I am, as is often the case, on the road. It's not on the road on the road, as in busses and waiting and unfamiliar foods and hotspots on my feet that require bandaids or a change of socks. But I am here, thousands of miles from where the domestic Eileen wanders freely in the streets and on her bike and turning night into day and cursing her inability to sleep past 8 and takes pictures of kids on skateboards and finds dalmation-upholstered taxis and product names that make her smirk.
But I am on the road nonetheless. We are post Thanksgiving, the last of the glucose from the pecan pie coursing through our veins, the memory of creamy mashed potatoes and the varied dishes brought by family and friends and a little bit of dry skin from washing wineglasses reminding us of a really fun day with pretend cousins and family add ons and chosen families and a swirl of kids running up the stairs and down the stairs and then performing on their pint-sized cellos.
In short, a rousing success. Thanksgiving Eileen was pleasant and fun, appropriate and talky. She helped people into and out of their cars, asked questions that were polite, but not prying, and had a lovely time.
Post-Thanksgiving Eileen, or family Eileen is here now. She eats meals at odd times, lets her mother make coffee for her and works just a couple of hours in the morning to keep the projects going, but does not disappear into them.
In a week or so, Santiago Eileen will be back on track, unpacking and cursing the fact that her kitchen floor never looks clean (because it really never is clean), making her own coffee and filling the fridge with too much produce.
In between, short-term travel Eileen will pack her luggage just so, ensuring that the 2X23 kilo rule is not broken, and will settle onto a long flight with a feeling not unlike the early stages of nervous coursing through her. She will feel a certain confidence, a certain air of security, of independence, a certain thrill for being able to keep so many balls in the air at once.
On a website/magazine/community for which a do I bunch of work (and publish articles from time to time), travelers answer the prompt "Why I like to travel" with a series of predictable answers. Because they want to see the world. Because they were bitten by the travel bug, have wanderlust, itchy feet (since when is wanting to travel an affliction?). I have always disliked this question, as it yields predictable results, and what good is a question that gets you the same answer again and again? What do you learn from a question like that? Almost nothing at all.
But then something in this blog post struck me. Richard Stupart is a guy from South Africa that I have never met. I have no idea who found who first. Now please bear with me while I character assassinate and then rescue. First, I do not read a lot of blogs by men. What I find, is that as with authors, and really people in general, it takes a very unique man to write a blog (or a book, or a life) that really captures my attention. I think it's mostly a wiring issue. I am drawn to people who write/think/communicate in a certain way, or whose interest is piqued by things that would also pique mine. There's a certain level of self consciousness and observation that just jibes with mine, and an (online or real life) friendship can be formed. Richard is like that. He talks about practicalities, but he also looks at life through his unique lens, and lets us see what he is seeing. At the same time, he doesn't wallow in the navel gazing that a not unsmall number of bloggers are guilty of (me? who, me?). I guess what I'm saying is that in addition to the fact that Richard is involved in something unswervingly fascinating at the moment (traveling from Cape to Cairo via public transportation) is the fact that he says things that make me think.
In this recent blog post (remember when I was talking about that?), he talked about his transformation into "on the road me."
And wow.
That's it. That's my answer to the prompt "Why I like to travel." Sure, on some level it's sights and sounds and tastes. But on this other, more primal level, it's none of that. And it's why even the best pictures and storytelling in the world will never show you what I felt on my trip. Because it's much more personal. What I like about travel is that it peels away layers of Eileen, family Eileen, Thanksgiving Eileen, Santiago Eileen, Aunt Eileen, daughter and sister Eileen, all of the Eileens fade into the background and I become traveling Eileen (most unlike the traveling Willburys, hate do disappoint). What I seek is not enlightenment of the pray section of Eat, Pray, Love, nor a story to tell or even another passport stamp. I want to feel this fleeting, calm, happy, bootwalking, devil-may-care, responsible, independent, on-the-ground, connected Eileen.
And that, my friends, is who my on-the-road me is. And why I love watching Richard inch slowly north on his great trip. Because he acknowledged the existence of another Richard. And got me thinking about my other selves, and how much I enjoy their company.
And with that, ice skating Eileen is about to set off and hope not to conjure in-traction Eileen as she slaps some blades on her feet for the first time in years. This is a combo of family/sister/aunt/imprudent Eileen. I may love travel Eileen the best, but this one is pretty spiff, too. At least that's what the mishpacha (family) says.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Café Le Garage in Barrio Brasil, Santiago
In just a minute, I'll dish on cafés in Barrio Brasil, Santiago. But first, let me explain the title.
Nosecúanto is what the whaddyacallit of Chilean Spanish. You can use it for a person, Claudio Nosecuánto (Claudio whatshisname), for example. You can also use it for a place that you can't remember the name of, Café Nosecuánto. Technically it may seem to you that this means "I don't know how many" rather than "I don't know what it's called," but for some (unknown?) reason, cuánto (how much?) is the word we use to indicate we don't know the name of something. A friend, upon introducing herself as Sara was asked, "Sara cuánto?" (Lit: Sara how much/many?). And she first thought to say, "just one," but luckily her host jumped in and saved her. Because here in Chile if someone says your name plus cuánto, they want to know your last name.
And now the aside ends, and I talk to you about cafés. The café culture here in Santiago is catching on. Maybe not quite in full swing, but the idea of going out with friends for a cup of coffee, rather than a beer, drink or ever-loving-sandwich is slowly catching on, and everyone and their cousin is thinking of opening a café. Where hopefully "café de la máquina" (espresso, coffee from the machine) will be served, and little cans of Nescafe will only hide in the back for grandmothers and others whose guatitas (tummies) cannot take the true hit of caffeine that comes only from a thick, rich, caffeinated espresso shot.
I hesitate greatly to do what I am about to do, as Barrio Brasil is not (yet) full of cafés, and my friend Rocío and I have recently had to abandon "el lugar de siempre" (the place we always go) due to crowds, loud music and substandard (even for Chile) pastries.
One day, as we tooled along Avda. Brasil, shunning our usual café, we came across a café, which for a while I thought of as Café Nosecuánto, until I later found out what it was called.
It looks like this (standard explanation, not my real camera, etc, applies)
And inside, it looks like this:
And what I am touting here is maybe not so much the coffee (which is just okay, though it is, thankfully, "from the machine,") but the atmosphere. The architecture of this place is delicious, almost as amazing as the hot chocolate (for which you practically need a spoon), and the cakes (1800 pesos including coffee, less than 4 dollars even at the most awful possible exchange rates) will make you want to kiss your German grandmother, if you have one. It's at Brasil 230, and is open from noon to 10:30 PM, most of the time.
I hesitate to tell you this, because "el lugar de siempre," El Café, on the corner of Brasil and Huerfanos is already so crowded at night, and Café Patagonia (very good café helado, which is sort of a coffee icecream float) is closed at night (this, further down Avda. Brasil), and Café Tales in Plaza Concha y Toro is also not open late (though their merengue frambuesa makes taking a special trip there during the day totally worth it).
So on the one hand, I beg you to please not crowd Café Le Garage with people and chatting and taking up space and OMG the café cellphone talkers. On the other hand, I'm leaving town for a couple of weeks, so if you want to go check it out and support them so that they don't close in my absence, that'd be nifty, too. And yes, they have WiFi.
Café Le Garage, Brasil 230 Tel. 696 25 31
And if any of you gringa types want to do a meetup at this or any other café after about the 9th of Dec, you know where to find me, and that would be spectacular.
Nosecúanto is what the whaddyacallit of Chilean Spanish. You can use it for a person, Claudio Nosecuánto (Claudio whatshisname), for example. You can also use it for a place that you can't remember the name of, Café Nosecuánto. Technically it may seem to you that this means "I don't know how many" rather than "I don't know what it's called," but for some (unknown?) reason, cuánto (how much?) is the word we use to indicate we don't know the name of something. A friend, upon introducing herself as Sara was asked, "Sara cuánto?" (Lit: Sara how much/many?). And she first thought to say, "just one," but luckily her host jumped in and saved her. Because here in Chile if someone says your name plus cuánto, they want to know your last name.
