There's more verbosity in heaven and earth and my tiny brain than are dreamt of in your mind. (with apologies to Shakespeare).
No blog entry today. Instead I give you this, my bootsnall expert article. Somewhat sadly, I am not an expert on free upgrades or fancy kebabs with delicate, lime-drizzled baby portabellos. I am an expert on taking overnight busses. It's a little mundane, but hey, if you want to get out and see the world, you'll probably do at least some of it with your eyes closed.
Go! read! stumble! digg! recommend! Rejoice that you slept in a bed last night! Then offer me more work.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Duke of Sandwich
I eat a lot of sandwiches in Chile. It's not because I have a great love for sandwiches, or even bread really, it's just that since I don't eat meat, and in many places pizza is an abomination before Italy, well, that sandwich, "es lo que hay" (it's what we got).
I have a sandwich hierarchy of sorts, where baguette is the best bread, and "pan de molde" which is always this fluffy white wonderbreadesque confection which has had the crust sawed off the entire loaf, leaving the whole loaf looking very much like a foam block I saw once at the physical therapy place, well that bread is way at the bottom. Close to baguettes, and maybe even as good is the Chilean version of french bread, called marraqueta, which is four little lumps of frenchbreadish dough baked together like dinnerrolls in the 70's.
Then there's the filling situation. Plain cheese is boring, cheese with oregano is slightly better. The discovery of lettuce on my sandwich is noteworthy, and palmitos (hearts of palms) are a lovely addition, though they do have a tendency to fall out of the sandwich as you are eating it. Avocado is practically a national sport and something no sandwich should ever be without. Arugula or watercress are cause for celebration, and why they don't know about onions on a sandwich is a mystery. I know a couple of places that serve their sandwiches with dipping/spreadable sauce. This is a great addition. Posh little cafés that serve sandwiches in Bellas Artes and Lastarria pretty much end the excitement there. But if you go to a traditional sandwichery (ooh, that's fun to say!) and ask for something vegetarian they will build you a sandwich out of toppings. You'll eat at least half of an avocado, maybe more. Then come the prepeeled tomatoes, the jello of cheese, called "queso fresco" and stringbean slaw.
Stringbean slaw is an oversalted overcooked mash of french-sliced stringbeans that arrives on your sandwich like a haystack and harkens back to a period in my childhood when I used to snack on waxbeans out of the can, with a fork. I was no gourmand then, and to be honest, the stringbean slaw doesn't so much taste bad as it offends my sensibilities on several levels. First, stringbeans are not a sandwich food. Second, what's the matter with whole stringbeans? Why must they be shredded? Lastly, and most importantly, why do they have to be so very overcooked?
But sandwiches are what's available routinely, and more importantly, they were what was on the menu last night when I met up with some friends after a deadly day of high-pressure translating with some very hyped up documentarians. My sandwich was on french bread, toasty, with a dusting of oregano on the plate. It had the jello cheese and avocado, the prepeeled tomatoes and palmitos. They gave us all forks and knives to eat with, and to a one, we picked up our masterpieces with our hands and chowed down. And look mom! No stringbean slaw. And it was good.
I have a sandwich hierarchy of sorts, where baguette is the best bread, and "pan de molde" which is always this fluffy white wonderbreadesque confection which has had the crust sawed off the entire loaf, leaving the whole loaf looking very much like a foam block I saw once at the physical therapy place, well that bread is way at the bottom. Close to baguettes, and maybe even as good is the Chilean version of french bread, called marraqueta, which is four little lumps of frenchbreadish dough baked together like dinnerrolls in the 70's.
Then there's the filling situation. Plain cheese is boring, cheese with oregano is slightly better. The discovery of lettuce on my sandwich is noteworthy, and palmitos (hearts of palms) are a lovely addition, though they do have a tendency to fall out of the sandwich as you are eating it. Avocado is practically a national sport and something no sandwich should ever be without. Arugula or watercress are cause for celebration, and why they don't know about onions on a sandwich is a mystery. I know a couple of places that serve their sandwiches with dipping/spreadable sauce. This is a great addition. Posh little cafés that serve sandwiches in Bellas Artes and Lastarria pretty much end the excitement there. But if you go to a traditional sandwichery (ooh, that's fun to say!) and ask for something vegetarian they will build you a sandwich out of toppings. You'll eat at least half of an avocado, maybe more. Then come the prepeeled tomatoes, the jello of cheese, called "queso fresco" and stringbean slaw.
Stringbean slaw is an oversalted overcooked mash of french-sliced stringbeans that arrives on your sandwich like a haystack and harkens back to a period in my childhood when I used to snack on waxbeans out of the can, with a fork. I was no gourmand then, and to be honest, the stringbean slaw doesn't so much taste bad as it offends my sensibilities on several levels. First, stringbeans are not a sandwich food. Second, what's the matter with whole stringbeans? Why must they be shredded? Lastly, and most importantly, why do they have to be so very overcooked?
But sandwiches are what's available routinely, and more importantly, they were what was on the menu last night when I met up with some friends after a deadly day of high-pressure translating with some very hyped up documentarians. My sandwich was on french bread, toasty, with a dusting of oregano on the plate. It had the jello cheese and avocado, the prepeeled tomatoes and palmitos. They gave us all forks and knives to eat with, and to a one, we picked up our masterpieces with our hands and chowed down. And look mom! No stringbean slaw. And it was good.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Mute Movies!
Yesterday I was out with some friends and we were talking about the power of music in movies. I couldn't tell you what we were listening to, but we all agreed it'd make a great chase scene or fleeing-fro-your-demons music.
And then we came upon the topic of silent movies. Whereupon I learned that in Spanish they are called, peliculas mudas, which had I not known otherwise, I'd have translated as mute films.
The difference between muteness and silence to me in English is somewhat volitional. Our actors in silent movies, could talk, but prefer not to. Spanish-thinking (not speaking) actors are struck aphasic, unable to utter a sound. But in Spanish when someone berates you, or you decide to say nothing in the face of adversity, "me quedé muda" translates as I didn't say anything, not I couldn't say anything.
Prone to linguistic and lexical geekery as I am, I've spent many of my recent awake hours thinking about the difference between muteness and silence as I perceive them, and also the difference between quedarse mudo and guardar silencio. And then what occurred to me (somewhat late perhaps) was that in fact, people in silent movies are speaking, we just can't hear them. Which makes them neither silent nor mute. Just unheard. Which is totally different.
Now I'm curious what they're called in other languages, with translations, please. Whatcha got?
And then we came upon the topic of silent movies. Whereupon I learned that in Spanish they are called, peliculas mudas, which had I not known otherwise, I'd have translated as mute films.
The difference between muteness and silence to me in English is somewhat volitional. Our actors in silent movies, could talk, but prefer not to. Spanish-thinking (not speaking) actors are struck aphasic, unable to utter a sound. But in Spanish when someone berates you, or you decide to say nothing in the face of adversity, "me quedé muda" translates as I didn't say anything, not I couldn't say anything.
