Oh my God! is what someone shouted to me when I was leaping over a calf-high pile of discarded lettuce leaves today at the Vega. Except due to the Chilean vowel range, it sounded more like oh my Gott! in some kind of approximation of German. This is a term most Chileans know, and they will occasionally shake it out and dust it off and yell it at you while you are pedaling a heavily-laden bike through the Vega (fresh market), procuring goods for what is popularly known as the great home catering experiment of 2009.
I was out buying metric quantities (though not tons) of cucumbers, carrots, mint, cilantro and basil, grinning and bearing as passersby hissed, get the big ones, the small ones are no good (quedate con los grandes, los chicos no te sirven), this about the cucumbers, because why did I think I would buy vegetables without invoking a higher power and lewd commentary in the same day?
Speaking of the leaping (remember, the leaping?), that may or may not have been when my jumble of house and other keys slipped gracefully from my pocket into a sad little heap on the ground. It's hard to say exactly when they made their escape, but after having searched every pocket, cranny and nook of everything I was carrying while standing outside my apartment building, I can definitively tell you that they were not on my person.
So I did what any half-hysterical vegetable purchaser would do. I went to my corner store, the one where the old man touches the meat and the money all with his bare hands (but I don't care, because I don't buy meat, and I always wash my hands if he touches anything of mine), and where I occasionally buy overpriced bubbly water because I don't feel like walking to the supermarket. I asked them if they knew a cerrajero de confianza (trustworthy locksmith). I'm sure it's not just me, but I certainly don't want strangers in my house and seeing all my crap of dubious worth. So I ran off to see Mingo, who has a stand at the Santa Isabel on Cu.mm.ing. (oh! and this no one makes jokes about! periods inserted to muck up freakish comments). But Mingo was not to be found, nor was his sister, Fla. Okay, bad joke. Deal with it! I'm under pressure here, got a lot of work to do.
Mingo was nowhere to be found, so I asked the guy with the newspaper kiosk on the other corner if he knew a locksmith. I ride past him several times a day, so I figured we're like old friends. He directed me to the Santa Isabel (do you see a pattern here? need a locksmith? go to the supermarket!), and the locksmith across the street from there was closed as well.
In between, I called the future bride (for whom we are conducting the great home catering experiment of 2009), to see if she could call L, a dear friend and the mother of my goddaughter, who has my keys. I would have ridden up there, but I had left my phone at home (see: bonehead), and didn't know her number, and felt it unlikely she would be at the house when I arrived. So the bride called my friend, and then I rode around to see Mingo again (see: absent) and then the other locksmith (also not there), popped in on the corner store people again (I had left my heavy motherlode of veggies there) to use the phone and buy some water, contemplated what my life would be like if I never returned to my apartment again, and wondered how long it would take for my clothes to fall off from overwear, and if the people who live in the encampment in Parque de Los Reyes would take me in, especially since I have the makings for a hell of a salad. And oh! I could give the horses some carrots. I knew they would like that.
But I called the bride again, and her sister answered, and said, L is driving the keys down to you right now.
Which just goes to show you that it takes a village to raise me. Thanks to everyone who stepped up with phone calls and reassurances and leaping into the car and only making fun of me a little, and to Jorge, the guy who parks the cars outside my house. We had a very nice talk, and he didn't say oh my God (or Gott), or ask me about the cucumbers.
Whew.
Back to work. But I think I'm staying inside for the rest of the day. That's enough blog fodder for today, and you never know what might happen to you if you go outside.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas in Chile, a Jewish foreigner observer's tale
Christmas is afoot in the southern hemisphere, as it likely is in your corner of the globe. This hopefully answers the age-old question, "When do they celebrate Christmas?" once and for all. I'm not sure who the speaker was in that case, but I have it carefully filed next to the question "What language will the baby speak when it's born?" once asked by a long-deceased family member (and they are many) with regards to a family's child who was to be born outside of the United States.
To which the answer is of course, December, and none, in that order.
Christmas is many things to many people, and who am I, a nearly-nonobservant Jew to comment on the peculiarities of how a holiday that ostensibly has nothing to do with me is celebrated? But I am here in the heart of the city as the Santas (which comes up as misspelled, why? can there be only one?) sweat, and fragile wrapping paper is taped into bag-shape into which to place the gifts that people have purchased for their family and friends. For you must not try to use the wrapping paper as you have used it in your country. It will rip. For reals.
And purchase they do, as evidenced by this glowy, noisy (phone) photo I snapped the day before yesterday (Dec 22nd) of the first floor of the downtown Paris (formerly Almacenes Paris) on Banderas and Augustinas at about 6:30 PM. I was helping a friend pick out some gifts for his nieces, nieces being something I know quite a lot about.
And people were buying up a storm, including this gent who purchased a bicycle which some clever checkout person wrapped in plastic bags. You know, so no one would know what he was carrying.
Or maybe it's just that Chileans really like to wrap things (presents excepted, as these go in bags made of wrapping paper), and who am I to comment on this, as did I not once purchase a saran-wrapped dresser? (Answer: yes)
Christmas is much more than presents, of course. It is also holy and celebratory and religious and giant trees and oh my word, the food and drink.
The most popular seasonal drink in Chile is called cola de mono (lit: monkey's tail), and it's like eggnog and kahlua and cream got married (or didn't), and had a baby. In a manger. Or not. (ow, my aching blasphemy!). It's basically condensed milk, alcohol, instant coffee, nutmeg, and an egg yolk or two if you like. There's also cinnamon and cloves, and if you're lucky, it's delicious. And if you're not? Well, you can always pour it out when you go outside to get some air, because people, it's been 90 plus degrees out during the day, and the Santas (plural) are sweating, and everyone is bustling this way and that purchasing supplies so aggressively that the dry goods store was out of brown sugar yesterday when I went to go pick up the coffee for the wedding (not mine).
Which maybe explains why I bought a kilo of cherries and a kilo of strawberries from the neighborhood fruit peddler who stopped in on a friend's house (got to get supplies while they are hot!) while I was dropping off the coffee and meeting the gringo family and making plans for today, when for the first time ever, I will spend Christmas with a Chilean family (and their American soon-to-be nuera (daughter-in-law), though Chilean tradition assures that they have thought of her this way ever since their son first brought her over for onces (evening meal/coffee).
My reasons for never having spent Christmas with a Chilean family before are various, but they probably all come down to it being difficult to prise my hardwon "outsider" identity from my suntanned and calloused hands. I hesitated mightily upon receiving the invitation, feeling alternately like an interloper and a loser for not having people with whom to spend Christmas. And then I realized, I do have people. They invited me because they want me there. And despite religious differences and the fact that I have never met 9/10 of the people that will be present, I will go.
