apples. Nice try. Sometimes, getting a fair price is a huge win for a tourist. And 12 Pink Ladies for $1.25 is a deal. Next, we found chocolate eggs filled with dulce de leche wafers, and then, an empanada. Not just any empanada, this one was like a warm, buttery croissant filled with melty, gooey cheese. And, it really paired well with the apple and the chocolate and the feeling of success.

Next, we walked two kilometers before finding a McDonald’s, our sixth attempt to get the widely-advertised and totally-unavailable Toblerone McFlurry. It had become somewhat of a challenge for us to find it. While we were not hungry, we could not miss the chance to get this ice cream, which costs roughly as much as 12 apples, an empanada, and 2 chocolate eggs. Maybe not the healthiest day, but a delicious one.  We enjoyed our McFlurry and wifi access before heading to La Chascona, Neruda’s Santiago house.

When we arrived, La Chascona was closing in a half-hour and we were informed that student discounts would only be given with Spanish tours. Since we’d already visited another Neruda house, we figured we would be able to decipher whatever the tour guide said. We lucked out on a 4-person tour with a bilingual guide, a nice guy with handlebar moustache and wicked sideburns who had grown up in Hell’s Kitchen.

We saw where Garcia Marquez and Garcia Lorca had coffee and viewed a painting of Neruda’s wife, a gift to the poet from Picasso. I took another prohibited picture and looked at some old photographs of the Nobel Laureate with his friends, including a collaged birthday card with all of their faces together. Neruda was a jolly man, a party animal – his house had more bars than bedrooms. An eccentric fellow, too, one of his most famous poems is an Ode to a Bicycle and another, to a tomato. His house is modeled after a ship – obsessed with the sea, he was afraid to swim, and declared himself a captain of land.    

When the tour ended, we were escorted out the backdoor because the museum was closed and they wanted to go home. Kate was dismayed that she could not buy the postcard with the bicycle poem. On the way home, we saw a garbage truck hit a parked car. Then, we went to a lot of craftsmen shops and tried to find sibling gifts. Boys are so hard to buy gifts for – if they already have a wallet, a belt, and a foreign shot glass, do you just buy them another one?  We ended up lucking out at a wool stand, purchasing sweaters, mittens, and hats for assorted friends and relatives. If you have gift requests for me, please submit them ASAP – I’ve got 10 more days here!

Because Santiago is suddenly freezing, Kate and I each wore a wool set home. We walked into the house and a group of Hannah’s friends laughed at how ridiculously trendy we looked in our mishmash knits. We were warm, so we didn’t care – we’re just those silly gringas no matter what we do.

Starving, we were graciously taken out by my Chilean friend Max in Vitacura, the upscale 20somethings hangout neighborhood. Kate and I each did our weird gringa thing by eating veggie quesadillas with Irish coffees – we needed something filling and a drink pick-me-up after a long and draining day. We talked about Chilean politics, our quirky experiences here, Max’s business trip to San Pedro de Atacama, our trip there this Thursday, Hari Krishna music and dance, and the evils of the mining industry.  

Our late-night outing was really fun until something horrible happened. Across the street from the restaurant, a hit-and-run occurred and someone died. And when we left the restaurant, we saw the black-sheeted form on the road and we all fell solemn and somewhat defeated. Small talk made, hearts heavy, we got in the car to go home. Crossing the street seemed daunting – just continuing on was like breathing in foggy, thick air – a pervasive overwhelming pressure of the abruptness of what happened choked me. We could’ve had the best day ever or the worst day ever or just an average day kind of day, but seeing that black shrouded form on the ground was harrowing and heart-stopping – a heavy reminder of how lucky we are every moment to be living, and that we should be living each one to the most that we can. 

Even on the days that start with allergic reactions, lead to museums about torture and end with a hit-and-run, I’m maybe more grateful than ever to have the opportunity to do what I’m doing, including the physical and emotional challenges that these experiences present.

I wish I could just skip this part, but it happened, and I don’t want to forget it or that innocent man. Even at 1000 words, I’m already missing so many things – like the fact I slept through the shakes of a Richter-Scale 5 tremor somehow, or that Kate and I made cupcakes this morning for Debi’s boyfriend for their anniversary. So much can happen in a day, and every single one is the start to one hundred adventures.

Here’s to one hundred more tomorrow.

