A little summer cleaning. What with today being the ninth day of summer, and that having absolutely no relevance or significance to me, I would like to note the following:
Thing one: I do not care how many times you tell me that humid heat is better than dry heat, it simply is not true. Humid heat makes you wilt, takes away your will to live. Dry heat bores a hole in your skull and sucks the moisture out of your brain, but a dry, dessicated brain is better than a wilty everything. I used to live in Washington, DC, and recently spent a week in melty Buenos Aires. Chileans, stop deceiving yourselves, you got the better end of the heat stick (though not the sun stick, which bears no resemblance to a rain stick, I'm afraid).
Thing two: I made it all the way through past Christmas without eating any, but yesterday, at a synogogue of all places, I had my first piece of Pan de Pascua (vaguely similar to fruitcake, but not really) of the season. It was clovey and had lots of nuts in it, and the people at his progressive synogogue were pretty awesomely nice and the music and discussion were lovely, including Roma (as in Gypsy, not as in Rome)-inspired Nómade, which I can't seem to find a link for at the moment. I find a link to another group with the same name, but the sound isn't the same.
Thing three: I am digitizing my music collection and getting rid of a boatload of CDs, most of them recorded from my originals which are somewhere in the universe in a box. If you live in Santiago and are dying for some new-to-you music, talk to me baby.
Thing four: I also have a stack of books that is ready to go to new owners. How should I handle this? should I create a blog post so you can see what they are, and let me know what you want? In my brain there was a googledoc and we all participated, but then my brain got dessicated from the boring (as in drilling, not as in fome) sun, and today is weirdly overcast, but you know what I mean. If anyone wants to googledoc a Santiago book exchange, let me know and I'll pimp that doc. Otherwise I'll just look at my coffee table in sadness, wondering why it won't empty itself.
Thing five: I have been a busy bee, over at Matador, where I've been writing and snapping, like this:
23 Movies that will make you want to travel
and
Fashionistas do battle at House of Diehl's Style Wars in Buenos Aires
Thing six: I have also been a blogging fool over at NileGuide where I'm soon to be the Chile expert, not just the Santiago expert. Which I think might be exciting, or it might be a whole bunch more work. And I'm paid by the click, so clicketydo if you're curious.
Three Indie Movie Houses in Santiago
and
Santiago a mil, free and cheap stuff to do in Santiago in January
and
Mapocho to be used as a canvas for light, kicking off January 19th
Thing seven: There is no thing seven.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Books for the family
I am a sucker for books. Books galore! Books a million. I love books. But I also love not having a lot of stuff. So the ideal situation is to buy books for other people (and theoretically, purchase an e-reader, but I'm pretty riotously not interested in that at the moment).
I also have this family. I mean, they're not my family, but they're mine, you know? We're not blood, and we sometimes go too long without talking, but the D-As (last name, not their hairstyle) are my family, probably since before they asked me to be H's godmother, but certainly since then.
So when I was in Buenos Aires in one of the chichi design stores that makes you want to act like you're a movie star, I saw two children's books on sale, one by Umberto Eco, and one by Ray Bradbury (called something like Switch off the Night) in Spanish, I was so happy to have these kids (H and her brother) to buy the books for.
I brought over the gifts on Christmas day, between catwatching (Abby, Charlie's doing fine!) and going to bed ridiculously early. I kind of expected the world to be full of chaos, of a boy running around throwing things and a girl making up her new "head" (one of those frightening disembodied heads you're supposed to make up and style the hair of). But when I got there, H was having a moment, and so I went upstairs to see what was up. Eventually she brought the head up and demonstrated how the hair could be streaked with a variety of colors, and offered to streak mine. (I declined).
She then noticed the envelope with the book on her bed, and asked what it was, and immediately settled down into reading the book with me. It's about a boy who never goes out to play in the dark because he loves light. One day, a girl (called Negra, or Black, in Spanish) comes to visit him to show him how you can turn on the night by turning out the lights. And they all lived happily ever after, playing with the crickets on the lawn.
H and I took turns, first with words, then with sentences, and then with pages when she grew tired. And she called me out on two pronunciation glitches I still have, which are the ll (I pronounce it like a straight English y, but it really has some j-ness to it), and pronouncing all rs like rr, even in the middle of words. It was funny and sweet, and I didn't mind it at all, and I listened in marvel, maybe for the first time, to how beautifully she speaks, how every sound comes out just the way it should, and I remembered that when she was tiny, she would say, "Soy juerte!" (I'm strong, but the word is fuerte with an f, not juerte with a j). And we never corrected her, but one day she just started saying fuerte. (And in fact, she is quite strong).