And now the aside ends, and I talk to you about cafés. The café culture here in Santiago is catching on. Maybe not quite in full swing, but the idea of going out with friends for a cup of coffee, rather than a beer, drink or ever-loving-sandwich is slowly catching on, and everyone and their cousin is thinking of opening a café. Where hopefully "café de la máquina" (espresso, coffee from the machine) will be served, and little cans of Nescafe will only hide in the back for grandmothers and others whose guatitas (tummies) cannot take the true hit of caffeine that comes only from a thick, rich, caffeinated espresso shot.
I hesitate greatly to do what I am about to do, as Barrio Brasil is not (yet) full of cafés, and my friend Rocío and I have recently had to abandon "el lugar de siempre" (the place we always go) due to crowds, loud music and substandard (even for Chile) pastries.
One day, as we tooled along Avda. Brasil, shunning our usual café, we came across a café, which for a while I thought of as Café Nosecuánto, until I later found out what it was called.
It looks like this (standard explanation, not my real camera, etc, applies)
And inside, it looks like this:
And what I am touting here is maybe not so much the coffee (which is just okay, though it is, thankfully, "from the machine,") but the atmosphere. The architecture of this place is delicious, almost as amazing as the hot chocolate (for which you practically need a spoon), and the cakes (1800 pesos including coffee, less than 4 dollars even at the most awful possible exchange rates) will make you want to kiss your German grandmother, if you have one. It's at Brasil 230, and is open from noon to 10:30 PM, most of the time.
I hesitate to tell you this, because "el lugar de siempre," El Café, on the corner of Brasil and Huerfanos is already so crowded at night, and Café Patagonia (very good café helado, which is sort of a coffee icecream float) is closed at night (this, further down Avda. Brasil), and Café Tales in Plaza Concha y Toro is also not open late (though their merengue frambuesa makes taking a special trip there during the day totally worth it).
So on the one hand, I beg you to please not crowd Café Le Garage with people and chatting and taking up space and OMG the café cellphone talkers. On the other hand, I'm leaving town for a couple of weeks, so if you want to go check it out and support them so that they don't close in my absence, that'd be nifty, too. And yes, they have WiFi.
Café Le Garage, Brasil 230 Tel. 696 25 31
And if any of you gringa types want to do a meetup at this or any other café after about the 9th of Dec, you know where to find me, and that would be spectacular.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Try not to feed the animals
Talking to a colleague/one of a couple of bosses I have at MatadorNetwork last night as he was in Santiago, getting ready with his family to set up shop someplace entirely different, I was reminded of a million and one stories that I hope I never run out of time to tell. In the interest of time, I've clumped three together in a collection I like to call: Animals will take your food, and you will let them, unless you are an idiot.
I can recall three times in my life that animals have seized my food, either while I was eating it, or before I could get to it. This if we're not including the occasional mouse that may have inhabited my old house in DC or the legions of ants that attacked the trail mix in Cuba (how did they get in through the plastic bag?) I'm also exempting the weird grain moths (or weevils, like I liked to call them) that took up residence in the pantry one year, living on the bulgur, quinoa, brown rice and any other carbs they could get their six legs on, taunting me with their beating little wings until I smashed them with a swiffer (with which I always used reusable covers, because hey, I'm green when I want to be), moth massacre aside.
Three times, food has been swiped from me. We were careful in Yosemite, leaving food wrapped, in a cooler, in the car. Didn't want any bears paying us a surprise hello. But how can you be careful of stray dogs, seagulls, and those giant-four legged scavengers, the wild ponies of Assateague?
The dog story is good one. I like to call it "insult to injury." A college friend of mine and I were in a bus station in Puerto Escondido, Mexico, waiting for an ill-thought-out overnight bus to Oaxaca. Somewhere along the way, her small on-the-bus bag got stolen, this after she'd pulled out a loaf of bread and her journal so she could write down what she was feeling. Which afterwards was probably long columns of stars and arrobas (at signs) and exclamation points because damn, her stuff got stolen. Later on that evening, as we were making phone calls (or trying to) to cancel credit cards and decide what else to do, we had our stuff resting on the ground by the broken payphone (which, by the way, did not respond to kicking). And up came a mongrel cur, opened his maw, swiped the bread and scooted down the street. Not willing to be victimized once again, I started running after the dog, as though I was going to take the bread back from him if I managed to catch him. I eventually realized my folly and went to lick my wounds with the aforementioned friend. Later we got to give a police report to a shirtless police officer who was haciendose cariño (petting himself) with the side of his sidearm. Spiffy! Also hairless, if you were wondering.
The second food-theft story involves sitting on the beach in North Carolina with some of my ex's friends. I was vegan at that time, an animal lover in the extreme (later mothkilling be darned), and as everyone else nibbled daintily on their cheese sandwiches, I had a hummus sandwich in hand. I remember I was sitting on the beach, knees bent, with the sandwich in my left hand, elbow flexed, resting upon my knee, the universal sign (apparently) for "I am no longer eating this sandwich, please come and thieve it from me). I remember the feeling of my sandwich suddently becoming bouyant, floaty, upward-pulling even. And I did battle with the seagull there for just a minute before I realized that much like the bread I'd have wrested from the dog's jaws, there was no way I was going to eat this hummus sandwich after it had been in a seagull's beak.
Which brings us to the third, and most mane-flowingly tender story. I was sitting outside at a campsite in Assateague, Maryland (close to neighboring Chincoteague, Virginia where the locals hold an annual pony swim to raise money, and yes there are ponies on Assateague as well, because sometimes the ponies swim just on their own, apparently), when I heard a kid at a nearby campsite say to his mother, "Mom, there's a horse. There's a horse, right here." The wild ponies stand in the surf, walk around on the roads, and pretty much do whatever they like in this area, looking much like the Icelandic horses/ponies (difference? I'm a wordsmith, not an equestrian expert) with their broad hooves and thick manes. The wild ponies at the beach are an attraction on both Assateague and Chincoteague, sometimes causing traffic backups and being generally darn cute. They also have long flexible pink tongues which they will daintily use to slurp up your cereal and soymilk out of your dented tin bowl while you step back to feel around for your camera to get a picture of the horses that are "right there."
Up until now, I have not had any more animal food thievery, or at least none that I know of. I used to have a cat who really liked watermelon and honeydew, and would stand on his hind legs like a cat posessed, for a piece of potato, which has nothing to do with anything, but man was that ever cute.
Foodtheft? Just me? Not you? Oh come on, tell the story of when an animal took something from you. Hopefully not a chunk of your shoe like a stray dog tried to from me in Santiago not too long ago. Glasses? Camera? Icecream? oh come on, I can't be the only one!
I can recall three times in my life that animals have seized my food, either while I was eating it, or before I could get to it. This if we're not including the occasional mouse that may have inhabited my old house in DC or the legions of ants that attacked the trail mix in Cuba (how did they get in through the plastic bag?) I'm also exempting the weird grain moths (or weevils, like I liked to call them) that took up residence in the pantry one year, living on the bulgur, quinoa, brown rice and any other carbs they could get their six legs on, taunting me with their beating little wings until I smashed them with a swiffer (with which I always used reusable covers, because hey, I'm green when I want to be), moth massacre aside.
Three times, food has been swiped from me. We were careful in Yosemite, leaving food wrapped, in a cooler, in the car. Didn't want any bears paying us a surprise hello. But how can you be careful of stray dogs, seagulls, and those giant-four legged scavengers, the wild ponies of Assateague?
The dog story is good one. I like to call it "insult to injury." A college friend of mine and I were in a bus station in Puerto Escondido, Mexico, waiting for an ill-thought-out overnight bus to Oaxaca. Somewhere along the way, her small on-the-bus bag got stolen, this after she'd pulled out a loaf of bread and her journal so she could write down what she was feeling. Which afterwards was probably long columns of stars and arrobas (at signs) and exclamation points because damn, her stuff got stolen. Later on that evening, as we were making phone calls (or trying to) to cancel credit cards and decide what else to do, we had our stuff resting on the ground by the broken payphone (which, by the way, did not respond to kicking). And up came a mongrel cur, opened his maw, swiped the bread and scooted down the street. Not willing to be victimized once again, I started running after the dog, as though I was going to take the bread back from him if I managed to catch him. I eventually realized my folly and went to lick my wounds with the aforementioned friend. Later we got to give a police report to a shirtless police officer who was haciendose cariño (petting himself) with the side of his sidearm. Spiffy! Also hairless, if you were wondering.