A Museum Morning

After suffering a violent allergic reaction to Hari Krishna, traveling, berries picked off a bush, and the McDonald’s restrooms, my body was quite defeated. Puffy eyed and sore all over, I was the epitome of both beauty and grace. Kate took the morning to go for a run, and in sweaty glory, got whistled at countless times on her route around the block. I stayed in, curled in bed in fetal position, attempting to gain enough strength to make toast and get on with life. 

As usual, we had a lot to accomplish: places to go, people to see. By 12:30 p.m., we had made cupcakes and were relatively ready to rock. I whimpered my way to the bus, metro, transferred metros, and hobbled across the street at Quinto Normal to the impressive Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos. 

This museomonument to the pain caused by the relatively-recent Chilean dictatorship will stun and silence all who enter. On September 11, 1973, Chile fell to a military dictatorship. Our parents were alive. This wasn’t so long ago. It lasted until 1990. The two-story museum take you through the torture of ‘forced disappearances’ with video testimonies and encased blindfolds that bound the thousands of prisoners in hundreds of secret camps across the country for 17 years. I wrote two papers on artistic resistance and coping among women under Pinochet’s brutal regime, but the museum made me feel like I never knew anything at all. 

It’s shocking and harrowing – and worst of all, you can be assured the U.S. sponsored some of this. In our government 1970s meddling, terroristic dictatorships were better than communism. I’d beg to differ, but I’m not a McCarthy-era congressman. 

The front of the museum has a photo display of close-pinned pictures in the shape of a world map. Underneath, information about truth commissions around the world is displayed. It’s both disheartening and enlightening to see all of these councils trying to shed light upon or reconcile mass killings and random torturings over decades, all over the world. Usually, their reports result in no actions – how do you explain to a child that the government made his mother ‘disappear’? How do you apologize to a mother for torturing her son with electric voltages that kill? In our world, you can’t, so you don’t. A monument here and a research report there doesn’t ‘fix’ these massive and wide-spread crimes against humanity, perpetrated by humans.

We have to evolve as a world and a species, Kate and I decided on the way to the metro.

It seems awkward to now discuss fish markets and empanadas, so I’ll start a new post.

Farm Fab Photos from Catemu to Santiago

My newest Chilean friend. Not much of a
mover nor a shaker.

Two days in a picture montage! Enjoy!

In the morning, we had time for a quick hike up Cerro San Cristobal.

A Sunday in the Park with Kate

Then, we took a bus to Catemu!

Eka Chakra: Hari Krishna paradise.

Welcome to the Hari Krishna yoga farm. We run this organic garden.

Stef working a watering can. And a straw hat.

The time passes away with a view.

Kate and a hoe.

Lettuce! Our main activity of the day.

Two lovely farmers on a lovely farm.

Fat cow.

Tall trees, new friends.

Thanks for the melon, NHK!

Our home.

The closest I've ever been to a pony. Not a nice pony.

Sweet potato soup for breakfast!

Even taller than he looks, eating lunch.
Our tour guide and English-speaking friend.

Peacocks!

Shiva Shrine!

Oh, it's real.

Buddy - the "Hombre Bomba", who gave us a mango
that really was meant for Shiva.

Our Peruvian friend did not want to be pictured.
Oh well.

Cheese, fresh off the cow, sponsored by HB.

25 cent sugar juice pouches!

Bustling Catemu, and wondering Kate.

Meanwhile, back in Santiago, one day later....

Sororitastic moments from afar.

Sneaky illegal living room picture of
Neruda's Santiago house

The perfect souvenir -
happy new year on a  hamsa from Chile!

Kate, eating an alfajor, waiting for the low-fare time to start
so we can save about 5 cents, we realized.

So much nutella, so much burglary contemplated.

Wearing all of our layers on the way home.

Garden Girls' Divine Secrets of the Llay Llay Sisterhood

At 8:30 a.m., Kate and I awoke to Belltower and an actual bell to find that as promised, the Hari Krishna farm was freezing bitter ice bone numbing cold. Even under four wool blankets, I could feel every hair on my body stand up, unhappy to know that I’d soon be pulling them from my bed. We each put on two pairs of pants and three layers of shirts to get to breakfast.

