When cartoons in Spanish are your (my) demise. A tale of linguistic folly

When you live in a country not your own, and by the same token, carry on your day-to-day business in a language you were not born into, the world is a minefield, waiting for your blunder. If you speak Spanish you know about the typical snafus, confusing the word for pregnant (embarazada) with embarrassed, and a million more, each of them unique little jabs that say "hey you! you're not from here!"

And most of the time they're just small embarrassments, and it's not a big deal and nobody gets hurt, though there was this one time that I had to explain at length to a fluent (but not native) English speaker that there was a difference between "alot of mistakes" and "too many mistakes." We have this tendency to conflate "demasiado" (too much/many) with "mucho" (alot, many) here in Chile, or maybe in the whole Spanish speaking world, I couldn't say for sure. What is true is that you will embarrass (but hopefully not impregnate) yourself on many, many occasions. I think about language all the time, so I think of all the special ways in which I can make someone (or myself) very uncomfortable, and try mightily to minimize them. You probably do, too.

Rewind about 4.5 years and I was working at the famous Institute to which I occasionally refer. I felt alot like the character in Alias who works for a bank that is really a sub branch of the CIA. But only when I said "the institute." The rest of the time I just felt like an overworked, overharried, over baby-talking, inky-handed, up-too-late and again-too-early English teacher. But that's not the point of the story.

I'd been in Chile not long, and spoke fine Spanish. It wouldn't have won any awards, and not long before the event in question when told I had a check waiting for me at an office, I accidentally asked, "to do what with" (para que) instead of "why?" (por que) and everyone laughed (including the too many/alot woman, shame on her) and said, "for to spend it." (in English). Because it's hilarious to make fun of people.

So there I am, walking down an echoey linoleumed (ooh, two possibly invented words in a row!) hallway, and I see a bicycling acquaintance of mine. Nearly all the bike people I knew at that time have nicknames, curious things like chickenlegs and bear, skinny, fatty, big head, the old one. But this guy had a nice sweet nickname, that was easy to remember, as it rhymed with the word for violin (vee-o-LEEN). And I was happy to see someone I knew at my spy job, or a familliar face at all in Chile, since I hadn't been here that long.

And so I shouted out his nickname, and it pingponged back and forth and up and down off the walls and the floor like a million ball bearings and everyone stopped to turn around and stare.

I had just shouted out "TWEETY!" (Piolín... pee-o-LEEN).

Turns out that no matter how well you speak a language, there are still going to be cultural references and childhood monkeys (monitos, that's what they call cartoons here) that you didn't know the names for.

After this event (and apologizing profusely), I set to learning the names of the important dibujos animados (official name for cartoons), and I can happily report that

Los Pitufos=The Smurfs
Los Supersónicos=The Jetsons
Los Picapiedra=The Flintstones

And Doraemon, who you may or may not know, is "El Gato Cósmico."

How any of this may one day help me here in Chile, I have no idea. But it's fun to surprise people by talking about their cultural referrents.

Like when I say that the when the Entel Tower is lit up it looks like the Supersónicos are having a party.



Wish they'd invite me, looks like they have a heck of a view.



Wonder if they ever have Sylvester and Tweety over?

Pizza in Santiago that doesn't bite

This story's been rising like an overproofed lump of dough in the back of my brain for too long not to finally write it.

Santiago seems to be turning its image around. If Anthony Bourdain can like it, and the NYT can print a story on it, and Confessions of a Travel Writer show can feature it and bloggers can write about it (hey! that's you guys!), then surely we've come a long way, bebe.

And then there's this.

This is a story published at Matador, a website I do a bunch of work for, and so I guess the guy who wrote this is a co-worker, except we all really just work on the internet, and to some extent that makes all of you my coworkers. Except I can write Tom an email if I wanted, and I can't write all of you emails, though I could try.

So yeah, the story. And here it is! The Five Worst Pizzas in the World. Now go and come back.

Back? What you may have noticed, in addition to the hearty debate about whether Buenos Aires does or does not use good cheese on their pizza, and the appropriate quantity of said cheese and who has to take who around to show them what and whether or not Tom's palate is up to the task (surely it is!), is that the very first of the worst five pizzas is from Pronto Pizza, in La Serena.

La Serena is a smallish beach city about six hours north of here, and it's sort of the next great city in Chile. It's gaining ground as a place people want to move to, where satellite offices can be set up, etc. What it is not, apparently gaining is pizza lovers. When the article went up a bunch of us blogueras (thats ladyblogger to you) started talking about pizza in Chile. We talk about food alot from the unavailability (or availability) of bagels to where to get the best hallullas according to a very fancy ex-business woman food/wine writer luxury tourguide turned business woman (I think) again.

So in light of Santiago's surging popularity, our desire to write about food, and this horrible-yet-well-deserved character assassination, and the fact that I grew up in New York, and New Yorkers should be trusted to tell you six ways to get to your next location and also where to get pizza, I present to you:

Five places to get pizza in Santiago that doesn't bite!

1. Golfo di Napoli, Irrarrazaval 2423, Ñuñoa. The hands down winner for price plus taste is this resto hidden through a tiny doorway near the Nike Outlet on Irrarrazaval, just below Pedro de Valdivia. You get little bread bits and ricotta to nosh on before the main event, and there are a variety of mostly-traditional pizzas to choose from but newfangledish ones like arugula do show up. Buffalo or regular mozzarella, almost enough sauce, crispy but yielding crust, thin, but not too thin. Can be folded or not, no pools of grease (can be a negative but in this case is not). A pizza (enough for 1.5 or 2) will run you around $7 US.

