On numerous occasions, we've (and I mean you and I, or the other bloggers that make up my little corner of the world) talked about the contrast between the high and low, the haves and the have nots. Kyle tells her version of the class divide in Chile here, and Peg does something similar (talking about a play she'd seen recently) here. Lots of good stuff in the comments, too. But wait! Don't forget to come back!
My story takes me in one day from one of the poorer and historically most turbulent and unified areas of Santiago, the población (poor neighborhood/slum) La Victoria (link in Spanish) in the comuna (district) of Pedro Aguirre Cerda (PAC) to the VIP floor of the After Office party at Castillo Hidalgo on Cerro Santa Lucia.
When my really nifty neighbor asked me if I'd come and talk to Pamela Jiles, the interviewer on a program called Chiles, I wasn't sure if I'd do it. Not because it's an illegal channel, not because I'm afraid that I look weird on TV (who doesn't), and not even necessarily because she's a pretty controversial figure, and known for being difficult and confrontational. I actually hesitated because even after five years, I worry a little about my Spanish. There. I said it. It's not that I worry about being heard, but about being recorded, heard and reheard. Anyway, you're not going to hear and rehear me, and if you do, you'll find that the recording is terribly sibilant, none of us have a lisp, except the Spaniard, and that's just his accent.
If you've got an hour to kill, enjoy me and my two cointerviewees (topic: immigrants in Chile) together with our presenter, who had a cold, and was fairly lovely to us the whole time, here's where you can watch the whole low-budget video.
you'll see me mostly at the following intervals, if you can't wait to hear what I have to say:
3:14 -7:08
16:27 17:49
26:11 29:25
32:15 35:50
37:50 39:25
41:04 42:21
47:55 49:20
50:00 52:38
I can't be bothered to subtitle the thing, but I assure you that I am utterly charming (the interviewer tells me so toward the end of the interview), and that at 28:44 I do not ask the interviewer if she knows anyone when she asks me if I have a (romantic) partner. At minute 22, we are all laughing because Ms. Jiles asks why the Spaniard was attracted to the población La Victoria, and in Chilean Spanish we use the article before the name of a person as a term of endearment, and one of the camera women (my neighbor) is called Victoria, or in this case "La Victoria," so we're all laughing because perhaps he was attracted to the woman, not the población, and apparently we are all twelve years old.
The guy in the middle is from Nigeria, and is a political asilee from his home country, and has lived in Cuba, Ecuador and a bunch of other Latin American countries.
We bid our farewells and were given books from Le Monde Diplomatique as parting gifts. I was kind of strongarmed into trading my book (on the Mapuche) to a collection of blog entries by Luis Sepúlveda.
After wrapping up the filming, we bussed back to our middle ground of downtown/barrio brasil, neither poor nor wealthy (though parts are variably either or both). I had a couple of hours of work to do, and then I swooped over to the mythical after office party, where observations abounded, money (not mine) flowed and I (this time) wore sensible shoes.
One thing led to another, and my friend and I were soon invited up to the VIP lounge of this event, where we were assured we would be rubbing shoulders with the cream of the crop (Chileans and sympathizers, our host said " son puro ABC1" We quickly discovered that, just as their downstairs brethren do, people were dropping drinks (one on a friend of mine), singing along in English, and dancing in way too small a space. The only difference was the pink wristbands. Oh, and fewer gringos. Maybe the people tended to be a little older. Certainly we were all in better shape for having climbed so very many stairs to get there. But upstairs, downstairs, it was all the same. The same questions, the same failed attempts to dance, the same (WHAT?) 25-28 year-olds chatting me up.
Which just goes to show you, life is pretty much the same wherever you go, it all depends on your attitude, the good people with whom you surround yourself, taking care of each other, and on wearing comfortable shoes. This last one so you can walk on the potholed and or in-progress streets of the población and the cobblestones up to the castle where you can rub shoulders with people who'll ask you repetitive questions that you blogged about a month ago and some of which you were just asked on an illegal television program by a woman too sick to really show her snarky side.
Thank God for small mercies. And Danskos. Definitely Danskos.
Oh, and thanks for your patience. Should I have warned you to grab a cup of coffee first?
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Traveling with moms and pops
I have roughly 23,000 things to say, as is generally the case, but right here, right now, precious little time in which to say them. But you love content (or so I hear), so I will leave you with two things.
1. A picture I took of my mom on a recent trip to San Pedro de Atacama
which I'd actually already referenced once, here (who needs blog indexing, when I have my braiiiiiiin?)
2. A story that explains that picture, and gives six other non-photography-related reasons you absolutely should travel with your parents, with props to my excellent editor at Bootsnall.
Seven reasons why traveling with your parents isn't a bad idea
feel free to stumble, digg, or scream from the rooftops, but be sure your neighbors aren't home first. You wouldn't want to start some kind of incident. Though it might make for a good story, and you know how we all love a good story.
1. A picture I took of my mom on a recent trip to San Pedro de Atacama
which I'd actually already referenced once, here (who needs blog indexing, when I have my braiiiiiiin?)
2. A story that explains that picture, and gives six other non-photography-related reasons you absolutely should travel with your parents, with props to my excellent editor at Bootsnall.
Seven reasons why traveling with your parents isn't a bad idea
feel free to stumble, digg, or scream from the rooftops, but be sure your neighbors aren't home first. You wouldn't want to start some kind of incident. Though it might make for a good story, and you know how we all love a good story.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Perníl and Mariscal, two must eats in Chile in the cool season
If everyone who'd ever complained about food here in Chile were to raise their hands simultaneously, it would create an upswell current that would probably rip the pants off of whoever lives on the opposite side of the planet. Who is that, anyway? My bearshapedsphere is all distorted, don't you know.
So the point is, we bitch about the food. It's not what we're used to. It's not bad, it's just new (to us). It also tends towards hearty and mildly flavored. There's not a lot of delicately snipped herbs tossed in a light vinaigrette. It's more, here's your damn lemon juice and salad oil (or maybe olive oil, if you're lucky), plonk, now have a nice day (or don't).
There's a lot of typical Chilean food that Chileans are over the moon for, just like your mother's lasagna (I'm talking about my mother's lasagna here, if your mother's lasagna is no good I can put her in touch with Mamaj) is the best lasagna you've ever tasted. In my case, I'm spoiled because everyone in my family cooks quite well, either by intuition or recipe. Have I told you about my brother-in-law's cooking affinity? The man could easily knock your socks off culinarily, even from a distance. But anyway, the food you grew up eating has a special place in your heart (on your waistline) and in your palate.
Today I'm here to talk about two foods which my friend and I recently ate (one for each of us) at El Rincón de Pancho, to my mind the best option in the market that's close to the Congreso in Valparaíso. The closest metro stop (about four blocks) is Muelle Barón (a funny name in and of itself, since b and v are pronounced the same, and Muelle Varón would mean a male pier. What do I know, I just hope they put up one for the ladies sometime). There's another market, too, farther from the bus station (rodoviario, not estación in Valparaíso, anyone know why this is?).
Anyway, off to Fransisco's corner we went (El Rincón de Pancho), and we ordered two of Chile's wintertime specialties: perníl, and mariscal.
Here's the perníl, and no, my friend does not have unusually tiny hands, this is a tremendous hunk of chancho (pig). C had been dreaming of perníl since the summer, and was not disappointed. This particular cut can be cooked on the stove or in the oven, or started in the oven and finished on the stove. It must take an eternity to cook, and though I'm sure someone's grandmother out there is starting it right now for a late lunch, it's something people mostly eat when they are out and about. It seems to be part of the chancho's leg and a quick google reveals it to be the pork shoulder. A nice, thick layer of something you don't eat (fat? skin?) that you pull off to reveal the succulent meat below. We joked and joked about how huge it was, and a fellow diner came up to check on my friend's progress a number of times. I asked him if it was among the top 10 perniles he's ever eaten, and he said it was one of the very best. So there you have it. If you've been craving perníl and your abuela won't make it, or it's been too hot to eat it, head over to this resto and get your fill. Price: 4,000 pesos and a dose of statins. Want to make it yourself? here's a recipe. Disclaimer: I am not a pork eater, so I just looked on in amazement.
The second dish is the famous mariscal. Mariscal looks like this:
and tastes like this:
Insert happy/sad faces here.
To be fair, I am not much of a seafood eater. Usually, when faced with either shellfish or fish or veggie options, I will choose veggie, followed by fish. Shellfish just isn't my forte, which is a great way of putting it, because the flavor of shellfish in Chile with all of its jiggly mystery phalanges and OMG, I actually saw the valves of the bivalve is strong. Mariscal is a soupy collection of a giant variety of shellfish, including the piure (red sea squirt), picoroco (giant barnacle) and more ostiones, choritos and other little sea creatures you can think of. If you are a seafood eater (like Mamaj), it is delectable. C also said it was delicious. I was looking around the room and wondering how many bivalves a cat could eat before he or she would get sick. (only one kitty indulged me, and of course I didn't start feeding her until I was done eating).
Still, this was the best seafood soup I've tried in Chile. It was brothy and fishy and soupy and perfect for a rainy day, if only I really loved seafood. I tried it because I could, and because the other version I once tried was deemed not good by the people I was with. As I was staring into a soup of things that would have stared back at me if they could have, I thought of a friend (who may identify herself, if she likes) who was recently on an all-meals-included work junket and presented with a lovely mariscal for dinner. Problem being, her stomach tells her to pass on the stuff. She sipped the broth and maybe even dipped some bread (how ordinario!), and feigned a lack of hunger. I don't have stomach problems, per se with mariscal, it's just not something I need to order again. Like ever. 3,500 pesos, and don't forget the lemon, especially after eating the red sea squirt (piure).
I think I'm all out of stuff to say about these two foods, and am off to wander the city and go from meeting to meeting, and then do a stint as a foley artist (helping a sound tech with making rustling sounds, I hope I do a good job!), and all the while think happy salad and vegetable thoughts. And if I get hungry, maybe I'll check out that new Vietnamese place over in Recoleta. I hope they have something vegetarian.
So the point is, we bitch about the food. It's not what we're used to. It's not bad, it's just new (to us). It also tends towards hearty and mildly flavored. There's not a lot of delicately snipped herbs tossed in a light vinaigrette. It's more, here's your damn lemon juice and salad oil (or maybe olive oil, if you're lucky), plonk, now have a nice day (or don't).
There's a lot of typical Chilean food that Chileans are over the moon for, just like your mother's lasagna (I'm talking about my mother's lasagna here, if your mother's lasagna is no good I can put her in touch with Mamaj) is the best lasagna you've ever tasted. In my case, I'm spoiled because everyone in my family cooks quite well, either by intuition or recipe. Have I told you about my brother-in-law's cooking affinity? The man could easily knock your socks off culinarily, even from a distance. But anyway, the food you grew up eating has a special place in your heart (on your waistline) and in your palate.
Today I'm here to talk about two foods which my friend and I recently ate (one for each of us) at El Rincón de Pancho, to my mind the best option in the market that's close to the Congreso in Valparaíso. The closest metro stop (about four blocks) is Muelle Barón (a funny name in and of itself, since b and v are pronounced the same, and Muelle Varón would mean a male pier. What do I know, I just hope they put up one for the ladies sometime). There's another market, too, farther from the bus station (rodoviario, not estación in Valparaíso, anyone know why this is?).
Anyway, off to Fransisco's corner we went (El Rincón de Pancho), and we ordered two of Chile's wintertime specialties: perníl, and mariscal.
Here's the perníl, and no, my friend does not have unusually tiny hands, this is a tremendous hunk of chancho (pig). C had been dreaming of perníl since the summer, and was not disappointed. This particular cut can be cooked on the stove or in the oven, or started in the oven and finished on the stove. It must take an eternity to cook, and though I'm sure someone's grandmother out there is starting it right now for a late lunch, it's something people mostly eat when they are out and about. It seems to be part of the chancho's leg and a quick google reveals it to be the pork shoulder. A nice, thick layer of something you don't eat (fat? skin?) that you pull off to reveal the succulent meat below. We joked and joked about how huge it was, and a fellow diner came up to check on my friend's progress a number of times. I asked him if it was among the top 10 perniles he's ever eaten, and he said it was one of the very best. So there you have it. If you've been craving perníl and your abuela won't make it, or it's been too hot to eat it, head over to this resto and get your fill. Price: 4,000 pesos and a dose of statins. Want to make it yourself? here's a recipe. Disclaimer: I am not a pork eater, so I just looked on in amazement.
The second dish is the famous mariscal. Mariscal looks like this:
and tastes like this:
Insert happy/sad faces here.
To be fair, I am not much of a seafood eater. Usually, when faced with either shellfish or fish or veggie options, I will choose veggie, followed by fish. Shellfish just isn't my forte, which is a great way of putting it, because the flavor of shellfish in Chile with all of its jiggly mystery phalanges and OMG, I actually saw the valves of the bivalve is strong. Mariscal is a soupy collection of a giant variety of shellfish, including the piure (red sea squirt), picoroco (giant barnacle) and more ostiones, choritos and other little sea creatures you can think of. If you are a seafood eater (like Mamaj), it is delectable. C also said it was delicious. I was looking around the room and wondering how many bivalves a cat could eat before he or she would get sick. (only one kitty indulged me, and of course I didn't start feeding her until I was done eating).
Still, this was the best seafood soup I've tried in Chile. It was brothy and fishy and soupy and perfect for a rainy day, if only I really loved seafood. I tried it because I could, and because the other version I once tried was deemed not good by the people I was with. As I was staring into a soup of things that would have stared back at me if they could have, I thought of a friend (who may identify herself, if she likes) who was recently on an all-meals-included work junket and presented with a lovely mariscal for dinner. Problem being, her stomach tells her to pass on the stuff. She sipped the broth and maybe even dipped some bread (how ordinario!), and feigned a lack of hunger. I don't have stomach problems, per se with mariscal, it's just not something I need to order again. Like ever. 3,500 pesos, and don't forget the lemon, especially after eating the red sea squirt (piure).