Sweet potato soup, homemade bread, toasted oats and almonds, and avocado were among the breakfast of champions offered to us by our priestly Hari Krishna friends on this fine frigid morning. It’s a little weird to have soup in the morning, but warm is warm, so I choked half of it down like a Hari Krishna farmer would. At breakfast, we met some more farm folk, including the crew of ‘Mothers’ – women of Hari Krishna faith. All of the practicing folks had been anointed with some sort of chalky yellow-y paste on their foreheads. The Mothers sat on one side, the devotees (men) on the other. The four women chatted merrily while mixing various Ayurvedic powders into their food and rubbing some potions onto their skin. Normal morning rituals: freeze, brush teeth, drink soup, thumbprint paste on forehead, dust your tea with magic powder…

We got assigned to the garden. Too bad no textbook chapter ever prepared us for words like hoe, spade, and watering can. With charades and descriptive-word guesswork, we got tools into our hands and headed for the fields with a guy whose name we can’t remember. He spent the day calling Kate Stefanie and me… nothing because he couldn’t remember Kate’s name – for this blog, I will call him NHK – Non-Hari Krishna. Twenty-four, Argentine, vegetarian and not intending to become a devotee, he’d been living there for a month already and had his eyes set on Peru and Bolivia before starting university, where he planned to study music. In four hours in a garden, you can learn a lot about a person. I started watering and Kate started weeding. The eight-bed huerta grew lettuce, cabbage, squash, herbs, tomatoes, and who knows what else. Watering was the most relaxing thing ever. I just had to hold a hose while walking slowly up and down the beds, staring off into the looming mountains.

Over the course of the morning, NHK brought us orange slices, water, and fresh apple juice (there were bits of peel in the cup. Kate didn’t like it.). When we finished our watering and weeding, we planted baby lettuce sprouts. With a halfhour to kill before the work hours were over, NHK led us to meet the farm’s vaquita, which translates to “little cow.” This is a misnomer – this was the hugest bull I have ever seen. Laying down, it’s butt was the width of my height. I was fairly terrified of this creature, who the HK crew would consider ‘friend-not-food’ and I would just call ‘massive scary bull’ – not ‘vaquita.’ After killing more time taking pictures in our awesome farm hats – mine, straw, Kate’s, bucket, it was finally time for lunch. After visiting an angry horse and trying to take pictures of peacocks on the run, we went to eat outside.

This meal could be eaten in mixed company, and we were glad to sit with our 7-foot Netherlands multilingual friend David. We chowed down hard on some lentil-sweet potato stew with brown rice, basil tomatoes, green salad with lemon juice served with fresh mint tea. I asked David about the food serving system because there was something weird about who served who what when. Turns out, food cooking and serving can’t be conflated with eating because the mouth transmits karma and you have to rinse yours out if you cook or serve; and, before you eat, you have to offer the food to the God Krishna, but sometimes David sees people taste it while they’re cooking, and sometimes he sees priestly leaders serve themselves, which makes the tiny Peruvian lady angry.

In the afternoon, we chose to wander the farm property and head toward an oft-mentioned stream. On the way, we stopped in the Silent Shrine of Shiva and ran into our NHK friend and another man, known as the Hombre Bomba. The Hombre Bomba was very excited to be in the company of such lovely gringas. Kate’s blue eyes offered him particular fascination. He plucked blackberries off of a bush, and gave us a mango that had been offered to Shiva, and chatted loudly in the silent shrine, which felt irreverent. We continued on through the stream, ambled across the river, and walked down a road to a local farm. On the way, we took pictures with them and promised to send them on Facebook. That will be difficult since we don’t know their names. They got mad we didn’t share the mango, but it was so sweet, so delicious, like the plums in the William Carlos Williams poem.  On the dirt road, we stopped for some queso fresco – so fresco, like the rounded wheel had just come from a cow. We sat on log and ate our cheese bare-handed, and the Hombre Bomba asked us questions about our government and racism and sexual education in schools. Then, this radical vegetarianist, anti-mining, ecoprotesting, democracy-hailing liberal told us he was anti-gay marriage because he doesn’t think kids should grow up confused about having two moms. I amiably countered his argument by saying, isn’t it just as confusing to grow up without a dad? Our world’s full of single mom families, some successful, many not. But, I wasn’t really interested in trying to logically evolve this whole argument in Spanish with a crazy man in a jumpsuit who had just fed me good fruit and cheese. 