Prone to linguistic and lexical geekery as I am, I've spent many of my recent awake hours thinking about the difference between muteness and silence as I perceive them, and also the difference between quedarse mudo and guardar silencio. And then what occurred to me (somewhat late perhaps) was that in fact, people in silent movies are speaking, we just can't hear them. Which makes them neither silent nor mute. Just unheard. Which is totally different.
Now I'm curious what they're called in other languages, with translations, please. Whatcha got?
Monday, January 26, 2009
Shouting "fire!"
"Fire!" shouted a man sitting in a doorway about half a block off of Plaza Brasil. "Fire!" My friend and I looked at him quizically, wondering if it was possible to somehow be invisibly aflame. We also looked around for signs of smoke, firemen, something to indicate burning.
And then I realized. It was a case of mistaken translation.
The gentleman (as I will call him) was a touch on the curado (drunk) side, and had heard us speaking English. He had an unlit cigarette in his hand, and with the other hand was asking with the instantly-recognizable hand motion of lighting a lighter, "got a light?" But he was asking it using what people say in Chile, which is, "tienes fuego?" (lit: do you have fire?, usually said in Chilean, "tení fuego?")
So somewhere along the way the "do you have" in "tienes fuego" was dropped, and he was left with a single word, which he then translated to English. I'm supposing here, after getting over my initial burst of fright at the shouting of the word "fire," we didn't stop for a linguistic interview.
We had a good giggle, did not provide "fire" as neither of us smoke and then talked about how free speech as interpreted by the courts does not extend to the shouting of "fire" in a crowded theater. But if you're on Avda. Brasil in Santiago after dark, sitting in a doorway flicking your imaginary lighter at two passing gringas, well then it's totally okay.
And then I realized. It was a case of mistaken translation.
The gentleman (as I will call him) was a touch on the curado (drunk) side, and had heard us speaking English. He had an unlit cigarette in his hand, and with the other hand was asking with the instantly-recognizable hand motion of lighting a lighter, "got a light?" But he was asking it using what people say in Chile, which is, "tienes fuego?" (lit: do you have fire?, usually said in Chilean, "tení fuego?")
So somewhere along the way the "do you have" in "tienes fuego" was dropped, and he was left with a single word, which he then translated to English. I'm supposing here, after getting over my initial burst of fright at the shouting of the word "fire," we didn't stop for a linguistic interview.
We had a good giggle, did not provide "fire" as neither of us smoke and then talked about how free speech as interpreted by the courts does not extend to the shouting of "fire" in a crowded theater. But if you're on Avda. Brasil in Santiago after dark, sitting in a doorway flicking your imaginary lighter at two passing gringas, well then it's totally okay.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
They go through my trash
What is your expectation of privacy re: your trash? (this is where my fabulously expensive law schooling really comes in handy, I can ask questions that have the expression "expectation of privacy" with impunity). But I digress. When my ex and I lived in Portland, Oregon, we knew that the amount of trash we produced was being vigilado (watched, policed), because our landlord paid for trash pickup and didn't want to pay extra if two transplanted eastcoasters were ignorant of Portland's strict recycling policies (we weren't). We also wondered if an investigator might be following us for legal purposes, as my ex was involved in a rather serious accident which led to a lawsuit to recover medical expenses, and we wondered if we were being spied upon on more than one occasion to see if we were secretly skiing double black diamond slopes with blatant disregard for one of our four allegedly damaged hips. Which it was, and we weren't.
There I go again. So the truth is, after the fabulously expensive legal education (waving to the approximately four of my friends who are actually lawyers these days), I know that in the United States, going through someone's trash does not constitute illegal search and seizure, because you do not have an expectation of privacy that extends to your trash. You put it outside, for goodness sake!
While it may be true that it is unlikely that someone goes through your trash in the United States unless you have a suspicious lover or a grudging ex or a great career in the public eye, that is simply not the case here in Santiago.
I know for a fact that they go through my trash (and I have none of the aforementioned unless having a moderately popular blog puts me in the public eye). The thing is, they go through everyone's trash. There's pretty extensive off-the-grid economy functioning late at night, under the bridges and on the main pedestrian thoroughfare through the city. Cartoneros are looking for paper and paper products to weigh on scales that say Don't step here! (no pisar)in black magic marker, to later sell to the wholesale recyclables buyers. And while ideally they look through the business' trash, with copy boxes and the occasional hastily-tossed calculator, those who don't have a good beat or who are just looking for anything they can use will go through household trash as well.
It's a sad commentary on the richest country in Latin America that everyone knows to separate their kitchen and bathroom trash from stuff that might be useful so that the cartoneros don't have to get their hands dirtier than necessary. On the other hand, it promotes at least two of the Rs in Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, which is great. And I just found out yesterday from another blogger that they have cartoneros in Argentina as well. So I guess at leat we're in good company. Tangos and coffee and antiques and trash sifters, oh my!
There I go again. So the truth is, after the fabulously expensive legal education (waving to the approximately four of my friends who are actually lawyers these days), I know that in the United States, going through someone's trash does not constitute illegal search and seizure, because you do not have an expectation of privacy that extends to your trash. You put it outside, for goodness sake!
While it may be true that it is unlikely that someone goes through your trash in the United States unless you have a suspicious lover or a grudging ex or a great career in the public eye, that is simply not the case here in Santiago.
I know for a fact that they go through my trash (and I have none of the aforementioned unless having a moderately popular blog puts me in the public eye). The thing is, they go through everyone's trash. There's pretty extensive off-the-grid economy functioning late at night, under the bridges and on the main pedestrian thoroughfare through the city. Cartoneros are looking for paper and paper products to weigh on scales that say Don't step here! (no pisar)in black magic marker, to later sell to the wholesale recyclables buyers. And while ideally they look through the business' trash, with copy boxes and the occasional hastily-tossed calculator, those who don't have a good beat or who are just looking for anything they can use will go through household trash as well.
It's a sad commentary on the richest country in Latin America that everyone knows to separate their kitchen and bathroom trash from stuff that might be useful so that the cartoneros don't have to get their hands dirtier than necessary. On the other hand, it promotes at least two of the Rs in Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, which is great. And I just found out yesterday from another blogger that they have cartoneros in Argentina as well. So I guess at leat we're in good company. Tangos and coffee and antiques and trash sifters, oh my!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
What's up with the Halls?
This question was posed to me by some gringas that I'd met in Iquique, a city in the north of Chile known for its curvy beach lined with palm trees, swimmable water, its historical importance in salt mining, the ZoFri (duty free mall) and (by me), a plentiful supply of mango juice.
