I am not, by nature, a tidy person. Sure, I'm organized in that I know where everything is, but that's only because I have a very good visual memory. So since I'm not naturally tidy, I have to develop certain systems, like every time I do laundry, I wipe the floor with the bathroom-floor towel (the washing machine is in the bathroom, so this really does make sense, and I do laundry obsessively, so the bathroom floor may be one of the cleanest in my whole apartment).
But in general, housecleaning does not come naturally to me, and this frustrates me into action periodically, and lucky you if you come over when that has happened recently.
So what does that have to do with this blog? The blog is like a house, in that I kind of live here, and you kind of come over. So if you'll forgive me this navel-gazing, let me say I've had this giant, cumbersome piece of furniture over in my sidebar that hasn't brought me much joy in a long time. And like many things that are excess, I have decided to ditch it, and to get some smaller, quirkier piece of furniture that more accurately represent who I am, and what I do.
So what I'm saying is, Buh-bye Blogher, with your insistence that you be above-the-fold, and requirement that I change the code because something changed on your end and your pocket change that you eventually deposit into my paypal account, but which annoys me more than several cups of coffee worth (which is really all it added up to) because you take up too much darn space.
If only I'd had a blog laundry to do, I'd have wiped that space clean a lot longer ago.
So farewell, Blogher and the periodic bump in traffic I got when someone (I'm pretty sure this is done by hand) liked what I wrote, and by to your weird pictures and your control of what's going on on the right hand side of my blog (which I constantly promise myself, like with my apartment, will change locations sometime, except in the case of my apartment, it will stay here and I will shimmy off elsewhere). I wish I had a long missive written like the one Pam Mandel wrote on Nerd's Eye View, and which I couldn't find but now have because she found it for me, in her case about why she was hanging up her Blogher hat, not just kicking them off of her blog.
Replaced with people and stuff I actually do/care about, like Nileguide, where I write about Santiago, Santiago and more Santiago, I swear I have learned and distilled more about this city in the past three months than I would have guessed, even with six years of living here. Come visit! Check out the guides! Tell me I'm fabulous (I snuck that one in there), etc. They pay me, but I wouldn't work there if I didn't like them and didn't think they put out a good product. It's regional, so the info largely depends on the local expert, but I can tell you for sure the local expert on Santiago knows quite a bit, and is always on the lookout for more.
And MatadorNetwork. I cannot say enough good about these people and the dialogue they generate and the stuff they do. I work as a peon there, but it's a flat structure, so I still get to play with the big kids, and I do mostly behind-the-scenes stuff but do sometimes write articles, and sometime soon will be curating a giant set of photos, and if you want yours in the photo essays, then get in touch with me here or on my Matador profile and I'll check you out. And please check out the "breaking free" trailer they put together for a new show, and ask yourself the question of the year "Would I rather meet or be this person?" and act accordingly.
And Lonely Planet. I know they don't need me hyping them, but they run this project called blogsherpa and all these bloggers from all over the world tag our blogs so that relevant content goes up on the LP website, and great happiness (and traffic, and some small amount of change) is achieved. I like it, because you can get on-the-ground info about where you're going. Of course, I'd like it alot more if they paid me mad dukats, but I like the project, and I like my fellow blogsherpas, and one day I'll even put up a list of all of them and you can wile away the hours reading about all kinds of places, and again, ask yourself "want to be? want to meet?" and act accordingly. I mostly write about Santiago or Chile, but have occasional posts up there about Uruguay or other places I've been. It's nothing new to my blog readers, but it's presented in a slightly different format, and I don't tag all the blabla, so it's not all there. Also, you can catch other blogsherpa reflections on Chile, which are sure to be different from mine.
And that's all I've got to tell you for the moment. Out with the old, in with the new. If I can't change apartments, at least I can move my virtual furniture around. The virtual world is the only one in which I don't have storage space problems!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The parade of unfortunately-named products
If it's Sunday and beautiful out and I'm stuck inside because I have a big project coming up this week and know I should get some work done before that happens so I can run on my merry way to the gym, and various lunch and coffee whatsises, then the least I can do is share some unfortunately-named products and companies with you.
First, there is ARSE. I took this photo in Parque de Los Reyes at a skateboard competition. Who wouldn't want to hire a company called ARSE? They rent security gates and such.
Here below we have a can of coffee photographed at my mother's house. The word pico means, as you might guess, the peak of a mountain. But in Chile we use it to refer to something men have somewhere roughly south of the equator. How funny! man-part coffee! I know it's juvenile, but my sense of humor has become positively puerile since moving to Chile. I blame the Chileans. And am glad the illustration on the coffee depicts the former, not the later. Hey Long Islanders (and wherever else they sell this product), enjoy your coffee!
And then we have my favorite, photographed in a supermarket in Seattle, where people do not tsk tsk at you for photographing things unlike in Chile (Santiago supermarket talk here, transparency alert, it's a link to NG, one of my gigs, and yes, I become fabulously rich and famous if you click). And what can I say about this? In Spanish, a masculine word becomes feminine by putting an -a at the end. And puta is the rude word for a woman who works mainly on street corners and the like. So if you put an o at the end, you theorectically make the word masculine, and get a man who works mainly on street corners and the like, also sometimes called a "taxiboy," especially here in Santiago, and apparently after the Gus Von Sant Movie "My Own Private Idaho" but though I saw that movie, I don't remember that part.
And so I give you, "puto." Classic. Steamed, even.
And I'm kicking myself for not having a picture of the "barfy" brand hamburger patties I saw once, and many other products. What else you got? Travelers, I know you're out there laughing yourselves silly at what you've found.
And you can be as big of a jerk as you want, because I'm prepared. I've got my antimofo sitting right here beside me (photo taken in Sao Paulo at a Home Depot-type store). It's actually a dehumidifier in a can, an anti-mold product if you will. But I like my interpretation better.
First, there is ARSE. I took this photo in Parque de Los Reyes at a skateboard competition. Who wouldn't want to hire a company called ARSE? They rent security gates and such.
Here below we have a can of coffee photographed at my mother's house. The word pico means, as you might guess, the peak of a mountain. But in Chile we use it to refer to something men have somewhere roughly south of the equator. How funny! man-part coffee! I know it's juvenile, but my sense of humor has become positively puerile since moving to Chile. I blame the Chileans. And am glad the illustration on the coffee depicts the former, not the later. Hey Long Islanders (and wherever else they sell this product), enjoy your coffee!