And I thought about how even if I were to live in Chile for another million years, and even bought another thousand books, I would probably never deshacerme de (get rid of) those pronunciation glitches. But it's okay, because your family, even your familia postiza (fake family) loves you just the way you are.
I also have this family. I mean, they're not my family, but they're mine, you know? We're not blood, and we sometimes go too long without talking, but the D-As (last name, not their hairstyle) are my family, probably since before they asked me to be H's godmother, but certainly since then.
So when I was in Buenos Aires in one of the chichi design stores that makes you want to act like you're a movie star, I saw two children's books on sale, one by Umberto Eco, and one by Ray Bradbury (called something like Switch off the Night) in Spanish, I was so happy to have these kids (H and her brother) to buy the books for.
I brought over the gifts on Christmas day, between catwatching (Abby, Charlie's doing fine!) and going to bed ridiculously early. I kind of expected the world to be full of chaos, of a boy running around throwing things and a girl making up her new "head" (one of those frightening disembodied heads you're supposed to make up and style the hair of). But when I got there, H was having a moment, and so I went upstairs to see what was up. Eventually she brought the head up and demonstrated how the hair could be streaked with a variety of colors, and offered to streak mine. (I declined).
She then noticed the envelope with the book on her bed, and asked what it was, and immediately settled down into reading the book with me. It's about a boy who never goes out to play in the dark because he loves light. One day, a girl (called Negra, or Black, in Spanish) comes to visit him to show him how you can turn on the night by turning out the lights. And they all lived happily ever after, playing with the crickets on the lawn.
H and I took turns, first with words, then with sentences, and then with pages when she grew tired. And she called me out on two pronunciation glitches I still have, which are the ll (I pronounce it like a straight English y, but it really has some j-ness to it), and pronouncing all rs like rr, even in the middle of words. It was funny and sweet, and I didn't mind it at all, and I listened in marvel, maybe for the first time, to how beautifully she speaks, how every sound comes out just the way it should, and I remembered that when she was tiny, she would say, "Soy juerte!" (I'm strong, but the word is fuerte with an f, not juerte with a j). And we never corrected her, but one day she just started saying fuerte. (And in fact, she is quite strong).
And I thought about how even if I were to live in Chile for another million years, and even bought another thousand books, I would probably never deshacerme de (get rid of) those pronunciation glitches. But it's okay, because your family, even your familia postiza (fake family) loves you just the way you are.
Friday, December 24, 2010
The keys to my castle in Buenos Aires
Now that I'm no longer in Buenos Aires, despite the occasional workstoppage which might have conspired to keep me there (and I don't mean my own), I'll tell you that it's a lovely place to be, but the joy of being at home is not lost on me, despite it being Christmas eve an the whole world a giant dose of silence, except for the music in Arabic wafting around from my next-door-neighbor's apartment. He's not Middle-Eastern or even North African, just a studier of Arabic, and I guess he enjoys the music. Who am I to judge, do I not sing Julieta Venegas from time to time? I'm not Latina, in case you didn't remember.
One of the things that was so notable about my stay in BsAs (That's how we roll with the abbreviations in Spanish) was the kickin' apartment I rented while I was there. There was nothing particularly incredible about it, except that it had a decent-sized kitchen, a dining room table, a loggia (like a laundry room), and air-conditioning (so lovely in Buenos Aires, not necessary in Santiago) and wifi. All things (minus the air conditioning) that are a bit lacking in chez eileen, and some of the many reasons why one day I must move.
But one of the things I liked best about the apartment were the keys. See for yourself:
I mean, have you ever seen anything more charming? Every day when I would come home from being out and about, I would think, I wonder what's going on at the castle (where castle is pronounced caaaaahhhh sel)? The way I figured it, I had a key to the castle, the moat (for boating purposes) and the catacombs. In actual fact, I had three keys for the top, middle and bottom lock of my door and one front door key.
I tried to regale other bonaerenses and/or porteños with my tales of dragons and flaming torches and my nifty keys, and they all pulled out keys that looked pretty much the same. Which was disheartening, but did not ruin my joy at saying caaaaahhhhhhsel at all.
And while the apartment was far larger and spiffier with all its extra space and rooms and stuff, I had to give it back to its proper owner, who must make a mint renting it out, and it turned out she wanted her keys back, too. So I returned the keys to the castle, moat and all, and flew back over the Andes, where fierce turbulence turned many a traveler Sprite and coffee-speckled, got the last seat on the centropuerto bus (a steal at 1400 pesos), walked into my building, and turned my plain old regular keys in my door to find, not a castle, but my palace all the same.