But back to the Halls. What's up with the Halls? they asked. Halls are just what you're thinking, foil wrapped squares (with a round indent), individually wrapped in wax paper and stacked into a little rectangle, this wrapped in shiny foil of approximately the same color as the candy inside.
But is it candy? In the United States I associate menthol with colds, coughs, congestion and my cuñado (brother-in-law) who has sinus issues. In Chile it's considered a refreshing treat, akin to our mint. "Mints" that claim to be extra-strong or extra-refreshing are sure to be extramentholated. Nothing as strong as the pasty altoid-like Fisherman's Friend, a pastille so strong that if you eat one, my sinuses clear. But still, menthol. Here in Chile here's a gummy sweet sold on the street that's in the shape of little leaves, and which tastes like you just got hopped up on eucalyptus leaves. People willingly buy it. And if not, they might settle for regular mints, called, appropriately enough, mentitas. Though these are sadly lacking in menthol.
Marketing what is essentially a cough drop as candy is an incredible ploy by Halls. Why limit your consumption of this medication to when you're sick? You could eat one at any time, and just like that, reminisce about your days spent on the public bus, coughing up a lung. Maybe there could be cough-syrup flavored soda? Or eyedrops for when your eyes feel great? There are so many possibilities here.
I know that in the end this is a cultural difference. We have cinnamon but nobody uses it; vanilla is not an icecream flavor; people prefer fruit-flavored icecream over chocolate; the distinction between acidic and bitter is made by not a large number of people; and most tellingly, Nescafe is a national addiction, despite its tendency to produce a truly fearful case of halitosis.
Good thing we've got all those Halls around.
But back to the Halls. What's up with the Halls? they asked. Halls are just what you're thinking, foil wrapped squares (with a round indent), individually wrapped in wax paper and stacked into a little rectangle, this wrapped in shiny foil of approximately the same color as the candy inside.
But is it candy? In the United States I associate menthol with colds, coughs, congestion and my cuñado (brother-in-law) who has sinus issues. In Chile it's considered a refreshing treat, akin to our mint. "Mints" that claim to be extra-strong or extra-refreshing are sure to be extramentholated. Nothing as strong as the pasty altoid-like Fisherman's Friend, a pastille so strong that if you eat one, my sinuses clear. But still, menthol. Here in Chile here's a gummy sweet sold on the street that's in the shape of little leaves, and which tastes like you just got hopped up on eucalyptus leaves. People willingly buy it. And if not, they might settle for regular mints, called, appropriately enough, mentitas. Though these are sadly lacking in menthol.
Marketing what is essentially a cough drop as candy is an incredible ploy by Halls. Why limit your consumption of this medication to when you're sick? You could eat one at any time, and just like that, reminisce about your days spent on the public bus, coughing up a lung. Maybe there could be cough-syrup flavored soda? Or eyedrops for when your eyes feel great? There are so many possibilities here.
I know that in the end this is a cultural difference. We have cinnamon but nobody uses it; vanilla is not an icecream flavor; people prefer fruit-flavored icecream over chocolate; the distinction between acidic and bitter is made by not a large number of people; and most tellingly, Nescafe is a national addiction, despite its tendency to produce a truly fearful case of halitosis.
Good thing we've got all those Halls around.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Shake that bums girls!
The other day I went with a friend to Patronato, the cheap imported and locally-made clothing neighborhood here in Santiago where everything fits you perfectly if you are a size four to six, which is curious since almost nobody is in Chile. At any rate, my friend had a mission to buy some prendas (garments) there in Patronato and I went with her and checked out a couple of prendas myself, most of which had a low-cuttiness (and the rhyme you're currently thinking of) to them that I simply could not abide. I'm not a very conservative dresser, but I spend a lot of time deflecting piropos already, and I just don't see any reason to add fuel to the fire.
We marveled at the body type of the mannequins they used to model the pants, and the potos parados (bubble butts) that they had, considering that that is also not the body type of most Chilenas. We also looked at each other quizically over racks and racks of one-size-fits-who saggy-butted pants, made of beautiful Indian fabrics, but which kind of make people look like they're wearing diapers. Bombachas (bloomers) in local parlance, if you were wondering.
Not that long ago, I had seen a woman wearing a shirt with the words you see above: Shake that bums girls. It confused me, because it's gramatically wrong. Should be shake those bums girls. Or shake that bum girls.
Or should it? I reparsed the sentence and came up with this: What if it's a shake (as in a drink) that's really delicious, but really bad for you? That would make women sad. Shake that bums girls. Get it? So in my mind I had it as a strange but attention-grabbing marketing scheme for some kind of drink. The green tea frappucino from Starbucks, perhaps?
No matter how you parse it, I have found the source. Patronato. Which really isn't that surprising, given some of the other shirt-os I've seen around Chile. It's no Engrish but it makes me smile anyway.
We marveled at the body type of the mannequins they used to model the pants, and the potos parados (bubble butts) that they had, considering that that is also not the body type of most Chilenas. We also looked at each other quizically over racks and racks of one-size-fits-who saggy-butted pants, made of beautiful Indian fabrics, but which kind of make people look like they're wearing diapers. Bombachas (bloomers) in local parlance, if you were wondering.
Not that long ago, I had seen a woman wearing a shirt with the words you see above: Shake that bums girls. It confused me, because it's gramatically wrong. Should be shake those bums girls. Or shake that bum girls.
Or should it? I reparsed the sentence and came up with this: What if it's a shake (as in a drink) that's really delicious, but really bad for you? That would make women sad. Shake that bums girls. Get it? So in my mind I had it as a strange but attention-grabbing marketing scheme for some kind of drink. The green tea frappucino from Starbucks, perhaps?
No matter how you parse it, I have found the source. Patronato. Which really isn't that surprising, given some of the other shirt-os I've seen around Chile. It's no Engrish but it makes me smile anyway.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
You know what's engraçado?
It's sort of the middle of Santiago tourist season, with people who want to see the farflung corners of the country traipsing around the nation's capital, simultaneously asking themselves, how in the world did it get to be so late with the sun still so high in the sky (it gets dark after 9)?, and has anyone seen the moisture in my skin, it was here just a minute ago? That's right, summertime in the southern hemisphere, with the little stands of mote con huesillo flourishing, with their homemade stools and benches made of rebar and wood or little seats upholstered in naugahyde. The poor naugas, I've always really felt for them.
As the middle of tourist season marches on, the number of Brazilians in Santiago goes from just notable to nearly astonishing. Brazilians are good travellers, for the most part, liking to get out and about, generally patient and adventurous at the same time. There's also a smattering of really truly wealthy Paulistas (from Sao Paulo) who like to come and shop 'til they drop, on tour busses to the fanciest malls in the city, whereupon you will occasionally hear announcements over the loudspeaker urging people with Portuguese names to please hurry back to the bus because, ahem, it's leaving. You can also find these same people enjoying seafood that is pricey here (like centolla, king crab and locos, similar to abalone) but which in Brazil is just off the charts expensive. You can find them in places like Donde Augusto in the mercado central, taking pictures of the gloved waiter (those centolla legs are sharp!) breaking their meal into bite-sized portions.