And I'll be sure to toast you all with my cola de mono. I hope you have a peaceful holiday with your people. And that you hold a latke fest in honor of the day if that's your style. It's way too hot here.
To which the answer is of course, December, and none, in that order.
Christmas is many things to many people, and who am I, a nearly-nonobservant Jew to comment on the peculiarities of how a holiday that ostensibly has nothing to do with me is celebrated? But I am here in the heart of the city as the Santas (which comes up as misspelled, why? can there be only one?) sweat, and fragile wrapping paper is taped into bag-shape into which to place the gifts that people have purchased for their family and friends. For you must not try to use the wrapping paper as you have used it in your country. It will rip. For reals.
And purchase they do, as evidenced by this glowy, noisy (phone) photo I snapped the day before yesterday (Dec 22nd) of the first floor of the downtown Paris (formerly Almacenes Paris) on Banderas and Augustinas at about 6:30 PM. I was helping a friend pick out some gifts for his nieces, nieces being something I know quite a lot about.
And people were buying up a storm, including this gent who purchased a bicycle which some clever checkout person wrapped in plastic bags. You know, so no one would know what he was carrying.
Or maybe it's just that Chileans really like to wrap things (presents excepted, as these go in bags made of wrapping paper), and who am I to comment on this, as did I not once purchase a saran-wrapped dresser? (Answer: yes)
Christmas is much more than presents, of course. It is also holy and celebratory and religious and giant trees and oh my word, the food and drink.
The most popular seasonal drink in Chile is called cola de mono (lit: monkey's tail), and it's like eggnog and kahlua and cream got married (or didn't), and had a baby. In a manger. Or not. (ow, my aching blasphemy!). It's basically condensed milk, alcohol, instant coffee, nutmeg, and an egg yolk or two if you like. There's also cinnamon and cloves, and if you're lucky, it's delicious. And if you're not? Well, you can always pour it out when you go outside to get some air, because people, it's been 90 plus degrees out during the day, and the Santas (plural) are sweating, and everyone is bustling this way and that purchasing supplies so aggressively that the dry goods store was out of brown sugar yesterday when I went to go pick up the coffee for the wedding (not mine).
Which maybe explains why I bought a kilo of cherries and a kilo of strawberries from the neighborhood fruit peddler who stopped in on a friend's house (got to get supplies while they are hot!) while I was dropping off the coffee and meeting the gringo family and making plans for today, when for the first time ever, I will spend Christmas with a Chilean family (and their American soon-to-be nuera (daughter-in-law), though Chilean tradition assures that they have thought of her this way ever since their son first brought her over for onces (evening meal/coffee).
My reasons for never having spent Christmas with a Chilean family before are various, but they probably all come down to it being difficult to prise my hardwon "outsider" identity from my suntanned and calloused hands. I hesitated mightily upon receiving the invitation, feeling alternately like an interloper and a loser for not having people with whom to spend Christmas. And then I realized, I do have people. They invited me because they want me there. And despite religious differences and the fact that I have never met 9/10 of the people that will be present, I will go.
And I'll be sure to toast you all with my cola de mono. I hope you have a peaceful holiday with your people. And that you hold a latke fest in honor of the day if that's your style. It's way too hot here.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
On taking the bus pirata/pirate bus. A five-plus-year-old memory.
The first several weeks I spent in Chile were an exercise in figuring out just what was going on. It wasn't so much the language as the culture, in that I couldn't get why I had to go to a notary to rent an apartment (all contracts are legalized here, regardless of what they're for), didn't speak cellphone, had a tough time figuring out the city busses, etc.
Things were strange. Tiny coffee, mayonnaise on hotdogs, and all the rest. There was so much strange and so little just-what-I-expected that I'd buried the story of the "pirate bus" in the back of my brain. That is, until we left a friend at Lo Vasquez after the overnight bikeride, and when I asked a friend if we knew if he'd made it back to Santiago ok, she said, "Yeah, he made it back, you know, in a bus pirata."
Bus pirata? But of course! Bus pirata.
I had been in Santiago about four days when the girl in the upper bunk at my hostel mentioned that she was going to Valparaíso to see some friends for the long weekend. It was early April, 2004, and there was a three-day-weekend. I had just gotten the keys to my new apartment and parked my stuff there, packed a small bag and headed off. We met up at Universidad de Santiago metro station, which was roiling with activity, or so I thought. When we got to the actual bus station there were people everywhere. Standing sitting, carrying bags, children, parcels, boxes. Line after lines of humans trying to buy bus tickets to get out of dodge for the weekend.
A guy came up to the group of us, FOB (fresh off the boat) gringos, one and all, and hissed at us in a tone from a PSA about not taking candy from strangers, bus to the coast? bus to the coast? a la costa? We looked at each other, looked at the lines and followed the guy to a gas station about a block away. We settled on a price, hopped on the bus and waited. I remembered times in my life when I'd been bamboozled for a buck or two with the "special bus" routine, including a time on the Mexico-Guatemala border when I was greener than a fresh garlic scape and lost about $5 and about four gallons of frustration to the scam, all before midnight.
What would they do to us? And why had I agreed to this? I imagined the legit bus line snaking towards the door, but advancing slowly, people purchasing their tickets and being shown to a tall pullman-style bus, with assigned plush seats. I was in a glorified children's school bus, orange and brown, striped and dirty. I was waiting for the reveal (get off the bus, it's a big, fat joke, and no trip to the coast for you, and while you're at it, give me all your money!). And then the bus filled up, with regular Chileans, big and small, parcel-toting and baby juggling. And we started pulling out of the gas station.
With the exception of my own doomsday thinking, and the fact that they wouldn't let me open the curtains on the bus (sure sign of a bus pirata), so that the police could not see us and fine the driver, and possibly cart us all off the bus, the whole shebang was utterly normal. We arrived safely at the appointed destination, paid the same as all the other passengers, recovered our belongings and were cast into the hill-hugging coastal warren that is Valparaíso.
In fact, in the end it was so normal, so unnotable (and this in the maelstrom of strange that is moving to a new country), that I almost assumed that illegal buses were part of the landscape. I'd never even told the story, figuring it was another one of those "gringa thinks something is amazing, and it is so bosTEZo (yawn).
It wasn't until just a week or so ago, when I found out that our friend who we'd left at Lo Vasquez had taken an illegal bus, and that that was mention-worthy, that I even remembered that I'd had a similar experience. Which sort of makes me wonder what other memories are sloshing around in a jar full of ho-hum that will feed my story repertoire for the foreseeable future.
Pirate bus. Too bad it didn't have a skull and crossbones flag. That might have made it more memorable from the get-go.