2. Tiramisú, Isidora Goyonochea 3141 Las Condes/El Bosque. This place is well-known, and full of cuicos (Chile's version of an unpleasant upperclass person/yuppie type) and other assorted happy pizza-lovers. Their salads are also good and the service is faster than you'd expect, but you will often have to wait here. Almost as good as Golfo di Napoli, sometimes maybe even as good, but the crust is slightly too thin, the sauce slightly too sparse and the cuicos really get on my nerves. Plus it's a little more expensive than Golfo de Napoli.

3. Pizza Assis. You will absolutely be shocked to find this place near Plaza Italia, right on the Alameda (south side) before Baquedano. They put all kinds of freaky stuff on their pizza like corn and hearts of palm if you are not careful, but this pizza is darn cheap. Sauce is not that flavorful, but the crust and cheese and stuff are all cooked together, and it actually tastes like pizza, which is a true triumph in this country, and especially in this neighborhood which mostly sells sandwiches or Kentucky Fried Chicken. There's another location in Provi, on Santa Magdalena if I'm not mistaken

4. Pizza Sí/Backstage. (on Tobalaba or in Patio Bellavista) I hesitate to say I like Pizza Sí, because the truth is that the crust is so thin that I could roll it up like a taquito and eat it like that. Except that it's too crispy. But it has the ingredients of a real pizza, including risen dough, sauce and cheese that did not come in pellets, so I'll give it a not-unenthusiastic thumbs' up.

5. There is no 5.

Actually, I'd like to open the concurso (competition) to a very unexpected place in the way south of Chile, in Puerto Natales. This place, called La Mesita Grande blew my mind. It's saucy, stringy, thin-crusted and altogether tasty. It was also the first thing I'd eaten all day after a very long hike, but I went back later to test my love, and found it still present. You sit at shared wooden tables on long benches, and you're in one of the most beautiful little towns I've ever seen and a cool wind will whip you back home no matter what time of year. Love.

Then there's everything else.

There's attempts at by-the-slice pizza, at Rocco's, vVoraz (provi) and Verace (Bellas Artes). There's chain pizza (Domino's, Pizza Hut, the dreaded Telepizza). There are a few indie places that don't do too bad, including Per Piacere down in Barrio Brasil, but get the individual, not family-sized because the family-sized is on "pre-pizza" and is all kinds of yucky. Also, be sure not to order the pizza with berries on it, because it's like having a bucket of jam on your pizza. I used to not hate O Sole Mio in Barrio Brasil on Moneda until they picked the salami off and presented it to me as though it were a new pizza, despite me specifially saying "No como carne, la quiero sin carne" (nice for: I'm a vegetarian, you idiot).

So, chicas (and chicos), whatcha got? Where have I not been that I simply must try? Where have you been that I'd rather cry than try? Please! For the sake of Chile and all that is good in the world of pizza, please tell me, how can I get more bread and cheese into my diet?

Thanks. When we come up with a good list, let's go out and grab a bite. I'll bring the merquén.

Postcards for nothing? Desciptions for free!

Hey Lectores! (that’s readers in Spanish, I don’t really think your name is lectore, thoguh wouldn’t it be fun if it were, you’d be all, how’d the Romper Room lady know my name, much like I was as a child on the very off chance she would ever say my name, because despite claims to the contrary by today’s Chileans, Eileen? Not so common.

Hey Lectores! (remember that?) For your viewing pleasure, and my writing pleasure, I’d like to play a little game with you here on the blog. I show you a picture, and you write the story. I have thought of two ways to write about this picture, but maybe you'll think of one that's even better. The best commentary gets big internet hugs (or ups as some people like to say), and also a physical postcard if you somehow manage to get me your address without opening it to the world of stalkers. I promise not to actually come to your house unless you invite me and/or bake chewy chocolate chip cookies just when I am craving them the most, or have a nice vinagrette- tossed salad with thinly-sliced red onions, kalamata olives and decent-sized chunks of feta. Pssst, you can send me your addy to the email that’s listed in the profile, or you can take the name of the blog, paste that pesky @ (control Q or alt yomama on various keyboards, on mine it's ctrl 2) sign to it and then type the word hotmail. Oh, and then com. Because I’m not an edu, nor an org, though I'm not closed to the possibility.

But first, I digress. I took both pictures with my iphone, which is sad, because that makes me a capitalist, and as you can see from this first picture I took with my iphone, capitalism is death. About this I am very sad, and so to should you be, as it means we won’t have a chance to play the aforementioned game.



However, if capitalism has not yet killed you, and you would fan my ego by writing something about this second picture (not the first, capitalism behind bars picture, but this colorful one that shows up below,) please write a description of what the photo would make you blog about if you'd taken it/and or were so inclined. There may be more than one postcard, one never knows, but my judgement is the major determining factor to who will get the post card. Oh! and caprice. And chocolate chip cookies and that salad I mentioned, but don't send them in the mail, these things take forever to arrive and will probably get me fined because SAG is like that.

Thanks for playing!

Photo:



Go!

Colorless Santiago? You stand corrected.

When I made the leap to digital SLR, I went, as many people do, to B and H photo in Manhattan. It's a warren of a store, with signs and free candy and decent public bathrooms and a guy working the security booth with a leg with enough metal in it to set off a metal detector in every nation under the sun (he told me he'd been shot, believe me, I had not asked).

At some point or another, I settled on Nikon. Maybe because my dad had had one, maybe because I like the word. Or maybe, just maybe, because they were having a sale on my soon-to-be-discontinued camera body. So I'm a Nikonista, and so I shall stay, unless somewhere along the way I am gifted many many cash dollas, in which case maybe I'd change to Canon (or even Cannon, because who doesn't like some high-percale cotton sheets?).

Ahem. So there I was in the store, thinking about a fairly hefty purchase, one that made my feet grow roots to the spot, and my hands protectively clutch my credit card (REI, get 1% dividend back at the store!), unensconced in a wallet because I don't carry one and no one has yet convinced me of the benefits of carrying one, not even by giving me one as a gift, don't bother.