I think I'm all out of stuff to say about these two foods, and am off to wander the city and go from meeting to meeting, and then do a stint as a foley artist (helping a sound tech with making rustling sounds, I hope I do a good job!), and all the while think happy salad and vegetable thoughts. And if I get hungry, maybe I'll check out that new Vietnamese place over in Recoleta. I hope they have something vegetarian.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Cerro La Campana, transportation and fall comes to Chile (finally!)
I'm torn here whether I should talk about Chile's national parks or Chile's unbeatable public transportation (at least in the central region, in which Santiago is located). I guess tons has been written about the national parks, and not that much about transportation (but lookie here, an article by yours truly lauding the Santiago Metro as the Cadillac of metros, and the Viña-Valpo metro as having one of the best views of any metro. And it does).
At any rate, this weekend brought a few things I really like.
Good times with friends
Enough sleep
Good public transportation
Outside (whether biking, hiking, or just being)
Views (see: outside above)
C and I took off on Friday night to head to the coast to his cousin's family house, where we would be lodged, caffeinated and otherwise acogidos (pampered/cozied) for the weekend. This in Quilpué, which is technically a suburb of Valparaíso, but if you hadn't told me that, I'd never have known, as it seems like its own little town. Anyway, cuz and fam live in a cute-as-a-button house in one of those little neighborhoods which look a little like maybe the photocopier got stuck. Chilean suburbs often look like this. A Brazillian friend once commented, "N (her husband) would love to live in a place like this. So orderly, so safe!" It did seem to be both of those things, but let me say only in Chile (and many other countries, but not the one I was born in) will a bus driver leave you by the side of a road and leave you to snail your way across the pitchblack highway to the drainage culvert and beyond to get to the house in question.
Exhibit A: Honey they've cloned my house!
In the morning we woke up, indulged in more caffeine. Yo! stop it with the coffee. I'm an addict, and trying to cut down. Ahem. From here we grabbed a quick ride to the Quilpué station of MERVAL, the aforementioned Viña-Valpo metro. It goes out to Limache, and for 500 pesos (plus the metrocard, which I already had) and about 25 minutes of sheer commuting pleasure, we passed over hill and dale (except it's in the flat plateau before the coastal range, so actually there were no hills, and what's a dale, anyway?) From here, we got off in Limache, which I would gladly have hung out in for a few hours, taking pictures of the old classic train station, people, and the gorgeous alameda, which is what we call it when there are big, leafy, shady trees on either side of the street. Which makes our own (Santiago's) Alameda a bit of a joke. So sad.
From Limache we asked some lugareños (locals) how to get to La Campana, and amid hand motions and lip pointing, we discerned that a whopping 40 metros from the train station's entrance, a bus was to be had. The 45, in fact. This we boarded, and wound through Limache and Olmue, past the chocolate shops and any possibility of buying goat or other fresh cheese, or even the famous Limachino tomato (most of the tomatoes sold in Santiago are advertised as being from Limache). Another about 25 minutes and we were deposited at the bottom of a hill with a sign pointing to La Campana.
Information galore is available on the park from the CONAF website, the only caveat being that um, you have to read Spanish to know what it's saying. No problem. I have a couch, come stay and I'll put you in Spanish camp. It will be so divertido (fun), it will! Also, for a diehard La Camapana summiter, check out this guy's Valparaíso-based blog.
We arrived to the park somewhat late, with the other stragglers, including a middle-aged couple and their pokemon son, who was totally adorable, and if he really was gay like I suspect, I hope he gets into the city sometime, because how unbearable must it be to be a gay Chilean teenager in a small town?
Because we arrived late, they took our 1500 pesos to enter and warned us not to try for the summit. You have to be out of the park (or camping) by 5:30, and we arrived at 11:30. The summit's four hours away. Simple math. If you want to get to the top of Darwin's peak, as they call it, hoofing it all the way (you can drive to Sector la Mina on a 4WD track), you have to enter by 10. Punto (full stop).
Resigned to a shorter hike, we hoofed it and hoofed it the 5 km up to the Sector La Mina, smelling honey-scented leaves, saying hello to the Litre tree (Hola Señor Litre!) like you do, and marvelling at how Chile does fall.
I have seen Chilean fall in exactly three places. The cordillera de la costa, which is where La Campana is, and also El Roble (remember that fun bike trip? And also near Pucón, which is a leafier, more robustly autumnal fall. But we didn't do too badly re: glimpsing fall on this hike either.
See?
and here:
We found a bunch of berries that smelled like green condensed, and some that smelled like nothing at all. They didn't appear to be edible, so we didn't nibble, saw a fleet of sleekly designed hummingbirds diving some tree or another, and enjoyed the snowy look of those umbrella-like seeds which in this case came from quila/colihue (local bamboo variant) and another plant, and which didn't make either of us sneeze. We are both people of the allergy, so this is a minor miracle.
This is the second plant that coated the ground with its fluffy seeds.
I was pretty grrrr at not getting to climb the last steep ascent to the peak, which is where all the amazing coastal views are, and where Aconcagua can be seen. But it really was just not to be, given the time constraints. It's close though, and I'll certainly go back to do that, and also to check out the Chilean palms in the Ocoa sector. The park is open year round, so I have no excuse not to go. Next time I'll stay in Olmué or camp in the park.
We saw a fair number of people during the day, maybe about 20, and when we got down to the campsite, several families had installed themselves for their evening snack. We checked out of the hiking area with military precision, and headed out. I don't know if they are more stringent with the checking in and out since an American exchange student died in 2007 after falling off a cliff on this hike. Notwithstanding this poor girl's unfortunate misstep, the hike, while steep and occasionally slippery, is generally considered to be not unsafe.
We left the park, and like clockwork, the yellow and green bus arrived (this time the number 46, it still cost 450 pesos), and spirited us back to Limache, where we took the train back to Quilpué, first to grab a meal, and then to our hosts, who were waiting for us with wine and nibblies.
As many hands as you have, that's how many thumbs up I give Chile this weekend. For her parks, transportation, and of course, for her people.
As an aside, the next day we went to the botanic gardens in Viña, which deserve a whole day to explore, and a whole post to talk about, neither of which I had/have time for. But I did snap this little one ambushing a goose while his father looked on. And it was too much fun not to share.
enjoy!
At any rate, this weekend brought a few things I really like.
Good times with friends
Enough sleep
Good public transportation
Outside (whether biking, hiking, or just being)
Views (see: outside above)
C and I took off on Friday night to head to the coast to his cousin's family house, where we would be lodged, caffeinated and otherwise acogidos (pampered/cozied) for the weekend. This in Quilpué, which is technically a suburb of Valparaíso, but if you hadn't told me that, I'd never have known, as it seems like its own little town. Anyway, cuz and fam live in a cute-as-a-button house in one of those little neighborhoods which look a little like maybe the photocopier got stuck. Chilean suburbs often look like this. A Brazillian friend once commented, "N (her husband) would love to live in a place like this. So orderly, so safe!" It did seem to be both of those things, but let me say only in Chile (and many other countries, but not the one I was born in) will a bus driver leave you by the side of a road and leave you to snail your way across the pitchblack highway to the drainage culvert and beyond to get to the house in question.
Exhibit A: Honey they've cloned my house!
In the morning we woke up, indulged in more caffeine. Yo! stop it with the coffee. I'm an addict, and trying to cut down. Ahem. From here we grabbed a quick ride to the Quilpué station of MERVAL, the aforementioned Viña-Valpo metro. It goes out to Limache, and for 500 pesos (plus the metrocard, which I already had) and about 25 minutes of sheer commuting pleasure, we passed over hill and dale (except it's in the flat plateau before the coastal range, so actually there were no hills, and what's a dale, anyway?) From here, we got off in Limache, which I would gladly have hung out in for a few hours, taking pictures of the old classic train station, people, and the gorgeous alameda, which is what we call it when there are big, leafy, shady trees on either side of the street. Which makes our own (Santiago's) Alameda a bit of a joke. So sad.
From Limache we asked some lugareños (locals) how to get to La Campana, and amid hand motions and lip pointing, we discerned that a whopping 40 metros from the train station's entrance, a bus was to be had. The 45, in fact. This we boarded, and wound through Limache and Olmue, past the chocolate shops and any possibility of buying goat or other fresh cheese, or even the famous Limachino tomato (most of the tomatoes sold in Santiago are advertised as being from Limache). Another about 25 minutes and we were deposited at the bottom of a hill with a sign pointing to La Campana.
Information galore is available on the park from the CONAF website, the only caveat being that um, you have to read Spanish to know what it's saying. No problem. I have a couch, come stay and I'll put you in Spanish camp. It will be so divertido (fun), it will! Also, for a diehard La Camapana summiter, check out this guy's Valparaíso-based blog.
We arrived to the park somewhat late, with the other stragglers, including a middle-aged couple and their pokemon son, who was totally adorable, and if he really was gay like I suspect, I hope he gets into the city sometime, because how unbearable must it be to be a gay Chilean teenager in a small town?
Because we arrived late, they took our 1500 pesos to enter and warned us not to try for the summit. You have to be out of the park (or camping) by 5:30, and we arrived at 11:30. The summit's four hours away. Simple math. If you want to get to the top of Darwin's peak, as they call it, hoofing it all the way (you can drive to Sector la Mina on a 4WD track), you have to enter by 10. Punto (full stop).
Resigned to a shorter hike, we hoofed it and hoofed it the 5 km up to the Sector La Mina, smelling honey-scented leaves, saying hello to the Litre tree (Hola Señor Litre!) like you do, and marvelling at how Chile does fall.
I have seen Chilean fall in exactly three places. The cordillera de la costa, which is where La Campana is, and also El Roble (remember that fun bike trip? And also near Pucón, which is a leafier, more robustly autumnal fall. But we didn't do too badly re: glimpsing fall on this hike either.
See?
and here:
We found a bunch of berries that smelled like green condensed, and some that smelled like nothing at all. They didn't appear to be edible, so we didn't nibble, saw a fleet of sleekly designed hummingbirds diving some tree or another, and enjoyed the snowy look of those umbrella-like seeds which in this case came from quila/colihue (local bamboo variant) and another plant, and which didn't make either of us sneeze. We are both people of the allergy, so this is a minor miracle.
This is the second plant that coated the ground with its fluffy seeds.
I was pretty grrrr at not getting to climb the last steep ascent to the peak, which is where all the amazing coastal views are, and where Aconcagua can be seen. But it really was just not to be, given the time constraints. It's close though, and I'll certainly go back to do that, and also to check out the Chilean palms in the Ocoa sector. The park is open year round, so I have no excuse not to go. Next time I'll stay in Olmué or camp in the park.
We saw a fair number of people during the day, maybe about 20, and when we got down to the campsite, several families had installed themselves for their evening snack. We checked out of the hiking area with military precision, and headed out. I don't know if they are more stringent with the checking in and out since an American exchange student died in 2007 after falling off a cliff on this hike. Notwithstanding this poor girl's unfortunate misstep, the hike, while steep and occasionally slippery, is generally considered to be not unsafe.
We left the park, and like clockwork, the yellow and green bus arrived (this time the number 46, it still cost 450 pesos), and spirited us back to Limache, where we took the train back to Quilpué, first to grab a meal, and then to our hosts, who were waiting for us with wine and nibblies.
As many hands as you have, that's how many thumbs up I give Chile this weekend. For her parks, transportation, and of course, for her people.
As an aside, the next day we went to the botanic gardens in Viña, which deserve a whole day to explore, and a whole post to talk about, neither of which I had/have time for. But I did snap this little one ambushing a goose while his father looked on. And it was too much fun not to share.
enjoy!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
I *might* just be the crazy word lady.
How do new words move in to your brain? Do they creep in through a crack in the window, do to they move in proudly, with suitcases and boxes, and a could-you-move-that-couch-a-squidge?
I have puzzled over this many times, both in English and in Spanish. Well, I have not actually puzzled over it in any language, as my thoughts seem to swirl around in a languageless place, but I think about how it happens in English, and how it happens in Spanish. Certainly my vocabulary is better in English than in Spanish. I am much less likely to come across an English word I don't know than I am a Spanish one that seems unusual. Part of this is just time. I spent many, many years in an English-only environment. I went to university and more grad school than I probably should have in English, and I am a prolific reader, mostly in English. I've had contact, I have, with this mother tongue of mine.
Spanish I've had a lot less contact with, but I've still developed a decent vocabulary. And this I question more. How did it get there?
As a tip last night for remembering the name of a relative stranger who, along with his friend saved my and my friend's evening, by being our non-dates, and thereby repelling advances from well-meaning men saying things like "you look sad! don't be angry! what are you drinking? you have a sweet face! are you Chilean? Where's the bar? Where's the bathroom? Is this your scarf? Where are you from? Are you X's friend?"... Wow, even I got lost in that sentence.
Anyway, in giving me hints for remembering his name, he said a door, it's supported by:
Hinges? (visagras) No.
Screws? (tornillos) No.
Bolts? (pernos) No.
Anchors? (tarugos) No.
The thing around the door, it's called?
The doorway? (umbral)No.
For a second I thought I'd gotten it, that his name was Umberto, which is more likely than him being called Tarugo, which is not a name, though it does have a manly sound to it).
Or a picture?
FRAME! (MARCO!). Man, am I ever a genius. And yes, his name was Marco, not Perno, which is really good for him, because a perno is kind of a nerd, someone you don't want to be around. Though not as bad as a Gil. But I digress.
Anyway, so I have all these words floating around in my head, and if you'd asked me if I'd ever studied construction in Spanish, surely I would say no. But I love words like some people love cats or dogs, except I don't buy them anything to eat, which surely is some level of abuse. But how do they get there? Do I pick them up because they seem lonely on the street, and I have room in my head for more words, and what's a few more lexical items, and hey, I could give them a home!
I studied theoretical linguistics for years. But this seems to be more of an information storage and retrieval issue than a language one. And I don't have answer for you, though I'd love to hear what you have to say.