Soon after, we bid adieu to all of our buddies on the farm, all who had been really kind and interesting. We walked down the dirt path and saw a bus in the distance. Kate and I then discussed how willing we would be to hitchhike, in that moment, and in general, and decided we wouldn’t because our parents would be so so mad. In that very moment, the bus pulled up and stopped next to us, and the driver offered us a ride to the distant corner. Since it was a school bus full of children, and it was just too coincidental to say no, we decided that this was a great idea. 

Once back in Catemu’s downtown strip, we realized we had just 780 pesos left to buy bus snacks – less than $2. In the supermarket, we came out with two juice boxes, and from around the corner, two Premium alfajores (caramel, graham cracker chocolate-covered yummies). After 24 hours of eco-farming vegetarianism, the rush of sugar gave me an instant headache. Kate convinced me to go use the public elliptical, and we were ridiculed by a group of men across the street. Those crazy gringas at it again. We had to work off the sugar and kill 20 minutes somehow.  

When the bus finally arrived, we hopped on and conked out after passing through Llay Llay (where we watched the sun sink over the Andes, in awe, leading to the second half of this blog title). We woke up back in Santiago four hours later.

While I got incredibly sick that evening, in ways that I will refrain from describing, I would definitely recommend anyone spend 24 hours with Hari Krishna. I don’t know that it will change your life (we had hamburgers when we got home), but it’ll definitely make a memorable story.

A One Night Stand with Hari Krishna

After visiting Los Dominicos, a Spanish pueblo turned artesian craft fair, we headed to the bus station. Trucked it is more like it. Karen sped through downtown Santiago, swiftly swerved through cars, so that we could catch our 5:15 bus for which we had not yet purchased tickets. Sprinting through the station, buying tickets, then finally boarded a bus towards Catemu.

Ever heard of Catemu? Neither had we. Two hours on a bus and we pulled up to the main drag of this small town. Two cafes, a candy store, and an arcade, Catemu is your envisioned colorfully run-down Latin American true pueblo. But we weren't there for an empanada - we came for the farm. After seeing a poster a few weeks back for EkaChakra EcoYoga Farm, I became enamored with the idea that we could go here for this unique sense of a nature adventure in tranquility. So, we went.

A questionable taxi (read: yellow car with empty wire frame on top) with a nice driver (read: not creepy woman) dodged potholes in the dark, pulled up on the dirt road and let us out, as one of the ever-present dogs came to greet us. It became immediately clear that the farm is more of an ecofriendly commune for followers of the Hari Krishna religion, usually known for funky ponytails, loud chanting, and orange clothes. We met a devotee and his wife and two children on their way home, and walked into a camp-like mess hall, only everything is made from exquisite woodwork, courtesy of the man in the cowboy hat, we were informed. Woven lanterns, carved bed frames, and tree trunk tables and benches dot the open fields of this tiny farm. A man named Tirtha swathed in signature pale orange sarang met us and gave us hello kisses and said he'd been waiting for us, expecting us midday. Well, we were late and no one seemed to really mind. Our first friends were:
1. A tiny Peruvian woman with metal-capped teeth who closely resembled Mulan's grandmother's spirit.
2. Supergiant David, a stringbean of a man in his 40s, with a greyish-blonde ponytail.

We made some smalltalk before our two friends decided to stand up. The height discrepancy between them may have been the length of my entire being. Stifling laughter, Kate and I accepted metal six-compartment trays and metal cups. We were served a stewed apple cinnamon tea, two rices, basil tomatoes, pepper sauce, two types of bread, three salads including two vegetables I have never seen or eaten before.


As we sat down on our wobbly treetrunk table, and passed through the dull customary Where are you going, where have you been traveler exchanges, I dared to ask the big question: so, what is Hari Krishna? This is definitely the first step someone unbeknownst to them takes before joining a cult. For my question, I got philosophized in Hari Krishna in 10 minutes, in a rapidfire Spanish by a younger devotee who did not enunciate and spoke so speedily, swallowing his words with his food. Nearly comical, how excited he was, and seemingly decided that we were totally fluent in Spanish, this guy explained how we are all our souls and everything in this world has a soul. Agreed. And that unifying soul is a part of an all-powerful entity they call Krishna. And every soul can acknowledge and respect its relation to all other souls, from Krishna to street dogs to wood tables to rice and beans to this guy sitting across from me yapping away about Karma and vegetarianism and me fixating on the slight chip in his front two teeth. Cool.