And then we have my favorite, photographed in a supermarket in Seattle, where people do not tsk tsk at you for photographing things unlike in Chile (Santiago supermarket talk here, transparency alert, it's a link to NG, one of my gigs, and yes, I become fabulously rich and famous if you click). And what can I say about this? In Spanish, a masculine word becomes feminine by putting an -a at the end. And puta is the rude word for a woman who works mainly on street corners and the like. So if you put an o at the end, you theorectically make the word masculine, and get a man who works mainly on street corners and the like, also sometimes called a "taxiboy," especially here in Santiago, and apparently after the Gus Von Sant Movie "My Own Private Idaho" but though I saw that movie, I don't remember that part.
And so I give you, "puto." Classic. Steamed, even.
And I'm kicking myself for not having a picture of the "barfy" brand hamburger patties I saw once, and many other products. What else you got? Travelers, I know you're out there laughing yourselves silly at what you've found.
And you can be as big of a jerk as you want, because I'm prepared. I've got my antimofo sitting right here beside me (photo taken in Sao Paulo at a Home Depot-type store). It's actually a dehumidifier in a can, an anti-mold product if you will. But I like my interpretation better.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Outsourcing? Correcto! The case of the Peruvian call center in Chile.
The other day I found myself the recipient of the annoying screen of apathy. Yes, the screen of apathy. Despite having lived in this apartment for four years, I still don't have a solid structure/plan of when I pay my bills, and as such, I don't always pay my internet bill exactly when they'd like me to. The screen of apathy is the screen that pops up when you should be looking at one of a host of items, including work, the other work, the other other work, the blog, etc. And it's the rerouting of your internet to the screen of Telefonica's you-didn't-pay-your-bill-you-idiot.
Except I had. I got online to my spiffy bank late on Sunday night, transferred funds, typed in those ridiculous codes on the back of a card so one steals my identity and accidentally pays my bills for me, and all was good with the world. And then I went to the gym and came back, and poof! I no longer had internet. And there was great sadness.
I could have gone elsewhere, but I'd just done something strange and burny to my ankle, and it seemed a better idea to lay low here at the batcave than to wander limpingly through the streets bleating pitifiully, "wifi? wifi?" So instead I called Telefónica. Which was fun, where fun is the word that stands in for a barrel of what's the opposite of monkeys?
First of all, the number I was told to call on the screen of apathy was disconnected. Yay! Then, through genius machinations on my part, I discovered a working number, which I called and was told through the careless use of an endless supply of words (why do they talk so much? are we long-lost relatives?) that it was not the right number, but then I got the right one and all was good.
One disconnected phone call and seven non-connecting phone calls later, I got connected to the nicest Peruvian woman working in the most gigantic call center I have ever heard. There was so much chaos, so many people talking that I kept on answering questions that had not even been directed to me.
I was very happy for the help, and the woman did get my internet going again, but mainly she said "correcto." It was like talking to a person who has "you know what I mean" or "right" as their verbal tics, but hers was "correcto." I said something, "correcto." She said, something, "correcto." We were all very correct, and after she fixed my internet problem, or at least promised it would be fixed within an hour (and it was), I asked her if she was in Peru. I mean, I could tell she was Peruvian from her accent, but there are not a small number of Peruvians living in Chile (Spanish speakers, check out this article that talks about Lima Chica, from one of my favorite Chilean websites, Plataforma Urbana), so I asked her if she was in Peru.
And you know what her answer was already, don't you? Correcto.
This was my first experience with a Chilean company subcontracting out their call centers to somewhere else, and while the Peruvian accent (or some variation thereof) is lovely to listen to, I can't help but wonder how much money they save by exporting jobs if people a) can't hear anything the people are saying andt then b)keep the people on the phone for a long time, just to keep on hearing them say, "correcto."
You know what I mean?
Except I had. I got online to my spiffy bank late on Sunday night, transferred funds, typed in those ridiculous codes on the back of a card so one steals my identity and accidentally pays my bills for me, and all was good with the world. And then I went to the gym and came back, and poof! I no longer had internet. And there was great sadness.
I could have gone elsewhere, but I'd just done something strange and burny to my ankle, and it seemed a better idea to lay low here at the batcave than to wander limpingly through the streets bleating pitifiully, "wifi? wifi?" So instead I called Telefónica. Which was fun, where fun is the word that stands in for a barrel of what's the opposite of monkeys?
First of all, the number I was told to call on the screen of apathy was disconnected. Yay! Then, through genius machinations on my part, I discovered a working number, which I called and was told through the careless use of an endless supply of words (why do they talk so much? are we long-lost relatives?) that it was not the right number, but then I got the right one and all was good.
One disconnected phone call and seven non-connecting phone calls later, I got connected to the nicest Peruvian woman working in the most gigantic call center I have ever heard. There was so much chaos, so many people talking that I kept on answering questions that had not even been directed to me.
I was very happy for the help, and the woman did get my internet going again, but mainly she said "correcto." It was like talking to a person who has "you know what I mean" or "right" as their verbal tics, but hers was "correcto." I said something, "correcto." She said, something, "correcto." We were all very correct, and after she fixed my internet problem, or at least promised it would be fixed within an hour (and it was), I asked her if she was in Peru. I mean, I could tell she was Peruvian from her accent, but there are not a small number of Peruvians living in Chile (Spanish speakers, check out this article that talks about Lima Chica, from one of my favorite Chilean websites, Plataforma Urbana), so I asked her if she was in Peru.
And you know what her answer was already, don't you? Correcto.
This was my first experience with a Chilean company subcontracting out their call centers to somewhere else, and while the Peruvian accent (or some variation thereof) is lovely to listen to, I can't help but wonder how much money they save by exporting jobs if people a) can't hear anything the people are saying andt then b)keep the people on the phone for a long time, just to keep on hearing them say, "correcto."
You know what I mean?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
My closet walks faster than yours, a tale of bilingual real estate snafus.
Once again, I am thinking of moving. Don't get yourself in a snit about it because a) I hardly ever have people over, b) most of you don't even live in Santiago (yes, I do look at my referral log) and c) change comes very slowly to this one.