I thought of this while writing an email just now, about the night when I met the Marco in question, which I spent at Santiago's answer to (what?, the World in the 80's, I'm not even really sure, please cool kids fill me in) Castillo Hidalgo, at the "after office" (please say with Chilean accent) and how I surprised myself by staying late, as I tend to escabullirme early. And I thought to myself, escabullir? where did that come from? I had to look it up to make sure it was real. And what do you know? It means to escape or flee. Which is exactly what I meant. But where did it come from? Maybe if I weren't so despelotada (disorganized) with how I learn language, I'd know. But where would the fun be in that?
FWIW, I don't know where despelotado came from either. I used to have a theory about the number of times you heard a word before it became real to you, but I've lost track of it, and I'm beginning to think I'm just the crazy word lady.
Whatever. At least they don't shed.
I have puzzled over this many times, both in English and in Spanish. Well, I have not actually puzzled over it in any language, as my thoughts seem to swirl around in a languageless place, but I think about how it happens in English, and how it happens in Spanish. Certainly my vocabulary is better in English than in Spanish. I am much less likely to come across an English word I don't know than I am a Spanish one that seems unusual. Part of this is just time. I spent many, many years in an English-only environment. I went to university and more grad school than I probably should have in English, and I am a prolific reader, mostly in English. I've had contact, I have, with this mother tongue of mine.
Spanish I've had a lot less contact with, but I've still developed a decent vocabulary. And this I question more. How did it get there?
As a tip last night for remembering the name of a relative stranger who, along with his friend saved my and my friend's evening, by being our non-dates, and thereby repelling advances from well-meaning men saying things like "you look sad! don't be angry! what are you drinking? you have a sweet face! are you Chilean? Where's the bar? Where's the bathroom? Is this your scarf? Where are you from? Are you X's friend?"... Wow, even I got lost in that sentence.
Anyway, in giving me hints for remembering his name, he said a door, it's supported by:
Hinges? (visagras) No.
Screws? (tornillos) No.
Bolts? (pernos) No.
Anchors? (tarugos) No.
The thing around the door, it's called?
The doorway? (umbral)No.
For a second I thought I'd gotten it, that his name was Umberto, which is more likely than him being called Tarugo, which is not a name, though it does have a manly sound to it).
Or a picture?
FRAME! (MARCO!). Man, am I ever a genius. And yes, his name was Marco, not Perno, which is really good for him, because a perno is kind of a nerd, someone you don't want to be around. Though not as bad as a Gil. But I digress.
Anyway, so I have all these words floating around in my head, and if you'd asked me if I'd ever studied construction in Spanish, surely I would say no. But I love words like some people love cats or dogs, except I don't buy them anything to eat, which surely is some level of abuse. But how do they get there? Do I pick them up because they seem lonely on the street, and I have room in my head for more words, and what's a few more lexical items, and hey, I could give them a home!
I studied theoretical linguistics for years. But this seems to be more of an information storage and retrieval issue than a language one. And I don't have answer for you, though I'd love to hear what you have to say.
I thought of this while writing an email just now, about the night when I met the Marco in question, which I spent at Santiago's answer to (what?, the World in the 80's, I'm not even really sure, please cool kids fill me in) Castillo Hidalgo, at the "after office" (please say with Chilean accent) and how I surprised myself by staying late, as I tend to escabullirme early. And I thought to myself, escabullir? where did that come from? I had to look it up to make sure it was real. And what do you know? It means to escape or flee. Which is exactly what I meant. But where did it come from? Maybe if I weren't so despelotada (disorganized) with how I learn language, I'd know. But where would the fun be in that?
FWIW, I don't know where despelotado came from either. I used to have a theory about the number of times you heard a word before it became real to you, but I've lost track of it, and I'm beginning to think I'm just the crazy word lady.
Whatever. At least they don't shed.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Medical Records Management in Chile. A Maravilla. (and puppetry of the people, if you will).
In keeping with talking about how modern and unbelievable Chile is (in this post about how we pay taxes), which makes at least one of my friends think that the whole shebang is part of a giant conspiracy, puppet-goverment style, I want to talk to you about medical records management.
When I had my first contact with the Chilean medical establishment it was after a very hard splat upon the pavement, having been sprung from verticality by the quick application of a 4x4's side view mirror against my bicycle handlebars. This joyous event was covered by Chilean worker's comp, as it happened on my way home from work, even on a Saturday. I was, in fact, on my way home from classes which I'd been teaching at the Universidad Central, a four-hour behemoth of a class with jumping up and down and occasional glove removal to draw a particularly sticky diagram on the board. It was cold, oh yes, it was cold, even in the days before I'd given up Nescafe with its mysterious thick layer of froth on top (what is that? surfactant?)
So my first contact with the Chilean medical system was with ACHS, La Asociacón Chilena de Seguridad, under which I was covered through my employer's insurance, and which conveniently has offices right downtown, a stone's throw from the place that had sent me to the University to begin with. Not that it was their fault.
Over the course of several months, I was treated to ultrasound, electrostimulation, xrays, sonograms, an MRI, a cortisone shot, a free sling, lots of physical therapy and the whole previous year of Cosas and Caras magazines, which I think you only get if you subscribe to certain newspapers, and it was a very educational time there in the "box" (what they call the booth where the doc sees you and where some of those treatments take place). I also met a guy who was regaining mobility in his fingers by putting them into an elastic net and squeezing them shut. I wondered how he'd sustained his work-related injury at the Casa de Cambios (money exchange), where he worked but then maybe he wondered how I'd managed to wrench my shoulder so badly teaching English. We exchanged email addresses, but he WROTE ME IN ALL CAPS, and well, you can see how annoying that is, so we broke off communication as quickly as we started, and his hand injury will just have to remain a mystery. Quickly-slammed cash register? Repetitive stress from bill-counting? The mind boggles.
What was surprising to me about the whole system, aside from the fact that my name was now "Señora Barbara" and that my doctor tried to poach me over to his holistic medical center he was starting, was the computerizedness of everything. When I had the sonogram, I had to go to a different location of ACHS (the one on Ramon Carnicer, if you're wondering). I'd seen people walking down the street with giant art-project-sized envelopes bringing scan results and xrays from doctor to doctor, so I expected to be given the same. Oh no, my doctor said, your doctor can see this online.
Wha? Ditto your bloodwork or annual exam (Pap) results (though not HIV test). You can just log onto your clinic's website with your RUT (national ID number) and your payment number and get your results. Most people still go to the desk to get the printout and the many be-windowed envelopes so they can have a printed record and maybe feel more official. But are you serious? I can manage my cholesterol lowering success (strangely, gave up the fish oil capsules and saw a drop) from the comfort of my office/living room/satellite kitchen/bicycle parking area? This, I think is a maravilla (wonder).
I also have to give Chile a shoutout for being able to access all my records and my health insurance affiliation with a simple touch of my right index finger on the eerie red-lit lector (reader). With insurance, you can show up at any clinic (this is at least true for Integramédica, Santa María and Arauco Salud, anyone else know different?) press your finger to the lector and be trusted that your insurance is really real. There is no photocopying of id and health insurance card, no calling of your provider to find out how much of your visit will be covered.
Let's all say it again: una maravilla (a wonder/marvel). I just hope that when I'm in the states in a few months (just a visit, worry not Chilean blog reading addicts, and you are many) a) I have no contact with the health system and b) that the system is 1/2 as modern in what we have going on down here in the nobody-knows-us experimental puppet society. Gotta go, my strings are getting tangled.
When I had my first contact with the Chilean medical establishment it was after a very hard splat upon the pavement, having been sprung from verticality by the quick application of a 4x4's side view mirror against my bicycle handlebars. This joyous event was covered by Chilean worker's comp, as it happened on my way home from work, even on a Saturday. I was, in fact, on my way home from classes which I'd been teaching at the Universidad Central, a four-hour behemoth of a class with jumping up and down and occasional glove removal to draw a particularly sticky diagram on the board. It was cold, oh yes, it was cold, even in the days before I'd given up Nescafe with its mysterious thick layer of froth on top (what is that? surfactant?)
So my first contact with the Chilean medical system was with ACHS, La Asociacón Chilena de Seguridad, under which I was covered through my employer's insurance, and which conveniently has offices right downtown, a stone's throw from the place that had sent me to the University to begin with. Not that it was their fault.
Over the course of several months, I was treated to ultrasound, electrostimulation, xrays, sonograms, an MRI, a cortisone shot, a free sling, lots of physical therapy and the whole previous year of Cosas and Caras magazines, which I think you only get if you subscribe to certain newspapers, and it was a very educational time there in the "box" (what they call the booth where the doc sees you and where some of those treatments take place). I also met a guy who was regaining mobility in his fingers by putting them into an elastic net and squeezing them shut. I wondered how he'd sustained his work-related injury at the Casa de Cambios (money exchange), where he worked but then maybe he wondered how I'd managed to wrench my shoulder so badly teaching English. We exchanged email addresses, but he WROTE ME IN ALL CAPS, and well, you can see how annoying that is, so we broke off communication as quickly as we started, and his hand injury will just have to remain a mystery. Quickly-slammed cash register? Repetitive stress from bill-counting? The mind boggles.
What was surprising to me about the whole system, aside from the fact that my name was now "Señora Barbara" and that my doctor tried to poach me over to his holistic medical center he was starting, was the computerizedness of everything. When I had the sonogram, I had to go to a different location of ACHS (the one on Ramon Carnicer, if you're wondering). I'd seen people walking down the street with giant art-project-sized envelopes bringing scan results and xrays from doctor to doctor, so I expected to be given the same. Oh no, my doctor said, your doctor can see this online.
Wha? Ditto your bloodwork or annual exam (Pap) results (though not HIV test). You can just log onto your clinic's website with your RUT (national ID number) and your payment number and get your results. Most people still go to the desk to get the printout and the many be-windowed envelopes so they can have a printed record and maybe feel more official. But are you serious? I can manage my cholesterol lowering success (strangely, gave up the fish oil capsules and saw a drop) from the comfort of my office/living room/satellite kitchen/bicycle parking area? This, I think is a maravilla (wonder).
I also have to give Chile a shoutout for being able to access all my records and my health insurance affiliation with a simple touch of my right index finger on the eerie red-lit lector (reader). With insurance, you can show up at any clinic (this is at least true for Integramédica, Santa María and Arauco Salud, anyone else know different?) press your finger to the lector and be trusted that your insurance is really real. There is no photocopying of id and health insurance card, no calling of your provider to find out how much of your visit will be covered.
Let's all say it again: una maravilla (a wonder/marvel). I just hope that when I'm in the states in a few months (just a visit, worry not Chilean blog reading addicts, and you are many) a) I have no contact with the health system and b) that the system is 1/2 as modern in what we have going on down here in the nobody-knows-us experimental puppet society. Gotta go, my strings are getting tangled.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Pomaire, in pictures. But barely any terra cotta.
Welcome class! Yesterday we learned that she-donkey milk is still sold in Santiago, that it's high in good lipids, that Cleopatra bathed in it and that Emily could use your get well soon vibes after a very unfortunate incident which she summed up on twitter as "I braked with my face." I think she'll be okay though. Perhaps we should go find a she-donkey's milk?
Today is about bad photo juju (I raise my hand as a sufferer this weekend, everything was bleck), and about taking a day trip out of the city just because you can. I corralled one entire friend (tried to get a few more, but they slipped away) into going to Pomaire, the land of greda, or terra cotta figurines, tiny three-legged pigs, bowls, plates, fuentes (like a casserole dish) and pocillos (little bowls). I didn't take pictures of any of these items on purpose, preferring (as has recently been the case) to catch people unawares and doing what they were doing. Taking pictures of bowls n things is (I'm sure) an art, but since this is my fourth trip to Pomaire (though the first time taking the bus, the others were, in this order, bike, car, bike), I was more interested in the artichoke empanada and taking pictures of the people.
So I present to you: People working while I'm on my day off. Isn't that sweet?
This gent is dusting the items for sale. The town is pretty dusty, what with being mostly unpaved, and people like to buy clean items. Plus it makes them look like they haven't been sitting there as long.
This empanada (hot meat pastry) is kind of a joke. In Pomaire you are alleged to be able to get this great, giant empanada that weighs half a kilo (1.1) pounds, and that's filling and delicious and costs very little. The truth is, all the (traditional) empanadas are onion and meat, in proportions depending on the prices of the aforementioned items. This gag empanada is for purely photographic purposes, I believe.
when you can't go to the feria (fresh market), it will come to you. I like to make up a story about grandpa (selling), and his grandson sitting in the front seat playing with the radio. Also, those beets? Gorgeous!
This woman's not a part of the official sales of Pomaire. She's an independent businesswoman set up on the side of the road selling figurines. What a job location. And it only gets colder from here on out.
I'm happy for this woman that she has a job, but equally happy that I don't have to do it. She sits in the bus shelter and grabs the time cards from the drivers as they drive by, running across the road to punch the clock for them and then delivering the card back to the driver.
When I was taking this picture, I zoomed in a little, and a little kid behind me said, "es como un telescopio?!" (It's like a telescope!), and I told him "Es que estoy muy floja, no me gusta acercarme. Asi que me quedo acá y la cámera se acerca" (I'm just really lazy, I don't like to get close. So I stay here and the camera gets close). Mostly he was just surprised that I had heard him, and responded. Love the dog.
Here's where we ate, my secret Pomaire picada with vegetarian empanadas in the traditional dough, cooked in the oven. Made to order. We got artichoke, and didn't even have to raise our hands our shout out the window. My bench had some kind of animal pelt on it. Comfy and warm, but at the same time kinda creepy. I might be convinced to divulge the location of the secret picada, but only if you don't mind a bunch of flies around your food and tablecloths covering plywood tables that get shaken out between customers, and possibly between days as well. Sit near the oven, toasty.