But what I like best about the Brazilians is listening to them talk. Spanish in Chile is kind of mild, kind of mumbled, almost unpronounced at times. But not Brazilians. Their Portuguese is well-enunciated. It comes out in short burts, punctuated with these great vowely slides that if you didn't grow up saying them, will never come naturally. (trust me, I've tried)
A lot of Brazilians speak a decent amount of Spanish, and even more of them can muddle along in Portuñol, the bastard child between the two. Very occasionally you meet someone whose Spanish is completely uncontaminated by their Portuguese. But they're hard to find. Mostly you find people who occasionally pepper their Spanish with a Portuguese word or three. And for the most part, it's not a problem.
But one of the hardest habits to break for Brazilian Portuguese speakers trying their tongues at Spanish seems to be the word pegar. In Portuguese this can mean get, obtain, grab, pick up, take etc. It's a great word. The only problem is that in Spanish, it means a couple of things, mainly hit, stick and get a contagious disease. Just today I heard a Brazillian woman in the supermarket saying she had to pegar some milk (in Portuguese). Got it, pick up, grab. But when I was in Bolivia I heard a family repeatedly ask the concierge at a hotel if someone would come and pegar (hit?) them at the hotel. And he stifled a stiff-lipped grin (because Bolivians are generally terribly polite), and assured them that yes, someone would definitely come and hit them at the hotel. Which only perpetuates the problem.
But it's really engraçado. Which in Portuguese means funny, and in Spanish sounds like it means greased. Which is engraçado, too.
As the middle of tourist season marches on, the number of Brazilians in Santiago goes from just notable to nearly astonishing. Brazilians are good travellers, for the most part, liking to get out and about, generally patient and adventurous at the same time. There's also a smattering of really truly wealthy Paulistas (from Sao Paulo) who like to come and shop 'til they drop, on tour busses to the fanciest malls in the city, whereupon you will occasionally hear announcements over the loudspeaker urging people with Portuguese names to please hurry back to the bus because, ahem, it's leaving. You can also find these same people enjoying seafood that is pricey here (like centolla, king crab and locos, similar to abalone) but which in Brazil is just off the charts expensive. You can find them in places like Donde Augusto in the mercado central, taking pictures of the gloved waiter (those centolla legs are sharp!) breaking their meal into bite-sized portions.
But what I like best about the Brazilians is listening to them talk. Spanish in Chile is kind of mild, kind of mumbled, almost unpronounced at times. But not Brazilians. Their Portuguese is well-enunciated. It comes out in short burts, punctuated with these great vowely slides that if you didn't grow up saying them, will never come naturally. (trust me, I've tried)
A lot of Brazilians speak a decent amount of Spanish, and even more of them can muddle along in Portuñol, the bastard child between the two. Very occasionally you meet someone whose Spanish is completely uncontaminated by their Portuguese. But they're hard to find. Mostly you find people who occasionally pepper their Spanish with a Portuguese word or three. And for the most part, it's not a problem.
But one of the hardest habits to break for Brazilian Portuguese speakers trying their tongues at Spanish seems to be the word pegar. In Portuguese this can mean get, obtain, grab, pick up, take etc. It's a great word. The only problem is that in Spanish, it means a couple of things, mainly hit, stick and get a contagious disease. Just today I heard a Brazillian woman in the supermarket saying she had to pegar some milk (in Portuguese). Got it, pick up, grab. But when I was in Bolivia I heard a family repeatedly ask the concierge at a hotel if someone would come and pegar (hit?) them at the hotel. And he stifled a stiff-lipped grin (because Bolivians are generally terribly polite), and assured them that yes, someone would definitely come and hit them at the hotel. Which only perpetuates the problem.
But it's really engraçado. Which in Portuguese means funny, and in Spanish sounds like it means greased. Which is engraçado, too.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
It's like eggplant. Or worse
Every culture has their barometer food, by which all disgustingness is judged. I think in the United States it's liver. Sure, there are people who love it, drizzled with onions and fried in a pan, or mashed up with eggs and I'm not sure what else to make my subculture's signature dish, chopped liver. I am so anti the idea of liver, that I won't even let my mother call her "mock chopped liver" dish liver near me. I call it miver, or preferably, "that dip." It has stringbeans in it, and seems to be a not-so-distant cousin to a recipe from Camille Kingsolver in the book "Animal, Vegetable, Mineral."
At any rate, the barometer food here in Chile is berenjena. the lowly and innocent eggplant. I cannot for the life of me understand this, as eggplant has been one of my favorites since before I can remember, with the exception of about a year when I got badly stomach-sick right after eating it and felt an aversion to it. But that was years ago.
Anyway, eggplant. Baked in the oven or charred on the stove, it practically tastes like butter. I love it in caponata, or in baba ganoush. Eggplant parmigiana is amazing (when done right), and my mom used to make baked eggplant sandwiches with the eggplant as the bread. Sigh. But Chileans will fruncir (knit/squinch) their whole face and say about something they don't like, "es como la berenjena" (it's like eggplant).
Fine. Everyone's got a food they don't like, and somehow eggplant got the short end of the stick here. But what I really can't figure out for the life of me is how eggplant "won" over the dreaded cochayuyo.
Cochayuyo, Durvillaea antarctica is a giant monster scary seakelp with tendrils reaching 5 meters in length, which is ripped out of the ocean, folded into bundles or chopped into pieces and sold at the supermarket. It shows up in salads, in stews, even in cochayuyo empanadas. It's high in iodine and fiber and people swear it's good for you. I don't want to ruin the taste of it for you by telling you what it tastes like to me, but just think of something foul. Got it? Now make it chewy and hard to swallow.
So I guess there are gustos y gustos (all kinds of tastes). Give me eggplant over monster scary seakelp any day, unless I'm kayaking in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington State with some friends and we're using the kelp to anchor ourselves and we spy a little seal's head popping up through the tangle. Then I'll take the scary seakelp. Because I'm pretty sure eggplant doesn't float, and even if it did, it would be hard to hold onto.
At any rate, the barometer food here in Chile is berenjena. the lowly and innocent eggplant. I cannot for the life of me understand this, as eggplant has been one of my favorites since before I can remember, with the exception of about a year when I got badly stomach-sick right after eating it and felt an aversion to it. But that was years ago.
Anyway, eggplant. Baked in the oven or charred on the stove, it practically tastes like butter. I love it in caponata, or in baba ganoush. Eggplant parmigiana is amazing (when done right), and my mom used to make baked eggplant sandwiches with the eggplant as the bread. Sigh. But Chileans will fruncir (knit/squinch) their whole face and say about something they don't like, "es como la berenjena" (it's like eggplant).