One of the things that was so notable about my stay in BsAs (That's how we roll with the abbreviations in Spanish) was the kickin' apartment I rented while I was there. There was nothing particularly incredible about it, except that it had a decent-sized kitchen, a dining room table, a loggia (like a laundry room), and air-conditioning (so lovely in Buenos Aires, not necessary in Santiago) and wifi. All things (minus the air conditioning) that are a bit lacking in chez eileen, and some of the many reasons why one day I must move.
But one of the things I liked best about the apartment were the keys. See for yourself:
I mean, have you ever seen anything more charming? Every day when I would come home from being out and about, I would think, I wonder what's going on at the castle (where castle is pronounced caaaaahhhh sel)? The way I figured it, I had a key to the castle, the moat (for boating purposes) and the catacombs. In actual fact, I had three keys for the top, middle and bottom lock of my door and one front door key.
I tried to regale other bonaerenses and/or porteños with my tales of dragons and flaming torches and my nifty keys, and they all pulled out keys that looked pretty much the same. Which was disheartening, but did not ruin my joy at saying caaaaahhhhhhsel at all.
And while the apartment was far larger and spiffier with all its extra space and rooms and stuff, I had to give it back to its proper owner, who must make a mint renting it out, and it turned out she wanted her keys back, too. So I returned the keys to the castle, moat and all, and flew back over the Andes, where fierce turbulence turned many a traveler Sprite and coffee-speckled, got the last seat on the centropuerto bus (a steal at 1400 pesos), walked into my building, and turned my plain old regular keys in my door to find, not a castle, but my palace all the same.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I want to be in BA Buenos Aires, Big Apple
You know, the first time I came to Buenos Aires, it brought me a certain nostalgia for how I imagined New York was in the 60s, or maybe the 70s. It's movida (hectic, active), there are buses (which they call colectivos, which is confusing since in Chile that's a shared taxi) careening everywhere, and people clickety clack in their fancy shoes this way and that. Also last night, I heard a neon sign buzzing on and off for the first time since I saw it in a movie a hundred years ago. Do neon signs still buzz in the United States? I'm not sure.
Last night it occurred to me to walk from where I am staying (in Palermo, but towards Barrio Norte) to where a friend lives in the Microcentro. I asked Google (like you do) to map it out for me, cautious to not walk near an area between 9 de Mayo and San Telmo that a few people have warned me is quite women-of-the-nightish, and set off hiking in the nighttime heat.
First of all, it is NEVER warm at night in Santiago. There is never a night when walking briskly will bring anything other than a slight flush to your cheeks, to say nothing of a backfull of sweat and a headfull of curls. But I soldiered on, approximately following the suggested route, and was again and again confronted with streets upon streets of activity. Coronel Diaz, Callao, Corrientes, Santa Fe, again and again and again, I'd turn a corner and find aother giant street full of people at 9 PM, another broad boulevard with its disorderly hodgepodge of handlettered and neon signs, urging me to eat! drink! go the the gym! (No thanks, I was sweating already). Santiago's not like that. A few main avenues and the rest is downright quiet. But this is Buenos Aires! Big! Loud! Opinionated! Hot!
Somewhere around a sweaty hour and 5 km later, I arrived, having made nary a false turn, thanks googlemaps, the giant paper map I had and the photo I took of my route on the computer with my phone, and no thanks to the man who (strangely) slapped my arm when I stopped in a bus shelter for a second to adjust my hideous running shoes, having torn my feet to blistery shreds earlier in the week, having forgotten about how winter feet plus summer shoes equals agony. I gave the guy what for and continued on.
So my experience in Buenos Aires continues on, and I woke up this morning thinking, hey, nice city. I could stay here a while. And then I turned on the television.
And LAN's Argentina flight attendants are on strike. Which I'm sure is over work conditions, and I completely get it, but feel pretty damn sorry for the people stranded in the two airports in Buenos Aires, because it's beginning to look like they're not going anywhere. And then I thought of me. Me! I might not be going anywhere, either.
Guess you've got to be careful what you wish for! Wonder how long it would take me to walk to Santiago?
Don't come!
Last night it occurred to me to walk from where I am staying (in Palermo, but towards Barrio Norte) to where a friend lives in the Microcentro. I asked Google (like you do) to map it out for me, cautious to not walk near an area between 9 de Mayo and San Telmo that a few people have warned me is quite women-of-the-nightish, and set off hiking in the nighttime heat.