After dinner, we were led to wash our dishes in a bathtub-turned sink out back. Supergiant David came and looked at stars with us and made sure we had no more questions. Journalism students always have questions, but I refrained. Instead, we talked about the meaning of life and funny words like phlebotomy.
While I could've stared at those bright skylights for seemingly ever, it was cold and we were wiped out. Kate and I went back to our private four-bed hut, complete with four-star accoutrements like a sawdust pail toilet. In all seriousness, the place was charming, the mattresses and pillows were comfortable, and the decorations were quite tasteful. We had outlets and running water. No complaints.

While I am not planning to stay here forever, I am vaguely considering become a vegetarian. But don't hold me to it. This is a judgment-free zone with a lot of happy people, good food, and remarkable views - you can't ask for a better  vacation destination. 

For me, it's the kind of commitment where I'll give it my all, but only for a night.

Lost in Valparaiso, Paradise Found in Concon (photoblog)

La Moneda, a signature flag and plaza pic.

Kate, Bad Pineapple Soda,
and Neruda's house

The AmerAppar zip-up hoodies take on Valpo!
Two gringas too gringa.

Buses are exciting?

The most romantic duo, dressed for fancy dinner..

The moon rising over Valparaiso at our dinner table.

This would be a wonder of the world, but it's thankfully mostly untouched by tourists. Welcome to Paradise, sometimes called Concon. Note Kate's mouth slightly ajar in awe.

I can pick up tiny Kate and move her anywhere!

Not much to do on a sand dune....

But have a photo shoot.

We were not alone, so we finally didn't have to take a loner pic
nor a selfie.

Nothing like running down a sand dune barefoot.
This is the ultimate 'that time I was young and free' picture. 

Say hello to my Pelican friends.

Water stuff.

How does the driver watch the road when
he could be looking out the window?

Kate loves bus selfies with friends.

Sand Queens of Concon

Since our bus ticket return to Santiago was open-ended, we decided to maximize our town-count and get out to Concon. Three towns north of Valparaiso, Concon is going through a phase of intense condo development because some developers picked up on the view. You'd have to be blind not to. 

After making some stray-puppy friends at the dock, we were misdirected to a microbus to Concon that did not take us to our destination. Instead, the driver dropped us on the side of a road, between a cliff and a mountain. We chose mountain and hiked straight up, yet again, hoping to find our destination, this time without a map or pole-markers.

Fortunately, sand dunes are hard to miss. We conquered our way climbing to the top, wardrobe changing as we ascended through this Chilean Arabian Nights landscape. We felt the burn as we dragged our feet up the endless sand-wall until we made it to the peak. 

There, we sat. We made sand angels. We gazed at the ocean and the city and the waves and the mountains. We posed. We probably made the foreign couple on the dune next to us uncomfortable.

No matter. After frolicking our way down, we crossed the street to Chilean Walmart to stock up on some snacks. Foreign grocery stores rock. It's half the same stuff and half bizarre things you'd never find at home. We left with a cookie, diet coke, two kiwis, and a chocolate bar. The kiwis cost about a dime each. Next came guacamole-flavored Doritos purchased in exchange for a wifi password from Subway. That investment was absolutely worthwhile on all accounts. 

Walking another half hour and being honked at by truck drivers all the way (We were wearing gym shorts and hoodies. This was not a good look. Machismo culture knows no bounds.), we checked out four restaurants before choosing the one with the best view and largest crowd (6 people).

The waitress could not have been less interested in serving us - she refused us water without bubbles, never brought bread, and forgot an order and didn't apologize at all. Our grilled salmon was demolished quickly - a melt in your mouth, straight from the ocean slab of goodness.

We successfully wasted two more hours over this salmon, waiting for the sun to get a little lower. We flagged down a cliffside bus back to Vina del Mar, and eventually made it mid-rush-hour and sunset back to the Valparaiso bus station. After waiting an hour for our ride to arrive, I was delighted to watch The Spy Next Door again on board. Kate napped but I couldn't get over the shrill beeping noises the bus made every time the driver hit 100 km. Which was every other second.

Back in Santiago, we were supersleepy and continued to laze around all Saturday, except for a 15-person lunch at home, which Kate will guest-blog about soon.