Among the reasons that I am considering moving include:
And I tool around on my bike and check out available apartments, and ogle fancier buildings that probably don't have wild cats or the occasional drunken neighbor that shouts and slams things into walls or window panes that shift loosely in their frames with the breeze. I figure any apartment I change to is likely to solve some of the above shortcomings, because if it doesn't, I simply won't move.
So, in keeping with the last item on my handy bulleted list, I would like a bigger closet. It doesn't seem like too much to ask, as my current one is only barely wider than the door, and it's the only one I have, which explains the tension rod in the doorway where my coats live in the winter. Because I am very fancy and care terribly what you think of my housekeeping and organizational skills, and also really want you to comment on how many sporty waterproof jackets I have.
So back to the closet. Here's what one nearby apartment building offers. Not just a bigger closet, but a multi-talented one, and bilingual at that. If you live in Chile, you already know. But since most of you don't, please regard the fifth bullet point down in the following photo.
This building promises me a large master bedroom with a bathroom en suite, and a walking closet.
Yes, you read that right, a walking closet.
I have thought about this many times, and have come to the conclusion that this is one of two things. Either it is a closet that wanders around the apartment, begging the question, "Where did I leave my other shoe" and changing it to "Where oh where has my closet gone;" or it is some kind of an endless closet, inside of which I can go on long walks. Maybe it has a treadmill inside, or maybe a strong air current that pushes me back against the opposite wall as I walk, like one of those endless "lap" pools.
And so in my current space, I feel cheated. I am nearly certain that nothing in my apartment can do any tricks or has any hidden talents, unless you include when the municipal gas hose to my oven caught on fire, or the fact that my under sink area falls apart if you so much as touch any of the plastic "pipes." In fact, if it weren't for the cats, (and the occasional 8.8 earthquake, both of which led to quantities of broken glass, so don't take your shoes off when you come over), I'd say nothing interesting happens here at all.
And so while it may yet be months, or even years before I move out of this altoids tin (minus the minty smell and hinged top), you can be sure that any new place I find to live will have at least one multi-talented, bilingual feature. It could be a talking toilet (s'il vous plait!), or perhaps a stove that frys its own beignets as you sleep (or as you're waking up). Or maybe a self-sweeping dining room, or curtains that wash themselves, or a shower that waters the plants on your windowsill without dousing the rest of the apartment, but only occasionally because I only have cacti, as they are harder to kill.
Because if closets can walk (or be large enough to get your daily dose of exercise), I'd expect nothing less from the rest of an apartment.
How about you? Can your depto (apartment) do any tricks?
Among the reasons that I am considering moving include:
- I am not cut out for carrying my bike up to the sixth floor when the elevator goes out (which it does with some frequency)
- I am annoyed at paying so much to heat the hot water (I don't have a gas water heater, also called a califont, and the electric one costs a fortune)
- My kitchen is only a few hundred matchboxes in size
- In the words of someone who used to come over but doesn't anymore, my apartment is an "ice box" in the winter
- My view of the Entel Tower was recently blocked by some 30-story monstrosity
- There are wild cats that come in and break things, and wander around on the kitchen counters when I leave the window open and leave the apartment
- Living and working in the same small space means I'm nearly always at work
- I don't have enough storage space, and it's not entirely because I have too much stuff.
And I tool around on my bike and check out available apartments, and ogle fancier buildings that probably don't have wild cats or the occasional drunken neighbor that shouts and slams things into walls or window panes that shift loosely in their frames with the breeze. I figure any apartment I change to is likely to solve some of the above shortcomings, because if it doesn't, I simply won't move.
So, in keeping with the last item on my handy bulleted list, I would like a bigger closet. It doesn't seem like too much to ask, as my current one is only barely wider than the door, and it's the only one I have, which explains the tension rod in the doorway where my coats live in the winter. Because I am very fancy and care terribly what you think of my housekeeping and organizational skills, and also really want you to comment on how many sporty waterproof jackets I have.
So back to the closet. Here's what one nearby apartment building offers. Not just a bigger closet, but a multi-talented one, and bilingual at that. If you live in Chile, you already know. But since most of you don't, please regard the fifth bullet point down in the following photo.
This building promises me a large master bedroom with a bathroom en suite, and a walking closet.
Yes, you read that right, a walking closet.
I have thought about this many times, and have come to the conclusion that this is one of two things. Either it is a closet that wanders around the apartment, begging the question, "Where did I leave my other shoe" and changing it to "Where oh where has my closet gone;" or it is some kind of an endless closet, inside of which I can go on long walks. Maybe it has a treadmill inside, or maybe a strong air current that pushes me back against the opposite wall as I walk, like one of those endless "lap" pools.
And so in my current space, I feel cheated. I am nearly certain that nothing in my apartment can do any tricks or has any hidden talents, unless you include when the municipal gas hose to my oven caught on fire, or the fact that my under sink area falls apart if you so much as touch any of the plastic "pipes." In fact, if it weren't for the cats, (and the occasional 8.8 earthquake, both of which led to quantities of broken glass, so don't take your shoes off when you come over), I'd say nothing interesting happens here at all.
And so while it may yet be months, or even years before I move out of this altoids tin (minus the minty smell and hinged top), you can be sure that any new place I find to live will have at least one multi-talented, bilingual feature. It could be a talking toilet (s'il vous plait!), or perhaps a stove that frys its own beignets as you sleep (or as you're waking up). Or maybe a self-sweeping dining room, or curtains that wash themselves, or a shower that waters the plants on your windowsill without dousing the rest of the apartment, but only occasionally because I only have cacti, as they are harder to kill.
Because if closets can walk (or be large enough to get your daily dose of exercise), I'd expect nothing less from the rest of an apartment.
How about you? Can your depto (apartment) do any tricks?
Friday, August 20, 2010
Graffiti and Veggies in El Tabo, Chile
El Tabo is nothing special. Just a little town on the coast of Chile, between Cartagena and Isla Negra, nothing much to look at.
But it's a nice walk on the beach from my very generous friend C's house who had me out there last week to work and wander and go snappity snap with my camera, and it's home to a fairly impressive lot of graffiti, about which I can only snap and wonder, as I've never run into anyone in the act. For such a little town (see pic):
It has a pretty good variety, including these:
Some of which is either a similar style to or done by the same person as this (which I took in the same town last year):
And C aguantó (tolerated, stood for) all of my photo taking, and then we took the bus back, because what with all the vegetables, it would have been uncomfortable to walk home. Plus we got to hear YMCA by the Village People on the bus ride.