First of all, it is NEVER warm at night in Santiago. There is never a night when walking briskly will bring anything other than a slight flush to your cheeks, to say nothing of a backfull of sweat and a headfull of curls. But I soldiered on, approximately following the suggested route, and was again and again confronted with streets upon streets of activity. Coronel Diaz, Callao, Corrientes, Santa Fe, again and again and again, I'd turn a corner and find aother giant street full of people at 9 PM, another broad boulevard with its disorderly hodgepodge of handlettered and neon signs, urging me to eat! drink! go the the gym! (No thanks, I was sweating already). Santiago's not like that. A few main avenues and the rest is downright quiet. But this is Buenos Aires! Big! Loud! Opinionated! Hot!
Somewhere around a sweaty hour and 5 km later, I arrived, having made nary a false turn, thanks googlemaps, the giant paper map I had and the photo I took of my route on the computer with my phone, and no thanks to the man who (strangely) slapped my arm when I stopped in a bus shelter for a second to adjust my hideous running shoes, having torn my feet to blistery shreds earlier in the week, having forgotten about how winter feet plus summer shoes equals agony. I gave the guy what for and continued on.
So my experience in Buenos Aires continues on, and I woke up this morning thinking, hey, nice city. I could stay here a while. And then I turned on the television.
And LAN's Argentina flight attendants are on strike. Which I'm sure is over work conditions, and I completely get it, but feel pretty damn sorry for the people stranded in the two airports in Buenos Aires, because it's beginning to look like they're not going anywhere. And then I thought of me. Me! I might not be going anywhere, either.
Guess you've got to be careful what you wish for! Wonder how long it would take me to walk to Santiago?
Don't come!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Not in Santiago anymore! Buenos Aires version.
Buenos Aires is not Santiago. In a million and one ways, even in my shortish trajectory between where I am staying and where MJ and Roman of House of Diehl/Style Wars fame are holed up, basically cutting a sloppy diagonal across Palermo, zagging where the train lines are, even in that short distance, such as it's been in the 48 hours since I've arrived, Argentina keeps on reminding me it's not just Chile with a pretty accent and a lot of sssshhhh where we'd say y.
And as if to illustrate my point, two days ago in the supermarket, three old ladies talked to me in the grocery store. One to ask if I'd tried the Greek yogurt I was loading into my basket (no, but hey, Greek yogurt, that's delicious!), one to comment about how people had left the bulk section (bulk section! where you can touch and bag your own food!) messy, and a third woman who was very animated in the cheese section (cheese section! it's like being in a cheese museum!) but I'm not really sure what she was going on about. I smiled and "sí-ed" and slowly slinked away. Number of people (not men, trying to chat me up or clearly on another planet) who have spoken to me on the street for no reason in the six years I've been living in Santiago= less than three.
Everyone and their brother wants do know where I'm from. "De dónde sos?" (where are you from) rings from the rooftops. Guesses include: Chile (duh, accent), Spain (strong J, cheekbones? who knows), France (I'm convinced this is about my definitive triangle of a nose), Salta (in the north of Argentina, but this because I said pues at the end of a sentence, which was a replacement for po which we say at the end of sentences all the time in Chile. In Chile in passing I am seldom asked where I'm from, something I enjoy very much. It's not that I don't look/sound like a foreigner, it's that Chileans are just not the kind of people to ask a lot of questions of unknown people (see above paragraph).
Giant mother of all saharan windstorms complete with sandblasting. I was at a semi-permanent fruit market on Paraguay, near the train tracks, buying half a watermelon (about $2.50 US) to bring over to the pizza and empanada-addled M and R, who I figured could use something fresh and crisp. Out of nowhere, a giant, violent gale-force wind with upgusts and downdrafts and hair-ripping speed sprang up, slapping me with sand and grime and man, I am so lucky I didn't wear that other skirt, because this one barely stayed down, and it doesn't have that much extra fabric. We NEVER get wind like this in Santiago. It's breezy in September, and ocassionally before a rainstorm flags might flap. But body-pushing wind in Santiago? never.
It smells like food. Wherever you go, you can smell onions a-frying, garlic a-sauteéing, tomatoes simmering. It's delicious. I haven't actually eaten out anywhere yet, since I've been either working or running around or both, preferring to fry my own onions and garlic here at my rented apartment, but it's so nice to just walk down the street and smell food. Chileans are so unhip to the smiling, happy, joyful smell of food that to say it smells like cooking you use the expression "pasado a" (reeks of). I say bring on the reekage.