Fine. Everyone's got a food they don't like, and somehow eggplant got the short end of the stick here. But what I really can't figure out for the life of me is how eggplant "won" over the dreaded cochayuyo.
Cochayuyo, Durvillaea antarctica is a giant monster scary seakelp with tendrils reaching 5 meters in length, which is ripped out of the ocean, folded into bundles or chopped into pieces and sold at the supermarket. It shows up in salads, in stews, even in cochayuyo empanadas. It's high in iodine and fiber and people swear it's good for you. I don't want to ruin the taste of it for you by telling you what it tastes like to me, but just think of something foul. Got it? Now make it chewy and hard to swallow.
So I guess there are gustos y gustos (all kinds of tastes). Give me eggplant over monster scary seakelp any day, unless I'm kayaking in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington State with some friends and we're using the kelp to anchor ourselves and we spy a little seal's head popping up through the tangle. Then I'll take the scary seakelp. Because I'm pretty sure eggplant doesn't float, and even if it did, it would be hard to hold onto.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
cuppa tea
Not too terribly long ago I was struck with a spate of laziness. I wasn't too far from home, maybe a 30 minute walk, but I got on the bus anyway. This particular bus (the 505) runs down Santo Domingo, a narrow street with commerce and people and bustle and the bus ends up taking almost as long as walking, but I'd be struck with laziness, so I swiped my bip (fastpass), and up I went. The bip sensors are at the front of the bus, and it's become a bit of a plague that people hop on the back of the bus and just don't pay for their ride. One such subject did that just as the doors were closing. And I judged him for it.
He hadn't been on the bus long when I heard, "señorita, señorita." I'll admit, I peered sideways up through my hair, decided that whatever this particular fare-evader had to say to me was not going to change my life, and promptly went back to my musings. Seconds later, I heard him "señorita, señorita" someone else, this time a uniformed high-school aged girl with her younger sister in tow. "Ten me esto," (hold this for me), he said, handing the girl a styrofoam cup of tea. An open styrofoam cup of tea. No lid, just water and a teabag and the cup. And she took the tea, wildly juggling her sister, her own hold-on-efforts and now, the tea of a stranger of dubious cleanliness.
I was surprised to see him make his way up to the front of the bus and swipe his card. I unjudged him, though the whole tea thing was still straight out of one of those "funny video" shows. He came back and reclaimed his tea, and the schoolgirl and her sister went on their way. The now non-fare-evader, a man certainly down on his luck, unkempt, dirty, messy, etc began to drink his tea. And then he pulled a pastry out of a bag and began to eat it, showering the bus with crumbs. And when he'd finished his afternoon snack, he balled it all up and waited until the bus doors opened and made a half-hearted attempt to throw the trash outside. He got kind of a rimshot, and the trash bounced back in.
Now I have to take a minute to talk about how clean Santiago is. Sure, we see the occasional ice-cream-wrapper-out-the-bus-window episode, but in general, Santiago is not that city with the trash and the junk and the piles of festering anything. By the standards of the neighborhood we live in, we're downright meticulous here in Santiago. Foreigner friends have commented, "Santiago is so clean!" So seeing this man so blatantly throw a bag of trash on the street was out of place.
This is also, however, a land of non-confrontation, and not a single soul would tell him to stop throwing trash, or to go pick it up, or anything else. Instead, each successive passenger, upon leaving the bus would give a kick or two to try to dislodge the trash from where it was now trapped in the door hinge. Because trash on the street is better than trash on the bus? Because they just wanted to help the guy out and help the trash find its home?
Who knows. When my stop came I just looked the guy in the face, decided that I had bigger fish to fry, stepped over the trash and walked to my apartment.
He hadn't been on the bus long when I heard, "señorita, señorita." I'll admit, I peered sideways up through my hair, decided that whatever this particular fare-evader had to say to me was not going to change my life, and promptly went back to my musings. Seconds later, I heard him "señorita, señorita" someone else, this time a uniformed high-school aged girl with her younger sister in tow. "Ten me esto," (hold this for me), he said, handing the girl a styrofoam cup of tea. An open styrofoam cup of tea. No lid, just water and a teabag and the cup. And she took the tea, wildly juggling her sister, her own hold-on-efforts and now, the tea of a stranger of dubious cleanliness.
I was surprised to see him make his way up to the front of the bus and swipe his card. I unjudged him, though the whole tea thing was still straight out of one of those "funny video" shows. He came back and reclaimed his tea, and the schoolgirl and her sister went on their way. The now non-fare-evader, a man certainly down on his luck, unkempt, dirty, messy, etc began to drink his tea. And then he pulled a pastry out of a bag and began to eat it, showering the bus with crumbs. And when he'd finished his afternoon snack, he balled it all up and waited until the bus doors opened and made a half-hearted attempt to throw the trash outside. He got kind of a rimshot, and the trash bounced back in.
Now I have to take a minute to talk about how clean Santiago is. Sure, we see the occasional ice-cream-wrapper-out-the-bus-window episode, but in general, Santiago is not that city with the trash and the junk and the piles of festering anything. By the standards of the neighborhood we live in, we're downright meticulous here in Santiago. Foreigner friends have commented, "Santiago is so clean!" So seeing this man so blatantly throw a bag of trash on the street was out of place.
This is also, however, a land of non-confrontation, and not a single soul would tell him to stop throwing trash, or to go pick it up, or anything else. Instead, each successive passenger, upon leaving the bus would give a kick or two to try to dislodge the trash from where it was now trapped in the door hinge. Because trash on the street is better than trash on the bus? Because they just wanted to help the guy out and help the trash find its home?
Who knows. When my stop came I just looked the guy in the face, decided that I had bigger fish to fry, stepped over the trash and walked to my apartment.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Radio silent
In a cruel twist of fate, I have been struck dumb. It is not so much that I have lost the facility of language, no, that would be aphasia (go thousands of dollars in private education in linguistics and language acquisition!). What I have is an upwelling of ideas and pending phone calls and social engagements that I simply cannot express, enjoy or attend. I am, in a word, afónica (soundless, as in I have lost my voice).
This is a terrible state to find oneself in, particularly if you are me, from whose mouth issues forth a terrible torrent of words nearly all the time. (Sorry boyfriend, family, friends, people standing on line near me at a store etc, but isn't admitting the problem the first step?). I'm a talker. Not being able to emit a sound audible to human ears is unpleasant, and, like a bruise that you keep on poking to make sure it still hurts, I keep on squeaking out words here and there just to check. No voice? check. Still no voice? check check. How about now?
The lack of voice came upon suddenly, as I was out showing some gringos I'd met on the road a good time and plying them with empanadas here in Barrio Brasil before their last night of sleep in Santiago. I'd had a warning, a sudden OMG is that my thyroid trying to escape through my mouth sort of choking in the middle of the night the night before. I drank cayenne mixed with juice, did shots of propolys. The cold disappeared (for the most part), but still, I am human voice-free.