Though if we had walked back home, perhaps we could have pondered the grammatical and spelling errors contained in this sandfiti once more, which we enjoyed on the way there. Or at least I did.
(Mi amor, te adoro too mach)
Upside down because of the light, and when I turned it over it looked just awful, so please enjoy it patas arriba (lit: paws up). More photos of this trip, graffiti and Chile in general on my flickr page.
But it's a nice walk on the beach from my very generous friend C's house who had me out there last week to work and wander and go snappity snap with my camera, and it's home to a fairly impressive lot of graffiti, about which I can only snap and wonder, as I've never run into anyone in the act. For such a little town (see pic):
It has a pretty good variety, including these:
Some of which is either a similar style to or done by the same person as this (which I took in the same town last year):
And C aguantó (tolerated, stood for) all of my photo taking, and then we took the bus back, because what with all the vegetables, it would have been uncomfortable to walk home. Plus we got to hear YMCA by the Village People on the bus ride.
Though if we had walked back home, perhaps we could have pondered the grammatical and spelling errors contained in this sandfiti once more, which we enjoyed on the way there. Or at least I did.
(Mi amor, te adoro too mach)
Upside down because of the light, and when I turned it over it looked just awful, so please enjoy it patas arriba (lit: paws up). More photos of this trip, graffiti and Chile in general on my flickr page.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
El Hoyo vs. La Piojera (two traditional Chilean restos do battle here on bearshapedsphere)
In the timeless tradition of comparing things that are similar yet not the same, and about which people will have strong opinions (I give you traveler vs. tourist, blogger vs. travel writer, Chile vs. Argentina), I would like to pose to you today the question, if you had to choose just one meat-centered cultura guachaca typical Chilean restaurant that serves meat, more meat, wine, chicha and terremotos, which would you choose, El Hoyo or La Piojera?
El Hoyo and La Piojera are described in approximately the same terms. Traditional, down-home, a good place for a bar fight, but visited by friends and families alike in the afternoons. They're unpretentious, serve hearty portions, have websites (!) and just kind of generally make up what some Santiaguinos think is some of the best culture, ambience (where ambience is of the state-fair variety) and vast portions of meat the city has to offer.
I (a non-meat eater, perish the thought!) have been to both (as I imagine, have some of you), and here are my thoughts on the matter.
On the language front:
La Piojera
Name meaning: Place where lice jump about (lousery?), for the full-on hopping environment.
Jokes associated with name: Blissfully, none.
El Hoyo
Name meaning: The hole.
Jokes associated with name, at least two (both rated R): Has probado la lengua en el hoyo? (Lit: have you tried the tongue in the hole? (referring to the fact that they serve tongue at El Hoyo). No es el mismo el hoyo de arriba como el de abajo (The hole on top is not the same as the hole towards the bottom)
Bonus on the language: the waiter at El Hoyo complimented me vociferously on my Spanish, but the people at La Piojera said nothing.
Location
La Piojera is one big leap (maybe 20 meters) from the Cal y Canto metro. This neighborhood is dodgy at night, and if you think you're the only one that knows you were drinking in La Piojera, you are mistaken. Address: Aillavilú 1030, beside the Mercado Central.
El Hoyo is located along a side street near Estación Central. Quiet neighborhood with no through traffic because the bus terminal cuts off transit. If you go at night with anything less than a phalanx accompanying you, take a cab home, but during the day it's fine, and I actually walked there not too long ago from República, and it was fine, but that's me, not you. Address: San Vicente 375
Websites
Chile is one of the most connected countries in the world. Surely you don't think a little thing like giant slabs of meat would come between you and technology!
La Piojera's website starts with a picture of the front of the building, which is handy for finidng it if you've never been there. That's about the end of the practical information. No menu, no English translation, just lots of grainy photos.
El Hoyo's website has an English translation, the menu, and a map. They show you specifically the barrels that people stand around to enjoy the nibbles and (more importantly) drinks, and also have pictures of the food.
Food
Here I will admit to being at a loss. I don't eat meat, haven't in years (that's why I need your help!) Both places seem to serve all the traditional meat specialties, including
Lengua-tongue
Carne Mechada- Pot roast (sort of)
Arrollado- rolled up meat with more meat inside
Cazuela-brothy soup with meat and vegetables
Pichanga- a mixed plate para picar (as an appetizer) of grilled chunks of sandwich meats and hard boiled eggs, olives and pickled vegetables.
I can also vouch that El Hoyo has a giant salad with a hefty portion of every vegetable in season and an entire avocado, because that's what I ate when I was there.
Drinks
Terremotos: Both El Hoyo and La Piojera serve terremotos (literally: earthquake), a kind of young wine with a scoop of pineapple ice cream on top, served in a glass reminiscent of an old jam jar. I am not a huge fan of this drink, but can say that the one at La Piojera also has Fernet (a distilled alcohol commonly drunk in Argentina) in it, and that it's more bitter than the one served at El Hoyo, which just has the wine and the ice cream. The second round is called a réplica (aftershock).
Chicha: Both places also serve chicha in season, which is a kind of alcoholic grape (or apple) cider, normally available in September and surrounding months. It's sweet enough to confuse you into drinking too much.
Vino: I was at El Hoyo not long ago with Margaret of Cachando Chile, and she's a winewriter among many other talents, and she picked some fabulous wines for us to drink, at reasonable prices. I did not check out the wine list at La Piojera, but am guessing El Hoyo has more reliable wines. Confirm? Deny?
Ambience
El Hoyo makes you feel like you're going into someone's grandmother's country house because grandma up and moved to Reñaca, and they moved her piano out and put a bar in. It's a multi-roomed space, drafty and beat up, with the aforementioned barrels and judicious application of the Chilean flag's colors (which you Americans may notice bear a striking resemblance to your flag's colors). It's reasonably well-lit and when you sit down at your table you really could be at many lower-to-middle-class restaurants present "a lo largo de Chile" (the length of Chile).
La Piojera feels rustic, from the second you walk past the security guy posted outside until you shake the sawdust off your feet on the way out. It is dark, gives the impression of a cave, of a this-is-for-hardworking-men kind of place. There's a fabulous old cash register all decked out in elaborate metal tooling, and if you're lucky, someone's grandmother (or greatgrandmother) behind the bar. It's one giant room, and can get loud and messy, but that's what the patrons like.