Valparaiso Dos: deja vu adventures in an eerily empty city

pIt's pretty weird to go on the same vacation twice in two weeks. On Thursday, Kate and I headed to Santiago's finest part of town to board a bus to Valparaiso. After buying tickets, we decided to run a few errands in the neighborhood. We needed snacks and cell phone credits, and figured a mall must be nearby, since this country has a mall for every Starbucks we have at home. If you have ever been to an urban bus station, you probably can imagine the delights we passed: gypsy flea markets and molding neon casinos galore. Errands complete, we got on our double-decker Tur Bus. On the 90-minute ride, I was transfixed by a Jackie Chan kids film: The Spy Next Door and was severely disappointed when the bus stopped just as the bad guys arrived for the final major fight scene. Oh well. I thought I'd never find out how the movie would end...thought tbc.

I booked us a matrimonial suite with a balcony view - just what we needed for our honeymoon getaway. After trying to call for the reception to let us in, and failing, we decided we could start exploring and try checking in later. So, we headed to Palacio Barburizzo, a mansion converted into a manageable art museum, with some nice gardens and healthy city/ocean views. We were lonely on the deserted meandering streets. This is not a poetic overstatement. I counted three people (one, an older man in jorts) in all of our 20-minute wandering. The emptiness allowed for much photo-taking and growing nervousness of everyone knowing something we didn't.

The museum was a good touristic start, at just 75 cents per student, definitely not a wallet drain. As we left, we decided we should go see La Sebastiana, house of Nobel laureate poet and diplomat Pablo Neruda. A marker outside Barburizza said just 2.5 km to go and we'd be there! Great!

Not so great. Those 2.5 km were entirely uphill, at times appearing to be a vertical incline. We paused for a soda break and agreed to try the recommended zero-calorie pineapple soda, the only diet variety available in this cliffside bodega. It was gross, but we both pretended to like it as we passed the time, damning each pole-marker as we spotted them.

When we got to the Neruda house, we were told we had to wait to enter, offering us ample time to peruse the gift shop. We also sent an email to the elusive hostal reception. Once inside, we were told no cameras which is always disappointing if you love taking pictures. These rules always encourage me to take sneaky pictures, out of a pocket so guards and videocameras don't catch you and kick you out and then you can post the high-risk shots on your blog. Thrilling.

As we reached the top floor of the eccentric man's five-story home, we marveled at the sights. An old map by a frenchman, a Jesuit trunk, a green-inked chair, a porcelain sink - and a view of the city and the ocean like no other. I plotted and plotted on how I could get the best shot and as if reading my mind, the guard said to me, "You are so beautiful, would you like to take a picture?"

I was almost as surprised as when the Queen's guard at Windsor Castle responded to me. I guess I have a way with guards. In any event, I got a magnificent panorama and a picture of me and Kate from the supercreeper. We scooted out pretty quickly after that and caught a public microbus home.

After attempting the hostel and leaving a nice voicemail entirely in Spanish, I gave up and we decided to find somewhere else to stay. Luckily, only three other people were visiting Valparaiso so we had no trouble getting a room at the neighboring La Colombina hostel. We'd rate it an 8.5 out of 10 - 1.5 off for such ugly wallpaper in the bedroom and bathroom, 5 for solid hipster but clean ambiance and 3.5 more for the 3.5 people we interacted with there.

Over the evening, with nothing to do in this silent city, Kate and I had a four-course dinner at three different restaurants. First came the hummus at KFE. There, we plotted where to continue eating and settled on a place based on it's food-porn pictures online and sky-high ratings. The only diners there, Kate and I got a balcony table, blankets for our legs, and a sweet sunset - full-moon rise view. We shared a pisco sour, Chile's signature drink, and a pumpkin soup with onion crisp. The olive and chive butter and balsamic vinaigrette were reason enough to come to Concepcion, and we dreamt of the days when we'll be able to actually have full four-course meals in a place like that.

Next came several hours of wandering, considering our options and trying to identify the best place for gnocchi in the city. We took an hour reading break to kill the time and attempt to reach a normal Chilean dinner hour, and get hungry again.

After much struggle (we probably read twenty menus, and some restaurants closed before we finally made a decision), we picked Allegretto for it's cozy, homemade look. That bowl of pasta was out of this world, probably just because we were starving. It could've been a major let-down, all of that anticipation, but it really fulfilled our wildest tomato-saucy, potato-filled basil dreams.

We couldn't leave without taking up their offer on homemade ice cream and the two scoops filled whatever ounce of space we had left in our happy, happy tummies.