The word afónica really bothers me. It's not really that there's nothing that comes out, it's just hideously shrill and requires a lot of effort. There should be a word disfónica (there is not), which instead of no sound would mean wrong, or messed-up sound. The problem with disfónica (at least for me), in addition to the fact that it doesn't exist is that it reminds me too much of daltónica, which means colorblind. As far as I know, this is not the case, barbie paintjob of my bedroom notwithstanding.
The worst and most injured victim of my afonía is not the awesome hike to the waterfall I missed yesterday, nor the cool play I am missing as I write this. It is not even listening as my phone rings, and knowing I can't talk to the person on the other end. What really aches is my ego. My poor bilingual ego is mute, and I have become the gringa that goes to the farmer's market and just points to things, and has everyone all around me speak in monosyllabic words with sweeping gestures. I don't speak, so you don't either. I point to porotos granados in their beautiful red and white speckled pods (cranberry beans, they tell me) and you open your hands, as if to say "how much?" Do you want a bag to put your fruit in becomes an exaggerated point and wide-armed shrug with raised eyebrows.
It reminds me just a tiny bit of last week when I was at a hostel in Iquique and had been hanging out with some Argentine women, gabbing and laughing etc. Later that night a spot at a long table opened up and I sat down to eat my dinner. Something funny happened (in English) and I smiled. A well-meaning English-speaking woman said to me, "Entiendes?" (do you understand?) And I said, "yeah, I'm American."
It reminds me of that except that today I've got people asking me entiendes-like questions all day long. And I've got no punch line. No voice either.
testing, testing...
This is a terrible state to find oneself in, particularly if you are me, from whose mouth issues forth a terrible torrent of words nearly all the time. (Sorry boyfriend, family, friends, people standing on line near me at a store etc, but isn't admitting the problem the first step?). I'm a talker. Not being able to emit a sound audible to human ears is unpleasant, and, like a bruise that you keep on poking to make sure it still hurts, I keep on squeaking out words here and there just to check. No voice? check. Still no voice? check check. How about now?
The lack of voice came upon suddenly, as I was out showing some gringos I'd met on the road a good time and plying them with empanadas here in Barrio Brasil before their last night of sleep in Santiago. I'd had a warning, a sudden OMG is that my thyroid trying to escape through my mouth sort of choking in the middle of the night the night before. I drank cayenne mixed with juice, did shots of propolys. The cold disappeared (for the most part), but still, I am human voice-free.
The word afónica really bothers me. It's not really that there's nothing that comes out, it's just hideously shrill and requires a lot of effort. There should be a word disfónica (there is not), which instead of no sound would mean wrong, or messed-up sound. The problem with disfónica (at least for me), in addition to the fact that it doesn't exist is that it reminds me too much of daltónica, which means colorblind. As far as I know, this is not the case, barbie paintjob of my bedroom notwithstanding.
The worst and most injured victim of my afonía is not the awesome hike to the waterfall I missed yesterday, nor the cool play I am missing as I write this. It is not even listening as my phone rings, and knowing I can't talk to the person on the other end. What really aches is my ego. My poor bilingual ego is mute, and I have become the gringa that goes to the farmer's market and just points to things, and has everyone all around me speak in monosyllabic words with sweeping gestures. I don't speak, so you don't either. I point to porotos granados in their beautiful red and white speckled pods (cranberry beans, they tell me) and you open your hands, as if to say "how much?" Do you want a bag to put your fruit in becomes an exaggerated point and wide-armed shrug with raised eyebrows.
It reminds me just a tiny bit of last week when I was at a hostel in Iquique and had been hanging out with some Argentine women, gabbing and laughing etc. Later that night a spot at a long table opened up and I sat down to eat my dinner. Something funny happened (in English) and I smiled. A well-meaning English-speaking woman said to me, "Entiendes?" (do you understand?) And I said, "yeah, I'm American."
It reminds me of that except that today I've got people asking me entiendes-like questions all day long. And I've got no punch line. No voice either.
testing, testing...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
If you love my blog, and you think it's sexy
Well then, you and I have very different ideas about what's sexy.
But if you love or even just kind of have a crush on this blog, or if it's one that you read but don't exactly ever know what to expect (yeah, me neither), or if it's the only expat blog you read, or it's marginally better than that one you read by that girl who moans endlessly about the lack of peanut butter (there must be one), or who doesn't run in circles to explain to you what's going on here and there, or perhaps doesn't even measure her kitchen in matchboxes or talk about her elevator like it's a neighborhood bully, well then have I got a task for you.
Lonely Planet, that on-a-shoestring-tourbook publisher that printed the book I dutifully carried with me on my first ever sola foray out of the country, on an ill-conceived trip that at times left me very ill indeed, through the highlands and lowlands of Central America with a backpack that was entirely too heavy, too full of socks and also a space blanket which thank goodness because I almost froze to death a couple of times, well that publisher is running a blog contest.
It's essentially a popularity contest. Contrary to what you might guess given the pithy observations and verbose diatribes, I was never particularly unpopular, in the idea of disliked. I might have been a curiousity (poke her, see what she'll do), or perhaps even an oddity (did she say squabble?! squabble? (they sounded like turkeys at this point in my tenth grade history class, squabble? squabble?), but I never sat at the cafeteria lunch table alone, spitballs in my hair. (In fact, I skipped lunch entirely, but that's a tale about how we had captive lunch at my highschool because of the neighborhood it was in, and not about the blog).
So back to popular. If you want to see me achieve great pretend fame in the virtual world that is bloggity madness, look no further but to vote for my little rincón (corner) of the internet on Lonely Planet's blog awards.
Clickety and you shall arrive!
expat blog: www.bearshapedsphere.blogspot.com
'twould be nice indeed.
If I win, or get honorable mention or at least a size medium t-shirt, I will start taking suggestions about what to write about. And um... well, that's really all I can offer. But I'll be extremely smiley while I do it. That's got to count for something.
But if you love or even just kind of have a crush on this blog, or if it's one that you read but don't exactly ever know what to expect (yeah, me neither), or if it's the only expat blog you read, or it's marginally better than that one you read by that girl who moans endlessly about the lack of peanut butter (there must be one), or who doesn't run in circles to explain to you what's going on here and there, or perhaps doesn't even measure her kitchen in matchboxes or talk about her elevator like it's a neighborhood bully, well then have I got a task for you.
Lonely Planet, that on-a-shoestring-tourbook publisher that printed the book I dutifully carried with me on my first ever sola foray out of the country, on an ill-conceived trip that at times left me very ill indeed, through the highlands and lowlands of Central America with a backpack that was entirely too heavy, too full of socks and also a space blanket which thank goodness because I almost froze to death a couple of times, well that publisher is running a blog contest.