Testimonials:
Anthony Bourdain came to Chile on No Reservations, and was not particularly wowed by the food. I don't think it's because he was taken to the wrong places, just that Chilean cuisine is still improving, and is actually improving by leaps and bounds at the moment. He was taken to El Hoyo, which he pronounced the best food he'd eaten in Chile, but then, his handlers took him to El Hoyo, and not La Piojera.
So I throw it to the wind. What say you, expat gringos, santiaguinos, people who have swung through Santiago on a lark, a whim or a long bus ride. I put it to you now:
El Hoyo or La Piojera? And why, if you don't mind.
Also, if you want to see what I said about these restos in more (or different) detail, feel free to check out the pages I wrote for them for NileGuide. It's a paid gig, so if you prefer not to send any money to the man (or in this case to me), please, by all means, do not click. Nothing if not transparent, don'tchaknow.
El Hoyo on NileGuide
La Piojera on NileGuide
And yes, I take pictures of all the food everyone eats and the outside of every restaurant I've ever been to, and I never tell the people why I'm there, and no NileGuide does not pay for my food, though they did for the $5 lunch blog, but I didn't eat that sandwich, so I'm not sure that counts.
And now back to the questions at hand: La Piojera (whoops, wrote about that one once before) or El Hoyo, and why? And if you've never been to either, which one sounds more your style?
El Hoyo and La Piojera are described in approximately the same terms. Traditional, down-home, a good place for a bar fight, but visited by friends and families alike in the afternoons. They're unpretentious, serve hearty portions, have websites (!) and just kind of generally make up what some Santiaguinos think is some of the best culture, ambience (where ambience is of the state-fair variety) and vast portions of meat the city has to offer.
I (a non-meat eater, perish the thought!) have been to both (as I imagine, have some of you), and here are my thoughts on the matter.
On the language front:
La Piojera
Name meaning: Place where lice jump about (lousery?), for the full-on hopping environment.
Jokes associated with name: Blissfully, none.
El Hoyo
Name meaning: The hole.
Jokes associated with name, at least two (both rated R): Has probado la lengua en el hoyo? (Lit: have you tried the tongue in the hole? (referring to the fact that they serve tongue at El Hoyo). No es el mismo el hoyo de arriba como el de abajo (The hole on top is not the same as the hole towards the bottom)
Bonus on the language: the waiter at El Hoyo complimented me vociferously on my Spanish, but the people at La Piojera said nothing.
Location
La Piojera is one big leap (maybe 20 meters) from the Cal y Canto metro. This neighborhood is dodgy at night, and if you think you're the only one that knows you were drinking in La Piojera, you are mistaken. Address: Aillavilú 1030, beside the Mercado Central.
El Hoyo is located along a side street near Estación Central. Quiet neighborhood with no through traffic because the bus terminal cuts off transit. If you go at night with anything less than a phalanx accompanying you, take a cab home, but during the day it's fine, and I actually walked there not too long ago from República, and it was fine, but that's me, not you. Address: San Vicente 375
Websites
Chile is one of the most connected countries in the world. Surely you don't think a little thing like giant slabs of meat would come between you and technology!
La Piojera's website starts with a picture of the front of the building, which is handy for finidng it if you've never been there. That's about the end of the practical information. No menu, no English translation, just lots of grainy photos.
El Hoyo's website has an English translation, the menu, and a map. They show you specifically the barrels that people stand around to enjoy the nibbles and (more importantly) drinks, and also have pictures of the food.
Food
Here I will admit to being at a loss. I don't eat meat, haven't in years (that's why I need your help!) Both places seem to serve all the traditional meat specialties, including
Lengua-tongue
Carne Mechada- Pot roast (sort of)
Arrollado- rolled up meat with more meat inside
Cazuela-brothy soup with meat and vegetables
Pichanga- a mixed plate para picar (as an appetizer) of grilled chunks of sandwich meats and hard boiled eggs, olives and pickled vegetables.
I can also vouch that El Hoyo has a giant salad with a hefty portion of every vegetable in season and an entire avocado, because that's what I ate when I was there.
Drinks
Terremotos: Both El Hoyo and La Piojera serve terremotos (literally: earthquake), a kind of young wine with a scoop of pineapple ice cream on top, served in a glass reminiscent of an old jam jar. I am not a huge fan of this drink, but can say that the one at La Piojera also has Fernet (a distilled alcohol commonly drunk in Argentina) in it, and that it's more bitter than the one served at El Hoyo, which just has the wine and the ice cream. The second round is called a réplica (aftershock).
Chicha: Both places also serve chicha in season, which is a kind of alcoholic grape (or apple) cider, normally available in September and surrounding months. It's sweet enough to confuse you into drinking too much.
Vino: I was at El Hoyo not long ago with Margaret of Cachando Chile, and she's a winewriter among many other talents, and she picked some fabulous wines for us to drink, at reasonable prices. I did not check out the wine list at La Piojera, but am guessing El Hoyo has more reliable wines. Confirm? Deny?
Ambience
El Hoyo makes you feel like you're going into someone's grandmother's country house because grandma up and moved to Reñaca, and they moved her piano out and put a bar in. It's a multi-roomed space, drafty and beat up, with the aforementioned barrels and judicious application of the Chilean flag's colors (which you Americans may notice bear a striking resemblance to your flag's colors). It's reasonably well-lit and when you sit down at your table you really could be at many lower-to-middle-class restaurants present "a lo largo de Chile" (the length of Chile).
La Piojera feels rustic, from the second you walk past the security guy posted outside until you shake the sawdust off your feet on the way out. It is dark, gives the impression of a cave, of a this-is-for-hardworking-men kind of place. There's a fabulous old cash register all decked out in elaborate metal tooling, and if you're lucky, someone's grandmother (or greatgrandmother) behind the bar. It's one giant room, and can get loud and messy, but that's what the patrons like.
Testimonials:
Anthony Bourdain came to Chile on No Reservations, and was not particularly wowed by the food. I don't think it's because he was taken to the wrong places, just that Chilean cuisine is still improving, and is actually improving by leaps and bounds at the moment. He was taken to El Hoyo, which he pronounced the best food he'd eaten in Chile, but then, his handlers took him to El Hoyo, and not La Piojera.