And my Dominican-American helper dude, the one that was welcoming me to release great sums of money into the universe, where they would be compensated by the occasional ooh or aah over a pretty picture, first gave me a strange compliment, intimating that "we" (Latin Americans, of which I am not) have a different way of thinking than our gringo brethren). And then he told me that though he'd photographed South America from stem to stern, Chile left him flat.

"Le falta color" (It lacks color) he said.

And I bought the camera anyway, because I am a greedy capitalist. And then I took pictures, and took some more, occassionally remembering this self-proclaimed arbiter of the truth on color. Chileans don't (generally) dance the samba or wear flowers behind their ears. But when you get together a class of first year architecture students from the Universidad de Las Americas, oh, the colors they'll let fly!

Hope you enjoy the view. I know Margaret and I did.


The view when we first got to the park


at the starting gate


action shot


group shot

And then, just because he's colorful, and who doesn't like a quick look at a gravity-defying child whose own mother would probably faint into the arms of the nearest passerby if she knew what her kid was up to at the skate park, I present this little/big kid at one of my favorite photo haunts, Parque de Los Reyes, at the northern edge of Barrio Brasil.



You want color? Yeah. We've got that.

5 bike daytrips from Santiago, only a wee bit crazy.

Ever the intrepid group o'folks, foreigners have a reputation among Chileans for having seen more of their country than they themselves have had a chance to. In large part, it's true. We come here with few connections, fewer obligations and generally a bit more wanderlust (and cash) on hand than is the norm in this stringbean of a nation. Emily has seized on this topic and called for a group post on the topic. You don't want to disappoint Emily, as she has superior balance and is also very good with words. Also, Lola (her dog) would be terribly disappointed, and you wouldn't want to upset a dog that wears a tiny orange vest when she goes out running, would you?

Ahem. So where was I? Various intrepid gringas have responded to this call for group post, including

the illustrious Abby, of Chimbarongo fame

The never-seen-her-before-but-sure-she-makes-a-wicked-flan Lucie,

far-away-but-not-fogotten Clare,

US-living Annje, whose husband can MacGyver anything, and whose children are stinking cute, and

Valpo-dwelling Lydia who observes and hikes up hills and takes colectivos and otherwise reminds us that Santiago is not the center of the universe.

I'm going to do a bit of a variation on a theme here, and talk about five freaking faraway pedals I was convinced to go on after moving to Chile.

A little background. I've always been a cyclist. And by a cyclist, I mean a person who has a bicycle. That's pretty much the only requirement, as far as I can tell. And yes, I've spent many, many hours of my life on that little triangle called a sillín (saddle/bike seat), and worn through many pairs of pants in funny little white moons on the tush, but I never really though of biking as something you do with little to no preparation until I got to Chile.

More background. When I first got to Chile, I bought a junky mountain bike for the equivalent of about $140 US dollars. It weighed somewhere in the range of as much as your four-year-old, and had grips that were made of hard plastic and cut into my hands. It was on this bike that I first rode up Cerro San Cristobal (the bigger of the two hills in Santiago), and at a barbecue there I was invited with a bunch of crazies to ride to the coast the following weekend. I knew that Chile was skinny, so I figured, how far could it be?

And so I present: The five places I've ridden my bike to from Santiago that will allow you to know that I am not just run-of-the-mill loopy, but full-on what-is-wrong-with-her and I'm-never-riding-a-bike-with-her mad.

1. Isla Negra (about 90 miles, 2231 feet of vertical climb)

On this bike trip, my first outside of Santiago, I discovered the truth about riding my bike in the dark. I hate it. I mean, nighttime is one thing, but along a pitch black coastal highway in the middle of the night? No thanks. Also, do not surprise a lactating dog, as she will bite you, at least if you are me. But Isla Negra, the site of one of Pablo Neruda's homes-turned museums is beautiful, and the campsite just up the road is comfy enough, and white bread still makes a lousy breakfast, even if you're drinking mate. Most normal humans would take the bus here, as it's a solid 150 km from Santiago, and further the way we went (via San Antonio, for reasons that are still not clear to me). I am still friends with several of the people from this trip, despite the fact that I think I lost five pounds of muscle and common sense on this voyage. And we took the bus back, thank you very much.


photo-pology, the ocean is not crooked, my photo is. I do not know who the naked legs in the photo belong to, and this photo was taken a long time ago, with a point-and-shoot.

This is the approximate map, approximate because I couldn't really find Isla Negra on the map (I stopped in El Quisco), and it doesn't show at what point we were plunged into darkness. We went only one way Also, thanks Mapmyrun, you guys are fun!



2. Yerba Loca (about 50 miles RT, with 5358 feet of climb, up to 14% grade)

The second nutso place I went by bike in this fine country during my first five years was to Yerba Loca. This ride is not nearly as far as the one to the coast, but involves riding to the very end of Avda. Las Condes, past the Terpel (ex YPF) gas station, and up, up, up for another hour of climbing before you reach the hairpin curve zone. The hairpin curves open up towards the top, and the distances lengthen such that between curve 14 and 15, the distance is upward of a kilometer, and you would like to die when you get there. The curves are stacked like a wedding cake. Yerba Loca is a beautiful place to go hiking, but by the time you get up there, you won't want to. I've pedalled up here probably four times, because clearly, I am a glutton for punishment. I've also hiked here, and that was spectacular, pretty flowers and glaciers included.


photo-pology, old camera, poor resolution, had to convert from a .tiff file.

Here the tricky part is that I'm not exactly sure where the 15th curve in the zona de curvas is, but I think I got it about right. You can continue on to Farellones or any of the other ski areas if you are so inclined, which strangely, I never have been.