The second food-theft story involves sitting on the beach in North Carolina with some of my ex's friends. I was vegan at that time, an animal lover in the extreme (later mothkilling be darned), and as everyone else nibbled daintily on their cheese sandwiches, I had a hummus sandwich in hand. I remember I was sitting on the beach, knees bent, with the sandwich in my left hand, elbow flexed, resting upon my knee, the universal sign (apparently) for "I am no longer eating this sandwich, please come and thieve it from me). I remember the feeling of my sandwich suddently becoming bouyant, floaty, upward-pulling even. And I did battle with the seagull there for just a minute before I realized that much like the bread I'd have wrested from the dog's jaws, there was no way I was going to eat this hummus sandwich after it had been in a seagull's beak.
Which brings us to the third, and most mane-flowingly tender story. I was sitting outside at a campsite in Assateague, Maryland (close to neighboring Chincoteague, Virginia where the locals hold an annual pony swim to raise money, and yes there are ponies on Assateague as well, because sometimes the ponies swim just on their own, apparently), when I heard a kid at a nearby campsite say to his mother, "Mom, there's a horse. There's a horse, right here." The wild ponies stand in the surf, walk around on the roads, and pretty much do whatever they like in this area, looking much like the Icelandic horses/ponies (difference? I'm a wordsmith, not an equestrian expert) with their broad hooves and thick manes. The wild ponies at the beach are an attraction on both Assateague and Chincoteague, sometimes causing traffic backups and being generally darn cute. They also have long flexible pink tongues which they will daintily use to slurp up your cereal and soymilk out of your dented tin bowl while you step back to feel around for your camera to get a picture of the horses that are "right there."
Up until now, I have not had any more animal food thievery, or at least none that I know of. I used to have a cat who really liked watermelon and honeydew, and would stand on his hind legs like a cat posessed, for a piece of potato, which has nothing to do with anything, but man was that ever cute.
Foodtheft? Just me? Not you? Oh come on, tell the story of when an animal took something from you. Hopefully not a chunk of your shoe like a stray dog tried to from me in Santiago not too long ago. Glasses? Camera? Icecream? oh come on, I can't be the only one!
Monday, November 16, 2009
The return of Señora Barbara and why can't my nose and ear just be friends?
"Enfermarse es super caro acá" (Getting sick is so expensive, here!), I said to my (I think) Bolivian pharmacist downtown this morning, as I was purchasing my pricey new meds for what I'd feared was an ear infection or a nearly-ruptured eardrum.
"No lo esssss" he said, (no it issssssn't), he said, drawing out the S like a snake. (This along with the way he looked, and the fact that he was friendly made me guess that he was Bolivian).
"Sanarse es lo caro" (Getthing healthy is the pricey bit), I said. And he smiled, with the very Chilean,
"Así es" (so it is).
There had been clicking. And squeaking, and a generalized heaviness inside my head localized to the left side. And I thought to myself, "Señora Barbara," (this is my medical name) you are flying ten hours in a little over a week. Do you want to be seized with blinding ear pain on the flight? No! I said. I do not.
And so I found myself at the friendly neighborhood Integramédica where I get all of my medical stuff done. It's close, cheap enough with my health insurance and they all remember me well from a very exciting digit-slicing event earlier this year, and still like me in spite of it and the hysteria that ensued. So there I go.
Turns out my nose and ear aren't communicating properly, the lines of communication are shut down. I don't know if there's some kind of work stoppage, tiny little protesters with even tinier pancartas (protest posters) in there, but whatever it is, these parts, they are not playing nice. Sneezing feels weird, coughing is best not to talk about, and last night I imagined pools of warm liquid pouring out of my ear as I tried to fall asleep.
So off I went. I had a longish wait, during which I was subjected to lots of things I don't care about on a flat-screen TV, and a very nice woman who traded me a 100 peso coin for 10 10-peso coins because she wanted to make a phone call, and who am I to stop one of the five remaining people in this country who don't have a cell phone from making a call?
The doctor did call me Barbara, as they are wont to do, but did not ask me any of the repetitive questions people ask foreigners in this country, and then put on that great strappy headband with the convex mirror that otorrinos (ENT docs) wear I'd hoped it had a really cool name that I could report. It's called an "espejo frontal." Yawn (also makes ear feel weird!). That just means front-side mirror.
I left the office just about $10.50 poorer than I went in and then proceeded to spend a fairly atrocious amount of money on jacked-up slow-release sudafed (Frenaler-D) and Nasonex, of which I have been instructed to administer 2 "puff" into each nasal cavity every evening. Where "puff" is the Spanish word for spray, one would suppose. The meds cost 47 dollars, and while I was looking that up, I noticed that the US dollar is below 500 pesos for the first time in a long time. Which is decidedly ungood for US dollar spenders in Chile. And may I add that when I first got a cold here in Chile and tried to buy anything, anything at all with the Sudafed ingredients in it, I was turned away, with them saying "we don't sell that." Not true, apparently. But at the price I just paid, I probably would have run away screaming at any rate.
With any luck at all, the Nasonex will act like teargas (but less burny!), dispatching the roadblock located on that great nasal-aural highway located behind my cheekbone, and all will be well in the world of eardrums, and I will stop imagining liquid streaming out of my ears. And if the dollar climbed up a little, that wouldn't be too bad, either.
This is the stuffy-eared Señora Barbara, signing off from my comfy green couch in Barrio Brasil. Now get to work! (me, not you).
"No lo esssss" he said, (no it issssssn't), he said, drawing out the S like a snake. (This along with the way he looked, and the fact that he was friendly made me guess that he was Bolivian).
"Sanarse es lo caro" (Getthing healthy is the pricey bit), I said. And he smiled, with the very Chilean,
"Así es" (so it is).
There had been clicking. And squeaking, and a generalized heaviness inside my head localized to the left side. And I thought to myself, "Señora Barbara," (this is my medical name) you are flying ten hours in a little over a week. Do you want to be seized with blinding ear pain on the flight? No! I said. I do not.
And so I found myself at the friendly neighborhood Integramédica where I get all of my medical stuff done. It's close, cheap enough with my health insurance and they all remember me well from a very exciting digit-slicing event earlier this year, and still like me in spite of it and the hysteria that ensued. So there I go.
Turns out my nose and ear aren't communicating properly, the lines of communication are shut down. I don't know if there's some kind of work stoppage, tiny little protesters with even tinier pancartas (protest posters) in there, but whatever it is, these parts, they are not playing nice. Sneezing feels weird, coughing is best not to talk about, and last night I imagined pools of warm liquid pouring out of my ear as I tried to fall asleep.
So off I went. I had a longish wait, during which I was subjected to lots of things I don't care about on a flat-screen TV, and a very nice woman who traded me a 100 peso coin for 10 10-peso coins because she wanted to make a phone call, and who am I to stop one of the five remaining people in this country who don't have a cell phone from making a call?
The doctor did call me Barbara, as they are wont to do, but did not ask me any of the repetitive questions people ask foreigners in this country, and then put on that great strappy headband with the convex mirror that otorrinos (ENT docs) wear I'd hoped it had a really cool name that I could report. It's called an "espejo frontal." Yawn (also makes ear feel weird!). That just means front-side mirror.
I left the office just about $10.50 poorer than I went in and then proceeded to spend a fairly atrocious amount of money on jacked-up slow-release sudafed (Frenaler-D) and Nasonex, of which I have been instructed to administer 2 "puff" into each nasal cavity every evening. Where "puff" is the Spanish word for spray, one would suppose. The meds cost 47 dollars, and while I was looking that up, I noticed that the US dollar is below 500 pesos for the first time in a long time. Which is decidedly ungood for US dollar spenders in Chile. And may I add that when I first got a cold here in Chile and tried to buy anything, anything at all with the Sudafed ingredients in it, I was turned away, with them saying "we don't sell that." Not true, apparently. But at the price I just paid, I probably would have run away screaming at any rate.