Things were strange. Tiny coffee, mayonnaise on hotdogs, and all the rest. There was so much strange and so little just-what-I-expected that I'd buried the story of the "pirate bus" in the back of my brain. That is, until we left a friend at Lo Vasquez after the overnight bikeride, and when I asked a friend if we knew if he'd made it back to Santiago ok, she said, "Yeah, he made it back, you know, in a bus pirata."
Bus pirata? But of course! Bus pirata.
I had been in Santiago about four days when the girl in the upper bunk at my hostel mentioned that she was going to Valparaíso to see some friends for the long weekend. It was early April, 2004, and there was a three-day-weekend. I had just gotten the keys to my new apartment and parked my stuff there, packed a small bag and headed off. We met up at Universidad de Santiago metro station, which was roiling with activity, or so I thought. When we got to the actual bus station there were people everywhere. Standing sitting, carrying bags, children, parcels, boxes. Line after lines of humans trying to buy bus tickets to get out of dodge for the weekend.
A guy came up to the group of us, FOB (fresh off the boat) gringos, one and all, and hissed at us in a tone from a PSA about not taking candy from strangers, bus to the coast? bus to the coast? a la costa? We looked at each other, looked at the lines and followed the guy to a gas station about a block away. We settled on a price, hopped on the bus and waited. I remembered times in my life when I'd been bamboozled for a buck or two with the "special bus" routine, including a time on the Mexico-Guatemala border when I was greener than a fresh garlic scape and lost about $5 and about four gallons of frustration to the scam, all before midnight.
What would they do to us? And why had I agreed to this? I imagined the legit bus line snaking towards the door, but advancing slowly, people purchasing their tickets and being shown to a tall pullman-style bus, with assigned plush seats. I was in a glorified children's school bus, orange and brown, striped and dirty. I was waiting for the reveal (get off the bus, it's a big, fat joke, and no trip to the coast for you, and while you're at it, give me all your money!). And then the bus filled up, with regular Chileans, big and small, parcel-toting and baby juggling. And we started pulling out of the gas station.
With the exception of my own doomsday thinking, and the fact that they wouldn't let me open the curtains on the bus (sure sign of a bus pirata), so that the police could not see us and fine the driver, and possibly cart us all off the bus, the whole shebang was utterly normal. We arrived safely at the appointed destination, paid the same as all the other passengers, recovered our belongings and were cast into the hill-hugging coastal warren that is Valparaíso.
In fact, in the end it was so normal, so unnotable (and this in the maelstrom of strange that is moving to a new country), that I almost assumed that illegal buses were part of the landscape. I'd never even told the story, figuring it was another one of those "gringa thinks something is amazing, and it is so bosTEZo (yawn).
It wasn't until just a week or so ago, when I found out that our friend who we'd left at Lo Vasquez had taken an illegal bus, and that that was mention-worthy, that I even remembered that I'd had a similar experience. Which sort of makes me wonder what other memories are sloshing around in a jar full of ho-hum that will feed my story repertoire for the foreseeable future.
Pirate bus. Too bad it didn't have a skull and crossbones flag. That might have made it more memorable from the get-go.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Snowglobe
After a stultifying, absolutely stupidifying week of extreme heat here in Santiago, several of us headed to a friend's parents' beach house on the litoral central (central coastal area) that lies just to the west of Santiago. Going to the beach in Chile is an exercise in what you see is not what you get. What you see is an ocean, an inviting place to wander the coast and dip in a toe, or maybe up to your calves, a swim, perhaps? What you actually get is a punishingly cold cruel body of water that washes up razor clam shells and "aguas muertas" (lit: dead water, jellyfish) and generally bubbles and froths and teems with whitecaps that people describe as "curly waves" (olas crespas).
Needless to say, I did not swim. The water is frigid, unfriendly, mean. That is, if you want to float around in it (and if, like me, you expect your ocean to be Atlantic-friendly, not Humbolt-current painful). But to take a long walk along the ocean, nose into some tidal pools, drag toes in the sand, step over sandcastles, it's perfect. Here we clamber up rocks and try to imagine what flavor batido (milkshake) the ocean is where it turns alternately milky white and scope green. Mint? Melon? Cucumber? Green tea with lemon?
And as I was thinking about how oceans are no longer for swimming, and how that's okay (for here and now) I happened to check my email and got news on the zany dump of snow that the northeastern US is currently "enjoying," two different perspectives, child and adult, of what the snow means. It's up to my knees vs. I'm not going out to get the newspaper.
I like to think I'll always be an "it's up to my knees" kind of person, always be able to wonder about the flavor of the ocean, even when it's too unhospitable for me to risk a splashy entrance, to dream of snowmen and forts and fluffy white flakes falling from above, as opposed to the slushy, drippy, salt-stained aftermath that hangs on for weeks.
Two forms of water, two ways of looking at them. A veritable snowglobe of ideas.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Surprises afoot in my Santiago, or how to win friends and influence Bearshapedsphere
If you are ever trying to win your way into my heart, plan a surprise. I don't mean a big, horrible surprise party where they drag you against your will to a bar you hate to be confronted by a whole bunch of people you'd rather not have seen in what goes down in history as my second worst birthday (trust me, the story of the worst birthday has to be told in person, and with generous applications of back pats, and maybe wine, preferably red).
What I mean is cropping up with something unexpected. I don't know if other people love it as much as I do, but I like to pack a little surprise and spring it on people when I get where I'm going. Not long ago, I surprised a friend with mate (and he is bien matero, or really likes to drink his mate) up at the top of the cerro. Another time I packed m and ms to make cookies at the beach after a long bike ride. (we don't really get chocolate chips here). The truth is, the cookies were flat and overcrispy (Alton Brown would have been horrified), and I had to smash the chancaca (solid brown sugar) with a knife and many manners of other smashing implements to get it sort of granular, but the fact that I made this little extra gesture made me so happy. And from the looks of the crumb-dusted platter, it made my friends happy, too.
I'm a sucker for sweet, so things like taking my niece camping in her own yard, or planning a picnic in a park, or offering to take pictures of some friends of mine just for fun make me spinningly happy for pretty much no reason. But I think I've gotten into the habit of being the only one to spring surprises. I just don't have very high expectations for other people's forethought and ability to make me say awwww.
Which is why it was such a total mindwhat (being oblique here, you know the word I mean) when I found out from the aforementioned friends that I wasn't just taking pictures of them for "a project" as it was previously spun, but for their wedding invitation, a professionally-recorded CD (on which they perform), with a spiffy outer jacket and beautiful photos and collages inside. Of course, I found this out very late into the photo session, got totally verklempt (me emocioné), and then stupidly smiley for them. Their families, including the woman's family, who thought they were coming to Chile for Christmas are thrilled. It's yet another gringa-chileno wedding, one of many I know about or have attended, but this one is a community effort. We will all be photographers, cooks, interpreters, wranglers, performers, provision-obtainers and witnesses.