3. Cajón de Maipo (San Gabriel and back, approx 95 miles, 2635 feet of climb)

Another bike ride to end all bike rides, this one out Avda Tobalaba to Walker Martínez, then La Florida, and then taking the road straight up into the mountains past Puente Alto, the people selling tortilla con rescoldo and pan amasado, up up into what is the most exquisite mountain site never to be declared a national park. I almost passed out from the pretty (or maybe it was the exertion) the first time I went here. And... there are no pictures. But trust me, it's mountainous and sharp, has clean air and humitas and a little plaza and if you continue on, you can get to Baños Morales or even Embalse de Yeso, both of which are beautiful, but not the point of this post. We stopped in San Gabriel, and then rode back home. San Gabriel is where the paved road stops, and I tried to guess where this was on the mapmyrun map, but there's not a lot of detail, so it's hard to say.




4. El Arrayán 27 miles to and from, about 1700 feet of elevation, I know, this is not very hardcore...)

El Arrayán is a nature reserve in El Arrayán (tricky that), follow the directions to the Terpel (ex YPF), and then take the left fork. Follow the main road as it snakes around and keep an eye out for signs, and eventually you'll make it. I'm a master of directions. This trip is a little far but not that punishing, except that the first time I went it was with someone who then wanted to go mountain biking, and the last time I went, it was covered in snow and mud, and we saw PUMA tracks (so said the veterinarian who was on the trip with us). Also the mud was sticky and would not shed from our tires, and it was darn cold. This is a nice place to go for a picnic with the kiddos if you have some, and there's a few-day bike ride you can do here (or motorbike) to a lake, but I'm short on details, so I won't elaborate.



5. Rio Clarillo (about 50 miles RT, only 1000 of vertical climb) I have not included a map here because I can't see the route from mapmyrun, and I don't want anyone to get lost on my watch. Go south on Vicuña McKenna until the end, when it turns into Concha y Toro, which later dead ends into another road which you take a right on. After 2 km, the park is signposted, and you're in Pirque, and it's nice and barring dogs, it's a very safe and tranquil ride)

Rio Clarillo is a national park (which doesn't allow camping, which is annoying, as it means you have to pay to get in and also pay to camp if you choose to camp someplace else), that's in Pirque, which is kinda sorta part of Santiago. It's on the other side of Puente Alto, and I'm told the very lovely Metrobus 83 (or 84) goes there from Bellavista de la Florida on the green line metro. So too will your bike take you, if you are not careful. This is mostly uphill the whole way, but only gently, and the way back is a dream on two wheels. You pass the Concha y Toro winery, and once you're past Puente Alto, it's pretty much you and the open road and some very fancy lycra-clad speedsters in funny helmets who will dust you, but they usually wave on the way back, which is nice, if still somewhat demoralizing

So those are my top 5 not-so-quick bike daytrips from Santiago that represent some of the first quick trips I took around Santiago. While biking in Santiago can be a bit of a nightmare (and yes, I have been hit, and no I did not enjoy the impact, the great splatting or the months of physical therapy), I am routinely pleased at how (relatively) easy it is to use your bike to get out of dodge. But mostly I've learned that if you do this kind of zany stuff enough, it starts to feel so normal that you'll think you can do it anywhere. Which is how many a lifetime of adventure got started. Watch this space for news of New Zealand. Which has nothing to do with Chile or my first trips here at all, but hey, a girl can pontificate.

Want to post about your trips in Chile? Comment here and I'll add you to the ever-growing list, or comment on Emily's blog post, and I'll be sure to grab you from there. Thanks for sharing, and I'm looking forward to reading stories (as always!)

Wickertown, aka Chimbarongo Revealed

So, after Abby and I took our famous detour to the little hamlet of Pelequén, whereupon we saw the lovely onion-domed church and marveled at our inability to get off the train at the right stop, we set to the task at hand, which was actually seeing Chimbarongo.

Chimbarongo, I am told, means something about mist, which would explain (vaguely) the working of wicker, as this is done when the plant is moist. It's a town that is famous for working and selling mimbre, or wicker, which seems to take on many forms, from split-reed looking things to sticks. Basically, if you can bend it, you can build it, or so it would seem.

We were spat off the famously fancy bus with a (likely foreign) six-foot and change black man in shmancy clothes sprawled across the leather seats in front of us, who was as surprised to see us as we were to see him. I then (ever the chatty cathy) asked a lugareña (female person from the town) a) where the best wicker was and b) what there was to see in the town. Turns out, the best wicker is beyond the town (headed south), and on the east side of the highway. The prices, I was told, were higher there, as well. As I was not really planning on buying any wicker, and having no idea how much either cheap or expensive wicker would cost, this did not present a problem. The goal was the BEST wicker, you see.

First, a quick spin through town:


(a lugareña, on a quick Monday-morning pedal, and no, this is not the same lugareña I asked directions from)

Detail of the "famous" artesan making wicker basket in the town square, which was rumored to be cute. And cute it is. Go to Abby's post for a better picture of this.



But the real prize in the plaza is that the benches have wicker seats! How cute is that? If Pomaire had a plaza, I bet they wouldn't make the bench seats of terra cotta. Win!



The little cactus that could:



Much care is taken to protect the lugareños from falling palm fronds. The sign reads: Danger, falling fronds. (wind, rain).



Finally, we ate a lackluster lunch, as it was a holiday and I don't eat meat, which generally ruins everything, and they don't call our daily bread a marraqueta in Chimbarongo, I was told it is called pan francés. Off we trudged, over the pasarela (pedestrian walkway) to the wicker-selling portion of the world.

Business is slow, or you could say dead, due to a variety of factors, including "la crisis."


But the wicker bicycle/tricycle plant holder is alive and well, in its many forms.





Customers! And a brief glimpse of what I would soon dub "ball of sticks," which was my favorite item of all, but which, sadly, I did not buy.