Back at the hostel, we chatted with British Laura from Kidderminster, a Cambridge grad BCG consultant, three-years out spending three months traveling - basically, living out a short-term realistic dream for Kate and me. While us future consultants racked her brain for life and career advice, I gave her tons of Santiago tips for her next stop.

After reading and planning for the next day in our high-ceiling, ugly-wall papered room, Kate and I fell asleep, feeling like Valparaiso had been conquered.

The Great Kate Comes to Chile

This morning, I paced listlessly around the house hoping that Kate had made her flight, landed in Santiago, gotten through customs, found the shared van, and was on her way to my Chile house.

Over this anxiety-ridden time, two main thoughts crossed my mind: 

1.  How did people do this pre-cell phones? Well, they didn't know what it would be like to have cell phones, so they didn't think about it, and everything was fine.

2. What if she's been deported? 

She was not. And I only let her get settled before taking her out on the town.

After a quick stop in Plaza de Armas, we met Karen for lunch at Blue Jar, a financial district trendy contemporary foodspot. I had a baby quiche and a salad, and Kate had some quinoa-avocado-nut-healthy thing. The meal tasted like the state of California. 

Next, we went underground La Moneda, the Presidential Palace, where the feared Pinera works. 

While we did not likely see the president, its possible he was one of the distant men in suits behind the gated, armed-guarded entrance. 

Underneath La Moneda is an expansive cultural center with some free exhibits and some paid ones. Kate and I opted for the budget travel version and stumbled upon a theater conference. After signing in for free tickets, we ended up in a lecture hall, waiting to hear a panel on Latin American film and collective memory and identity - in Spanish. 

This resulted in me being slightly bored by an Argentine woman speaking at length about the structure of her three-year thesis on Bolivian theatre culture - and, Kate taking a little snooze.

We continued on to pitstop at the National Library, where there was a strange exhibit of erotic photos hung on the cracked stone walls, sun streaming in.

We then went for a hike. Kate was up for the challenge, somehow, and we climbed Cerro Santa Lucia in no time. Halfway up, we stopped for a bottle of water, and an Asian woman with a bucket hat and a map asked me for directions - in Spanish. I sort of felt native, but I more felt way totally confused. She wanted to know how to exit, but we were on a mountain, so I basically told her, "Baja" - go down. How did she get up? It's the same way down. It's really not at all complicated. Maybe she was actually asking me where the closest coffee shop was, but the only distinguishable word she said was 'donde' and kept pointing at the park entrance on the map. I hope she and her matching-bucket-hat-hubby made it. 

Upon returning home, Kate napped more and I schemed for our trip to Valparaiso tomorrow. Then, we got glammed up for a night on the town. For dinner, we went out downtown in Sanhattan to a delicious brick-oven pizza place that was just poppin with people (alliteration!). After such lovely family time with my favorite Chilean grandparents, Kate and I decided we would delay our night on the town, because we were too full and too exhausted. 

Those 'too's are two of the best 'too's to be.

Temblor

So, Monday bled into Tuesday and I lazed around the house, vaguely claiming to do a host of things. I wrote three letters and made four phone calls, so that must count for someone going into the telecommunications sector.

But then, just as House Hunter International Ira was about to decide which French countryside home to buy, the couch shook. And so did the table. And the lamps. And the whole window pane. Everything seemed to shudder and ripple but I froze. I know that when the world shakes, you're supposed to go stand in a doorframe. But, I was lying down and I was freaked out, and it was over before I could've even processed it was happening.

It happened so fast that I thought in my delirious state of doing next to nothing, I had just imagined the tiniest of earthquakes.

But no, it totally happened. I survived my first earthquake. Okay, it was only a tremor, but it was SO COOL. The tectonic plates shifted under my couch-laying, television-watching body, giving me something to blog about today.

But seriously, earthquakes are quite metaphorical. I may have mentioned that in one of my classes here, my professor Lidia boasted of having survived five large earthquakes. She discussed at lengths the merits of an earthquake, some of which I will now delineate:

1. The earth is alive, and we should treat it that way.
Lidia spends her weekends feeding street cats and cleaning rivers. She's Miss Save-the-Earth, with a special focus on plants and animals, two large categories that occupy this world most often overlooked by humans. When the earth moves, it stops being some inanimate object we live on.