It's going to be a great time. And that will be no surprise at all.
What I mean is cropping up with something unexpected. I don't know if other people love it as much as I do, but I like to pack a little surprise and spring it on people when I get where I'm going. Not long ago, I surprised a friend with mate (and he is bien matero, or really likes to drink his mate) up at the top of the cerro. Another time I packed m and ms to make cookies at the beach after a long bike ride. (we don't really get chocolate chips here). The truth is, the cookies were flat and overcrispy (Alton Brown would have been horrified), and I had to smash the chancaca (solid brown sugar) with a knife and many manners of other smashing implements to get it sort of granular, but the fact that I made this little extra gesture made me so happy. And from the looks of the crumb-dusted platter, it made my friends happy, too.
I'm a sucker for sweet, so things like taking my niece camping in her own yard, or planning a picnic in a park, or offering to take pictures of some friends of mine just for fun make me spinningly happy for pretty much no reason. But I think I've gotten into the habit of being the only one to spring surprises. I just don't have very high expectations for other people's forethought and ability to make me say awwww.
Which is why it was such a total mindwhat (being oblique here, you know the word I mean) when I found out from the aforementioned friends that I wasn't just taking pictures of them for "a project" as it was previously spun, but for their wedding invitation, a professionally-recorded CD (on which they perform), with a spiffy outer jacket and beautiful photos and collages inside. Of course, I found this out very late into the photo session, got totally verklempt (me emocioné), and then stupidly smiley for them. Their families, including the woman's family, who thought they were coming to Chile for Christmas are thrilled. It's yet another gringa-chileno wedding, one of many I know about or have attended, but this one is a community effort. We will all be photographers, cooks, interpreters, wranglers, performers, provision-obtainers and witnesses.
It's going to be a great time. And that will be no surprise at all.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Newsflash: I am not one of the nine most successful travel bloggers!
There are many, many reasons why I am not one of the 9 most successful travel bloggers of the year. Mainly, I blame, you, the reader.
saaaaaaah! That's what we say in Chile when we're kidding, or when the last sentence spoken is not to be believed. You can also take your dominant hand and hold it like a gun, cock it slightly back towards the wrist and hold it a little under the lower lip. Not as loud, but just as effective. I should take a picture of this, but every time I do, I look like I'm flashing a gang sign, from what I can tell. At least I'm not curling my fingers into the initials of my crew. What crew, you may ask? Buen punto.
So, while I have been not becoming one of the most successful travel bloggers of the year, I have been eyeballs deep in a bunch of other stuff, and have been enjoying the heck out of my relationship with my Matador peeps, and they seem to like me, too. It's a love fest, I tell you. Hey you, yes you! Don't look all embarrassed, I'm gushing here! I'm actually curling my fingers into an elaborate M, and that makes if effing hard to type.
In other news, two articles to pimp:
Argentina introduces reciprocity fee for US passport holders (rats!)
OMG, look at me, it's a day in the life of an expat in Santiago
(yay!)
In other, other news, my dear friends are to tie the knot the 30th of December, and we are all awash in ingredients and ideas and promises and memory cards and I hope I don't do that thing where I repeat the Spanish to the English speakers while interpreting the ceremony. And goodness let time move slowly enough for the couple to have time to do what they need to do, and not so slowly as to make us all develop ulcers (as though that were not caused by h. Pylori, we keep this antiquated, uninformed medical inaccuracy).
And with that, I am leaving for sushi in my old neighborhood. Have I talked about the plague of sushi in Santiago? Sounds appetizing, cierto?
Buen provecho!
saaaaaaah! That's what we say in Chile when we're kidding, or when the last sentence spoken is not to be believed. You can also take your dominant hand and hold it like a gun, cock it slightly back towards the wrist and hold it a little under the lower lip. Not as loud, but just as effective. I should take a picture of this, but every time I do, I look like I'm flashing a gang sign, from what I can tell. At least I'm not curling my fingers into the initials of my crew. What crew, you may ask? Buen punto.
So, while I have been not becoming one of the most successful travel bloggers of the year, I have been eyeballs deep in a bunch of other stuff, and have been enjoying the heck out of my relationship with my Matador peeps, and they seem to like me, too. It's a love fest, I tell you. Hey you, yes you! Don't look all embarrassed, I'm gushing here! I'm actually curling my fingers into an elaborate M, and that makes if effing hard to type.
In other news, two articles to pimp:
Argentina introduces reciprocity fee for US passport holders (rats!)
OMG, look at me, it's a day in the life of an expat in Santiago
(yay!)
In other, other news, my dear friends are to tie the knot the 30th of December, and we are all awash in ingredients and ideas and promises and memory cards and I hope I don't do that thing where I repeat the Spanish to the English speakers while interpreting the ceremony. And goodness let time move slowly enough for the couple to have time to do what they need to do, and not so slowly as to make us all develop ulcers (as though that were not caused by h. Pylori, we keep this antiquated, uninformed medical inaccuracy).
And with that, I am leaving for sushi in my old neighborhood. Have I talked about the plague of sushi in Santiago? Sounds appetizing, cierto?
Buen provecho!
Monday, December 14, 2009
The more things change the more they stay the same. The elections in Chile.
Yesterday the presidential elections in Chile were held. Before you lambast yourself for not knowing who the future president of Chile is (you do know how to lambast, don't you?), consider this: technically neither do we.
If a presidential candidate garners less than 50% of the total vote, then there is a second round between him (or her) and the next-closest candidate. So guess what happened? Piñera won approximately 44% of the vote, and the next closest candidate, Frei (who was the president in 1993, with 58% of the vote, in the last election without a second go-round) won less than 30%. Of course that's not the full story, and it never is the full story. People who like Frei are pissed at Ominami (who has the very unfortunate nickname of ME-O, which when you say it out loud, sounds like "I take a leak."), because they believe he split the vote, with his 20%, which they assume might have gone to Frei. Arrate was never a threat, and his measly 6% of the voters are likely to vote for Frei in the 2nd go-round, as he pledged his support for Frei. Ominami's voters are considered more of a crapshoot, and several friends of mine have sworn to annul their votes.
The numbers, for those of you who prefer graphical representation, look like this:
source: http://www.elecciones.gov.cl
Perhaps not unsurprisingly, the votes were somewhat tied to socio-economic status, by which I mean "economic status," as that whole "socio" thing is probably a bit of an invention even in the states, and in Chile it might as well be a toilet that wakes you up out of bed, makes you "mear" and then puts you back to bed without waking you up (wouldn't that be amazing!)