Deets: From Terminal San Borja (metro Estacion Central), 1350 CLP, buses (intercomunales) throughout the day, or if not go to Melipilla (more busses, but you kind of overshoot and backtrack) for 1400, and then a local bus for 300 back to Pomaire. Budget 45 min to an hour to get there.
Today is about bad photo juju (I raise my hand as a sufferer this weekend, everything was bleck), and about taking a day trip out of the city just because you can. I corralled one entire friend (tried to get a few more, but they slipped away) into going to Pomaire, the land of greda, or terra cotta figurines, tiny three-legged pigs, bowls, plates, fuentes (like a casserole dish) and pocillos (little bowls). I didn't take pictures of any of these items on purpose, preferring (as has recently been the case) to catch people unawares and doing what they were doing. Taking pictures of bowls n things is (I'm sure) an art, but since this is my fourth trip to Pomaire (though the first time taking the bus, the others were, in this order, bike, car, bike), I was more interested in the artichoke empanada and taking pictures of the people.
So I present to you: People working while I'm on my day off. Isn't that sweet?
This gent is dusting the items for sale. The town is pretty dusty, what with being mostly unpaved, and people like to buy clean items. Plus it makes them look like they haven't been sitting there as long.
This empanada (hot meat pastry) is kind of a joke. In Pomaire you are alleged to be able to get this great, giant empanada that weighs half a kilo (1.1) pounds, and that's filling and delicious and costs very little. The truth is, all the (traditional) empanadas are onion and meat, in proportions depending on the prices of the aforementioned items. This gag empanada is for purely photographic purposes, I believe.
when you can't go to the feria (fresh market), it will come to you. I like to make up a story about grandpa (selling), and his grandson sitting in the front seat playing with the radio. Also, those beets? Gorgeous!
This woman's not a part of the official sales of Pomaire. She's an independent businesswoman set up on the side of the road selling figurines. What a job location. And it only gets colder from here on out.
I'm happy for this woman that she has a job, but equally happy that I don't have to do it. She sits in the bus shelter and grabs the time cards from the drivers as they drive by, running across the road to punch the clock for them and then delivering the card back to the driver.
When I was taking this picture, I zoomed in a little, and a little kid behind me said, "es como un telescopio?!" (It's like a telescope!), and I told him "Es que estoy muy floja, no me gusta acercarme. Asi que me quedo acá y la cámera se acerca" (I'm just really lazy, I don't like to get close. So I stay here and the camera gets close). Mostly he was just surprised that I had heard him, and responded. Love the dog.
Here's where we ate, my secret Pomaire picada with vegetarian empanadas in the traditional dough, cooked in the oven. Made to order. We got artichoke, and didn't even have to raise our hands our shout out the window. My bench had some kind of animal pelt on it. Comfy and warm, but at the same time kinda creepy. I might be convinced to divulge the location of the secret picada, but only if you don't mind a bunch of flies around your food and tablecloths covering plywood tables that get shaken out between customers, and possibly between days as well. Sit near the oven, toasty.
Deets: From Terminal San Borja (metro Estacion Central), 1350 CLP, buses (intercomunales) throughout the day, or if not go to Melipilla (more busses, but you kind of overshoot and backtrack) for 1400, and then a local bus for 300 back to Pomaire. Budget 45 min to an hour to get there.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Donkey milk and raise your hand if you'd like an artichoke.
Leche de burra! (she-donkey milk), Leche de burra! This is what one of my friends heard as a child as the local she-donkey milk salesman peddled his wares. Now I didn't ask, but I'm pretty sure this happened while he was living in the small southern (hexagonally-shaped, OMG, what a navigational nightmare for me) city of Coyhaique (Co-YI-kay), and not here in Santiago. Though people often talk about how Santiago used to be much more homey and countrified and provincial, I don't think anyone used to sell donkey milk on the street a short 30 years ago. Though you never know.
I happened to look up the weather for Coyhaique just yesterday, and the forecast was for rain, snow, and ice. ICE? Like it just falls from the sky? Sounds dangerous. And the temperatures were down to -7 (celsius), so I wonder if now the guy is walking around offering helado de burra. (donkey icecream, and what I really mean is donkeymilk icecream, not actual donkey-flavored icecream).
And all of this makes me think of an old friend of mine who is probably right at this moment up from a deep slumber supervising some baby goats that were born on the farm she lives on. I'm going to see this friend, these goats, this farm in a few months. I wonder if we can walk up and down the streets offering leche de cabra? This sounds infinitely more palatable than leche de burra to me, en todo caso (anyway). But I think the goatmilk is for their personal consumption on the farm. I will be sure to report back.
But when I heard about the leche de burra and how my friend (as a wee one) had no idea of what the vendor was saying, I thought about a time when I was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, the beginning of a very unplanned, trip to Mexico and Central America with a friend who would later build houses for Habitat for Humanity in all kinds of remote places and drink kavakava in Fiji until her face went numb. This was a long, long time ago, when the only Spanish I was in posession of was what I'd been delivered in high school, and the tiny bit of that that I remembered mixed up into a formless cloud that came out of my mouth in dribs and drabs, and only vaguely making sense, even to me. My friend and I lived in a cute neighborhood in Cuernavaca while studying Spanish and living with a host family in a very mysterious house that was bigger and more labaryntine every day, and seemed to have a changing cast of characters like they were doing it on purpose to see how crazy they could make us. Oh, and it had a whole giant one-and-a-half story (interior) wall dedicated to rooster "art." Te gustan las gallinas? (you like chickens?) I managed to condense my thoughts one day well enough to say this. Son gallos (they're roosters), I was told. Gulp. I wanted my mommy.
Anyway, in this neighborhood with the crazy house and the overgrown interior garden that looked like a novel should take place in it, there was a guy who sold .... ALES. (al-ays).... ALES (al-ays). He walked around the street morning and afternoon shouting this. After about a week, and having gotten over the whole rooster/chicken thing, I asked my host mother, a woman who would scoop a spoonful of butter and a few grains of rice, and say "Que riiiiico el arroz! (what delicious rice) what it all meant. He's selling tamales, she said. Oh, I said. Are they ricos? Don't know, she said. I've never bought one.
And so it was with my friend with the she-donkey milk, which he never tried, and so it is with me, with my neighborhood guy who sells a mil a mil a mil las alcachofas. (Artichokes for 1,000, 1,000, 1,000). I like artichokes very much, I just don't see how the logistics of that would work. When someone comes on the bus and sells something you just put up your hand to let them know you want some (water, soda, icecream, etc). In this case, would I crank open the giant windows to my sixth floor apartment and sing back to him? It took me years to figure out what to say when I was in the bathroom stall and someone else tried to open the door (Ocupado). But I still don't know how to buy alcachofas from eighty feet up. Any ideas?
And let me just say for the record that I am totally a city kid (with delicate cityfeet that cannot even think about walking barefoot without wincing, and I do mean the feet), and she-donkey milk kind of makes me want to clamp my mouth shut and run away. I was vegan for a few years and am just now getting solidly back on the milk wagon. You know, cow's milk. Darn cultural constructs.
To read more of my blabla on my experiences buying stuff on the street (and not understanding Chilean vendor Spanish to save my life)go here and on the informal economy in Chile, go here.
And if I've made you crave artichokes or tamales or even she-donkey milk, for this I apologize. I will make it up with a post with pictures (of none of the above) coming soon.
I happened to look up the weather for Coyhaique just yesterday, and the forecast was for rain, snow, and ice. ICE? Like it just falls from the sky? Sounds dangerous. And the temperatures were down to -7 (celsius), so I wonder if now the guy is walking around offering helado de burra. (donkey icecream, and what I really mean is donkeymilk icecream, not actual donkey-flavored icecream).
And all of this makes me think of an old friend of mine who is probably right at this moment up from a deep slumber supervising some baby goats that were born on the farm she lives on. I'm going to see this friend, these goats, this farm in a few months. I wonder if we can walk up and down the streets offering leche de cabra? This sounds infinitely more palatable than leche de burra to me, en todo caso (anyway). But I think the goatmilk is for their personal consumption on the farm. I will be sure to report back.
But when I heard about the leche de burra and how my friend (as a wee one) had no idea of what the vendor was saying, I thought about a time when I was in Cuernavaca, Mexico, the beginning of a very unplanned, trip to Mexico and Central America with a friend who would later build houses for Habitat for Humanity in all kinds of remote places and drink kavakava in Fiji until her face went numb. This was a long, long time ago, when the only Spanish I was in posession of was what I'd been delivered in high school, and the tiny bit of that that I remembered mixed up into a formless cloud that came out of my mouth in dribs and drabs, and only vaguely making sense, even to me. My friend and I lived in a cute neighborhood in Cuernavaca while studying Spanish and living with a host family in a very mysterious house that was bigger and more labaryntine every day, and seemed to have a changing cast of characters like they were doing it on purpose to see how crazy they could make us. Oh, and it had a whole giant one-and-a-half story (interior) wall dedicated to rooster "art." Te gustan las gallinas? (you like chickens?) I managed to condense my thoughts one day well enough to say this. Son gallos (they're roosters), I was told. Gulp. I wanted my mommy.
Anyway, in this neighborhood with the crazy house and the overgrown interior garden that looked like a novel should take place in it, there was a guy who sold .... ALES. (al-ays).... ALES (al-ays). He walked around the street morning and afternoon shouting this. After about a week, and having gotten over the whole rooster/chicken thing, I asked my host mother, a woman who would scoop a spoonful of butter and a few grains of rice, and say "Que riiiiico el arroz! (what delicious rice) what it all meant. He's selling tamales, she said. Oh, I said. Are they ricos? Don't know, she said. I've never bought one.
And so it was with my friend with the she-donkey milk, which he never tried, and so it is with me, with my neighborhood guy who sells a mil a mil a mil las alcachofas. (Artichokes for 1,000, 1,000, 1,000). I like artichokes very much, I just don't see how the logistics of that would work. When someone comes on the bus and sells something you just put up your hand to let them know you want some (water, soda, icecream, etc). In this case, would I crank open the giant windows to my sixth floor apartment and sing back to him? It took me years to figure out what to say when I was in the bathroom stall and someone else tried to open the door (Ocupado). But I still don't know how to buy alcachofas from eighty feet up. Any ideas?
And let me just say for the record that I am totally a city kid (with delicate cityfeet that cannot even think about walking barefoot without wincing, and I do mean the feet), and she-donkey milk kind of makes me want to clamp my mouth shut and run away. I was vegan for a few years and am just now getting solidly back on the milk wagon. You know, cow's milk. Darn cultural constructs.
To read more of my blabla on my experiences buying stuff on the street (and not understanding Chilean vendor Spanish to save my life)go here and on the informal economy in Chile, go here.
And if I've made you crave artichokes or tamales or even she-donkey milk, for this I apologize. I will make it up with a post with pictures (of none of the above) coming soon.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Getting around in Santiago, with or without a little help from your friends
Ever since the Transantiago overhaul, public transporation in Santiago has been, to put it politely, a bear. There's a whole long story about what's going on and what was promised and how the information was disseminated and how bad the crush is during rush hours. For a great discussion of what the metro looks (and feels) like during rush hour, I send you to Margaret's blog, Cachando Chile, where she give her impressions, as well as explains different concepts of personal space. There's some interesting stuff in the comments as well. Go! Then come back.
To be honest, when in Santiago, I mostly get around by bike. In fact, as soon as I finish here, I will strap on my helmet, (though sadly, not my ipod, because at least this month I've had a stern talking to myself about how dangerous that is), and set out to the asphalt. I know this is not practical or desirable for everyone, and if you're not feeling it, I won't hassle you about it, especially if you live, as I do, in a small space, and don't want to turn your living room/satellite kitchen/office into that plus bicycle parking.
But I will remind you that even though you might not have thought of South America as a great place to take to the underground, you'd be plenty surprised. Santiago's metro is gorgeous, if overpopulated, and some (ha! me!) might call it the Cadillac of metros, a line I stole from my sister when she was telling me how great her (pre move to the 'burbs) grocery pushy-cart was. The Santiago metro's even nicer than that cart. And a bit faster, I'd think. Though not faster than my memory which pulled that back from the early nineties to the present day. Now that's fast. Go neurons.
So for more info on metros in South America, go read the article here. And don't forget to stumble it, shower me with attention and praise for giving up on the música while riding, at least for this week.
Oh! and before I go, one downside to biking where you need to go is that even I, multitasker extraordinaire, have still not figured out how to read and pedal at the same time.
Imagine that!
To be honest, when in Santiago, I mostly get around by bike. In fact, as soon as I finish here, I will strap on my helmet, (though sadly, not my ipod, because at least this month I've had a stern talking to myself about how dangerous that is), and set out to the asphalt. I know this is not practical or desirable for everyone, and if you're not feeling it, I won't hassle you about it, especially if you live, as I do, in a small space, and don't want to turn your living room/satellite kitchen/office into that plus bicycle parking.
But I will remind you that even though you might not have thought of South America as a great place to take to the underground, you'd be plenty surprised. Santiago's metro is gorgeous, if overpopulated, and some (ha! me!) might call it the Cadillac of metros, a line I stole from my sister when she was telling me how great her (pre move to the 'burbs) grocery pushy-cart was. The Santiago metro's even nicer than that cart. And a bit faster, I'd think. Though not faster than my memory which pulled that back from the early nineties to the present day. Now that's fast. Go neurons.
So for more info on metros in South America, go read the article here. And don't forget to stumble it, shower me with attention and praise for giving up on the música while riding, at least for this week.
Oh! and before I go, one downside to biking where you need to go is that even I, multitasker extraordinaire, have still not figured out how to read and pedal at the same time.
Imagine that!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Santiago: A Bagel-free-zone
It is official. We are living in a bagel-free zone.