So I throw it to the wind. What say you, expat gringos, santiaguinos, people who have swung through Santiago on a lark, a whim or a long bus ride. I put it to you now:
El Hoyo or La Piojera? And why, if you don't mind.
Also, if you want to see what I said about these restos in more (or different) detail, feel free to check out the pages I wrote for them for NileGuide. It's a paid gig, so if you prefer not to send any money to the man (or in this case to me), please, by all means, do not click. Nothing if not transparent, don'tchaknow.
El Hoyo on NileGuide
La Piojera on NileGuide
And yes, I take pictures of all the food everyone eats and the outside of every restaurant I've ever been to, and I never tell the people why I'm there, and no NileGuide does not pay for my food, though they did for the $5 lunch blog, but I didn't eat that sandwich, so I'm not sure that counts.
And now back to the questions at hand: La Piojera (whoops, wrote about that one once before) or El Hoyo, and why? And if you've never been to either, which one sounds more your style?
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Curiousity gets the Cuttlefish (411)
Fishing pier in San Antonio on the Chilean coast, not far from Santiago
You have a choice in life or in travel. You can motor on on your own agenda, with your own invisible line drawing you closer to where you thought you wanted to go, or you can stop and observe. This deserves more introspection and navel-gazing than I want to go into right now, but some of you are like-minded, and know it already, or know like-minded people, like the illustrious and hilarious Audrey and Dan (or Mr. and Mrs. Scott, as you may call them if you'd like to see Dan's hackles raise just a bit).
It also helps if you're a bit of a chatterbox. And I am. I like to think I'm training to be an old lady, the kind that talks to you in the supermarket about how expensive the melons are, or about pretty much anything at all. But I'm not in training to be anything really, I'm already there. I will talk to pretty much anyone about pretty much anything at any time. In the United States that makes me quirky. In Chile, it makes me downright bizarre.
But the good news about doing something out of the ordinary (at least in Chile) is that people are quizzical, but not offended by your particular brand of crazy, and are often nicer than you might expect or hope, though you should always expect and hope the best. In this case, I think I get special dispensation for being female and foreign, but in general, whenever I have asked stupid questions of people here in Chile, they have been more than willing to tell me in detail about whatever it is I was wondering about. I think when you live in a world where everyone knows whatever it is you're doing, the chance to be an expert is appealing. Or maybe talking to a foreigner is an interesting tidbit for the day.
And so I give you, jibia (HIBB-ee-yuh). I have never seen jibia prepared anywhere, have only seen it as giant bleach-bright folded lobes of fish-flesh at the market. I was told it was "like a squid" (como un calamar) one time, but it certainly wasn't like any squid I'd ever beheld. (Not even the giant squid in Te Papa in Wellington, New Zealand, which to be fair, is decomposing more than a little at this point).
By asking, I found out that what's in this man's hands, are not, in fact, octopi, as I had surmised, but jibia heads! Jibia heads, I tell you.
It turns out jibia is a species of cuttlefish, which by the way, I have seen a cuttlefish while scuba diving, and it was petite and looked like it was wearing a frilly skirt. And I can promise and swear that if I ever see one of these massive jobbers coming at me, I will render my rented wetsuit unwearable by its next renter.
Fully clothed, with it's "cuero" (skin, or leather) still on.
De-cueroed. I asked the guy with the heads if the skin is hard to remove, and he said nope, it just slips off.
Ready for market.
So if I hadn't asked, I'd never have known. Next step, finding out what people actually do with the cuttlefish (i.e., how it's prepared), and continually being impressed at exactly how hard fishermen all over the world work, regardless of how easily the jibia heads and skin come off. (the heads they toss into the sea, which would explain the sea lion colony to some extent, photos forthcoming).
What did you find out today?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
¡Que casualidad! (What a coincidence!)
If you're a coincidence non-believer, you may have to adjust your brain for the time it takes you to read this blog entry. Either that or I expect a two page, single-spaced report on just what in tarnation you think is going on here.
I first noticed it in 1986, when, at a high school summer program at Penn State one of my classmates in the program announced, “I know one guy from Brooklyn.” To this, I raised my eyebrows, and replied, “and his name is Dave,” fully expecting this to be another one of those foolish comments someone makes when they find out something about you that actually is not a point in common. No, he said, “his name is __________,” with __________ being the name of a boy I knew, and would ultimately go to the prom with, him with a mohawk, and me in a peach dress I went with another male friend to pick out, and which we discovered only after the fact, did not provide enough coverage up top when I sat down.
Later it would happen again, this time in Massachussets, where the last administrative task I had to take care of at college happened to be rubber stamped by someone who had had my father as her science teacher the year he died. She looked at me, and said, Brooklyn? And she looked at my name, and she said, “Barry Smith was your father, wasn’t he?”
Coincidences follow me around like good luck follows other people.
Several weeks ago I was invited to a friend’s house here in Chile, and there was one surprise guest, who was to be a surprise because I know her, but didn’t know we had a friend in common. I went to answer the door and found instead, another guest, who I also knew, a woman I first worked with here in Chile when I arrived six years ago, and who I last saw in the US consulate getting a visa for her husband so they could go live in the United States. On another occasion, I also had the fortune to meet J for the first time at a party held by a Brazilian friend of mine, and J and I discovered that we shared an ex we were both lucky to call an ex (and who still cruises here from time to time, hey, I see you!). But maybe you’re not impressed with me running into gringos in Chile.
Then what about the time I met a guy in Belize, and a year later met his girlfriend in Portugal? Or the time I was looking through a friend’s photo album in California and found a guy I went to college with in Massachusetts among his photos? Friends who call me and tell me they’ve met friends of friends, or how one of my friends here is friends from home with someone whose blog I read in Angola (sorry, closed to new readers), or when I reunited with my best friend from nursery school a full twelve years later on the B-49 bus that whipped up Ocean Avenue and then Farragut Road, to deliver us to our high school?
Or the time I was coming home from a summer in Spain on a flight routed through London and ran into a good high school friend on the plane who was on her way home from Israel?
Or when, leaving for Buenos Aires I ran into F, (who I dated briefly) in the Santiago airport and when leaving Ezezeia (Buenos Aires) was spied by A, another pretendiente (suitor, if you will)?