Ahem. The data is interesting, and what I figured out by careful looking back and forth and a lot of clickadoo is that the places where Piñera had the most support (in Santiago), were the wealthy comunas (districts) of Vitacura (75%), Lo Barnechea (71%) and Las Condes (69%). The two comunas in which Frei actually beat Piñera were among the city's poorest, Lo Espejo and La Pintana.
And with power being what it is, and votes being what they are, and the fact that no more people will show up to vote next time than showed up this time, as voting is compulsory and everyone either showed up or was more than 200 km away on Sunday (and will likely be again on Jan. 17th), I think we can solidly expect Piñera to pull off a win in Chile. He's run twice before, garnering 6% and approximately 25% of the vote, in successive elections. I think we can see where this is going. And I don't just mean that those crazy flag-wavers are going to be out there and nearly clock me in the head as I ride by, though that is also the case.
So. Piñera.
And now I leave my political discussion with one of my favorite chatspeak or SMSspeak expression in Spanish.
5mentario.
(cinco mentario... sin comentario. It means "no comment").
And then, because what blog entry about voting would be complete without pictures (taken more from the women's polling place than the men's because the military gents at the men's voting place weren't clear on the concept of democracy, and free elections (and the right to photograph same), I present the following:
My very dangerous picture of people waiting on line before voting. As you can see, this presents a threat to elementary school security, and for this I am unerringly sorry.
After I took some pictures and was asked to stop, which I did, a local citizen tried to explain to me that during the dictatorship I could NEVER have taken pictures during elections. Seeing as how dictatorships are generally based on the idea that citizens are not given a chance to vote, I couldn't agree more.
Things were more loosey goosey on the ladies' side, and after I took this picture of Felipe Harboe Bascuñán, who is the representative for district 22 in the comuna of Santiago I went to check that out. But first I totally had to ask who he was because if you think my level of political involvement in Chile rises to the level of knowing who he is by sight, then it is clear that you have me confused with someone who has her finger on the pulse of anything other than her own wrist.
But he sure is fancy looking.
Now inside the gates of the women's polling place, I could take photos more readily. These women were roped into being "vocales de mesa" a 13-hour long "job" which is a civic responsibility. If one of them hadn't shown up, then the voter who showed up first would have been corralled into serving. It's a quirky system and no one seems to like being "vocal de mesa" but I haven't heard of any upcoming changes to the system. The woman on the right is a friend of mine who I'd come to see at her table. Her job was to ink people's thumbs after they vote and hand them a tissue to dry the ink with. She did a bangup job.
And here's a wee future voter, one of the cutest kids I saw all day, and this is a country with an unsmall number of really cute kids. I loved seeing how many people brought their kids along to watch them vote.
The dogs though? that was just strange. Breed of the day seemed to be some kind of a poodley thing. And they think I'm a threat to security? I have never bitten anyone's ankle.
And that's all I've got. Tune in in January for "OMG, it's so hot, and now we know for sure who the president is and none of my friends are happy but at least I'm not getting hit in the head by those flags anymore."
Oh, and don't these candidate posters lead themselves to defacing a little too easily? Someone passing by Parque Bustamonte evidently thought so.
Edited to add this post where I talk about the celebrations, post-win.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Pedaling in Chile with a look ahead to the Antipodes
The best part of the overnight bikeride to the coast is seeing the red blinkie-lights stretching into the black night start to disappear. It means you're reaching the crest of the hill, the end of the cuesta, the up, the incline. Soon your breath will still, your sweat will slow, and the resistance you feel against gravity and your bike's granny gear will diminish.
I have ridden from Santiago to the coast in Chile many times, and if my count is correct, I've ridden this particular ride, on the night of December 7th--when the most heavily-travelled highway in the country is closed for a religious pilgrimage to Lo Vasquez for the Assumption of Mary--four times. It is different every time, but always emotional, always surprisingly loud and quiet, hot and cold, uphill and downhill. And long.
I am not a religious pilgrim. I am not Catholic, and do not worship the virgin at Lo Vasquez. What I am is a glutton for punishment. Other people googlemap something, look at the travel time and take it for gospel. I multiply it by 5, for that is the speed at which I pedal. Better cyclists than I (and they are many), will pedal at 18-22 miles per hour. Racers may ride at up to 30 mph, sustained.
Not me. I am a plodder. Whether hiking or biking, my slow twitch muscles will not allow me to burst out of the gate. I open it slowly and catch up to you hours into the ride. On short rides, I fall behind. On longer ones, I catch up and then make you dinner while I wait for you to arrive. Speed has always been my nemesis, and resistance my savior.
Which is going to come awfully in handy this coming February, where in addition to celebrating my birthday among strangers and largely alone, I'm planning to pedal around New Zealand's south island. I know nothing (and no one), and am largely uninclined to plan the trip before I get going. There is a plane ticket purchased, legs to train and panniers to fill. The bike I'll get once on the ground, and the sunscreen I'll apply liberally.
In actual fact, I am currently in no condition to go on this ride. Ninety mile overnight rides be darned, I've been in much better shape in my life, and ought to get close again before punishing myself with endless rainy uphills with strong headwinds. I know that challenges will come in forms expected and unexpected, and as always, my biggest support and worst enemy will be the me that I argue with and talk to and otherwise get to know in the zhhhh zhhhhh of my pedal strokes.
And you know? I couldn't be more excited.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
On Chilean Grammar and keeping those legs crossed
Hey kids, put your grammar hats on, because it's time to talk about verb endings in Chilean Spanish (and friends beseeching male friends to not have that baby right then and there, but that comes at the end, skip ahead if you have a short attention span).
Sure, you've got your copy of 501 Spanish Verbs, fully conjugated handy right there, right? That's a great place to rest your coffee while we take a second to expound upon just one more verb ending in Chilean Spanish that won't show up in your hefty tome, or any other verions of those fancy G-is for grammar books. No weí, you say? yes, way.
In Chilean Spanish, you will often hear the greeting (among friends or peers)
Cómo estaí?
Or if someone wants to know where you (familiar) live, they will say,
Dónde vivís?
Wikipedia probably says it better but more boringly than I do, and without hilarious anecdotes here:
So basically, you got your -ar verb. Instead of using the regular tú form which would be -as, you instead use an aí. Cachai? (got it?) Like that. This yeilds conversations such as the following one I had with my students after a bike accident left me unable to lift my left arm.
No te dieron cabestrillo? (Didn't they give you a sling?)
Sipo (well, yes)
Y por qué no lo ocupaí? (And why aren't you using it?)
I was so touched by their kindness in worry about my arm, and by their decision to use this funny little affectionate Chilean verb ending that I may have been extra generous on their oral quiz, even to the guy who spoke in a frightening word salad. And not a composed one. Or maybe it was more a merenjunje (concoction).