With any luck at all, the Nasonex will act like teargas (but less burny!), dispatching the roadblock located on that great nasal-aural highway located behind my cheekbone, and all will be well in the world of eardrums, and I will stop imagining liquid streaming out of my ears. And if the dollar climbed up a little, that wouldn't be too bad, either.
This is the stuffy-eared Señora Barbara, signing off from my comfy green couch in Barrio Brasil. Now get to work! (me, not you).
Friday, November 13, 2009
On cranberries, camote and other seasonal specialties that "everyone" loves.
With the coming of Thanksgiving, repeated questions about the ever-moving date (not a lot of holidays that move around in Chile), and the particularities of the feast come up again and again. Chileans know pavo (turkey), at least sliced and on a sandwich if not as the whole bird. They can also understand the whole put-it-in-the-oven-and-bake-it quality of some of your more favorite casseroles. Squash is no stranger, and sweet potatoes are seen periodically, and are understood to be part of Peruvian cuisine. Anything Peruvian food-wise is to be oohed and aahed at, so they figure those must be tasty, with or without the addition of mashmelo (should be malvavisco, but this word is not used much in Chile). The odd eyebrow may raise re: wetted and recooked bread with butter and sage and celery, but who doesn't like bread, so in the end, they will nod approvingly.
And then comes the cranberry question. First, which cranberry, they will ask. Which? Cranberry? The problem here is that the word "berry" (baya, botanically speaking, in Spanish) is not really seen to describe any particular fruit, more a series of fruits that in Italian would be called "forest fruits." Blueberries, which are arándanos in Spanish are only slowly making it to the market here in Santiago, and then sort of as a specialty item. Cranberries are grown in some quantity in the south, and quickly exported, generally before making a landing in the local market, though those in the know may be able to intervene, and they are available dried at some local/gringo bazaars, and I bought them once in Pucón (tourist/adventure sports capital in the close south).
Until a couple of years ago, the word arándano was used by many people to mean both the blueberry and the cranberry, though this question is asked less and less, as the cranVERRi is becoming more known, in name, if not in taste.
But even fully informed of which arándano we're talking about, Chileans want to know what the big deal is about the cranberry. Is it amazingly sweet? Is it tremendously flavorful? Is it your favorite? Can you make ice cream out of it? No, yes, no and probably, I answer. Does anyone really love cranberry sauce? I feel like a bad American saying so, but simply put the cranberry no me raya (doesn't move me).
But I will concede that it is a taste of the season, without which even my no-turkey (and no tofurkey) Thanksgiving would not be complete. I even made it last year, watching as the poor bobbing oblong (who knew, I thought they were round) berries turned juicy, then gelatinous in a white enamel pot on my sister's giant stainless steel stove. Secret ingredients were added, and the dark fuschia menjunje (mix) inverted into a glass bowl and left to cool.
I was trying to explain my feelings about cranberry in terms of the Chilean love of camote, which I had always assumed was out of nostalgia, rather than actual sensory experience, which I find sadly lacking, and heavily thirst-provoking.
Camote (at least here) is this thing, which two friends recently told me they thought looked like a chrysalis.
In plastic.
Set free.
Ready for sharing.
It's cooked sweet potato (I believe, help me out here?), tooth-achingly sweet, a little mealy, and covered in a thick glaze made of confectioner's sugar (it would seem). This sweet is sold on the street in little bags for 100 pesos, or this one that I bought at the thoroughly amazing Galletería Laura R (cheesecake, people. Real cheesecake, no yogurt or gelatin involved!) for 300 pesos because it's so big, and lovely. Or maybe it was the gold twist-tie that jacked up the price. Anyway, at 60 cents, it wasn't going to break the bank, and I thought that before I swore off camote for time immemorial, I should try the best possible camote. Anything the geniuses at this bakery (Manuel Montt near Eliodoro Yañez or up on Vitacura a little above the Rotunda Perez Zucovich) lay their hands to is delicious. So I took the plunge. Plus, who could resist a sweet that looks like a (future) bug?
Where was I? Oh yes, the cranberry and its fans, and the camote and its fans. I was trying to explain to people that cranberries aren't actually that delicious, they just remind you of a time and place, much like the camote, which appears and disappears throughout the year (though it seems like it could be preserved to serve all year round).
And then there were blank stares.
CiQ (Chilean in question)You don't think camote is delicious?
EGI (Embarassed gringa interloper) Um, no?
CiQ But how, it's so delicious?
EGI kinda pasty
CiQ but it's so sweet!
EGI also grainy sometimes
CiQ it reminds me of my grandmother
EGI oh, well I'm sure your grandmother's tasted better.
CiQ No, it pretty much tasted like this. Don't you think it always tastes the same?
EGI really? I've only eaten it twice.
CiQ In your WHOLE life?
...
And on and on it goes, with us never getting back to the arándano, or its oval-ish cousin, the cranVERRi. My point is, there are things you may like because you've always eaten them, and that you will love them and defend them even if they taste like paste, or metal, or (in my case) sometimes give you a rash.
Because hay gustos y gustos (to each his own, taste-wise). But at least cranberries don't look like they're going to sprout legs and walk away.
And then comes the cranberry question. First, which cranberry, they will ask. Which? Cranberry? The problem here is that the word "berry" (baya, botanically speaking, in Spanish) is not really seen to describe any particular fruit, more a series of fruits that in Italian would be called "forest fruits." Blueberries, which are arándanos in Spanish are only slowly making it to the market here in Santiago, and then sort of as a specialty item. Cranberries are grown in some quantity in the south, and quickly exported, generally before making a landing in the local market, though those in the know may be able to intervene, and they are available dried at some local/gringo bazaars, and I bought them once in Pucón (tourist/adventure sports capital in the close south).
Until a couple of years ago, the word arándano was used by many people to mean both the blueberry and the cranberry, though this question is asked less and less, as the cranVERRi is becoming more known, in name, if not in taste.
But even fully informed of which arándano we're talking about, Chileans want to know what the big deal is about the cranberry. Is it amazingly sweet? Is it tremendously flavorful? Is it your favorite? Can you make ice cream out of it? No, yes, no and probably, I answer. Does anyone really love cranberry sauce? I feel like a bad American saying so, but simply put the cranberry no me raya (doesn't move me).
But I will concede that it is a taste of the season, without which even my no-turkey (and no tofurkey) Thanksgiving would not be complete. I even made it last year, watching as the poor bobbing oblong (who knew, I thought they were round) berries turned juicy, then gelatinous in a white enamel pot on my sister's giant stainless steel stove. Secret ingredients were added, and the dark fuschia menjunje (mix) inverted into a glass bowl and left to cool.
I was trying to explain my feelings about cranberry in terms of the Chilean love of camote, which I had always assumed was out of nostalgia, rather than actual sensory experience, which I find sadly lacking, and heavily thirst-provoking.
Camote (at least here) is this thing, which two friends recently told me they thought looked like a chrysalis.
In plastic.
Set free.
Ready for sharing.
It's cooked sweet potato (I believe, help me out here?), tooth-achingly sweet, a little mealy, and covered in a thick glaze made of confectioner's sugar (it would seem). This sweet is sold on the street in little bags for 100 pesos, or this one that I bought at the thoroughly amazing Galletería Laura R (cheesecake, people. Real cheesecake, no yogurt or gelatin involved!) for 300 pesos because it's so big, and lovely. Or maybe it was the gold twist-tie that jacked up the price. Anyway, at 60 cents, it wasn't going to break the bank, and I thought that before I swore off camote for time immemorial, I should try the best possible camote. Anything the geniuses at this bakery (Manuel Montt near Eliodoro Yañez or up on Vitacura a little above the Rotunda Perez Zucovich) lay their hands to is delicious. So I took the plunge. Plus, who could resist a sweet that looks like a (future) bug?
Where was I? Oh yes, the cranberry and its fans, and the camote and its fans. I was trying to explain to people that cranberries aren't actually that delicious, they just remind you of a time and place, much like the camote, which appears and disappears throughout the year (though it seems like it could be preserved to serve all year round).
And then there were blank stares.
CiQ (Chilean in question)You don't think camote is delicious?