Of course there are no bagel shops, no "bagels" in the supermarket, nor at the bread shops. But you used to be able to get a bagel at Gatsby, one of three eating options at the Santiago airport before you go through the gate. The others are Le Fournil, downstairs in arrivals which has amazing bread/focaccia, and giant lockers in which to lock up your luggage, should you feel so inclined. Also flirty oldman waiters, if that's your style. Another café opened less than a year ago, an interrogation-bright spiffy little café right before Immigration, the better to dose yourself with overpriced sodas, tiny lattes (that's cortado to you), and some snackity items before your perusal through the amazing duty free shop (which, due to someone's marketing genius, you must walk through to get to the gate, though the part where you actually take out your credit card and buy something is all on you).
But if you want more of a meal before you bid your peeps a good flight, (no pun intended, but wouldn't that have made for a good where my peeps at entry at National Geographic's Intelligent Travel Blog? (contest is over, as far as I know), you'll have to go to Gatsby. There's nothing particularly great about it (boing, literary joke falls flat), they'll sell you salads and sandwiches and such. What they will not sell you is a bagel, despite there being one on the menu. Mamaj and I decided to split a bagel (a bagel! here in Chile?! impossible!) before heading off to the great culinary unknown on our trip to Uruguay. Imagine our surprise when the sandwich came on a baguette. I called the waitress back over to explain the mistake. "Oh no," she said, "the bagel comes on a baguette." Interesting. I wonder if I can get it with a side of bread. We ate it. It was good, though decidedly un-bagel-like.
There used to be a place where you could get bagels, up in El Bosque Norte, a part of prettypretty Las Condes. The place was called New York Bagels, and it was on the street Roger de Flor, which I never really understood why the first word is pronounced Royer, but we can talk about that and Llewellyn Jones some other time). New York Bagels was kind of a little satellite city within a city, all English media and foreigners, a bulletin board advertising used fridges and rooms for rent. It was darn decent. And then, like The English Reader, a former used bookstore over on Los Leones in Providencia (just a few blocks from the former bagel shop) where they occasionally had bagels and where my kindof ex nephew (following that?), now an accountant, but then an itinerant baker and Chilena heartbreaker used to work, it closed. Shuttered. Disappeared.
So as far as I know, Chile is now a bagel-free zone. Except it turns out you can make them yourself quite easily, and that they come out amazing, and you can put as many sesame seeds on top as you like, and no one will look at you strangely when you cut up olives to lay atop the cream cheese, in an attempt to get as many carbs and as much fat into your diet as possible. Because remember in Poland/Russia, how it was cold? We're going to need that extra layer (of subcutaneous fat).
Oh, and winter's a-coming in the southern hemisphere. I could fire up the estufa (space heater), or maybe I'll just put the kettle on for a spot of bagels. Can you say that? I just did.
(in the interest of full disclosure, I am eating a hallulla with cream cheese while I eat this. A bagel it is not, but remember the fat 'n carbs talk? Mission accomplished. And delicious).
Someone feel free to pop in and correct me if you know where bagels can be found here in Santiago (aside from in my kitchen). And remember, I'm from Brooklyn, with roots in the bagel mothercontinent. Not that that makes me picky or anything.
Of course there are no bagel shops, no "bagels" in the supermarket, nor at the bread shops. But you used to be able to get a bagel at Gatsby, one of three eating options at the Santiago airport before you go through the gate. The others are Le Fournil, downstairs in arrivals which has amazing bread/focaccia, and giant lockers in which to lock up your luggage, should you feel so inclined. Also flirty oldman waiters, if that's your style. Another café opened less than a year ago, an interrogation-bright spiffy little café right before Immigration, the better to dose yourself with overpriced sodas, tiny lattes (that's cortado to you), and some snackity items before your perusal through the amazing duty free shop (which, due to someone's marketing genius, you must walk through to get to the gate, though the part where you actually take out your credit card and buy something is all on you).
But if you want more of a meal before you bid your peeps a good flight, (no pun intended, but wouldn't that have made for a good where my peeps at entry at National Geographic's Intelligent Travel Blog? (contest is over, as far as I know), you'll have to go to Gatsby. There's nothing particularly great about it (boing, literary joke falls flat), they'll sell you salads and sandwiches and such. What they will not sell you is a bagel, despite there being one on the menu. Mamaj and I decided to split a bagel (a bagel! here in Chile?! impossible!) before heading off to the great culinary unknown on our trip to Uruguay. Imagine our surprise when the sandwich came on a baguette. I called the waitress back over to explain the mistake. "Oh no," she said, "the bagel comes on a baguette." Interesting. I wonder if I can get it with a side of bread. We ate it. It was good, though decidedly un-bagel-like.
There used to be a place where you could get bagels, up in El Bosque Norte, a part of prettypretty Las Condes. The place was called New York Bagels, and it was on the street Roger de Flor, which I never really understood why the first word is pronounced Royer, but we can talk about that and Llewellyn Jones some other time). New York Bagels was kind of a little satellite city within a city, all English media and foreigners, a bulletin board advertising used fridges and rooms for rent. It was darn decent. And then, like The English Reader, a former used bookstore over on Los Leones in Providencia (just a few blocks from the former bagel shop) where they occasionally had bagels and where my kindof ex nephew (following that?), now an accountant, but then an itinerant baker and Chilena heartbreaker used to work, it closed. Shuttered. Disappeared.
So as far as I know, Chile is now a bagel-free zone. Except it turns out you can make them yourself quite easily, and that they come out amazing, and you can put as many sesame seeds on top as you like, and no one will look at you strangely when you cut up olives to lay atop the cream cheese, in an attempt to get as many carbs and as much fat into your diet as possible. Because remember in Poland/Russia, how it was cold? We're going to need that extra layer (of subcutaneous fat).
Oh, and winter's a-coming in the southern hemisphere. I could fire up the estufa (space heater), or maybe I'll just put the kettle on for a spot of bagels. Can you say that? I just did.
(in the interest of full disclosure, I am eating a hallulla with cream cheese while I eat this. A bagel it is not, but remember the fat 'n carbs talk? Mission accomplished. And delicious).
Someone feel free to pop in and correct me if you know where bagels can be found here in Santiago (aside from in my kitchen). And remember, I'm from Brooklyn, with roots in the bagel mothercontinent. Not that that makes me picky or anything.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
My adopted nation, the after-school special. Featuring Chile as "the geek."
You know what would have been the most crushing blow when you were an adolescent? You're talking to someone marginally cooler than you, and you speak of your cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die crush, and lament, "He (or she)probably thinks I'm a geek." And one of the cool kids walks by and says, "Name of crush? HA! He doesn't even know who you are." But you have to stretch it out... Doesn't even K.N.O.W who you A.R.E. (insert snootygirl hairflip here).
Oh! the therapists you'll see. As a teen, as an adult. The conversations you'll have until you are old and wise about how this one time, everyone found out that you had a crush on that guy/girl and it was painful and terrible and you felt like you would die. Except me. That never happened to me. We could discuss why that is, but why? when we haven't yet touched on how this relates to Chile.
Chile is that kid. That kid who says, everyone thinks we're backwards, poor, indigenous, impoverished, noncultured, third world, (insert more negative adjectives here). And the cool kid walks by and says, "Who?"
Don't get me wrong, this nation of 17 million people is more than a blip on some people's radar screens. Certainly it looms large in my imagination and outside my window and all around me and even follows me around with my accent and my whoa! that's spicy to things I previously would have loaded on with aplomb, and my patience and belief that things can get fixed and will work out and a million other ways in which my attitude has changed.
But really? Most people, when presented with the country Chile out of context, look off into the distance and try to remember an old map they once saw of some distant continent, and try to imagine who its neighbors might be. Which is why, the whole "see, we're not a banana republic" or "we're not Indians with feathers in our hair" comments I occasionally hear strike me as almost schoolgirl-sad. Nobody thinks that about you, Chile. Because really? They're so wrapped up in their football games and precociously pubescent girlfriends and getting the whoosh in their hair just right, that they don't even KNOW who you ARE.
But don't worry, I'm doing what I can. And maybe it ends like one of those afterschool movies where the ugly girl just needs to let down her hair, take off her glasses and work it, and then everyone will see just how fab she really is. And she'll walk right by the awesome bizarrely-broad chested preteen of her former dreams and find her true geeky love. Because everyone loves the underdog.
Besos (kisses) Chile, yesterday you rocked my world (many administrative and bureaucratic items taken care of with tissue in hand and covers to chin, most impressive. I'd write an ode, but that would be stepping on Pablo Neruda's posthumous toes. Please don't say "who?").
Oh! the therapists you'll see. As a teen, as an adult. The conversations you'll have until you are old and wise about how this one time, everyone found out that you had a crush on that guy/girl and it was painful and terrible and you felt like you would die. Except me. That never happened to me. We could discuss why that is, but why? when we haven't yet touched on how this relates to Chile.
Chile is that kid. That kid who says, everyone thinks we're backwards, poor, indigenous, impoverished, noncultured, third world, (insert more negative adjectives here). And the cool kid walks by and says, "Who?"
Don't get me wrong, this nation of 17 million people is more than a blip on some people's radar screens. Certainly it looms large in my imagination and outside my window and all around me and even follows me around with my accent and my whoa! that's spicy to things I previously would have loaded on with aplomb, and my patience and belief that things can get fixed and will work out and a million other ways in which my attitude has changed.
But really? Most people, when presented with the country Chile out of context, look off into the distance and try to remember an old map they once saw of some distant continent, and try to imagine who its neighbors might be. Which is why, the whole "see, we're not a banana republic" or "we're not Indians with feathers in our hair" comments I occasionally hear strike me as almost schoolgirl-sad. Nobody thinks that about you, Chile. Because really? They're so wrapped up in their football games and precociously pubescent girlfriends and getting the whoosh in their hair just right, that they don't even KNOW who you ARE.
But don't worry, I'm doing what I can. And maybe it ends like one of those afterschool movies where the ugly girl just needs to let down her hair, take off her glasses and work it, and then everyone will see just how fab she really is. And she'll walk right by the awesome bizarrely-broad chested preteen of her former dreams and find her true geeky love. Because everyone loves the underdog.
Besos (kisses) Chile, yesterday you rocked my world (many administrative and bureaucratic items taken care of with tissue in hand and covers to chin, most impressive. I'd write an ode, but that would be stepping on Pablo Neruda's posthumous toes. Please don't say "who?").
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Alex, I'll take beespit for 1,000. Or which way does the runny nose go in South America?
Down, the runny nose goes down. Here we call it romadizo if we're in polite company, congestión if we don't want to allude to the nose blowiness of it all (or if none is necessary), or we talk about mocos if we're with kids or want to be a little yucky. You'll be happy to know that the word flema exists as well, and I'm not even going to tell you what it means, as I'm sure you can figure it out for yourself. (hint, switch out the f for a ph...).
So, I got a code. Stuffed dose. This happens once every, oh, I don't know, 18 months or so, and the trick, I find (for me) is to drown in whatever sounds good to drink (which in my case is usually not juice because juice reminds me of something very foul which I will not mention unless prodded), sleeping alot, remaining bundled and warm, and waiting. I suppose if I had a television or was prone to watching it (or the four, count 'em four movies I have recently been loaned by friends), I would do that. Alas, even when I'm under the weather, I'm a little spinny. And I'd rather read. In fact, this morning I read Jamaica Kinkaid's Lucy. It was beautiful. Easy to follow (important since I have the dumb right now) and short. So yeah, that's on the "give-away-or-trade" bookshelf that you see on your left when you first come in the apartment, though it's been a bit depleted since I handed off a few books to Mamaj when she was here).
I've also been working, because hey, they make me do that (well, I make me do that), and drinking up the last sachets of my cold-specific brebages from the states and Perú. From the states I had echinacea and goldenseal, which are great because in addition to tasting like weeds, they come with fortunes, like this one "If you believe you can, you will succeed." I mean, who doesn't need that when they're feeling coldish? The one from Perú just tastes like eucalyptus mostly, and claims to be gripal, or for the grippe, which just makes me happy I don't have cataracts and catarrh (Pippin reference intentional) to boot.
Chile doesn't have any cold-specific tea, though there are formulations of sachets that you can take with hot water like the US-sold Theraflu, and pills of many varieties (but none of them as lovely as sudafed, in its speedy, speedy way). Trioval is one people like, as well as Tapsin. I don't really buy the "masking the symptoms" meds unless you have a phone interview or something like I do this afternoon, for which I might dig out a tiny red pill. Which maybe should be a Matrix reference, but I still haven't seen it (see spinny, above).
What Chile does have (in addition to 1001 remedies for a stomach ache, which we shall explore at another time) is propoleo. Propoleo, or propolys, is some kind of bee-derivative, possibly from their jaws or salivary glands or who knows where. It's a natural antibiotic, and it comes in spray, tincture (to be eye-droppered into a glass of water, whereupon it turns a bilious yellow, the better to drink it all up), and even candies. I haven't asked how they get it out of the bees, and truthfully don't need to know. I just droppa droppa droppa, throw it back and feel the little bee antibodies doing their thing.
And I try not to think about Jerry Seinfeld. Because even though I'm not much of a movie watcher, I do love my niece, and since she wanted to see that movie, we all went and gave it a bug-eyed whirl, thumbs' down notwithstanding.
I'm off to dream of hexagons and the bees that live in them. And leave you with the words abeja (bee), polen (pollen) miel (honey), jalea real (royal jelly) enjambre (swarm), and colmena (hive). Add that to your daily dose of Spanish vocab.
And here's one more (all together): Mejorate luego! (get well soon).
Gracias.
So, I got a code. Stuffed dose. This happens once every, oh, I don't know, 18 months or so, and the trick, I find (for me) is to drown in whatever sounds good to drink (which in my case is usually not juice because juice reminds me of something very foul which I will not mention unless prodded), sleeping alot, remaining bundled and warm, and waiting. I suppose if I had a television or was prone to watching it (or the four, count 'em four movies I have recently been loaned by friends), I would do that. Alas, even when I'm under the weather, I'm a little spinny. And I'd rather read. In fact, this morning I read Jamaica Kinkaid's Lucy. It was beautiful. Easy to follow (important since I have the dumb right now) and short. So yeah, that's on the "give-away-or-trade" bookshelf that you see on your left when you first come in the apartment, though it's been a bit depleted since I handed off a few books to Mamaj when she was here).