In the case of an -er or -ir verb, where you would normally get an -es ending, instead it's an -ís ending, changing the stress of the verb as well as the pronunciation, though the s is generally dropped, so instead of "qué haces?" you'll get "qué hacís" which sounds like K-ah-C.
The voseo is very affectionate and informal, and usually goes on words that are comun y corriente (normally used). For example, with the somewhat formal word inculcular (which means indoctrinate or infuse someone with ideas), I would be surprised to hear someone say, y por qué no lo inculcaí? ? It shows up probably most commonly on the most common verbs like hacer, ir, cachar and huevear (this requires a whole 'nother post about this crazy word, huevón, and that was the joke about no weí from above, which means, don't d... around.
As foreigners, we can use these forms or not (in the right time and place), and everyone will fall all over themselves about how Chilean we sound. I have friends who do, and friends who don't. I tend to, but I am a linguistic chameleon. If you leave me with your Dutch grandmother for a week, I promise to accidentally pick up some of her accent or grammatical inconsistencies sin querer (without meaning to).
But this funny little voseo, as they call it (though we tend to use it with tú, and seldom use vos unless we're pretending to be Argentine, and even then we will start with a che more often than we end with a vos) also has a funny side. Oh, a very funny side. So funny, in fact that I almost choked on the water I was drinking out of my new Camelbak water bladder the other day (go camelbak and hydrapak for being interchangeable water-bladder wise, you make me very happy).
I was on this zany overnight bikeride that I like to do every year. Like to do may be a great exaggeration, but there I was, out on my bike, about 60 km down, and another 60 to go, in the middle of a very black and breezy night, and we were pedaling up this long slow hill, and one guy shouted to another (you need some background here, parar is to stop, and parir is to give birth).
No te parís!!!!
Though this, is, in fact, the correct voseo conjugation of parar, for the command, it doesn't work for the negative command, which reverts back to the regular voseo "paraí." His friend was telling him not to stop, that much was obvious, though it was grammatically muddled. Unfortunately for him, "No parís" (without the te) means "don't give birth!" with this form, which is how we all parsed it. It was late, and we were tired.
I wasn't the only one who heard it, and we entertained ourselves silly, a Chilean amiga of mine and I as we pedaled up past the thousands of blinking lights of the other people headed towards the sanctuary where people go to light candles, say prayers, ask for grace and maybe even a miracle or two.
Which, not to be blasphemous, is a real shame that he did not, in fact give birth right then and there. Because that would have been a miracle. But stopping on that hill? No weí.
Photos to follow.
Sure, you've got your copy of 501 Spanish Verbs, fully conjugated handy right there, right? That's a great place to rest your coffee while we take a second to expound upon just one more verb ending in Chilean Spanish that won't show up in your hefty tome, or any other verions of those fancy G-is for grammar books. No weí, you say? yes, way.
In Chilean Spanish, you will often hear the greeting (among friends or peers)
Cómo estaí?
Or if someone wants to know where you (familiar) live, they will say,
Dónde vivís?
Wikipedia probably says it better but more boringly than I do, and without hilarious anecdotes here:
2. Verbal voseo, using the pronoun tú.
For example: tú sabís, tú tenís, tú hablái, tú vivís, etc.
This kind of voseo is the predominant form used in the spoken language.
So basically, you got your -ar verb. Instead of using the regular tú form which would be -as, you instead use an aí. Cachai? (got it?) Like that. This yeilds conversations such as the following one I had with my students after a bike accident left me unable to lift my left arm.
No te dieron cabestrillo? (Didn't they give you a sling?)
Sipo (well, yes)
Y por qué no lo ocupaí? (And why aren't you using it?)
I was so touched by their kindness in worry about my arm, and by their decision to use this funny little affectionate Chilean verb ending that I may have been extra generous on their oral quiz, even to the guy who spoke in a frightening word salad. And not a composed one. Or maybe it was more a merenjunje (concoction).
In the case of an -er or -ir verb, where you would normally get an -es ending, instead it's an -ís ending, changing the stress of the verb as well as the pronunciation, though the s is generally dropped, so instead of "qué haces?" you'll get "qué hacís" which sounds like K-ah-C.
The voseo is very affectionate and informal, and usually goes on words that are comun y corriente (normally used). For example, with the somewhat formal word inculcular (which means indoctrinate or infuse someone with ideas), I would be surprised to hear someone say, y por qué no lo inculcaí? ? It shows up probably most commonly on the most common verbs like hacer, ir, cachar and huevear (this requires a whole 'nother post about this crazy word, huevón, and that was the joke about no weí from above, which means, don't d... around.
As foreigners, we can use these forms or not (in the right time and place), and everyone will fall all over themselves about how Chilean we sound. I have friends who do, and friends who don't. I tend to, but I am a linguistic chameleon. If you leave me with your Dutch grandmother for a week, I promise to accidentally pick up some of her accent or grammatical inconsistencies sin querer (without meaning to).
But this funny little voseo, as they call it (though we tend to use it with tú, and seldom use vos unless we're pretending to be Argentine, and even then we will start with a che more often than we end with a vos) also has a funny side. Oh, a very funny side. So funny, in fact that I almost choked on the water I was drinking out of my new Camelbak water bladder the other day (go camelbak and hydrapak for being interchangeable water-bladder wise, you make me very happy).
I was on this zany overnight bikeride that I like to do every year. Like to do may be a great exaggeration, but there I was, out on my bike, about 60 km down, and another 60 to go, in the middle of a very black and breezy night, and we were pedaling up this long slow hill, and one guy shouted to another (you need some background here, parar is to stop, and parir is to give birth).
No te parís!!!!
Though this, is, in fact, the correct voseo conjugation of parar, for the command, it doesn't work for the negative command, which reverts back to the regular voseo "paraí." His friend was telling him not to stop, that much was obvious, though it was grammatically muddled. Unfortunately for him, "No parís" (without the te) means "don't give birth!" with this form, which is how we all parsed it. It was late, and we were tired.
I wasn't the only one who heard it, and we entertained ourselves silly, a Chilean amiga of mine and I as we pedaled up past the thousands of blinking lights of the other people headed towards the sanctuary where people go to light candles, say prayers, ask for grace and maybe even a miracle or two.
Which, not to be blasphemous, is a real shame that he did not, in fact give birth right then and there. Because that would have been a miracle. But stopping on that hill? No weí.
Photos to follow.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Good Travel Writing and Paying the Bills as an Exercise in Diversity
A long time ago, in a universe where I had a cat, a basement, a house and a more stable income flow, a mate, a points card at the supermarket, a host of cordless telephones and a guestroom, a friend of mine and I went skiing, and he kept on using a male-anatomied expression that people use to mean "going for broke." I won't spell it out for you, but the point was, he said, that when you're at the top of the mountain (or the bunny slope, in my case), you have to just pull out all the stops and do the thing. For real.