EGI (Embarassed gringa interloper) Um, no?
CiQ But how, it's so delicious?
EGI kinda pasty
CiQ but it's so sweet!
EGI also grainy sometimes
CiQ it reminds me of my grandmother
EGI oh, well I'm sure your grandmother's tasted better.
CiQ No, it pretty much tasted like this. Don't you think it always tastes the same?
EGI really? I've only eaten it twice.
CiQ In your WHOLE life?
...
And on and on it goes, with us never getting back to the arándano, or its oval-ish cousin, the cranVERRi. My point is, there are things you may like because you've always eaten them, and that you will love them and defend them even if they taste like paste, or metal, or (in my case) sometimes give you a rash.
Because hay gustos y gustos (to each his own, taste-wise). But at least cranberries don't look like they're going to sprout legs and walk away.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Transantiago "Expreso" service: speedier, yet more confusing.
Santiago’s transportation system can be described in a couple of words. For one, extensive. There is practically no untouched hamlet, no place so far and remote that you cannot access it by micro (bus), feeder bus (they call these "buses de acercamiento", or busses to get you close (but still no cigar) or metro. If those don’t work for you, there’s probably a colectivo, or shared taxi, but nine times out of ten, this is faster (though more expensive), but is seldom your only option. It’s almost always possible to get from point A to point B on public transport. And for this I truly applaud the system.
Another word you could use is crowded. Like really crowded. As in, I’ve been to Tokyo and I grew up in NY and used to take the metro at rush hour in DC, and believe me when I tell you this is unhealthily crowded. Squeeze your ribs, breathe your neighbor’s air, I saw someone’s lunch bag get trapped on the outside of a moving train the other day crowded.
One of the problems it that no one works a staggered schedule here. Everyone comes and goes at pretty much the same time of day, so there’s this critical mass (or should I say masse) of people that have to get from the outer comunas (districts/neighborhoods/municipalities) trying to get downtown. Another problem is that most people seem to have to get downtown. If people worked more spread out over the city (or over time), perhaps the crush would not be so intolerable.
One thing that the metro system has done, since I don’t think the trains could come more frequently (they seem to come more than once every 3-4 minutes by my watch during rush hour), or that the trains could be longer (can you imagine the chaos a broken train would cause?), is to institute “skip-stop service.”
Think about it, “skip-stop service.” Isn’t that descriptive? Don’t you know what I mean? You get on at a main station, and the train skips every other stop. They used to do this with the 1 and 9 trains in Manhattan when I was a kid. Skipstop. Sounds so cute, like a childhood game. I guess in Spanish they could call it saltarín, or jumpity. Or maybe saltito, hoppy! This, I think, would help people to understand the new system. Instead, they have called it Expreso, where each of the letters in Expreso alternate between green and red.
See?
The Expreso service probably gets you where you are going faster, especially given the extreme crowding on the metro, because the whole getting on and off while (hopefully) not trampling your neighbor is time consuming, in addition to potentially painful. Yet everyone I know who doesn’t live or get on the metro at a station that is served by just one train admits to getting confused about which train to get on. I guess over time, and with the help of these handy folios handed out by people in red and green windbreakers (court jester-style, with one half red and one half green) people will figure it out.
But while we are all trying to figure out which train to get on, and figure out where in the world the trains are labeled (this handy picture tells the story), I will continue to ask myself the same question.
Why in tarnation, when there are so very many colors in the world, as well as many other classification systems, did they decide to use red and green to identify the different routes, when there are people in Santiago who refer to the train lines themselves by the colors used to represent them on the map? (Their official names are 1, 2, 4, and 5, and no, I did not accidentally leave out 3, there is no line 3, and no, this is not a joke).
That is to say, if I live on the green line (which I do), why do I then have to choose between the red and green route to decide how to get to where I’m going. If they’d used, oh, I don’t know, cappucino and americano (in keeping with the “expreso” theme, and yes, I know that’s not how it’s spelled), I’d find it a lot easier to remember which was which. But I guess red and green windbreakers are more stylish than beige and brown, though I’d have to guess that the beige and brown would be easier for people who are colorblind to see the difference between. Plus, tasty.
Here’s a detail of the skipstoppiness, where the red and green mean both trains stop there. It may seem crazy that there are three such stops in a row, but two are transfer points to other metro lines, and one is a major transit hub.
In the meantime, I will try to bike everywhere, despite a continuing attempt by motorists to block every single bike lane that exists. If I drink enough espresso maybe I can launch myself over the vehicles. Now that would be jumpity.
Another word you could use is crowded. Like really crowded. As in, I’ve been to Tokyo and I grew up in NY and used to take the metro at rush hour in DC, and believe me when I tell you this is unhealthily crowded. Squeeze your ribs, breathe your neighbor’s air, I saw someone’s lunch bag get trapped on the outside of a moving train the other day crowded.
One of the problems it that no one works a staggered schedule here. Everyone comes and goes at pretty much the same time of day, so there’s this critical mass (or should I say masse) of people that have to get from the outer comunas (districts/neighborhoods/municipalities) trying to get downtown. Another problem is that most people seem to have to get downtown. If people worked more spread out over the city (or over time), perhaps the crush would not be so intolerable.
One thing that the metro system has done, since I don’t think the trains could come more frequently (they seem to come more than once every 3-4 minutes by my watch during rush hour), or that the trains could be longer (can you imagine the chaos a broken train would cause?), is to institute “skip-stop service.”
Think about it, “skip-stop service.” Isn’t that descriptive? Don’t you know what I mean? You get on at a main station, and the train skips every other stop. They used to do this with the 1 and 9 trains in Manhattan when I was a kid. Skipstop. Sounds so cute, like a childhood game. I guess in Spanish they could call it saltarín, or jumpity. Or maybe saltito, hoppy! This, I think, would help people to understand the new system. Instead, they have called it Expreso, where each of the letters in Expreso alternate between green and red.
See?
The Expreso service probably gets you where you are going faster, especially given the extreme crowding on the metro, because the whole getting on and off while (hopefully) not trampling your neighbor is time consuming, in addition to potentially painful. Yet everyone I know who doesn’t live or get on the metro at a station that is served by just one train admits to getting confused about which train to get on. I guess over time, and with the help of these handy folios handed out by people in red and green windbreakers (court jester-style, with one half red and one half green) people will figure it out.
But while we are all trying to figure out which train to get on, and figure out where in the world the trains are labeled (this handy picture tells the story), I will continue to ask myself the same question.
Why in tarnation, when there are so very many colors in the world, as well as many other classification systems, did they decide to use red and green to identify the different routes, when there are people in Santiago who refer to the train lines themselves by the colors used to represent them on the map? (Their official names are 1, 2, 4, and 5, and no, I did not accidentally leave out 3, there is no line 3, and no, this is not a joke).
That is to say, if I live on the green line (which I do), why do I then have to choose between the red and green route to decide how to get to where I’m going. If they’d used, oh, I don’t know, cappucino and americano (in keeping with the “expreso” theme, and yes, I know that’s not how it’s spelled), I’d find it a lot easier to remember which was which. But I guess red and green windbreakers are more stylish than beige and brown, though I’d have to guess that the beige and brown would be easier for people who are colorblind to see the difference between. Plus, tasty.
Here’s a detail of the skipstoppiness, where the red and green mean both trains stop there. It may seem crazy that there are three such stops in a row, but two are transfer points to other metro lines, and one is a major transit hub.
In the meantime, I will try to bike everywhere, despite a continuing attempt by motorists to block every single bike lane that exists. If I drink enough espresso maybe I can launch myself over the vehicles. Now that would be jumpity.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Going home for Thanksgiving!
November seems so innocuous. It seems like such a pleasant, in-between month, a time when no real expectations are laid, and nobody really has any major plans until waaaaaay late in the month when Thanksgiving comes and then there's a crush of OMG holidays until about the tenth or so of January. And then everything goes back to normal.
This is my sixth November in Chile, and as I bust out the shorts and other assorted summer paraphernalia, I notice it is the first time I have not gotten weather sick. Weather sick is like homesick, missing something you can't access, can't truly experience. Weather sick in November is triggered by talk of kids running through piles of leaves and zipping up coats over Halloween costumes. It's fanned by tales of hunkering down and thick stews and picking up cast-aside knitting projects. Because that's fall.