More balls of sticks, which I love, for no real reason. They came in all sizes, and if I had maybe one more square meter of floor space, I might have considered buying one or several. Ball! of sticks! Cheap! Even the big ones cost less than $15, and I was eyeing a smaller set, that were more like $3.



In the end, I did not buy a ball of sticks, nor did I buy this couch, though it looks like someone else did.



I also did not buy these wine barrels, though I did take a good sniff or two. I'm guessing they're from Cono Sur, which seems to have a winery (wine processing plant?) here.



I did, however buy a pote (tub) of honey, and a box of sticks, which is more practical than the ball of sticks, as you can put things in it. Don't worry, this only partially runs afoul of my admonition not to buy more storage solutions.

Having breathed our share of dust, varnish and wine mash, Abby and I walked (like you do), along the side of the highway, marveling at the blue skies, and wondering what they might sell in the nearby town of Tinguiririca. How could a town with a name like that not have something excellent to offer?



And then we got on the bus, were shuttled through to the driver's area for a good hour while we were interviewed by the driver about life, the universe and everything, and finally got seats in the oh, passenger part of the bus.

There's a long story here about how the bus was overweight and we were caught in an endless loop of bus-weighage that made everyone want to poke their eyes out with a stick, but I had a good hold on my box of sticks, and so did Abby, and so we just waited patiently like good Chileans. But I don't have any pictures of that, so instead I'll show you the entrance to this tunnel, which I think is darn pretty, even if I'm pretty sure that that government entity no longer exists. At least we still have the tunnel.



And as my spinning instructor said yesterday: Colorín, colorado, este cuento se ha acabado (and they all lived happily ever after (except he said it about the class, strangely)).

Deets: Ideally, take the metrotrén from Estación Central to San Fernando (about 2 hours, 1700 pesos, or about $3.25 at today's rates), and then a bus from there to Chimbarongo, which I'd price at less than 1500 pesos (but I'm guessing), and less than 30 minutes. We took a bus back from Chimbarongo direct to Santiago's San Borja station (near Estación Centrál), which cost 3,000 pesos, and probably should have taken less than two hours, but due to the bus weighage etc, it was a heck of a ride. Box of sticks optional.

Pelequén, or the town we never meant to visit. Getting happily lost in Chile

For weeks, an idea has been brewing in my mind. And that idea can be summed up in one word: wickertown. Chile (or maybe all of Latin America) has a funny way of clumping together all the stores of the same kind and of nominating various towns as the birthplace or capital of a specific item. My store clump was to be wicker, and the capital of wicker in Chile, as everyone knows, is Chimbarongo.

The idea of going to Chimbarongo was born of several people mentioning the town to me. There was Waldo, in whose house I saw a wall hanging from Chimbarongo, Claudio who had recently gone to see some friends, even Cynthia, who had the sheet next to mine the last time I was selling stuff on the street (should I tell this story?), who used to live there. Chimbarongo it was. Not out of a great love of wicker, but the desire to get out of Santiago and go someplace different. Oh, and to take the train.



Well, with Abby in tow (or maybe she had me in tow), we certainly did do something different. The plan was to meet at Estación Central, and from there take the commuter rail (metrotrén) south, past Rancagua, all the way to the end of the line, in San Fernando. It was picturesque, it was. Unfortunately, photos are nonexistent, as the windows (plexiglass, as a friend of Abby's pointed out, so that people don't break the windows when they throw rocks (which they no longer do, it would seem)) were stained and scratched. But still, endless swaths of orange California poppies lined the train tracks, and jaggedy snowcapped peaks punctuated the view. So great was the view, and so pleasant the trip, that Abby and I twittered (no, not that twittered) away for hour after hour, and for 1700 pesos (about $3.25), it seemed to have a great peso-to-to hour ratio, even if the announcements were sparse.

Which is how we ended up here:


(notice pretty swaths of orange California poppies, or golden thimbles (dedales de oro) as people call them here.

People with great vision will notice that this is, in fact, Pelequén, not San Fernando at all. Hmmm, tricky that. Lucky for me, Abby is an optimist, and the people on the train were incredibly enthusiastic that we go see the oddly onion-domed church that dominates the town. So there at the second-to-last (not last!) stop on the train, we got off to poke around. Abby tells her version of the story (which jumps to the chase and actually takes you to wickertown, which this blog entry does not).

So, off we trudged, through a completely unattended train station, and ghost town (it was a holiday), and approached this cray pas meets Russian-themed (?) church named for Santa Rosa de Lima.



The church was vacant, lovely, and dark inside, like you'd expect a church to be. It had some luminous, geometric stained glass windows:



And some old black and white tiles that seemed terribly goth for such a stately construction:



And a gorgeous garden outside with trellised wisteria and roses, and a pretty fountain, which you can see at Abby's post, and palm trees, one of which you can see here (wisteria in foreground):



And then one palm tree which mysteriously proclaims 1. place of prayer and 2. don't walk on the grass. Which makes them seem related, which I'm sure they're not, and of course we didn't.



And then, quick like gringas, we zipped up the pasarela (pedestrian overpass), past two women, mother and daughter, most likely, who were heading over the highway with us, to take a photo that reminded me of geometry class and fish eye lenses, and how I miss having one, but not the other.



One more look over our shoulders at the off-plan church that made its way onto the itinerary anyway:



And then, just several hours late, we stood by the highway with several of our closest friends until a bus came along that when I said "Chimbarongo?" They said, "Subense!" (hop on!). And we did.

More soon, but the moral of the story here is multiply-branched.

-When you are traveling with me, you should be alert, as I have a smite of the spacey sometimes, and may stay on the train until it reverses direction, though I'm not sure I will make that particular mistake again any time soon.
-Abby is a super travel companion, and also unerringly (but not annoyingly) optimistic.
-Patience is a virtue, as is not forcing the plan you thought you had.
-People in small towns in Chile eye two snaphappy gringas with curiousity, but not enough to bother actually making eye contact or talking to us.
-Chile, as previously suspected, has more beauty than could ever be captured on digital media.