What does this have to do with becoming a successful travel writer, or dogwalker or SAT-prep teacher or CSA gardener or record label starter? Simultaneously quite a bit, and nothing at all.
Going for broke, or pulling out all the stops, or spending 100% of your time (and then some) doing that, and just that has been the advice we've taken for years. Be a specialist, not a generalist, in medical terms, they say. It works just fine, until your specialty is no longer needed. Pneumectomies are not really performed anymore, now that we have antibiotics to fight tuberculosis, and no one is looking for a leper colony warden these days, if you know what I mean?
Going for broke, or putting all your eggs in one basket also means, essentially, going broke if your one project, your one source of income, your one pie in the sky dream burns and shrivels (or is healed or solved or made noncontagious).
Julie over at Cuaderno Inedito talks about this here, a sort of a follow-up to David's write up on Matador's Notebook after National Geographic Adventure announced its last issue, and in the wake of Chris Gray Faust's firing from USA Today where it seemed she served a million and one roles, but all for the same employer, and muses in this piece on Huffington Post, "These freelancers-slash-entrerpreneurs are smart. They are nimble. And now they are my role models, as I join their ranks."
There is more than one lesson to be learned here: adapt or lose your niche, print publishing is fading into obscurity, Julie and David are super smart, I work with a crack team of people over at Matador, and Chris Gray Faust is a tremendously graceful recent firee, and has trained herself to do what she needs to do and now gets to do it without a boss. I think we all expect her to soar.
But on a personal note, I learned something else. I don't have a schizophrenic workload, or an inconsistent professional presence. What I have is a diversified income stream. Oooh, pretty words, lauding my own hoppity personality which has driven me to work at several different things at the same time. This both satisfies me personally and professionally and means that if one project fails or lays low for a minute, my income stream keeps flowing. This is something that happened quite by accident, but it works for me, and most importantly, it insulates me from disaster if one of my clients or employers chooses to go another way. So think about it: not inconsistent, not unfocused, diversified. It's all about the spin.
And for the record, and those of you who may be wondering I: do behind-the-scenes work for Matador, write for a few websites, edit scholarly writings, do some photography, translate from Spanish to English, teach English at a University, make an eensy bit of ad revenue on the blog, teach private English classes, and do interview prep. It's like a big over-crib mobile, which sways in the breeze. All the pieces are always present, but they bob up and down and minimize and maximize their importance throughout the seasons. And that is a freelancer's dream.
What does this have to do with becoming a successful travel writer, or dogwalker or SAT-prep teacher or CSA gardener or record label starter? Simultaneously quite a bit, and nothing at all.
Going for broke, or pulling out all the stops, or spending 100% of your time (and then some) doing that, and just that has been the advice we've taken for years. Be a specialist, not a generalist, in medical terms, they say. It works just fine, until your specialty is no longer needed. Pneumectomies are not really performed anymore, now that we have antibiotics to fight tuberculosis, and no one is looking for a leper colony warden these days, if you know what I mean?
Going for broke, or putting all your eggs in one basket also means, essentially, going broke if your one project, your one source of income, your one pie in the sky dream burns and shrivels (or is healed or solved or made noncontagious).
Julie over at Cuaderno Inedito talks about this here, a sort of a follow-up to David's write up on Matador's Notebook after National Geographic Adventure announced its last issue, and in the wake of Chris Gray Faust's firing from USA Today where it seemed she served a million and one roles, but all for the same employer, and muses in this piece on Huffington Post, "These freelancers-slash-entrerpreneurs are smart. They are nimble. And now they are my role models, as I join their ranks."
There is more than one lesson to be learned here: adapt or lose your niche, print publishing is fading into obscurity, Julie and David are super smart, I work with a crack team of people over at Matador, and Chris Gray Faust is a tremendously graceful recent firee, and has trained herself to do what she needs to do and now gets to do it without a boss. I think we all expect her to soar.
But on a personal note, I learned something else. I don't have a schizophrenic workload, or an inconsistent professional presence. What I have is a diversified income stream. Oooh, pretty words, lauding my own hoppity personality which has driven me to work at several different things at the same time. This both satisfies me personally and professionally and means that if one project fails or lays low for a minute, my income stream keeps flowing. This is something that happened quite by accident, but it works for me, and most importantly, it insulates me from disaster if one of my clients or employers chooses to go another way. So think about it: not inconsistent, not unfocused, diversified. It's all about the spin.
And for the record, and those of you who may be wondering I: do behind-the-scenes work for Matador, write for a few websites, edit scholarly writings, do some photography, translate from Spanish to English, teach English at a University, make an eensy bit of ad revenue on the blog, teach private English classes, and do interview prep. It's like a big over-crib mobile, which sways in the breeze. All the pieces are always present, but they bob up and down and minimize and maximize their importance throughout the seasons. And that is a freelancer's dream.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
On misunderstandings in English, or the Smith family gets its wires crossed.
"I have, in fact, never before used toothbrushes in the house."
This is what my sister said the other night as we were discussing whether the second of the cello playing nine-year-olds (the first being my niece) would spend the night at her house after the great Thanksgiving extravaganza.
And of course, we all knew that she meant that she could spare N a toothbrush, not that she has never used toothbrushes in her own home, which is what we thought at first blush, and rapidly discarded.
And then there was the discussion that my mother and I had about President Obama's decision to place 30-40,000 more troops in Afghanistan.
"Therewillbeataks"
she said.
Attacks? I said
yes, she said.
Against whom? I said, wondering if my mother knew more about the relative danger of living in certain places in the states than I'd given her credit for.
Against everyone, she said.
Everyone? How can they... oh. She said "There will be a tax." Not "there will be attacks."
And now I tell you that every year, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I understand my family better. And I hope I let them understand me better. We're a bunch of quirky, funny people, and although living far away has its drawbacks, it also has these few-times-a-year meetups that bring hilarity and tears, children running hither and yon and at least one fever pitch conversation, one injury, one giant spill, cello practice, children trying to grow up too fast, (sometimes connected, sometimes not, sometimes all in one day, repeatedly) and a whole lot of coffee.
And at the moment, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Bienvenida a casa, bearshapedsphere. You're home.
This is what my sister said the other night as we were discussing whether the second of the cello playing nine-year-olds (the first being my niece) would spend the night at her house after the great Thanksgiving extravaganza.
And of course, we all knew that she meant that she could spare N a toothbrush, not that she has never used toothbrushes in her own home, which is what we thought at first blush, and rapidly discarded.
And then there was the discussion that my mother and I had about President Obama's decision to place 30-40,000 more troops in Afghanistan.