Here in the southern hemisphere, my spring allergies are raging (still have not bought that nutmeg necklace I say I'm going to get), windows are flung open and berries and chermioyas flood the markets. And while I still find it unsettling that it stays light until so late in November and summer holidays will be in January and February, the draining whiny nostalgia of what fall feels like in the northern hemisphere is absent this year.
You might think it was because I've gotten over it.
Or you might know that I have in my greedy little email account confirmation of a ticket "home" for día acción de gracias (Thanksgiving). And while I will miss the chance to plan a very gringo thanksgiving, complete with a fight over the last remaining sweet potatoes at the Vega (go in on the Dávila (back) side and find the middle-eastern veggies and stuff, there's a guy there that has them this time of year), and combing the city for celery (Jumbo is a good bet right now), and lamenting yet again that although they grow cranberries in this country, nearly all of them are exported, only to be reimported in small quantities in gelatinous goo contained in cans, well in spite of all that, I'm really glad to go see my people, and my people's people in a new/old tradition that we've been celebrating for the past three years. (did you see that sentence? and I call myself an editor!)
The tradition is called "Aunt Eileen comes home for Thanksgiving." I think everyone is pretty happy about it, particularly my nephew, (2.5) who says on the phone, "een bring suny" (suny is soft caramel candy not unlike fudge, but without the chocolate), as I'm told his supply recently ran out. Did you hear that? He calls me "een." Please cue heart-achingly saccharine music and then see if you can speed up the next two weeks a bit. There's a little boy that needs his aunt (or the candy she brings, so what?) way up north. Thanksgiving, indeed.
This is my sixth November in Chile, and as I bust out the shorts and other assorted summer paraphernalia, I notice it is the first time I have not gotten weather sick. Weather sick is like homesick, missing something you can't access, can't truly experience. Weather sick in November is triggered by talk of kids running through piles of leaves and zipping up coats over Halloween costumes. It's fanned by tales of hunkering down and thick stews and picking up cast-aside knitting projects. Because that's fall.
Here in the southern hemisphere, my spring allergies are raging (still have not bought that nutmeg necklace I say I'm going to get), windows are flung open and berries and chermioyas flood the markets. And while I still find it unsettling that it stays light until so late in November and summer holidays will be in January and February, the draining whiny nostalgia of what fall feels like in the northern hemisphere is absent this year.
You might think it was because I've gotten over it.
Or you might know that I have in my greedy little email account confirmation of a ticket "home" for día acción de gracias (Thanksgiving). And while I will miss the chance to plan a very gringo thanksgiving, complete with a fight over the last remaining sweet potatoes at the Vega (go in on the Dávila (back) side and find the middle-eastern veggies and stuff, there's a guy there that has them this time of year), and combing the city for celery (Jumbo is a good bet right now), and lamenting yet again that although they grow cranberries in this country, nearly all of them are exported, only to be reimported in small quantities in gelatinous goo contained in cans, well in spite of all that, I'm really glad to go see my people, and my people's people in a new/old tradition that we've been celebrating for the past three years. (did you see that sentence? and I call myself an editor!)
The tradition is called "Aunt Eileen comes home for Thanksgiving." I think everyone is pretty happy about it, particularly my nephew, (2.5) who says on the phone, "een bring suny" (suny is soft caramel candy not unlike fudge, but without the chocolate), as I'm told his supply recently ran out. Did you hear that? He calls me "een." Please cue heart-achingly saccharine music and then see if you can speed up the next two weeks a bit. There's a little boy that needs his aunt (or the candy she brings, so what?) way up north. Thanksgiving, indeed.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Saturday's Seven Snarky Snaps
And contrary to the popularly-held misconception, a Spaniard would not say Thaturday'th Theven Tnarky Thnapth. That's Elmer Fudd. Spaniards only -th the c and zs in speech. Which you can put in your pocket and take out for trivia night, though be careful, people may start to call you (yourname)-oogle. I'm just thaying.
So here are seven snaps from the previous week which I think pretty well typify some repeated traveler and expat observations about Chile.
1. The dogs sleep anywhere they feel like it. Also, they are picky eaters and prefer kibble and meat to all forms of carbohydrates. This one has his face in a pile of french fries, and isn't budging. And yes, he was alive.
2. Just because you call it pizza does not make it pizza. These guys set up here there and everywhere, set up a gas-powered oven of dubious cleanliness and slap down some flattened rolls with a piece or two of sweaty cheese atop. I know we're beating the whole pizza-in-Santiago thing a bit to death, but this truly is an abomination before Italy. Darn cheap though, and will suffice in a pinch. Olives optional.
3. Things may look the same in Santiago as at home, but when you get a little closer, you'll discover tiny little differences that will make you scratch your head. Also, the native speaker's intuition will never die. I haven't been in a KFC in the United States in at least ten years, but I can nearly guarantee that there is nothing on the menu called "rods."
4. There is no end to the abuse of dictionaries and machine translation vis-a-vis confused misuse of words. This one is understandable, at least. And I should say, it wasn't translated by the actual postal service here, rather likely a hilltop vendor of postcards and such atop Cerro San Cristobal. No relation to the guy who will pose your kid atop a stuffed zebra and snap a photo, for a price. Why a zebra? Why, indeed.
5. Inconsiderate motorists are the norm, not the exception. This construction truck has decided to straddle the bike lane during prime travel hours for your pedalling pleasure. Thanks, construction truck! I always look for a reason to swerve out into traffic.
6. The restroom can be elusive at times, but if you can hold it, it will come.
7. Even when someone explains to you what is going on and why someone is dressed like a combination of a rat and the center-left presidential candidate/former president (Frei), and even if you speak Spanish, it still doesn't make a whit of sense. But you should always ask anyway, and if you're really curious, look up his channel on Youtube (I'm not that curious, I suppose).
Brought to you by nosiness, my personal endless store of snark, random silly, and of course, the smashing camera on my phone, which actually isn't half bad, and I still haven't managed to smash.
So here are seven snaps from the previous week which I think pretty well typify some repeated traveler and expat observations about Chile.
1. The dogs sleep anywhere they feel like it. Also, they are picky eaters and prefer kibble and meat to all forms of carbohydrates. This one has his face in a pile of french fries, and isn't budging. And yes, he was alive.
2. Just because you call it pizza does not make it pizza. These guys set up here there and everywhere, set up a gas-powered oven of dubious cleanliness and slap down some flattened rolls with a piece or two of sweaty cheese atop. I know we're beating the whole pizza-in-Santiago thing a bit to death, but this truly is an abomination before Italy. Darn cheap though, and will suffice in a pinch. Olives optional.
3. Things may look the same in Santiago as at home, but when you get a little closer, you'll discover tiny little differences that will make you scratch your head. Also, the native speaker's intuition will never die. I haven't been in a KFC in the United States in at least ten years, but I can nearly guarantee that there is nothing on the menu called "rods."
4. There is no end to the abuse of dictionaries and machine translation vis-a-vis confused misuse of words. This one is understandable, at least. And I should say, it wasn't translated by the actual postal service here, rather likely a hilltop vendor of postcards and such atop Cerro San Cristobal. No relation to the guy who will pose your kid atop a stuffed zebra and snap a photo, for a price. Why a zebra? Why, indeed.
5. Inconsiderate motorists are the norm, not the exception. This construction truck has decided to straddle the bike lane during prime travel hours for your pedalling pleasure. Thanks, construction truck! I always look for a reason to swerve out into traffic.
6. The restroom can be elusive at times, but if you can hold it, it will come.
7. Even when someone explains to you what is going on and why someone is dressed like a combination of a rat and the center-left presidential candidate/former president (Frei), and even if you speak Spanish, it still doesn't make a whit of sense. But you should always ask anyway, and if you're really curious, look up his channel on Youtube (I'm not that curious, I suppose).
Brought to you by nosiness, my personal endless store of snark, random silly, and of course, the smashing camera on my phone, which actually isn't half bad, and I still haven't managed to smash.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
What does a taxi in Santiago say?