I've also been working, because hey, they make me do that (well, I make me do that), and drinking up the last sachets of my cold-specific brebages from the states and Perú. From the states I had echinacea and goldenseal, which are great because in addition to tasting like weeds, they come with fortunes, like this one "If you believe you can, you will succeed." I mean, who doesn't need that when they're feeling coldish? The one from Perú just tastes like eucalyptus mostly, and claims to be gripal, or for the grippe, which just makes me happy I don't have cataracts and catarrh (Pippin reference intentional) to boot.
Chile doesn't have any cold-specific tea, though there are formulations of sachets that you can take with hot water like the US-sold Theraflu, and pills of many varieties (but none of them as lovely as sudafed, in its speedy, speedy way). Trioval is one people like, as well as Tapsin. I don't really buy the "masking the symptoms" meds unless you have a phone interview or something like I do this afternoon, for which I might dig out a tiny red pill. Which maybe should be a Matrix reference, but I still haven't seen it (see spinny, above).
What Chile does have (in addition to 1001 remedies for a stomach ache, which we shall explore at another time) is propoleo. Propoleo, or propolys, is some kind of bee-derivative, possibly from their jaws or salivary glands or who knows where. It's a natural antibiotic, and it comes in spray, tincture (to be eye-droppered into a glass of water, whereupon it turns a bilious yellow, the better to drink it all up), and even candies. I haven't asked how they get it out of the bees, and truthfully don't need to know. I just droppa droppa droppa, throw it back and feel the little bee antibodies doing their thing.
And I try not to think about Jerry Seinfeld. Because even though I'm not much of a movie watcher, I do love my niece, and since she wanted to see that movie, we all went and gave it a bug-eyed whirl, thumbs' down notwithstanding.
I'm off to dream of hexagons and the bees that live in them. And leave you with the words abeja (bee), polen (pollen) miel (honey), jalea real (royal jelly) enjambre (swarm), and colmena (hive). Add that to your daily dose of Spanish vocab.
And here's one more (all together): Mejorate luego! (get well soon).
Gracias.
Monday, May 11, 2009
¿Dónde está la guagua?/Where's the baby?
I am truly astonished to find that I have never told the "Where's the baby"/Dónde está la guagua? story. It's a tale of chicken pox and vaccinations and inadequate medicinery and being pushy and explaining math. Pull up a chair, you're going to love it.
So one day I was at work, in the little four-pod I used to work in, whereby Anita and I stared across our desks at each other over a low cubicle partition, and if I turned slightly to the left I'd see José, and if I turned a little more, I'd see the elegantly-named Tatiana, who we all for some unknown reason we all liked to call Tatys. Strange, because there's only one of her, and she's pretty small.
Well, José had arrived a little late, and announced that he might be leaving early, because one kid was down with the peste cristal/varicella (chicken pox), and if the other showed up with some pox, he'd have to go retrieve him/her from school. Interesting, I thought. I've never had the pox! (though my sister, ever the over-achiever, has had it twice). "Neither have I" admitted José.
I toodled along through my academic/administriative duties, casting aside old testing materials and creating new ones, learning a book-related software for creating exams which would hopefully only have one correct answer per item (test questions are called items when you are in the know, trust me on this). Then I went to one of the eternal meetings I was frequently invited to at the institute that I have never named (but at which several of my readers work, and they are probably enjoying this post an inordinate amount already). How about you?
Well, when I came back from the meeting, I looked ahead and smiled at Anita. I looked to the side, and saw the singular Tatys. And then, to the left, I saw a big empty space where José should be solving problems and dealing with the IT department. No José. Pittapatpittapat went the corazón (heart). "Um," I said casually... "where's José?"
Oh, he got some pox, so he went home.
Immediately I began researching post-exposure vaccination to chicken pox. I discovered that it can prevent infection or minimize symptoms. I don't want to be a weenie, but I also didn't want to suffer through a perfectly preventable childhood illness when I was distantly removed from my childhood (immature attitudes towards dating and incurable romanticism notwithstanding).
I flew off to my local doctor, and convinced her to prescribe me the vaccination, and at the same time she suggested that I should get a shot of immunoglobulin, just to boost my immune system. I grabbed the prescription and flew out the door, thinking a) immunoglobulin is a human blood derivative, have we learned nothing about contagion and blood banks, you quack? and b) I don't want other people's antibodies to fight off the vaccine, silly doctor, I want MY body to react to the vaccine. Because hey, that's how vaccines work.
Remember the baby? Well, here's where he/she comes in. I trotted off to the recommended clinic, complete with the vacunatorio (vaccination center) in the basement, dropped off my paperwork and proceeded to wait. Tickatickaticka went the clock.
Finally, I was called. Señora Barbara, they said. And I stood up. This is not my name, but like some actors have stage names, or writers have nomes de plume, Señora Barbara is my clinic name. (it is actually my middle name, treated like a last name, but this is not important to the story).
"¿Dónde esta la guagua?" (Where's the baby?)
La guagua?
La guagua.
Qué guagua?
(getting impatient)... The baby here, Aylin, with the national ID number veinti-un milliones (21 million) etc.
Oh, that's not a baby!
Yes it is.
No it's not, it's me.
No (very annoyed now), this RUT belongs to a two-year-old child.
No, (almost laughing), this RUT belongs to a foreigner who got into the system two years ago.
Having solved that there was no baby to be vaccinated, I was sent to the vaccination ante-room, where I watched several actual guaguas (babies in Chile, means bus in Puerto Rico, among other places) squirm on their parents' laps and try to stick stuff in their mouths.
When it was time for my turn, the doctor looked down to find me. Then she realized I was an adult, and taller than her by several inches. You want the chicken pox vaccine? Yes, I said. But didn't you have the chicken pox as a child? And on and on it went, about how no, and I'd actually had the titer to see if I'd ever had an antibody reaction to it (been exposed and not gotten it), and all the while, watching the clock, and wondering if I was going to get the injection before the incubation period ended. And wondering why some people insist on coming to work when they are sick.
And get vaccinated I did, and I got a bandaid to go over the puncture, and no lollipop, nor a single pox. José got two weeks off of work. Maybe I got the short end of the stick. But at least I have my story.
So one day I was at work, in the little four-pod I used to work in, whereby Anita and I stared across our desks at each other over a low cubicle partition, and if I turned slightly to the left I'd see José, and if I turned a little more, I'd see the elegantly-named Tatiana, who we all for some unknown reason we all liked to call Tatys. Strange, because there's only one of her, and she's pretty small.
Well, José had arrived a little late, and announced that he might be leaving early, because one kid was down with the peste cristal/varicella (chicken pox), and if the other showed up with some pox, he'd have to go retrieve him/her from school. Interesting, I thought. I've never had the pox! (though my sister, ever the over-achiever, has had it twice). "Neither have I" admitted José.
I toodled along through my academic/administriative duties, casting aside old testing materials and creating new ones, learning a book-related software for creating exams which would hopefully only have one correct answer per item (test questions are called items when you are in the know, trust me on this). Then I went to one of the eternal meetings I was frequently invited to at the institute that I have never named (but at which several of my readers work, and they are probably enjoying this post an inordinate amount already). How about you?
Well, when I came back from the meeting, I looked ahead and smiled at Anita. I looked to the side, and saw the singular Tatys. And then, to the left, I saw a big empty space where José should be solving problems and dealing with the IT department. No José. Pittapatpittapat went the corazón (heart). "Um," I said casually... "where's José?"
Oh, he got some pox, so he went home.
Immediately I began researching post-exposure vaccination to chicken pox. I discovered that it can prevent infection or minimize symptoms. I don't want to be a weenie, but I also didn't want to suffer through a perfectly preventable childhood illness when I was distantly removed from my childhood (immature attitudes towards dating and incurable romanticism notwithstanding).
I flew off to my local doctor, and convinced her to prescribe me the vaccination, and at the same time she suggested that I should get a shot of immunoglobulin, just to boost my immune system. I grabbed the prescription and flew out the door, thinking a) immunoglobulin is a human blood derivative, have we learned nothing about contagion and blood banks, you quack? and b) I don't want other people's antibodies to fight off the vaccine, silly doctor, I want MY body to react to the vaccine. Because hey, that's how vaccines work.
Remember the baby? Well, here's where he/she comes in. I trotted off to the recommended clinic, complete with the vacunatorio (vaccination center) in the basement, dropped off my paperwork and proceeded to wait. Tickatickaticka went the clock.
Finally, I was called. Señora Barbara, they said. And I stood up. This is not my name, but like some actors have stage names, or writers have nomes de plume, Señora Barbara is my clinic name. (it is actually my middle name, treated like a last name, but this is not important to the story).
"¿Dónde esta la guagua?" (Where's the baby?)
La guagua?
La guagua.
Qué guagua?
(getting impatient)... The baby here, Aylin, with the national ID number veinti-un milliones (21 million) etc.
Oh, that's not a baby!
Yes it is.
No it's not, it's me.
No (very annoyed now), this RUT belongs to a two-year-old child.
No, (almost laughing), this RUT belongs to a foreigner who got into the system two years ago.
Having solved that there was no baby to be vaccinated, I was sent to the vaccination ante-room, where I watched several actual guaguas (babies in Chile, means bus in Puerto Rico, among other places) squirm on their parents' laps and try to stick stuff in their mouths.
When it was time for my turn, the doctor looked down to find me. Then she realized I was an adult, and taller than her by several inches. You want the chicken pox vaccine? Yes, I said. But didn't you have the chicken pox as a child? And on and on it went, about how no, and I'd actually had the titer to see if I'd ever had an antibody reaction to it (been exposed and not gotten it), and all the while, watching the clock, and wondering if I was going to get the injection before the incubation period ended. And wondering why some people insist on coming to work when they are sick.
And get vaccinated I did, and I got a bandaid to go over the puncture, and no lollipop, nor a single pox. José got two weeks off of work. Maybe I got the short end of the stick. But at least I have my story.
Friday, May 8, 2009
And now, the people of Uruguay get their due
Worry not, my lovelies, the blabla collection is still on, and the customs/security stories are a-building. I'm thrilled to see so many of you weighing in, and still laughing about the serrated knife (check the comments on the first post). Also thinking about how the combination of charges for checked luggage on domestic flights coupled with the 3 oz liquids rule is going to wreak havoc on my hair during the month I'm in the states this coming northern summer. Apologies in advance to people who've offered to host me. I will be stealing shampoo and conditioner. Except from my bookbinding friend who lives on/in (?) intentional community, and I'm willing to bet uses all natural products. But hey! baby goats.
Earlier this week I was touting Uruguay in general and Montevideo in particular as places to go, not the least of which because they're horribly photogenic. But the buildings are only part of the story. Despite my best attempts to get truly candid (yet decent) shots of Uruguayans or their Argentine neighbors hugging their termos and mates and sucking down this caffeinated concoction, these are not among the noteworthy photos.
So you'll just have to settle for some others. A photographer friend of mine describes my snappity habit as documentarian in nature. Worse things have been said about someone's photography, and those things may also be being said about what I take. But lalalalala, I can't hear you. PlanetNomad also makes her case for not taking pictures of people in an exploitative way, and I think she's totally right, and hope I never do.
And so I present some candid shots I forced my mother to wait through me taking (though not for very long, because one must, at all costs, keep moving). Clearly these are not as stellar as the old man and the river photo I posted a few days ago, but like the brownies I recently made for Mr. Stilllife that were only partially burnt, they still give you something to chew on. I hope you find them tasty.
teenagers sitting by the river in Colonia. Notice the oblong mate purse hanging from the wall and the thermos by one of the kids' feet. Mate drinkers, caught in a time out.
These sisters sat down waiting for their mom to come along with their little brother in his stroller. I love the way the girl with the cookie in her hand is eyeing the other one defiantly, with a don't-even-think-about-it look on her face.
as you can see, this man is terribly concerned about the bottom line. Also, candied peanuts in Chile are sold from a different-looking cart, and it doesn't have a little put-put chimney on the top. I wonder if Tio Semilla (Uncle Seed, which sounds much less weird in Spanish, I promise), my corner peanut, guy wishes he had such a chimney. Inhaling the burnt sugar smell must get old.
And here begin what I like to call the grey-hair portraits. I am in love with taking pictures of older people. Maybe because they tend to be self-confident, or just because I'm looking forward to getting to be one, in that when-I'm-an-old-woman-I-shall-wear-purple kind of way.
this woman stands in her balcony with a windowbox of garishly-colored silk flowers, a sign above her head says "ten fe en dios" (have faith in God). The stream of light is just, as we say, la guinda en la torta (the icing on the cake).
with this one, my mother asked, "do people ever get angry at you for taking their picture?" And I said, "I don't think they notice." Do you think this woman would mind? I think she's stunning. And I love her looking in what appears to be her change purse as she passes a storefront specializing in lottery tickets.
This gent's weathered hands, as well as the pose they are in make the photo for me. The background colors don't hurt either.
I'll leave you with this one to comment on yourselves, though if you click back to my flickr page, you'll see what I think it should be called.
And although I believe there are universals in life, how much people love their children and dislike being hungry, appreciate a sip of water when they're thirsty and love to get mail, I also love how different people can look. These (for the most part) are the people of Uruguay. Nowhere else. And not Chile, by a long shot (no pun intended).
Earlier this week I was touting Uruguay in general and Montevideo in particular as places to go, not the least of which because they're horribly photogenic. But the buildings are only part of the story. Despite my best attempts to get truly candid (yet decent) shots of Uruguayans or their Argentine neighbors hugging their termos and mates and sucking down this caffeinated concoction, these are not among the noteworthy photos.