"Therewillbeataks"
she said.
Attacks? I said
yes, she said.
Against whom? I said, wondering if my mother knew more about the relative danger of living in certain places in the states than I'd given her credit for.
Against everyone, she said.
Everyone? How can they... oh. She said "There will be a tax." Not "there will be attacks."
And now I tell you that every year, despite all evidence to the contrary, that I understand my family better. And I hope I let them understand me better. We're a bunch of quirky, funny people, and although living far away has its drawbacks, it also has these few-times-a-year meetups that bring hilarity and tears, children running hither and yon and at least one fever pitch conversation, one injury, one giant spill, cello practice, children trying to grow up too fast, (sometimes connected, sometimes not, sometimes all in one day, repeatedly) and a whole lot of coffee.
And at the moment, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Bienvenida a casa, bearshapedsphere. You're home.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Group Post How to Alienate Chileans (in one easy step)
The ever hilarious and appropriately navel-gazing Margaret Snook over at Cachando Chile has called out for a group blog post, which we, ever the trained seals, and wanting to please get more clickety than last week, are compelled to respond. So far we have:
Margaret's post that got it started off
and then we've got very content-heavy but personally petite weigh-ins by Emily, Abby, Sara, Lucie, Annje, Maeskizzle, at least two of whom I owe an email to, and btw, I'm with my family and have all but fallen over the planet, so pardon that and yes, no and of course in that order, in response to what you asked. Or something.
I have not yet read these blogs, nor the comments associated with them, but at Margaret's request and the twenty-minute breather I'm giving myself between virtual office and time with the family, I will explain to you the singularly most effective way to alienate, offend, horrify and otherwise bug the bewhosis out of a Chilean.
Ready? Please be seated and remove that wintogreen lifesaver from your mouth lest you choke or accidentally set off those freakish green sparks (and no, it is not a myth).
Anyway, here we go. The one stop no-fail hands down, multiply adjectived best way to alienate a Chilean:
Use the word "no" when you mean to say "no."
Let's do a quick recap. You go on a date with someone, and at the end of the night, he pre-asks you on another date. Something along the lines of "Were I to ask you out again, in the event that we were both free and available and both interested in eating the same food/seeing the same movie, etc, if those stars were to align, what would you say to the two of us going out again?"
Let's say you did not enjoy the date. You felt stifled and strange and wondered on several occasions why they put the bathroom at the back of the restaurant, where it would be impossible to leave without your date noticing. You would, at this point, employ the "Maybe not," or "I don't think so," or "Well, maybe in a couple of months," or "You know what? I'm just not feeling it."
No, no, no and no.
You may not refuse an offer of a social engagement. Whether it is a date, lunch plans, going away for the weekend, going to a birthday party or any other invitation, you MAY NOT REFUSE.
Now, do not fall prey to the worry that this means you must actually attend the date, the lunch plans, the weekend or the party. What you will do is a bit of a switcheroo. You will use the word yes, but you will send mental "nos" along with the yes, such that the party of the first part will understand that the party of the second part ain't going nowhere nohow with your sorry poto (you do the math), without actually rejecting the social engagement.
I have run afoul of this evasive telepathic no while saying yes on a number of occasions, and on every occasion I have been seen as rude, uncultured, mean, American and bizarre. To which the answers are naaaah, maybe, probably not, definitely, and y que? (so what?).
If you want a Chilean to like and understand you, you should work on figuring out how to say yes in a way that lets everyone know that the answer is no.
And when you learn, please explain it to me, because this gringa still hasn't figured it out. And you know what? She only cares some of the time. And you can believe that's true or guess if it's false or wonder if maybe I'm saying something as a pretext for something else or if I really meant to say something else but I didn't want to stir up bad sentiments. And so I'll tell you loud and clear, just like they told us in college. No means no. And yes? that means yes.
Have you alienated a Chilean today? (was that a no/no or a yes/no? It's so hard to know, you know?
Margaret's post that got it started off
and then we've got very content-heavy but personally petite weigh-ins by Emily, Abby, Sara, Lucie, Annje, Maeskizzle, at least two of whom I owe an email to, and btw, I'm with my family and have all but fallen over the planet, so pardon that and yes, no and of course in that order, in response to what you asked. Or something.
I have not yet read these blogs, nor the comments associated with them, but at Margaret's request and the twenty-minute breather I'm giving myself between virtual office and time with the family, I will explain to you the singularly most effective way to alienate, offend, horrify and otherwise bug the bewhosis out of a Chilean.
Ready? Please be seated and remove that wintogreen lifesaver from your mouth lest you choke or accidentally set off those freakish green sparks (and no, it is not a myth).
Anyway, here we go. The one stop no-fail hands down, multiply adjectived best way to alienate a Chilean:
Use the word "no" when you mean to say "no."
Let's do a quick recap. You go on a date with someone, and at the end of the night, he pre-asks you on another date. Something along the lines of "Were I to ask you out again, in the event that we were both free and available and both interested in eating the same food/seeing the same movie, etc, if those stars were to align, what would you say to the two of us going out again?"
Let's say you did not enjoy the date. You felt stifled and strange and wondered on several occasions why they put the bathroom at the back of the restaurant, where it would be impossible to leave without your date noticing. You would, at this point, employ the "Maybe not," or "I don't think so," or "Well, maybe in a couple of months," or "You know what? I'm just not feeling it."
No, no, no and no.
You may not refuse an offer of a social engagement. Whether it is a date, lunch plans, going away for the weekend, going to a birthday party or any other invitation, you MAY NOT REFUSE.
Now, do not fall prey to the worry that this means you must actually attend the date, the lunch plans, the weekend or the party. What you will do is a bit of a switcheroo. You will use the word yes, but you will send mental "nos" along with the yes, such that the party of the first part will understand that the party of the second part ain't going nowhere nohow with your sorry poto (you do the math), without actually rejecting the social engagement.
I have run afoul of this evasive telepathic no while saying yes on a number of occasions, and on every occasion I have been seen as rude, uncultured, mean, American and bizarre. To which the answers are naaaah, maybe, probably not, definitely, and y que? (so what?).
If you want a Chilean to like and understand you, you should work on figuring out how to say yes in a way that lets everyone know that the answer is no.
And when you learn, please explain it to me, because this gringa still hasn't figured it out. And you know what? She only cares some of the time. And you can believe that's true or guess if it's false or wonder if maybe I'm saying something as a pretext for something else or if I really meant to say something else but I didn't want to stir up bad sentiments. And so I'll tell you loud and clear, just like they told us in college. No means no. And yes? that means yes.
Have you alienated a Chilean today? (was that a no/no or a yes/no? It's so hard to know, you know?
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