Have you ever been unable to find an item in your house (keys, camera cable, that movie someone pressed into your hands promising you'd love it and you never watched it and now they want it back), only to rifle through your items like a B-grade detective and come across not the item in question, but the previous thing you'd given up for lost?
This happens to me all the time. Partially it speaks to the fact that there's probably too much stuff in my 1-BR apartment (with view!), and too many areas that could be called the X of danger. As in the drawer of danger, the shelf of danger, the clear plastic box even though I'm opposed to storage solutions of danger, etc. Drawer of danger is what I like to call that catchall drawer in the kitchen where you put your carrot peeler and some weird knife accessories and the garlic press and that plastic jar-opener thing and whatever other cachibaches (like the yiddish tchotchkes, but more towards junk) you've got. It's a scary place, and it's hard to find stuff. So sometimes you can't. But then you look again for something different, and the first thing pops up.
Which seems like it would fly in the face of the law of conservation of matter, but apparently doesn't, or if it does, it doesn't apply in my apartment or any place I've ever lived. And you?
The frustrating thing about finding your items later is that you're still left with the desire to find the new thing. And if my experience holds true, you'll never find it until you lose something else.
What on this wide wonderful planet does that have to do with this (sorry, cellphone) picture?
Well, I'm so glad you asked.
Many months ago, in fact maybe even more than a year ago, I was out at a birthday shindig at one of those places mentioned in the pizza post, and it was late, and public transportation was iffy and it was freezing cold and also raining, and ok, sometimes me doy el lujo de (I spoil myself by) taking a taxi. And I'd recently had a skittish taxi experience, and so was eyeing the taxis nervously, when one of this small fleet of re-upholstered taxis showed up.
And I got in, and a laughed and laughed, and cursed myself for the cruddy camera on my old phone (new one is somewhat better), and wished high and low that I would see that taxi, or another like it some time. There's a small fleet of these, somewhere in the 12-14 range, and they drive around picking up unsuspecting (and probably unsmiling) Santiaguinos and taking them where they need to go.
Well since then, I have a list of several hundred things that I wish I'd taken pictures of, and like the lost things in the drawer, this memory was sufficiently old and rusty for it to come to the forefront. So thanks Mandi for showing up about five minutes late last night, so I could cumplir mi sueño (fulfill my dream) of snapping a shot of this beauty. Also, in case you were wondering, when I got home from my first experience with this taxi, I announced to my friend (by SMS), "I think rode a dalmation on the way home." And she responded "te fuiste en una vaca!" (you took a cow!). Which now that I heard the mooing sound the taxi makes (this time), makes much more sense.
Take that Santiago deriders. Where's your banyard animal taxi? And would it stop to pose for a picture? Didn't think so. Mu po (moo, then).
This happens to me all the time. Partially it speaks to the fact that there's probably too much stuff in my 1-BR apartment (with view!), and too many areas that could be called the X of danger. As in the drawer of danger, the shelf of danger, the clear plastic box even though I'm opposed to storage solutions of danger, etc. Drawer of danger is what I like to call that catchall drawer in the kitchen where you put your carrot peeler and some weird knife accessories and the garlic press and that plastic jar-opener thing and whatever other cachibaches (like the yiddish tchotchkes, but more towards junk) you've got. It's a scary place, and it's hard to find stuff. So sometimes you can't. But then you look again for something different, and the first thing pops up.
Which seems like it would fly in the face of the law of conservation of matter, but apparently doesn't, or if it does, it doesn't apply in my apartment or any place I've ever lived. And you?
The frustrating thing about finding your items later is that you're still left with the desire to find the new thing. And if my experience holds true, you'll never find it until you lose something else.
What on this wide wonderful planet does that have to do with this (sorry, cellphone) picture?
Well, I'm so glad you asked.
Many months ago, in fact maybe even more than a year ago, I was out at a birthday shindig at one of those places mentioned in the pizza post, and it was late, and public transportation was iffy and it was freezing cold and also raining, and ok, sometimes me doy el lujo de (I spoil myself by) taking a taxi. And I'd recently had a skittish taxi experience, and so was eyeing the taxis nervously, when one of this small fleet of re-upholstered taxis showed up.
And I got in, and a laughed and laughed, and cursed myself for the cruddy camera on my old phone (new one is somewhat better), and wished high and low that I would see that taxi, or another like it some time. There's a small fleet of these, somewhere in the 12-14 range, and they drive around picking up unsuspecting (and probably unsmiling) Santiaguinos and taking them where they need to go.
Well since then, I have a list of several hundred things that I wish I'd taken pictures of, and like the lost things in the drawer, this memory was sufficiently old and rusty for it to come to the forefront. So thanks Mandi for showing up about five minutes late last night, so I could cumplir mi sueño (fulfill my dream) of snapping a shot of this beauty. Also, in case you were wondering, when I got home from my first experience with this taxi, I announced to my friend (by SMS), "I think rode a dalmation on the way home." And she responded "te fuiste en una vaca!" (you took a cow!). Which now that I heard the mooing sound the taxi makes (this time), makes much more sense.
Take that Santiago deriders. Where's your banyard animal taxi? And would it stop to pose for a picture? Didn't think so. Mu po (moo, then).
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Winetasting in South America, or how to raise Bearshapedsphere's ire, now with content scraping!
Pique is many things. In Spanish it's a type of shaft drilled in mining to put in elevators or cables. It's also a kind of flea, and irse en pique means to be on the brink of doing something.
None of which has anything to do with the (English) pique I'm experiencing right now, which if your SAT-studying is still fresh in your mind, you will recall that:
Pique: Anger
a. hungry: famished
b. sheep: wool
c. sad: happy
d. donald: duck
The correct answer here is a. I am not angry, per se, but I am piqued. And because you are all my dogged and loyal followers, I shall now explain to you why.
Remember this crazy formula:
Well let me add one swooping overarching end run around the whole thing.
If you ever so much as dream of scraping my content, or stealing something I have written and posting it on your very popular travel website, or have done or are considering doing the same to any of the very vast number of truly talented and over worked and often underpaid people that make a living from writing about travel or anything else, well then, a guest post?
That is the sound of my jaw clattering to the ground. In the words of Mamaj, (who I called because who doesn't want to call their mother when someone wrongs them, on the playground, at school or on the internet)
"That's wrong."
So it is, Mamaj, so it is. The copied article has been deleted, with little more than an FYI, and this is where the arrow really started moving on the pique-o-meter.
In other, extremely-related news, I wrote this really nifty article on winetasting in South America and it's getting all kinds of traction and tweets and fun and go Bootsnsall because they rock, and also thanks to every other editor I've ever had, (even that creepy one that looked at nekkid lady pictures at work, because even though he was a perv, he was still a good editor) because they have taught and encouraged me, and even jumped to my defense when warranted (like today).
And if you'd like me to write a guest post, hey, who knows, I just might. But please. Play nice.
Mamaj would want you to.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Addendum:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The party of the first part has responded. I am mostly convinced that it was not entirely his fault, but since I develop, write and post my own content, it is difficult for me to understand exactly how the event in question came to pass. I think this is another sound-off (meta-talk, if you will) bubbling to the surface, about how making yourself a brand name with a big team in my mind takes you out of the running for "blogger" of the year, month, week, or time period of your choice. A blog is written by a human or a dedicated and equal-sharing group of humans (at least in my mind). Alas, the world may never know (just like with that tootsie roll pop question. Did anyone actually like those?)
I remain perplexed and not undisgruntled (bet you didn't know English could prefix-stack like that. Mine can). Thanks for sticking it through to the end. I wish I could give you a scooby snack. Or give me those hours of the day back.
None of which has anything to do with the (English) pique I'm experiencing right now, which if your SAT-studying is still fresh in your mind, you will recall that:
Pique: Anger
a. hungry: famished
b. sheep: wool
c. sad: happy
d. donald: duck
The correct answer here is a. I am not angry, per se, but I am piqued. And because you are all my dogged and loyal followers, I shall now explain to you why.
Remember this crazy formula:
(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.that I posted here where I talked about how to decide whether or not I would write a guest post for someone?
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.
Well let me add one swooping overarching end run around the whole thing.