So you'll just have to settle for some others. A photographer friend of mine describes my snappity habit as documentarian in nature. Worse things have been said about someone's photography, and those things may also be being said about what I take. But lalalalala, I can't hear you. PlanetNomad also makes her case for not taking pictures of people in an exploitative way, and I think she's totally right, and hope I never do.
And so I present some candid shots I forced my mother to wait through me taking (though not for very long, because one must, at all costs, keep moving). Clearly these are not as stellar as the old man and the river photo I posted a few days ago, but like the brownies I recently made for Mr. Stilllife that were only partially burnt, they still give you something to chew on. I hope you find them tasty.
teenagers sitting by the river in Colonia. Notice the oblong mate purse hanging from the wall and the thermos by one of the kids' feet. Mate drinkers, caught in a time out.
These sisters sat down waiting for their mom to come along with their little brother in his stroller. I love the way the girl with the cookie in her hand is eyeing the other one defiantly, with a don't-even-think-about-it look on her face.
as you can see, this man is terribly concerned about the bottom line. Also, candied peanuts in Chile are sold from a different-looking cart, and it doesn't have a little put-put chimney on the top. I wonder if Tio Semilla (Uncle Seed, which sounds much less weird in Spanish, I promise), my corner peanut, guy wishes he had such a chimney. Inhaling the burnt sugar smell must get old.
And here begin what I like to call the grey-hair portraits. I am in love with taking pictures of older people. Maybe because they tend to be self-confident, or just because I'm looking forward to getting to be one, in that when-I'm-an-old-woman-I-shall-wear-purple kind of way.
this woman stands in her balcony with a windowbox of garishly-colored silk flowers, a sign above her head says "ten fe en dios" (have faith in God). The stream of light is just, as we say, la guinda en la torta (the icing on the cake).
with this one, my mother asked, "do people ever get angry at you for taking their picture?" And I said, "I don't think they notice." Do you think this woman would mind? I think she's stunning. And I love her looking in what appears to be her change purse as she passes a storefront specializing in lottery tickets.
This gent's weathered hands, as well as the pose they are in make the photo for me. The background colors don't hurt either.
I'll leave you with this one to comment on yourselves, though if you click back to my flickr page, you'll see what I think it should be called.
And although I believe there are universals in life, how much people love their children and dislike being hungry, appreciate a sip of water when they're thirsty and love to get mail, I also love how different people can look. These (for the most part) are the people of Uruguay. Nowhere else. And not Chile, by a long shot (no pun intended).
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
From the seized-goods-of-travelers files
Here are some seized goods stories from my friends and fellow blog readers, who responded to this call for blabla, where you should go to read stories from people like Cronopio who don't blog, or don't blog about stuff like this.
So far we've got blog entries from:
Bystander
Abby
Sara
Richard
Planet Nomad
Margaret
Katie
Margaret writes another!
Kim
Emily
I'll keep updating, and of course I have my own (non-garlic related), very long-winded story to tell:
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Somewhere along the way I got it into my brain that it was a good idea for me to spend a week in the Falkland Islands (that's the Islas Malvinas to you). Really it was not so much that I wanted to spend a week there so much as there are only flights in and out once a week through Chile (and another every 10 days through Britain, but I don't live in Britain, and that's expensive, and less frequent than once a week at any rate). The story of the trip itself is all wind and penguins and terrible acrid penguin odor and watery eyes and impressive landscape and very British everything and this quirky (not in a good way) family that shared my route for a couple of nights and also tiny red planes with dashing pilots.
But the story is something else. On my second to last day in the Falklands, I was in Stanley, and had an excursion scheduled, a long, bumpity ride over moss and dale to Volunteer Point, where I was lucky enough to take this kick-ass picture of the king (but not emperor, because they're in Antarctica) penguins.
Penguins at Volunteer Point
There was one very insufferable fool in the jeep on the excursion, and though we traded him out for someone nicer on the way home, the driver/guide and I became close friends talking about what a tool he'd been. Talk turned to this and that, and it came up that I'd wanted to taste diddle-dee berries, but that they weren't yet in season. I'd had some jam, but it wasn't the same. Oh! you like jam?! my guide said. Yes, I said. What about rhubarb jam? Love it, I said. Rhubarb grows in the south of Chile, and sometimes you can find jam, but not often, and stirred into yogurt, it's delicious (though I hated it as a child, especially in pie form with strawberries, with apologies to my deceased father). The tourguide then drove to her house, and brought me a jar of home-made jam. With a little skirt on top, you know, a piece of gingham, tied with raffia. It was very country special.
The very next day, I went to the very official and uptight airport there in the Falkland Islands and made a terrible discovery. Rhubarb jam is a gel. And as such, it cannot be brought on board a plane. There were more than three ounces of it. I winced when they went to take it away, and then thought of a plan. The airport's small, I speak the language, I'm going to try to give this a go. I explained how it was homemade jam, and who it was from (Stanley, the capital city is tiny, and everyone knows each other), and it became a giant game of guide Eileen through the airport to find her main luggage (with armed guards, no less), to tuck the jam inside. Everyone heard my story, and I think the fact that I'm just woefully normal (especially for a person who'd visit the Falklkands, they tend to be just on the other side of disgustingly rich because my word is that an expensive trip), and that a local had liked me enough to give me jam made everyone want to help me. In the end, we found the luggage, tucked in the jam and went back through security (in case the armed guards had given me something as contraband, I suppose), and went to the plane. I got back to Punta Arenas (Chile), left the next day for a quick hike in Torres del Paine and sort of forgot about the jam until I was deep on the Carretera Austral in the unpaved part of Chile, and man was that delicious for several days running, on whole wheat crackers and cereal and whatever else I could find.
Thanks airport people, thanks amazing driver tourguide who explained (but did not demonstrate) why it's called "getting bogged down."
So far we've got blog entries from:
Bystander
Abby
Sara
Richard
Planet Nomad
Margaret
Katie
Margaret writes another!
Kim
Emily
I'll keep updating, and of course I have my own (non-garlic related), very long-winded story to tell:
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Somewhere along the way I got it into my brain that it was a good idea for me to spend a week in the Falkland Islands (that's the Islas Malvinas to you). Really it was not so much that I wanted to spend a week there so much as there are only flights in and out once a week through Chile (and another every 10 days through Britain, but I don't live in Britain, and that's expensive, and less frequent than once a week at any rate). The story of the trip itself is all wind and penguins and terrible acrid penguin odor and watery eyes and impressive landscape and very British everything and this quirky (not in a good way) family that shared my route for a couple of nights and also tiny red planes with dashing pilots.
But the story is something else. On my second to last day in the Falklands, I was in Stanley, and had an excursion scheduled, a long, bumpity ride over moss and dale to Volunteer Point, where I was lucky enough to take this kick-ass picture of the king (but not emperor, because they're in Antarctica) penguins.
Penguins at Volunteer Point
There was one very insufferable fool in the jeep on the excursion, and though we traded him out for someone nicer on the way home, the driver/guide and I became close friends talking about what a tool he'd been. Talk turned to this and that, and it came up that I'd wanted to taste diddle-dee berries, but that they weren't yet in season. I'd had some jam, but it wasn't the same. Oh! you like jam?! my guide said. Yes, I said. What about rhubarb jam? Love it, I said. Rhubarb grows in the south of Chile, and sometimes you can find jam, but not often, and stirred into yogurt, it's delicious (though I hated it as a child, especially in pie form with strawberries, with apologies to my deceased father). The tourguide then drove to her house, and brought me a jar of home-made jam. With a little skirt on top, you know, a piece of gingham, tied with raffia. It was very country special.
The very next day, I went to the very official and uptight airport there in the Falkland Islands and made a terrible discovery. Rhubarb jam is a gel. And as such, it cannot be brought on board a plane. There were more than three ounces of it. I winced when they went to take it away, and then thought of a plan. The airport's small, I speak the language, I'm going to try to give this a go. I explained how it was homemade jam, and who it was from (Stanley, the capital city is tiny, and everyone knows each other), and it became a giant game of guide Eileen through the airport to find her main luggage (with armed guards, no less), to tuck the jam inside. Everyone heard my story, and I think the fact that I'm just woefully normal (especially for a person who'd visit the Falklkands, they tend to be just on the other side of disgustingly rich because my word is that an expensive trip), and that a local had liked me enough to give me jam made everyone want to help me. In the end, we found the luggage, tucked in the jam and went back through security (in case the armed guards had given me something as contraband, I suppose), and went to the plane. I got back to Punta Arenas (Chile), left the next day for a quick hike in Torres del Paine and sort of forgot about the jam until I was deep on the Carretera Austral in the unpaved part of Chile, and man was that delicious for several days running, on whole wheat crackers and cereal and whatever else I could find.
Thanks airport people, thanks amazing driver tourguide who explained (but did not demonstrate) why it's called "getting bogged down."
Call for a group blog post: Seized goods
I hope this doesn't qualify as one of those horrible taggity memey things, but here goes.
Katie and I were talking recently in the comments on this blog entry about my wanton garlic-importing ways, and how this fact has been written down on my permanent record, which will probably one day prevent me from going to the finest culinary school on any continent.
Anyway, turns out Katie's got a tale to tell about dulce de leche, the Argentine equivalent of Chile's manjar. Which is a funny way of putting it, since most know what dulce de leche is and manjar is much less well-known. And this reminds me, by the way of an awesome American couple I met in Iquique (who seem to be in Japan right now), who insisted on calling it Man Jar, as though it were a certain surrealist/dadist artist, as opposed to a goopy milky fudgy spreadable sweet.
Ahem. So, stuff you've tried to bring aboard a plane that's been taken from you, or that you've seen taken from someone else. Makes for a good story. So here's what you do. You blog about it, then you leave me a comment here, and then I pimp you out to my readers. It's great fun. And I got the idea of this "group blog post" from here, the blog of another American expat living in Chile, who's part of (it seems) a tight circle of friends who respond prolifically to her requests for group blog posts.
Don't let me down, people.
Here we go. Group blog post: The Great Seizing, or how they took my stuff away (or somebody else's) and it made us all laugh and/or cry.
Spill your story on your blog, leave a comment here and I'll make you marginally famouser than you were before. If you don't have a blog I guess you can leave your story in the comments. Holy moderated comments, batman.
Go!
Katie and I were talking recently in the comments on this blog entry about my wanton garlic-importing ways, and how this fact has been written down on my permanent record, which will probably one day prevent me from going to the finest culinary school on any continent.
Anyway, turns out Katie's got a tale to tell about dulce de leche, the Argentine equivalent of Chile's manjar. Which is a funny way of putting it, since most know what dulce de leche is and manjar is much less well-known. And this reminds me, by the way of an awesome American couple I met in Iquique (who seem to be in Japan right now), who insisted on calling it Man Jar, as though it were a certain surrealist/dadist artist, as opposed to a goopy milky fudgy spreadable sweet.
Ahem. So, stuff you've tried to bring aboard a plane that's been taken from you, or that you've seen taken from someone else. Makes for a good story. So here's what you do. You blog about it, then you leave me a comment here, and then I pimp you out to my readers. It's great fun. And I got the idea of this "group blog post" from here, the blog of another American expat living in Chile, who's part of (it seems) a tight circle of friends who respond prolifically to her requests for group blog posts.
Don't let me down, people.
Here we go. Group blog post: The Great Seizing, or how they took my stuff away (or somebody else's) and it made us all laugh and/or cry.
Spill your story on your blog, leave a comment here and I'll make you marginally famouser than you were before. If you don't have a blog I guess you can leave your story in the comments. Holy moderated comments, batman.
Go!
Montevideo, the places you'll see.
There are many things to love about Uruguay. For one thing, the capital city is mostly safe, very pedestrian-friendly, pretty easy to get around by foot, bus and taxi (and the taxi drivers are unerringly honest).
Montevideo captured my heart, but I already knew it would, especially since I'd been there once before, in early 2005. I have a thing for architecture, and for snapping pictures of people walking in the street. Montevideo delivered on both fronts. You've already seen my favorite here, but here are just a few more shots of Montevideo on the "they built it" front. I have often lamented that I don't record sound (though this may change) and that the computer is not scratch-and-sniff. In this case, you can pretty much imagine the sounds, small city rustle and grind, with not a ton of horn-honking, but more than you'd get in Santiago, which is relatively silent on this front. What you will not get, due to the smell-lessness of the computer is the colossal stink of urine that followed us down most minor streets. Uruguay's been in drought conditions, and let me tell you, they could really use a good, pee-cleaning rain in Montevideo. Sorry Monty, you know I love you. But the eau-de-human voiding? It reeks.
So, with no more blasting of the city that drank too much mate, here's some of what you're "supposed" to see when you go to Montevideo. And which I felt lucky to catch glimpses of, this time with MamaJ in tow.
Palacio Salvo, a private office building, and probably the most-photographed building in all of Montevideo.
This is technically not on the must-snap list of Montevideo, but it's a suspension bridge we went under on the way from the airport to the city, and it's a gorgeous example, in my humble, non-bridge expert opinion. It also looks alot like this famous bridge I made my friend in Sao Paulo crazy about until she took me there to take pictures of it.
streetscape, complete with actual Uruguayans, and a McDonald's installed in the lower level of a beautiful building
Artigas' tomb, across from the Palacio Salvo, in a plaza. Artigas is Uruguay's hero, and you can see they take him very seriously. The underground mausoleum was creepy and reverent at the same time. It was, thankfully, odorless.
Here's the mercado del puerto, or port market, where you're supposed to eat when you're in the old town. Dutiful tourists that we are, we complied, and were stuffed to the gills with delicious nibbles. I had a cazuela de pescado, which is a fish stew, cooked together with onions, tomatoes and the ubiquitous (in Uruguay) red peppers, and it was delectable, and enormous. But I'm pretty sure you're supposed to eat meat when you go here. I hope I, a pescavarian for the last couple of decades (except when I was vegan) will be forgiven.