Metatalk: Blogging vs. Travel Writing or vice versa

In the pretend world of the blogosphere, where nobody really lives and everybody likes to visit, as an author, a reader, a pokey looker-arounder or what-have-you, there is a constant thrumming undertone.

Is blogging writing? Are travel bloggers writers? (or journalists?) They write, but are they writers? Their work isn't juried. Nobody edits it. If I had an editor I'd sound better, too (they say). There's no accountability. They're not (for the most part) getting paid. It's not writing. Writers and bloggers far greater than I have pondered the question, and sometimes uttered truths, or even cleverness, here here, here, here, here, here, here, and here. You can find this debate argued-til-blue all over the net, should you wish.

In addition to the fact that the undertone completely lacks a baseline and has really annoying lyrics like a scantily-clad popstar (sorry, I must sound off, they are showing that Shakira video where she's dancing in a flesh-colored unitard in a cage in the metro in Santiago. I can't even hear the lyrics because of all the "why are we watching near-p0rn in the metro" that is going through my head).

But I digress. As is often the case.

I am sick of the blabla about whether or not bloggers are writers. Are we magazine writers? Some of us are. Are we journalists? Some of us are. Published authors? See above. Is what we write any good? Well, what is "good" anyway? And some of it, yes. Very much, lather and rinse optional. There are some incredibly talented people out there who give away their writing for free (or sponsorship) for the love of the art or because when asked the question, "do you ever worry that you'll run out of things to write about," they answer, "No. I'm worried I'll run out of time before I say everything I need to say."

I'd like to spin this are-bloggers-really-writers on its head. Don't ask bloggers what make us think we're writers. Ask major magazines, businesses that sell stuff or any of a host of other wannabes (NYT, NatGeo, anyone listed here, I'm looking at you) what makes them think they're bloggers?

Why should we share a platform that individuals and groups of individuals have claimed for themselves to talk about what makes us sing, about what we've seen and what we need, how we educate our children, and deal with loss, and the photos we take, and the food we eat and the places we go with corporate entities? Don't corporations have enough real estate already? Call them informal news snippets, PR, facilitated discussions. In my game of pedrito paga doble (3 card monty) they always come up losers, sleight of hand be darned.

I am hereby unchecking the box on my itunes that corresponds to the "are bloggers really writers" song. I've got "are corporate entities and businesses and anyone who updates their webpage periodically really bloggers?" on an endless loop. I encourage you to do the same.

The story I shouldn't tell, re: urine sample in Santiago. Medicine in Chile, always surprising.

In which I tell the story of my first urine sample in Santiago. Just so you know what you're getting into.

So. You go to the doctor, and they want to look at you every which way and then want to take samples of various fluids to boot. I don't know about you, but in the states, in the case of the famous urine sample, I have been directed into a restroom with a test tube and instructions to "cleanse the area thoroughly" before filling the vessel. There are special little wipes for this purpose, foil packaged, made of some stridex-pad looking waffle weave with magic solution for "cleansing the area" impregnanted throughout. There might be a little list of instructions of what exactly this entails, or perhaps the wipe itself has a sentence or two on it. I've been doing this periodically for years, and I have to say, had never really given it much thought.

The truth is, I wasn't thinking about it at all when it was time for me to give a urine sample (the first time) in Santiago. I was at a very lovely clinic, Arauco Salud (which I'm told will soon become a Mega Salud), in between working at the Mac Store and charging my computer because sad things happened to my stupid coaxial mac power cord, which when solved, caused me to take and post pictures like this:



(it's a picture of my mac showing a picture of my mac with the miraculous cord that finally arrived after two weeks and much hair-tearing, and what is the matter with Mac anyway that they have to make a cord that breaks so easily and is so darn expensive, and if they are reading this and would like to refund me the $75 because the Mac service center in Chile would NOT HONOR my $300 Apple Care plan because I hadn't called to activate it (what?), I would be much obliged. Oh yeah, plus $16 shipping, if you're keeping track).

Anyway. They say you people like pictures, and goodness knows I can't post a picture of the rest of the post, so I hope you enjoyed that one.

So. I'm at the fancy doctor, and I've arrived fasting, and with my bladder at the ready. I take a number, wait my turn, fill out my paperwork, sit down, again, and am called. Señora Barbara, they say (this being my stage name in Chile, apparently). And the nurse in her matching pants n shirt leads me over to a bathroom, and starts to follow me in.

Curious.

"Yo te hago el aseo," she says. (I'll get you cleaned up).

"Perdón?" I say (WTF?)

"Yo te hago el aseo," Again with the insisting on assisting in what I consider to be pretty much a one-person job.

No... I say. "Yo lo hago." (I'll do it).

Bueno, she says (fine), but if you don't do it right, and the sample is contaminated, you'll have to come back and to it again.

We agree that though this is bizarre behavior on my part, this insisting on ensuring my cleanliness all alone, she will allow me to cleanse the girlie parts solo, as I have been doing since I was old enough to know how.

And then she handed me a tremendous was of cotton. Tremendous. Like an orange-sized wad of cotton. Big orange, maybe more like a grapefruit. Not gauze, just combed, de-seeded, picked, bleached and rolled cotton. And I look at her and I say.

"Y qué quieres que haga con esto?" (What do you want me to do with this? dreaming as I was of the foil-contained wipes of the Northern Hemisphere.

And she explained how many squeezes of soap I should use from the hand dispenser, and the direction in which I should cleanse, and how many passes (three, one on each side, and one for center stage and ugh I cannot believe I am telling this story and Nomad, this is totally your fault, though I also blame Sara, Abby and Carmen for laughing so hard when I told the story that night at the secret decentish pizza place where thank goodness, Fernando and his three friends didn't show up so we could get a table.)