If you ever so much as dream of scraping my content, or stealing something I have written and posting it on your very popular travel website, or have done or are considering doing the same to any of the very vast number of truly talented and over worked and often underpaid people that make a living from writing about travel or anything else, well then, a guest post?
That is the sound of my jaw clattering to the ground. In the words of Mamaj, (who I called because who doesn't want to call their mother when someone wrongs them, on the playground, at school or on the internet)
"That's wrong."
So it is, Mamaj, so it is. The copied article has been deleted, with little more than an FYI, and this is where the arrow really started moving on the pique-o-meter.
In other, extremely-related news, I wrote this really nifty article on winetasting in South America and it's getting all kinds of traction and tweets and fun and go Bootsnsall because they rock, and also thanks to every other editor I've ever had, (even that creepy one that looked at nekkid lady pictures at work, because even though he was a perv, he was still a good editor) because they have taught and encouraged me, and even jumped to my defense when warranted (like today).
And if you'd like me to write a guest post, hey, who knows, I just might. But please. Play nice.
Mamaj would want you to.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::Addendum:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The party of the first part has responded. I am mostly convinced that it was not entirely his fault, but since I develop, write and post my own content, it is difficult for me to understand exactly how the event in question came to pass. I think this is another sound-off (meta-talk, if you will) bubbling to the surface, about how making yourself a brand name with a big team in my mind takes you out of the running for "blogger" of the year, month, week, or time period of your choice. A blog is written by a human or a dedicated and equal-sharing group of humans (at least in my mind). Alas, the world may never know (just like with that tootsie roll pop question. Did anyone actually like those?)
I remain perplexed and not undisgruntled (bet you didn't know English could prefix-stack like that. Mine can). Thanks for sticking it through to the end. I wish I could give you a scooby snack. Or give me those hours of the day back.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
De compras con las chauchas! Coin-fueled fresh market foray in Santiago!
Sunday. Day of relaxation, of rest, of work (what? just me?), of move it or lose it re: feria visits. My best closest fresh market is on Sundays, down in Barrio Yungay. For a list of the ferias in the city by comuna (district/neighborhood), don't miss this handy website put out by the Chilean Ministry of Agriculture. Unlike estoeschile, they don't even have an English translation, so you won't waste a bunch of your time clutching your sides at the slips of word. Seriously, this is so. unbelievably. helpful. You always see the freshmarket in passing, on a day when you just can't stop, don't have time, etc. Now on any given day if I've got a little freshies-hankering, I can figure out where to go to get my fix.
So today is Sunday, and my feria, which I've just learned is called Esperanza, which means hope (but is also the name of the street it runs on) was on. And so off I went, canvas bags on handlebars, to go get some grub.
I like to play a little game I like to call chauchitas. Chaucha is a Chilean (and other Spanish) word for coins that appeared to be silver but in fact where nickel. In Chile we use it to mean coins in general. If you take out a handful of change, people will say "Andas con puras chauchitas!" which means something of the equivalent of, dumped out your piggy bank today? And I respond, "y, que tiene?" which means something like "And your point is?" The goal today was to bring my pocket full of chauchitas to the feria, and leave heavily laden with goods.
Lucky for me, we have some very valuable coins in Chile (500 peso coins are worth almost a dollar), and I have a little wooden jar (is that possible?) that I keep them in. I left the house with 3,770 ($7.10 by today's rates, thank you currency converter. And I went a-hunting.
And here's the spoils, minus a bag of "ensalada de penca" which sounds hiliarious in Chilean Spanish because penca means kind of boring or sucky. But penca is also a leggy thistle plant which people strip the outer part of and chop up and serve with lemon. It's delicious, and tastes somewhere between artichoke stems and celery, but I forgot to put it in the pic, and it just looks like a chopped up bag of green stems anyway.
Behold!
Here's the haul:
stirfry mix, 1,000 pesos $1.88 (a little overpriced, but saves much chopping)
strawberries, 1 kilo 600 pesos $1.13
asparagus, .5 kilo 350 pesos $.66
lemons 1 kilo 150 pesos $.28
fava beans 1 bag, 500 pesos $.94
penca 1 bag, 200 pesos $.38
peas, .5 kilo, 350 pesos $.66
cherimoya 1, 600 pesos $1.13
total: 3750 (20 pesos remaining!) or just over US $7.00. That's enough for about 1.3 downtown lunchtime specials, or 3 cortados (tiny little lattés) at a reasonably-priced café, or almost 9 trips on the metro.
Or you could also buy 63% of one of these crazily overpriced out-of-season melons I spied at the supermarket the other day.
Just a reminder to a) buy locally b) purchase what's in season and c) support your local small businesses.
The cherimoya was really the whole reason I went to the feria to begin with. This custardy starchy fruit is one of the harbingers of spring, and like nísperos (loquats), they're something you can only get in season, and to me aren't worth eating in any form other than fresh. Yesterday I saw two different people eating cherimoya, and my antojo (craving) was born. And the guy who sold it to me called me lola which means "young thing" more or less. It also is the name of Emily's dog, but I have to trust that this casero (feria guy) doesn't know that, and that we don't look that much alike. People claim the etymology is related to Nabakov's Lolita. Can anyone substantiate? Margaret perhaps?
And I'm nearing 40, which this photo can substantiate. Young? Sure, why not? Pass the fruit and veggies, and the complimentary (if untrue) piropos. Enjoy!
So today is Sunday, and my feria, which I've just learned is called Esperanza, which means hope (but is also the name of the street it runs on) was on. And so off I went, canvas bags on handlebars, to go get some grub.
I like to play a little game I like to call chauchitas. Chaucha is a Chilean (and other Spanish) word for coins that appeared to be silver but in fact where nickel. In Chile we use it to mean coins in general. If you take out a handful of change, people will say "Andas con puras chauchitas!" which means something of the equivalent of, dumped out your piggy bank today? And I respond, "y, que tiene?" which means something like "And your point is?" The goal today was to bring my pocket full of chauchitas to the feria, and leave heavily laden with goods.
Lucky for me, we have some very valuable coins in Chile (500 peso coins are worth almost a dollar), and I have a little wooden jar (is that possible?) that I keep them in. I left the house with 3,770 ($7.10 by today's rates, thank you currency converter. And I went a-hunting.
And here's the spoils, minus a bag of "ensalada de penca" which sounds hiliarious in Chilean Spanish because penca means kind of boring or sucky. But penca is also a leggy thistle plant which people strip the outer part of and chop up and serve with lemon. It's delicious, and tastes somewhere between artichoke stems and celery, but I forgot to put it in the pic, and it just looks like a chopped up bag of green stems anyway.
Behold!
Here's the haul:
stirfry mix, 1,000 pesos $1.88 (a little overpriced, but saves much chopping)
strawberries, 1 kilo 600 pesos $1.13
asparagus, .5 kilo 350 pesos $.66
lemons 1 kilo 150 pesos $.28
fava beans 1 bag, 500 pesos $.94
penca 1 bag, 200 pesos $.38
peas, .5 kilo, 350 pesos $.66
cherimoya 1, 600 pesos $1.13
total: 3750 (20 pesos remaining!) or just over US $7.00. That's enough for about 1.3 downtown lunchtime specials, or 3 cortados (tiny little lattés) at a reasonably-priced café, or almost 9 trips on the metro.
Or you could also buy 63% of one of these crazily overpriced out-of-season melons I spied at the supermarket the other day.
Just a reminder to a) buy locally b) purchase what's in season and c) support your local small businesses.
The cherimoya was really the whole reason I went to the feria to begin with. This custardy starchy fruit is one of the harbingers of spring, and like nísperos (loquats), they're something you can only get in season, and to me aren't worth eating in any form other than fresh. Yesterday I saw two different people eating cherimoya, and my antojo (craving) was born. And the guy who sold it to me called me lola which means "young thing" more or less. It also is the name of Emily's dog, but I have to trust that this casero (feria guy) doesn't know that, and that we don't look that much alike. People claim the etymology is related to Nabakov's Lolita. Can anyone substantiate? Margaret perhaps?
And I'm nearing 40, which this photo can substantiate. Young? Sure, why not? Pass the fruit and veggies, and the complimentary (if untrue) piropos. Enjoy!
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