It's essentially a popularity contest. Contrary to what you might guess given the pithy observations and verbose diatribes, I was never particularly unpopular, in the idea of disliked. I might have been a curiousity (poke her, see what she'll do), or perhaps even an oddity (did she say squabble?! squabble? (they sounded like turkeys at this point in my tenth grade history class, squabble? squabble?), but I never sat at the cafeteria lunch table alone, spitballs in my hair. (In fact, I skipped lunch entirely, but that's a tale about how we had captive lunch at my highschool because of the neighborhood it was in, and not about the blog).
So back to popular. If you want to see me achieve great pretend fame in the virtual world that is bloggity madness, look no further but to vote for my little rincón (corner) of the internet on Lonely Planet's blog awards.
Clickety and you shall arrive!
expat blog: www.bearshapedsphere.blogspot.com
'twould be nice indeed.
If I win, or get honorable mention or at least a size medium t-shirt, I will start taking suggestions about what to write about. And um... well, that's really all I can offer. But I'll be extremely smiley while I do it. That's got to count for something.
Can't wait to go floonding!
There's this awesome new sport where you levitate over the ocean's surface and mimic the walking guy on the crosswalk sign while wild waves crash all around you.
At least that's what this sign might lead you to believe.
In actual fact, it's a sign reminding you that though in Iquique, you might be a couple of blocks from the beach, it's still a possibility that a rogue wave (or tsunami) could come around and leave you scrambling for purchase. (inundación, flooding)
It's also part of a larger plague of misspelled and otherwise mistranslated signs you find all over the world. I must admit to entertaining both myself and my mother into fits of pterydactl-squawk punctuated giggles by reading aloud the pamphlets produced by some of the national parks in the north of Chile and trying to guess at what the original meaning.
I can understand the occasional bad translation on a menu.
Take this one, for example:
Sweater gives trout. Also known as sudado (sweated) de (of/gives) trout (poached trout). Ow, my aching mandible, with all the wool. It's funny, it's scoff-worthy, but then you get over it (this gem in the bus station in Puno, Perú). I'm sure some guy had his afternoon free, and they sent him to the Internet café to get a little work done, and this is what he came up with. Whatever. I certainly don't expect every mom and pop restaurant on the continent to get their menu professionally translated.
What I don't get is the signs, put there by municipalities, by government agencies, by presumably moneyed entities that don't get check their work. Chile is a rich country, especially when compared to its neighbors. Surely we can do better than floonding.
Or maybe it really is a new extreme sport. Wonder where I sign up.
At least that's what this sign might lead you to believe.
In actual fact, it's a sign reminding you that though in Iquique, you might be a couple of blocks from the beach, it's still a possibility that a rogue wave (or tsunami) could come around and leave you scrambling for purchase. (inundación, flooding)
It's also part of a larger plague of misspelled and otherwise mistranslated signs you find all over the world. I must admit to entertaining both myself and my mother into fits of pterydactl-squawk punctuated giggles by reading aloud the pamphlets produced by some of the national parks in the north of Chile and trying to guess at what the original meaning.
I can understand the occasional bad translation on a menu.
Take this one, for example:
Sweater gives trout. Also known as sudado (sweated) de (of/gives) trout (poached trout). Ow, my aching mandible, with all the wool. It's funny, it's scoff-worthy, but then you get over it (this gem in the bus station in Puno, Perú). I'm sure some guy had his afternoon free, and they sent him to the Internet café to get a little work done, and this is what he came up with. Whatever. I certainly don't expect every mom and pop restaurant on the continent to get their menu professionally translated.
What I don't get is the signs, put there by municipalities, by government agencies, by presumably moneyed entities that don't get check their work. Chile is a rich country, especially when compared to its neighbors. Surely we can do better than floonding.
Or maybe it really is a new extreme sport. Wonder where I sign up.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The smell of a trip
There comes a time after a trip when every reasonable person must unpack their bag, backpack, wheelie suitcase or whathaveyou. I've been known to leave a bag lying around the house for a day or two while I contemplate the task. But not this time.
As a person with a fairly bionic olfactory sense, unpacking my bag is an immediate rush of smells. The place you went nearly always smells different from the place you are, even if it's just a little woodsmoke or some soap you used on the road, or your grandmother's perfume.
I recall a trip to Cuba (US-licensed, of course) during which I cycled around on an old bike whose seat kept tipping forward forward forward until I was holding myself up with my arms to prevent myself from falling down onto the top horizontal tube. I had flown through Mexico, and on the way back, got red-lighted at customs at the Cancún airport. As the official opened my bag, a horrible moldy sweaty whiff came out like smoke, almost visible. And I explained that I'd been cycling in the mountains for days, and I was sorry my clothes stank. And she replied "Todo el equipaje de Cuba huele así" (All the luggage from Cuba smells like this). To this day I'm sure she just said it to make me feel better. I spent over a week in Cuba, and it's full of good green rainy lush and foodie smells. The mold and sweat were all my own.
Unpacking from this trip, I identified a number of smells from the road. There's the patchouli-like smell of the alpaca scarf I bought, the smell of an exploded chai teabag I had brought (Zhena's gypsy tea vanilla chai, sumamente rico!), a foul I-remember-these-were-the-clothes-in-which-I-got-sick smell, too-much-time-on-the-bus smell, went-to-the-beach-and-maybe-didn't-dry-my-swimsuit-all-the-way smell, etc.
Some of the smells are good, and in this case, most are not, but it's incredible how the mind can build nostalgia out of almost nothing at all. You see, I arrived at 2:00 AM last night, and as I was loading up the washing machine just now I was feeling all wistful that this trip was over and that normal life resumes. But I threw the stuff immediately into the wash anyway. Because really? My stuff reeks.
As a person with a fairly bionic olfactory sense, unpacking my bag is an immediate rush of smells. The place you went nearly always smells different from the place you are, even if it's just a little woodsmoke or some soap you used on the road, or your grandmother's perfume.
I recall a trip to Cuba (US-licensed, of course) during which I cycled around on an old bike whose seat kept tipping forward forward forward until I was holding myself up with my arms to prevent myself from falling down onto the top horizontal tube. I had flown through Mexico, and on the way back, got red-lighted at customs at the Cancún airport. As the official opened my bag, a horrible moldy sweaty whiff came out like smoke, almost visible. And I explained that I'd been cycling in the mountains for days, and I was sorry my clothes stank. And she replied "Todo el equipaje de Cuba huele así" (All the luggage from Cuba smells like this). To this day I'm sure she just said it to make me feel better. I spent over a week in Cuba, and it's full of good green rainy lush and foodie smells. The mold and sweat were all my own.