And the nurse looked at me one last time, as if to say, I really don't mind coming into that tiny room with you and helping you out, since you are so behind the curve on girlie parts cleansing. (and God help us all if I get hits on this for girlie parts cleansing, though I will let you know, for sure).

Determined to have my one smidgen of privacy left intact, I then headed into the bathroom, my mind swimming with all kinds of thoughts.

Really? Soap? As in gobs of it?
Why such a giant wad of cotton, what is she saying?
How crapola is her job that she has to do this as part of it?
What if I really don't know how to clean myself, and I've been doing it wrong all these years?
How annoyed will I be if I screw this up and have to come back, but oh, I can go to Boost and get another smoothie, that wouldn't be bad?
How am I not going to make a giant mess out of this?

And I turned my attention to the task. I divided the cotton into three manageable tufts, squeezed soap, applied same to parts and then stood there, paralyzed. There was a shower-head/bidet hanging from the side of the toilet, and I clearly remembered that there was a rinse portion to this wash cycle.

But how? from a distance? over the toilet? Pants on or not? I remembered a time when I was in Japan and got to one last squatty potty too many and I just took off my pants because I couldn't figure out which way to squat and although I did not doubt my feminine cleanliness, I could not be sure I would not pee on my pants. At which point I should have just wet myself, and not bothered with all the squatting and breath-holding (bathrooms the world over have yet to conquer this insurmountable problem).

So. I turned on the showery thing, to what seemed to be the right temperature, considered also giving my hair a quick wash (decided against it, there was no conditioner) and set to washing off the massive amounts of soap I'd been instructed to use. I tried to imagine where the nurse would have stood in this room, and if I would have showered her as thoroughly as I showered myself. In the end, the answer is yes, pants off, and yes, backwards on toilet, and don't turn the water on all the way.

And would you know? Though they're generous with the cotton, the towels were not nearly so plentiful and between mopping up the muddy water on the floor and dabbing at myself, I may have used most of them.

And then I filled the little sample jar, washed my hands and opened the door in the wall where I was instructed to leave my jar in a secret compartment (cabinet). Because I guess a complete stranger can come into a bathroom with you, run soapy cotton all over your bits, hose you down and then watch you pee, but nobody can handle your jar of urine when it's all over.

Oh, Chile, land of contrasts, how we love you.

Vamos al médico! Let's go to the doctor! Health care in Chile

One of the questions that gets alot of play over on a board or two that I post on is health care in Chile. About which I can say, it is generally good. There are two systems of health insurance, public and private, FONASA and ISAPRE, respectively which I believe anyone can opt into, though the prices as an individual are higher than as part of a collective contract. I continued my health insurance from my previous employer when I went indie, and if you want to know how much that costs, email me, you know where. Talking about the cashflow factor online is sure to get you some freakshows, and I attract enough already as it is.

Basically how it works is thusly: You get sick! oh noes! what to do? You call or make an appointment online. But where? MegaSalud and IntegraMedica are two kind of catch-all medical centers, though those of you who live further uptown or have posher tastes in clinics may prefer Clinica Santa Maria, conveniently located on one bus route, across the river from the Salvador Metro station, or the Clinicas Alemana, Vitacura, or Arauco Salud (at the mall!) or even MEDS, if your problem is sports-related. Downtown, less spiffy options include the Posta Central (really only for people who have FONASA, or public insurance), and very good care can also be had at Clínica Davila, Hospital de Profesores, and a number of others (pimp your favorite, if you like).

So. You haven't quite coughed up a lung, yet. Please arrive at the doctor somewhere between ten and fifteen minutes early. More than fifteen or so minutes, and they won't sell you your bono (copay coupon), so don't think about going in the morning to buy the bono for your afternoon visit. Bono purchasing is usually done by putting your right index finger on the digital scanner, confirming your identity (no ID needed!), and they forking over the copay money, which, depending on your previsión (coverage, sorta) and the care you require will probably cost between about 3 and 10 thousand pesos ($5-$18, usually more like $7-$10, in my experience). You then wait in the waiting area until you are called to your box, or consult room, usually by the doctor himself.

You then have fifteen minutes to defend yourself from accusations of being overweight (a popular topic for all but the preternaturally thin), explain how long you've been in Chile, and why you came, do a quick assessment of your doctor's English skills and oh, get the medical attention you came for.

Among the gringas that I know, we cast about good doctors' names like hard-won treasure. It's not that the other docs are bad, it's just that we have expectations, formed in our home countries, of how doctors should treat us, the language they should use. I have to admit that I often choose doctors (if I don't have any recommendations) on the basis of them having foreign-sounding names. When I was hoarse for two weeks, and was beginning to wonder if I would ever get my voice back, I went to see a doctor whose middle name was Azucena, a name I can almost guarantee does not (and did not) belong to Chilean. She was Ecuadorean, and used actual medical terminology, talking about vocal chords, trachea, and inflammation, pathologies and recovery time, and didn't once say "gargantita" (widdle iddy bitty throat). I don't think it's just me, but I don't want infantile language coming out of my medical professional's mouth. I have a friend (who shall go nameless, even though some of you already know this story) whose gynecologist referred to her having relations with her husband as "playing mommy and daddy."

Really? He's a medical professional, and that's the best he can do? I'd like to see him delivering a baby. Oh look! here comes the doll, little girl! Now you can play house!

Baby talk aside, the whole experience isn't really so awful, though it's best to ask for an English-speaking doc if you need one. Everyone will have an academic knowlege of English, but they may touch your back and say, "you are humid!" and you may then wonder about the precision of their words (this, too, happened to a friend). There is a long story I have to tell about the bizarre thing that happened to me one time when I went to leave blood and pipi (I mean urine) samples, which will make you laugh, or at least thank your lucky stars for those wipes they give you in the states.