I also run into people constantly. In the metro, on the street, up in La Reina, over in La Florida, downtown, in Maitencillo (the beach). There’s a guy named Guillermo who I run into every several months in random parts of Santiago. The the last time I saw him was at Piñera’s celebration party (we were both there to gawk), so we must be due.
Which is why when I figured out that Annjeanette, who is in the process of moving back to Chile with her family and who I know through my blog, had lived in the very same (smallish) apartment building where I currently live (and fight with the elevator, the kitchen and other assorted ills),it came as only a mild surprise. I feel like if I could do a graphical representation of the places I’ve been and the people I’m somehow linked to, it would be a stained and worn map, with star after star denoting coincidences (if you believe in them).
What can I say? For the most part I’m in very good company. Thanks for joining me on this crazy ride. Until our paths cross again!
I first noticed it in 1986, when, at a high school summer program at Penn State one of my classmates in the program announced, “I know one guy from Brooklyn.” To this, I raised my eyebrows, and replied, “and his name is Dave,” fully expecting this to be another one of those foolish comments someone makes when they find out something about you that actually is not a point in common. No, he said, “his name is __________,” with __________ being the name of a boy I knew, and would ultimately go to the prom with, him with a mohawk, and me in a peach dress I went with another male friend to pick out, and which we discovered only after the fact, did not provide enough coverage up top when I sat down.
Later it would happen again, this time in Massachussets, where the last administrative task I had to take care of at college happened to be rubber stamped by someone who had had my father as her science teacher the year he died. She looked at me, and said, Brooklyn? And she looked at my name, and she said, “Barry Smith was your father, wasn’t he?”
Coincidences follow me around like good luck follows other people.
Several weeks ago I was invited to a friend’s house here in Chile, and there was one surprise guest, who was to be a surprise because I know her, but didn’t know we had a friend in common. I went to answer the door and found instead, another guest, who I also knew, a woman I first worked with here in Chile when I arrived six years ago, and who I last saw in the US consulate getting a visa for her husband so they could go live in the United States. On another occasion, I also had the fortune to meet J for the first time at a party held by a Brazilian friend of mine, and J and I discovered that we shared an ex we were both lucky to call an ex (and who still cruises here from time to time, hey, I see you!). But maybe you’re not impressed with me running into gringos in Chile.
Then what about the time I met a guy in Belize, and a year later met his girlfriend in Portugal? Or the time I was looking through a friend’s photo album in California and found a guy I went to college with in Massachusetts among his photos? Friends who call me and tell me they’ve met friends of friends, or how one of my friends here is friends from home with someone whose blog I read in Angola (sorry, closed to new readers), or when I reunited with my best friend from nursery school a full twelve years later on the B-49 bus that whipped up Ocean Avenue and then Farragut Road, to deliver us to our high school?
Or the time I was coming home from a summer in Spain on a flight routed through London and ran into a good high school friend on the plane who was on her way home from Israel?
Or when, leaving for Buenos Aires I ran into F, (who I dated briefly) in the Santiago airport and when leaving Ezezeia (Buenos Aires) was spied by A, another pretendiente (suitor, if you will)?
I also run into people constantly. In the metro, on the street, up in La Reina, over in La Florida, downtown, in Maitencillo (the beach). There’s a guy named Guillermo who I run into every several months in random parts of Santiago. The the last time I saw him was at Piñera’s celebration party (we were both there to gawk), so we must be due.
Which is why when I figured out that Annjeanette, who is in the process of moving back to Chile with her family and who I know through my blog, had lived in the very same (smallish) apartment building where I currently live (and fight with the elevator, the kitchen and other assorted ills),it came as only a mild surprise. I feel like if I could do a graphical representation of the places I’ve been and the people I’m somehow linked to, it would be a stained and worn map, with star after star denoting coincidences (if you believe in them).
What can I say? For the most part I’m in very good company. Thanks for joining me on this crazy ride. Until our paths cross again!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Architecture Disrespect in Santiago and beyond
Architecture disrespect is a term I coined one day when I uploaded this photo to my flickr stream. It's a picada, or sort of a snackbar at the corner of the Alameda (that's Avenida Libertador Bernardo O'Higgins to you) and calle dieciocho (thus the nubmer 18 on the sign). What we have is a beautiful piece of architecture, beautifully tooled and detailed that's been turned into an afterthought, a hat, if you will for a place to eat greasy sandwiches, wipe your fingers on waxed-paper napkins and drink a liter of beer at one sitting.
In my amblings about town, I soon realized that this was not the only gorgeous corner building in Santiago turned into something else.
Here's another one, same main street but a few blocks west. Not quite as garish signage, but still kind of grumpymaking from the historical preservation front.
Then there's this one, which I guess is a pretty good use of the space, signage not that egregious, though this building used to be blue before the Cruz Verde (literally: green cross) pharmacy moved in. On the Plaza de Armas, southeast corner.
And just so you know it's not just Santiago, here's an example from Valparaíso, down in the plan, not up on the cerrros where everyone will tell you all the beauty is, which is plainly not true. This is not far from the bus station, which I had thought was on Condell, but which Lydia was able to identify as being on Av. Uruguay. And she tells us (see comments) that it's not alone.
And in case you thought this repurposing of gorgeous buildings for fast food joints an the like was limited to Chile, here's a shot I snapped in downtown Montevideo (Uruguay).
But disrespect comes in many forms. You can let a building practically fall down, neglect it and build giant modern buildings beside it, like this one in La Paz.
Or, a continent away, you can take a beautiful, classically styled and built building, like this one in Oamaru, New Zealand and shine a kaleidoscope of colors on it so bright that it blinds nearby cyclists.
On the one hand, I'm more of a watcher and reporter than doer. A friend of mine refers to my photographic style as "documentarian" (who knew I had a style, I thought I just had an itchy shutter finger), so I guess on some level, I like these contrasts, even though I find them aesthetically disturbing. So I probably won't join any campaign to preserve, to fix, to prevent these advances. I'll just quietly stand nearby, whip the camera out, click, and walk away. All you'll hear is the velcro on my camera bag, and then I'm gone.
In my amblings about town, I soon realized that this was not the only gorgeous corner building in Santiago turned into something else.
Here's another one, same main street but a few blocks west. Not quite as garish signage, but still kind of grumpymaking from the historical preservation front.