This is one of several free museums in the old town, El museo de la moneda y del gaucho, or the coin and cowboy museum (They should totally hire me to do their translations, look how cute I made that sound, I could have said "museum of money and cowboys, or any of a number of other things). Here I have to make an excuse. I'm not a big fan of taking pictures in museums, but this one kind of passed muster. The collection of mates (mate-drinking gourds, in this case, silver-plated) on the second floor was amazing, but owing to a tired mom and middling indoor photography skills, you'll have to trust me on this one or go see it yourself.
This is the rambla, or riverfront, a 22-km stretch of pedestrian-friendly concrete walkway next to the river, before sunset. If I lived in Montevideo, I hope I would be one of those people that made it a priority to walk out on this piece of urban heaven every single day.
Tomorrow: the side of Montevideo you'd have to go there (or read this blog) to see. People 'n stuff.
Montevideo captured my heart, but I already knew it would, especially since I'd been there once before, in early 2005. I have a thing for architecture, and for snapping pictures of people walking in the street. Montevideo delivered on both fronts. You've already seen my favorite here, but here are just a few more shots of Montevideo on the "they built it" front. I have often lamented that I don't record sound (though this may change) and that the computer is not scratch-and-sniff. In this case, you can pretty much imagine the sounds, small city rustle and grind, with not a ton of horn-honking, but more than you'd get in Santiago, which is relatively silent on this front. What you will not get, due to the smell-lessness of the computer is the colossal stink of urine that followed us down most minor streets. Uruguay's been in drought conditions, and let me tell you, they could really use a good, pee-cleaning rain in Montevideo. Sorry Monty, you know I love you. But the eau-de-human voiding? It reeks.
So, with no more blasting of the city that drank too much mate, here's some of what you're "supposed" to see when you go to Montevideo. And which I felt lucky to catch glimpses of, this time with MamaJ in tow.
Palacio Salvo, a private office building, and probably the most-photographed building in all of Montevideo.
This is technically not on the must-snap list of Montevideo, but it's a suspension bridge we went under on the way from the airport to the city, and it's a gorgeous example, in my humble, non-bridge expert opinion. It also looks alot like this famous bridge I made my friend in Sao Paulo crazy about until she took me there to take pictures of it.
streetscape, complete with actual Uruguayans, and a McDonald's installed in the lower level of a beautiful building
Artigas' tomb, across from the Palacio Salvo, in a plaza. Artigas is Uruguay's hero, and you can see they take him very seriously. The underground mausoleum was creepy and reverent at the same time. It was, thankfully, odorless.
Here's the mercado del puerto, or port market, where you're supposed to eat when you're in the old town. Dutiful tourists that we are, we complied, and were stuffed to the gills with delicious nibbles. I had a cazuela de pescado, which is a fish stew, cooked together with onions, tomatoes and the ubiquitous (in Uruguay) red peppers, and it was delectable, and enormous. But I'm pretty sure you're supposed to eat meat when you go here. I hope I, a pescavarian for the last couple of decades (except when I was vegan) will be forgiven.
This is one of several free museums in the old town, El museo de la moneda y del gaucho, or the coin and cowboy museum (They should totally hire me to do their translations, look how cute I made that sound, I could have said "museum of money and cowboys, or any of a number of other things). Here I have to make an excuse. I'm not a big fan of taking pictures in museums, but this one kind of passed muster. The collection of mates (mate-drinking gourds, in this case, silver-plated) on the second floor was amazing, but owing to a tired mom and middling indoor photography skills, you'll have to trust me on this one or go see it yourself.
This is the rambla, or riverfront, a 22-km stretch of pedestrian-friendly concrete walkway next to the river, before sunset. If I lived in Montevideo, I hope I would be one of those people that made it a priority to walk out on this piece of urban heaven every single day.
Tomorrow: the side of Montevideo you'd have to go there (or read this blog) to see. People 'n stuff.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The old man and the river
If I were to post only one picture to represent my recent trip to Montevideo, it would be this one.
In the dying light of one of the last days of summer, an old man with long hair comes out to sit on the sea wall (except it's a river wall) along Rio de la Plata, Montevideo Uruguay's waterfront and playground.
The rest of the story is up to you.
In the dying light of one of the last days of summer, an old man with long hair comes out to sit on the sea wall (except it's a river wall) along Rio de la Plata, Montevideo Uruguay's waterfront and playground.
The rest of the story is up to you.
The story behind the much-alluded-to "great garlic debacle."
Today I'm going to tell a story that has nothing to do with Uruguay. It's not that I won't ever talk about Uruguay, it's just that I haven't downloaded the pictures yet and as Arun asked yesterday why I don't upload pictures (oy! because, the laze, it is strong with this one), I thought I'd save that until I've done some picture magic.
Today's story is about Argentina and Chile, and about garlic. We have special garlic in Chile called ajo chilote (garlic from Chiloé, the big island in the south just a bit past Puerto Montt where the continent breaks up like someone hit it with a mallet). It's alot like elephant garlic, I suppose, giant and heavy in your hand. But this story isn't even about ajo chilote, just garlic that is comun y corriente (regular).
Last southern summer, which would have been Dec 07 to the beginning of Feb 08, I was traveling around in the southern parts of Chile and Argentina. Ushuaia, El Calafate, El Chaltén, Mt. Fitzroy, Puerto Natales, Torres del Paine and all that good stuff. There were glaciers and lakes and wind to rip your hair out by the roots and many, many evenings spent whipping up something delicious over a hostel stove, or over my own trusty MSR dragonfly stove, which can burn white gas (bencina blanca in Spanish), kerosene, gasoline, diesel, and even jet fuel. Pretty cool, eh?
Well, Canadian tag questions aside, you should know that in the skinny part of the southern cone, you spend a lot of time crossing back and forth from Argentina to Chile and back again. On this particular occasion, I was on a bus where they'd told us that we should eat the lettuce off of our sandwiches before crossing the border into Chile (had to be, Chilean sandwiches don't have lettuce on them), because the rules on importation were quite strict. I know this already, and you, dogged readers, know it too, having read this entry on how SAG took my pecans away this past December.
Since I'd been backpacking, and cooking, I was traveling with food. As a rule, I separate out the dry from the fresh food, into two separate bags. So when I got to the border crossing and they had me open my bag, and ask what was inside a canvas zippy bag, I proudly said, "comida" (food), since this was the dry bag, the fresh one having been finished/given away earlier. I knew that in the dry bag I had powdered milk, cocoa, mate, rice and a few grains of sugar. What I didn't know is that I had foolishly classified a single clove of garlic as dry, and therefore had almost accidentally smuggled it into the country.
But have no fear, because the integrity of the garlic-producing parts of Chile is intact, as I was caught, told to fill out a new form, sternly talked to, soundly glared at, and registered on a very long carbonless copy triplicate (or perhaps quadrupilicate) as a "portador/a ilegal" de ajo (an illegal garlic mule, if you will). This, I was told, would be distributed to all the border crossings and that I would go down as a registered smuggler of agricultural products "a lo largo del país" (down the length of the country) which if you look at Chile, is a lot of notariety for a single clove of garlic. Which they said weighed 100 grams, which since it was regular, and not elephant, nor even Chilote garlic, is nigh on impossible. But since they didn't really hassle me that much (nor fine me), I decided it was best not to argue.
I hope those nice guys at SAG don't get in trouble for not fining me. They did seize the offending item, and do all the paperwork though. They also thought maybe I could stick around and teach them English, and if it weren't for the fact that I would have had to eat bland food for the rest of my days, having no garlic with which to flavor my rice, I might have considered it.
And that, my friends, is what I am talking about when I make reference to "the great garlic debacle of 2008." Or the international garlic incident, here.
And why am I telling this story today? Because stories are like clouds, drifting through the blue sky that is my mind. When they get seeded, or when the climatic conditions are just right, the story rains down. And if you're me, then you write it down (and share it with scads of people you don't know). And yesterday a woman was going through her change purse beside me while I was waiting for a friend to come out of a public bathroom. And amid her change (which fell to the floor), out flew a clove of garlic. And my garlic cloud story was seeded. And so the story rains down. Next time, bring an umbrella.
And if you're looking for an even more clever ending, consider the following: I'd bought a head of garlic in Chile, brought it to Argentina, cooked with most of it and was bringing one last clove back. Poor unrepatriated garlic clove. I'm sure it died a fiery death. Mmmmm, roasted garlic.
Today's story is about Argentina and Chile, and about garlic. We have special garlic in Chile called ajo chilote (garlic from Chiloé, the big island in the south just a bit past Puerto Montt where the continent breaks up like someone hit it with a mallet). It's alot like elephant garlic, I suppose, giant and heavy in your hand. But this story isn't even about ajo chilote, just garlic that is comun y corriente (regular).
Last southern summer, which would have been Dec 07 to the beginning of Feb 08, I was traveling around in the southern parts of Chile and Argentina. Ushuaia, El Calafate, El Chaltén, Mt. Fitzroy, Puerto Natales, Torres del Paine and all that good stuff. There were glaciers and lakes and wind to rip your hair out by the roots and many, many evenings spent whipping up something delicious over a hostel stove, or over my own trusty MSR dragonfly stove, which can burn white gas (bencina blanca in Spanish), kerosene, gasoline, diesel, and even jet fuel. Pretty cool, eh?
Well, Canadian tag questions aside, you should know that in the skinny part of the southern cone, you spend a lot of time crossing back and forth from Argentina to Chile and back again. On this particular occasion, I was on a bus where they'd told us that we should eat the lettuce off of our sandwiches before crossing the border into Chile (had to be, Chilean sandwiches don't have lettuce on them), because the rules on importation were quite strict. I know this already, and you, dogged readers, know it too, having read this entry on how SAG took my pecans away this past December.
Since I'd been backpacking, and cooking, I was traveling with food. As a rule, I separate out the dry from the fresh food, into two separate bags. So when I got to the border crossing and they had me open my bag, and ask what was inside a canvas zippy bag, I proudly said, "comida" (food), since this was the dry bag, the fresh one having been finished/given away earlier. I knew that in the dry bag I had powdered milk, cocoa, mate, rice and a few grains of sugar. What I didn't know is that I had foolishly classified a single clove of garlic as dry, and therefore had almost accidentally smuggled it into the country.
But have no fear, because the integrity of the garlic-producing parts of Chile is intact, as I was caught, told to fill out a new form, sternly talked to, soundly glared at, and registered on a very long carbonless copy triplicate (or perhaps quadrupilicate) as a "portador/a ilegal" de ajo (an illegal garlic mule, if you will). This, I was told, would be distributed to all the border crossings and that I would go down as a registered smuggler of agricultural products "a lo largo del país" (down the length of the country) which if you look at Chile, is a lot of notariety for a single clove of garlic. Which they said weighed 100 grams, which since it was regular, and not elephant, nor even Chilote garlic, is nigh on impossible. But since they didn't really hassle me that much (nor fine me), I decided it was best not to argue.
I hope those nice guys at SAG don't get in trouble for not fining me. They did seize the offending item, and do all the paperwork though. They also thought maybe I could stick around and teach them English, and if it weren't for the fact that I would have had to eat bland food for the rest of my days, having no garlic with which to flavor my rice, I might have considered it.
And that, my friends, is what I am talking about when I make reference to "the great garlic debacle of 2008." Or the international garlic incident, here.
And why am I telling this story today? Because stories are like clouds, drifting through the blue sky that is my mind. When they get seeded, or when the climatic conditions are just right, the story rains down. And if you're me, then you write it down (and share it with scads of people you don't know). And yesterday a woman was going through her change purse beside me while I was waiting for a friend to come out of a public bathroom. And amid her change (which fell to the floor), out flew a clove of garlic. And my garlic cloud story was seeded. And so the story rains down. Next time, bring an umbrella.
And if you're looking for an even more clever ending, consider the following: I'd bought a head of garlic in Chile, brought it to Argentina, cooked with most of it and was bringing one last clove back. Poor unrepatriated garlic clove. I'm sure it died a fiery death. Mmmmm, roasted garlic.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
And she went away. And then she came back. In the meantime, editors were hard at work.
While I've been hard at work as an itinerant translator, tourguide, scheduler, small funds manager and keeper of the hotel room's skeleton key (which makes the place sound much more medieval than it was), editors across the internet have been bringing my practical tips and a whole bucket of snark to your fingertips.
What? You've missed these? But don't you google my first and last name (hint, put Chile in there, or else I'm several pages down), or the blog name obsessively? This is troubling news my friends. Almost as troubling as if you'd told me you hadn't eaten swiss chard fritters with a pile of cooked squash the other day for dinner, or if you'd missed the over-the-top slab of vanilla icecream with excellent hot fudge and sweet chunks of ginger. These things make me weep, they do.
But because I'm generally not unnice, (though if you tell me nice is one of my main personality-defining adjectives, I will look at you quizically like when you use a three-syllable word to your three-year-old, but perhaps not quite as cute), I will send you to my blather.
First piece, on keeping in touch with the kiddos while on the road (stumble, tweet, go viral, digg, etc) here.
And sarcasm lovers everywhere will adore this one on surefire ways to get sick while traveling. Oh come on, it's funny! It's not my fault that there's a big fat virus going around these days. Here it is (the article, not the virus).
What? You've missed these? But don't you google my first and last name (hint, put Chile in there, or else I'm several pages down), or the blog name obsessively? This is troubling news my friends. Almost as troubling as if you'd told me you hadn't eaten swiss chard fritters with a pile of cooked squash the other day for dinner, or if you'd missed the over-the-top slab of vanilla icecream with excellent hot fudge and sweet chunks of ginger. These things make me weep, they do.
But because I'm generally not unnice, (though if you tell me nice is one of my main personality-defining adjectives, I will look at you quizically like when you use a three-syllable word to your three-year-old, but perhaps not quite as cute), I will send you to my blather.
First piece, on keeping in touch with the kiddos while on the road (stumble, tweet, go viral, digg, etc) here.
And sarcasm lovers everywhere will adore this one on surefire ways to get sick while traveling. Oh come on, it's funny! It's not my fault that there's a big fat virus going around these days. Here it is (the article, not the virus).
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