For now, I leave you with healthy thoughts, assurances to my mother that I have not required medical attention any time recently, and with the reminder (those of you in Chile) that we change the clocks this Saturday. Spring forward. East Coast US-people, that will be one hour time difference. When you guys fall back there will be two. So simple, yet so confusing!

Bicycling in Santiago, the whys and should you risk its.

Something that I don't talk about as much as you'd think I might is bicycling in Santiago. I get almost every place I need to go by bike, especially if it doesn't matter what I'm wearing or how sweaty I arrive (thanks to friends who let me shower at their houses and stuff like that, and who also don't look askance at my shebeest-capri clad posterior when we go out to eat).

So, cycling in Santiago. Is it for you?

answer: probably not. Or maybe.

I like to bike around because I don't have to get on the crowded micro (bus) or metro with 4,000 of my closest neighbors who might like to put their had in my pocket, or groom their mate (seriously, the number of women I see picking things off their boyfriend's faces is incredible), or search for hidden treasure down the throat of this selfsame mate, or pound on the roof and doors in the case of the famous barra (fans) of the two main soccer teams in Chile, La U and Colo-Colo. Which, as an aside (because there's always an aside), I was recently asked by some gutterpunks which team I was supporting for that evening's match, like this, "oye, amiga, amiga." (hey, friend, friend (strange, because I don't have a lot of gutterpunks for friends, not that I couldn't, I just don't). "Colo-Colo o La U? Colo-Colo o La U" (they were seemingly afflicted by the disease that the goose in Charlotte's Web has, only they only said things doubled, not tripled). To which I responded "me importa un carajo" (I don't give a damn, but more like I couldn't care less). I thought about repeating it, but decided to just go inside instead.

In general, you shouldn't mess with the gutterpunks, the ne'er-do-wells, the fleites (hoodlums) or the patos malos (lit: bad ducks, but in this case, let's call them malfeasors, because I went to law school and can say things like that), but since I come and go most places by bike, I feel freer to blabla when I feel like it, and in this case, the kids were already about 20 feet away when I lobbed that cultural impossibility, that I don't care about soccer, towards their sneakered feet. Biking gives me a sense of freedom and control that is hard to attain on public transportation. It means I'm never that far from you, can get anywhere fairly easily, and make nearly everyone I know think I'm nuts (let's violate grammatical rules here and say nutser, rather than more nuts. They think I'm nutser than they thought I was before, and not just because of the parenthetical clauses and tangents, and yes, I talk like this too, and it takes a very special kind of person to enjoy my company, and I heart you all dearly.)

So, back to the bike. The main problem with biking in Santiago, other than the unexpected rainstorms and really bad pollution part of the year, and the blazing, brain-searing sun the rest of the time is the complete and utter disrespect that cars show to bicyclists in this city.

I am not always the most careful cyclist, though I do signal my every move, do not listen to music in the city (any more), do wear a helmet and use lights at night (most of the time). I do however, chew gum (orbit, the pink one is my favorite, please send care packages like Abby's grandmother does) and I do weave in and out of traffic, and I also yell at pedestrians who walk in between cars and almost get me killed.

But mostly I just tool around in my own little world, arrive sweaty and hair-mashed to lunch and most other places I go, and generally have a good time. Which has nothing to do with the picture I'm about to post here, but this is a perfect example of the level of respect cars have for bikes and bicyclists in Chile.

Behold, the bike lane.



Because who cares if I have to swing out into oncoming traffic or in front of other cars to get to where I'm going when you have a perfectly delicious place to park your care while you're off buying bread? How convenient of the city to have constructed a parking lane, just for your personal use! How utterly considerate!

So that's why I participate in the loopy critical mass ride most first Tuesdays of the month, to fan interest in bicycling, and to some extent, demand rights for cyclists. The cicletada (critical mass ride)is talked about here, but I have to warn you that if you don't speak Spanish you'll understand little, and if you don't speak Chilean, any links you follow will probably also leave you scratching your helmeted head. There's a piece there too on the inadequacy of the bike lanes, both in how extensive they are (or aren't), and in terms of where they go and how wide they are. The pic I've posted is of a very wide bike lane, but I know of several that seem to be barely wider than my hybrid handlebars. This is an entry for another time.

I was actually headed somewhere else with this post when I started, but sometimes life is like that, desvios and atajos (detours and shortcuts). It's good to take them. But please don't obstruct traffic.

Santiago Street Dogs, or how to decide whether or not to say yes to an offer for a guest blog post

Ah, complexity, and the formula of because I said so.

Every now and then, somewhat less often than the frequency with which I receive spam comments regarding SEO, but more frequently than the advertisements for who knows what that come in the comments, I will get an email or a comment asking me to do a guest blog post.

I once read that you should ask bloggers to guest blog for you because they are all ego and fluff, and will probably say yes. Ok, the article probably didn't say fluff, but it mentioned the ego. And it's probably true. That said, I've been asked to do a number of guest posts, and the equation determining whether or not I will say yes looks something like this.

(desire to write about topic X number of hours slept)/ (interestingness of blog - time of day) + how many cups of coffee drunk so far/ desire for exposure - 2x laziness quotient.

If that is equal to or greater than the total number of legs my friend's four cats have (hint, not 16) times my favorite number minus the number of times I've been called "preciosa" that day, then I will certainly write. If not, it's more or a crapshoot. Or it depends on my need for ego. Or fluff.

This ramble brought to you by Everthenomad's owner and blogger extraordinare, Anja who lives in Brooklyn, which ups her cool quotient and also slightly affects the above forumla, but only on Fridays during which I have drunk diet coke during a spinning class. She asked me to write a piece, and here it is. I talk about dogs. And there are pictures, lots of pictures.