Unpacking from this trip, I identified a number of smells from the road. There's the patchouli-like smell of the alpaca scarf I bought, the smell of an exploded chai teabag I had brought (Zhena's gypsy tea vanilla chai, sumamente rico!), a foul I-remember-these-were-the-clothes-in-which-I-got-sick smell, too-much-time-on-the-bus smell, went-to-the-beach-and-maybe-didn't-dry-my-swimsuit-all-the-way smell, etc.
Some of the smells are good, and in this case, most are not, but it's incredible how the mind can build nostalgia out of almost nothing at all. You see, I arrived at 2:00 AM last night, and as I was loading up the washing machine just now I was feeling all wistful that this trip was over and that normal life resumes. But I threw the stuff immediately into the wash anyway. Because really? My stuff reeks.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Distances may be shorter than they appear (with bonus doctor story!)
Whenever you are given advice on how to get somewhere, it is best to consider the source. Sure, there are people who will mistakenly give you wrong directions, send you over hill and dale, never to find your destination. But then there are people who knowingly tell you that the distance to be covered is great, and must be achieved by vehicle. This is often a lie.
Thanks to a combination of high altitude, extreme desert conditions, freezing cold, lack of handwashing facilities, bacteria, and bad luck, I seem to have a paronychia, a tiny warm and painful infection next to my fingernail on my right ring finger. I ignored it for a while, soaked it for a while, and finally decided it was time to head to the médico here in Arica. All signs pointed to me going to the Clínica San José, apparently a posh affair. A well-meaning man whom I asked for directions walked me to the posta central (central public clinic) instead, but there was a longish wait, it would cost me about the same (because I have private insurance, treatment is free if you have state insurance) and to be honest, I have more faith in private than public health care in most places. So off to the Clínica San José it was. Several people counselled me to take a taxi, but my fairy godfather acompannyer sent me on the bus. Five minutes later, I arrived.
So the lesson here, is wash your hands well, consider who your "take the bus" advice comes from and treat your paronychia before it turns into a felon. I am totally not making this up.
In case you were surveying my health situation and thinking me weak, the illustrious Dr. V. Ignacio Gonzales M. assures me that if I weren't so strong, the infection would have progressed much further in the four days since I first started noticing it. Here's hopng the Cefamox (Cefadroxil) works!
Thanks to a combination of high altitude, extreme desert conditions, freezing cold, lack of handwashing facilities, bacteria, and bad luck, I seem to have a paronychia, a tiny warm and painful infection next to my fingernail on my right ring finger. I ignored it for a while, soaked it for a while, and finally decided it was time to head to the médico here in Arica. All signs pointed to me going to the Clínica San José, apparently a posh affair. A well-meaning man whom I asked for directions walked me to the posta central (central public clinic) instead, but there was a longish wait, it would cost me about the same (because I have private insurance, treatment is free if you have state insurance) and to be honest, I have more faith in private than public health care in most places. So off to the Clínica San José it was. Several people counselled me to take a taxi, but my fairy godfather acompannyer sent me on the bus. Five minutes later, I arrived.
So the lesson here, is wash your hands well, consider who your "take the bus" advice comes from and treat your paronychia before it turns into a felon. I am totally not making this up.
In case you were surveying my health situation and thinking me weak, the illustrious Dr. V. Ignacio Gonzales M. assures me that if I weren't so strong, the infection would have progressed much further in the four days since I first started noticing it. Here's hopng the Cefamox (Cefadroxil) works!
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The ugly side of travelling (with disgusting details!)
There's this really ugly side of travelling that no one really wants to talk about. This is not an oblique reference to how dirty our clothes are, or how often we bypass a shower because it's just not worth it.
This is about getting sick on the road. Overexposure to sun (insolación in Spanish), dehydration, diarrhea, vomiting, eye infections, infected cuts, injuries from sprained ankles to concussions, malaria, dengue fever, parasites from leishmaniasis to those worms that have to be wound out on a stick (guinea worm).
In a word, being sick or injured on the road sucks. It´s terrible because you feel like death, no one can help you and you kind of want your mommy. There are stories of folk remedies like the liquid tiger balm a former Peace Corps volunteer in Ivory Coast told me about, (drunk, not spread), teas and tisanes and hot rocks, and having an egg rolled over your body and the yolk analyzed. In No Touch Monkey, Ayun Halliday tells the story of having a dislocated knee relocated by a spuriously qualified healer.
I was once on a bus from Barriloche to Mendoza, Argentina and met a young Norweigan probably on the verge of going septic from a terribly infected tatoo. We trooped together, a nurse who happened to be on the bus, the norweigan with the oozing tatoo and me, the translator to pharmacy in Neuquén to get him antibiotics.
Being sick on the road is a royal pain. You want to be happy, and up and fun and OMG I just ate this thing from the market and who knows what it was. But then there's the urgent flight to the bathroom, the prayers to an unknown deity to please just make it stop.
It also becomes the sort of merit badge of travellers, whipped out at the most inopportune moments (during dinner, for example) in a grand game of one-up-manship. It also leads to some fairly hilarious and creative moments. And so I shall leave you with the following (warning, disgustingness ensues): Anyone who didn't cut the top off of a two-liter bottle to throw up into last night may now be excused.
What? Am I the only one left?
Thanks Bolivia, it's been real. Leavingon the 1:30 bus for Peru.
This is about getting sick on the road. Overexposure to sun (insolación in Spanish), dehydration, diarrhea, vomiting, eye infections, infected cuts, injuries from sprained ankles to concussions, malaria, dengue fever, parasites from leishmaniasis to those worms that have to be wound out on a stick (guinea worm).
In a word, being sick or injured on the road sucks. It´s terrible because you feel like death, no one can help you and you kind of want your mommy. There are stories of folk remedies like the liquid tiger balm a former Peace Corps volunteer in Ivory Coast told me about, (drunk, not spread), teas and tisanes and hot rocks, and having an egg rolled over your body and the yolk analyzed. In No Touch Monkey, Ayun Halliday tells the story of having a dislocated knee relocated by a spuriously qualified healer.
I was once on a bus from Barriloche to Mendoza, Argentina and met a young Norweigan probably on the verge of going septic from a terribly infected tatoo. We trooped together, a nurse who happened to be on the bus, the norweigan with the oozing tatoo and me, the translator to pharmacy in Neuquén to get him antibiotics.
Being sick on the road is a royal pain. You want to be happy, and up and fun and OMG I just ate this thing from the market and who knows what it was. But then there's the urgent flight to the bathroom, the prayers to an unknown deity to please just make it stop.
It also becomes the sort of merit badge of travellers, whipped out at the most inopportune moments (during dinner, for example) in a grand game of one-up-manship. It also leads to some fairly hilarious and creative moments. And so I shall leave you with the following (warning, disgustingness ensues): Anyone who didn't cut the top off of a two-liter bottle to throw up into last night may now be excused.
What? Am I the only one left?
Thanks Bolivia, it's been real. Leavingon the 1:30 bus for Peru.
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