Then there's this one, which I guess is a pretty good use of the space, signage not that egregious, though this building used to be blue before the Cruz Verde (literally: green cross) pharmacy moved in. On the Plaza de Armas, southeast corner.
And just so you know it's not just Santiago, here's an example from Valparaíso, down in the plan, not up on the cerrros where everyone will tell you all the beauty is, which is plainly not true. This is not far from the bus station, which I had thought was on Condell, but which Lydia was able to identify as being on Av. Uruguay. And she tells us (see comments) that it's not alone.
And in case you thought this repurposing of gorgeous buildings for fast food joints an the like was limited to Chile, here's a shot I snapped in downtown Montevideo (Uruguay).
But disrespect comes in many forms. You can let a building practically fall down, neglect it and build giant modern buildings beside it, like this one in La Paz.
Or, a continent away, you can take a beautiful, classically styled and built building, like this one in Oamaru, New Zealand and shine a kaleidoscope of colors on it so bright that it blinds nearby cyclists.
On the one hand, I'm more of a watcher and reporter than doer. A friend of mine refers to my photographic style as "documentarian" (who knew I had a style, I thought I just had an itchy shutter finger), so I guess on some level, I like these contrasts, even though I find them aesthetically disturbing. So I probably won't join any campaign to preserve, to fix, to prevent these advances. I'll just quietly stand nearby, whip the camera out, click, and walk away. All you'll hear is the velcro on my camera bag, and then I'm gone.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Feria report, and finding your closest farmer's market in Santiago
Something that I love down to my crunchy granola toes about living in Latin America, or more specifically, Santiago is the ferias. Ferias are our weekend (or weekday) fruit and veggie stop, a place to yammer with your neighbors and thump the melons (but not too harshly, and not today, it's winter here) of your casero, or person who you always buy from.
You can tell that a feria is nearby by the (usually) ladies, wheeling a kind of luggage cart with a floppy plastic burlap bag (often red and blue striped) held up via grommets on a system of hooks it has. If you see them, and figure out where they're going or check out who you see coming towards you loaded down with freshies, you can triangulate and figure out where to go. The streets surrounding the feria will be full of off-spec vendors with sheets on the ground selling old clothes and electronics, and right before the feria starts, you'll see giant metal carts that the ferianos (people that sell at the markets) use to get their goods close to the feria.
But you came for the pictures and the rundown, didn't you?
I left the house with two empty reusable grocery bags, a little bit of cash, and a desire to fill up on delicious fresh veggies for the week.
I returned with this:
and a free vocabulary lesson for you:
habas (fava beans), 1,000
alcachofas (artichokes) 4 for 1,000
palta (avocado, 1/2 kilo), 700
brócoli (brocolli) 500
zapallo (squash) 300
rábanos (radishes) 300
cebollín (scallions) 300
mandarinas (tangerines (this word is also used for clementines), 1 kilo) 500
manzanas (apples, 1 kilo) 300
cilantro (cilantro, 1 bunch) 200
limones (lemons, 1 kilo) 150
The exchange rate has dropped recently, to 514 pesos to the dollar (apparently it's best when it hovers around 550 for export purposes, and this economy is run on exports), but that means at 5,250 pesos, I spent just over ten dollars. Oh, and it weighed 17.2 pounds, which I mention because this is not my regular feria and I thought it was much closer to my house than it is, and I would have been sad had I not ridden my bike. This one was on Martinez de Rosas, and the one I usually go to is on Sundays on Esperanza. And it's absolutely true that the character and culture of the feria, held just a day and about 15 blocks away is thoroughly different. Remind me to talk about that someday.
Wondering where your closest feria is? Well, they've got a website for that. The Ministerio de Agricultura (Ministry of Agriculture) put this website together a while ago, and while I often kvetch about the quality and accessibility of information here in Chile, I'm pretty impressed with this one. Select your comuna, corroborate its location on Googlemaps or Mapcity, and you're good to go. Be a good doobie, bring reusable bags, and then practice your quick draw Spanish explaining to the caseros that you don't want a plastic bag. Trust me, it's a challenge.
You can tell that a feria is nearby by the (usually) ladies, wheeling a kind of luggage cart with a floppy plastic burlap bag (often red and blue striped) held up via grommets on a system of hooks it has. If you see them, and figure out where they're going or check out who you see coming towards you loaded down with freshies, you can triangulate and figure out where to go. The streets surrounding the feria will be full of off-spec vendors with sheets on the ground selling old clothes and electronics, and right before the feria starts, you'll see giant metal carts that the ferianos (people that sell at the markets) use to get their goods close to the feria.
But you came for the pictures and the rundown, didn't you?
I left the house with two empty reusable grocery bags, a little bit of cash, and a desire to fill up on delicious fresh veggies for the week.
I returned with this:
and a free vocabulary lesson for you:
habas (fava beans), 1,000
alcachofas (artichokes) 4 for 1,000
palta (avocado, 1/2 kilo), 700
brócoli (brocolli) 500
zapallo (squash) 300
rábanos (radishes) 300
cebollín (scallions) 300
mandarinas (tangerines (this word is also used for clementines), 1 kilo) 500
manzanas (apples, 1 kilo) 300
cilantro (cilantro, 1 bunch) 200
limones (lemons, 1 kilo) 150
The exchange rate has dropped recently, to 514 pesos to the dollar (apparently it's best when it hovers around 550 for export purposes, and this economy is run on exports), but that means at 5,250 pesos, I spent just over ten dollars. Oh, and it weighed 17.2 pounds, which I mention because this is not my regular feria and I thought it was much closer to my house than it is, and I would have been sad had I not ridden my bike. This one was on Martinez de Rosas, and the one I usually go to is on Sundays on Esperanza. And it's absolutely true that the character and culture of the feria, held just a day and about 15 blocks away is thoroughly different. Remind me to talk about that someday.
Wondering where your closest feria is? Well, they've got a website for that. The Ministerio de Agricultura (Ministry of Agriculture) put this website together a while ago, and while I often kvetch about the quality and accessibility of information here in Chile, I'm pretty impressed with this one. Select your comuna, corroborate its location on Googlemaps or Mapcity, and you're good to go. Be a good doobie, bring reusable bags, and then practice your quick draw Spanish explaining to the caseros that you don't want a plastic bag. Trust me, it's a challenge.
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