2. Tectonic shifts are humbling to humans.
You're there and there's nothing you can do but wait and pray and believe that the roof will stay up and you will stay alive. But, I've heard stories where the earth splits in two and swallows people up. So, you've got to be ready for anyt

3. What would you save?
When Lidia last experienced a major earthquake, it was 3 a.m., she had six students staying in her house, and five puppies in crates in the living room. She rescued all five puppies, and then remembered she also had students, who were all likely scared out of their minds. She probably does not regret that at all, because puppies are more vulnerable to crashing objects than 22-year-olds. As she stood outside, puppies in her arms, one student came running out of the house and latched himself to a tree. They watched the ground emit colorful gases for four minutes as they shook. Then, she realized everyone else was inside, so she handed this poor German student all the puppies and ran back inside to check on the other kids. She then made the 5 students tea, calmed them down, and then remembered the poor German standing outside with the puppies. They all lived happily every after.

Lidia says everyone should live through at least one earthquake. Can I count this? Not in her book, but it'll go down in my personal history.

Graduation, Pisco, Cholent, and Challah

Friday was my last day of school. While it may not be internationally ranked, I did receive a diploma. I can't imagine framing it next to my Wildcat one - Intermedio 2B in Spanish as a Foreign Language is just not at all relevant in any context outside of this tiny blue building on Calle Del Arzobispo. But, Escuela Bellavista gave Northwestern a run for it's money. Actually, if we look at the financial vs. amusement charts, Bellavista far outran Northwestern.

In the last two weeks, I met such a cast of characters like you wouldn't believe. I had two amazing teachers who were patient and thoughtful, and explained complex grammar better in an hour than any classroom high school or college profesor had done for me. After eating the best empanada so far

Friday afternoon, I got to work on some seventh grade textbook Spanish. In just three hours, I went to a bakery, a school, a hospital, and a beauty salon. Each served its own mundane purpose but I was enchanted by all of the small oddities and coincidences. The most notable would be the sighting of and eye contact with a attractive, young doctor wearing a black kippah with his white lab coat - only to find out he is my Chilean family's cousin, and married with four kids. While I didn't find my soulmate, I did find a really great cookie, courtesy of Debi - two graham cookies sandwiched dulce de leche and covered in chocolate. 

A nice gringa named Danielle came to stay for Shabbat. We already had 22 mutual friends on Facebook, so getting along was a non-issue. We had nice pillow talk late into the night and continued to be buddies through the next day, which involved some cholent eating, book reading, and serious napping. Before Shabbat ended, we walked to a local book fair. Despite an awesome set up with interactive poetry exhibits, a mainstage with live music and a sweet cafe, the circus tent of publishing houses was nearly empty on the Saturday afternoon. I could insert some complex commentary on what this says about Chilean culture but I haven't come to any conclusions yet. 

Since Danielle was staying one more night, I could finally go out at night because I had a buddy. We met her friends at Bar Constitucion, drank piscola and danced awkwardly to 70s turned dubstep before skipping out. Later events included evading largely lackadaisical police (they don't do anything. at all.), bopping to live reggaeton drum and song,  and stopping by one more warehouse club, Galpo 9, where the light show and music video screens kept the party going to much later than I stayed.

As we sat on the bus home, Danielle finished telling me a funny story about a friend of a friend. One stop later, of all the millions of Santiaguinos to board, this friend of a friend gets on to ride home. 

We giggled over the smallness of the world, arrived home speedily, and had melty challah, cheese and avocado midnight snacks with my Chilean hermanita Hannah and her sleepover buddy. The four of us culinary queens devoured the perfect after-hours munchies before heading to bed in a less-than-timely fashion.

A good weekend was had by all. 

Alone Exposicion

I went to a museum yesterday and today I went to a mall in the continuously constructed 'Sanhattan.'

Here is myPhone's review of the Medinin design exhibition, and two quick pics from the way to the metro at Tobalaba. I'd been traveling underneath these blocks every day and never seen them!

 I lay no claim to these art, only these photos which neither guard stopped me from taking.
Below: Table chair, coffee machine, sculpture, duck table, pointilism chair, and army of royal bottle openers pictured below.

The GAM is an architectural feat: a communist headquarter transformed into something pretty.
She did a good job sketching the other direction, too.

80 floors and counting.
Can withstand an earthquake.
Looks like a huge... spaceship.

Welcome to downtown Sanhattan. Still up and coming...
Give 'em 10 years...