And now I'm off to see how else Argentina can remind me I'm just not in Santiago anymore. Maybe spending all night taking pictures (mostly of other people) making fashion out of discarded and found items (though I never actually saw the plastic sausages being used) and then bailing early on the afterparty to get home by 4. Yeah, that'll do. (More to follow on StyleWars, really)
And as if to illustrate my point, two days ago in the supermarket, three old ladies talked to me in the grocery store. One to ask if I'd tried the Greek yogurt I was loading into my basket (no, but hey, Greek yogurt, that's delicious!), one to comment about how people had left the bulk section (bulk section! where you can touch and bag your own food!) messy, and a third woman who was very animated in the cheese section (cheese section! it's like being in a cheese museum!) but I'm not really sure what she was going on about. I smiled and "sí-ed" and slowly slinked away. Number of people (not men, trying to chat me up or clearly on another planet) who have spoken to me on the street for no reason in the six years I've been living in Santiago= less than three.
Everyone and their brother wants do know where I'm from. "De dónde sos?" (where are you from) rings from the rooftops. Guesses include: Chile (duh, accent), Spain (strong J, cheekbones? who knows), France (I'm convinced this is about my definitive triangle of a nose), Salta (in the north of Argentina, but this because I said pues at the end of a sentence, which was a replacement for po which we say at the end of sentences all the time in Chile. In Chile in passing I am seldom asked where I'm from, something I enjoy very much. It's not that I don't look/sound like a foreigner, it's that Chileans are just not the kind of people to ask a lot of questions of unknown people (see above paragraph).
Giant mother of all saharan windstorms complete with sandblasting. I was at a semi-permanent fruit market on Paraguay, near the train tracks, buying half a watermelon (about $2.50 US) to bring over to the pizza and empanada-addled M and R, who I figured could use something fresh and crisp. Out of nowhere, a giant, violent gale-force wind with upgusts and downdrafts and hair-ripping speed sprang up, slapping me with sand and grime and man, I am so lucky I didn't wear that other skirt, because this one barely stayed down, and it doesn't have that much extra fabric. We NEVER get wind like this in Santiago. It's breezy in September, and ocassionally before a rainstorm flags might flap. But body-pushing wind in Santiago? never.
It smells like food. Wherever you go, you can smell onions a-frying, garlic a-sauteéing, tomatoes simmering. It's delicious. I haven't actually eaten out anywhere yet, since I've been either working or running around or both, preferring to fry my own onions and garlic here at my rented apartment, but it's so nice to just walk down the street and smell food. Chileans are so unhip to the smiling, happy, joyful smell of food that to say it smells like cooking you use the expression "pasado a" (reeks of). I say bring on the reekage.
And now I'm off to see how else Argentina can remind me I'm just not in Santiago anymore. Maybe spending all night taking pictures (mostly of other people) making fashion out of discarded and found items (though I never actually saw the plastic sausages being used) and then bailing early on the afterparty to get home by 4. Yeah, that'll do. (More to follow on StyleWars, really)
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Wake up and smell the media lunas, or tomorrow in BsAs
A couple of friends have noticed, and some have said something, and some have not, that I'm not quite present lately. I'm kind of here but not here, in two places at once, thinking about something else. In fact, the last time I was with friends and just relaxed into the moment was way too long ago. Sorry T if you found me unusual yesterday. It could be stress, it could be angst (midlife angst? has this been documented?), it could be that work is predictable, or that I'm working on a book that is kicking my 30-something ass. It could be a general floaty projectlessness I'm feeling at the moment (book notwithstanding), or maybe it's just time for some change. And if I am still living in this apartment by March without good reason, you have my permission to come over and drip water on my freshly waxed floor, which will make me so crazy I will have to move. In fact, I'll hand you a pitcher.
And so, in a state of tumult, there's nothing better to do than tumult myself some more, so I'm headed to Buenos Aires for a few days. There are a few reasons behind this trip. The last time I was in Buenos Aires (just a hop skip and a jump if you get a wicked cheap flight on LAN, like I did, or a 30-hour busride for the long-busride nonaverse), I was waiting out the fallout of the earthquake, waiting to find out if my apartment was habitable, and recovering from a wicked case of NZ-induced jetlag. I stayed in a hostel that was fine, but dirty by my standards, kind of unkempt, and had a really lame-o kitchen where all I was inspired to cook was pasta and sauce, and that was only because I scoured out a pot while perched over a pile of trash that seemed too damp to kick out of the way. The hostel did have a nifty rooftop deck though, where I could inhale all the second hand smoke I wanted and wish to high heaven I spoke more French so I could talk to the two women who had come over hill, dale, river, swamp and several borders from French Guyana, where one worked as a midwife, and the other an osteopath. From what I could piece together, they were living life well, and loving it. I wanted to shrink myself down and hang out in their unwashed backpacks. And come back to Chile and study French, que tampoco hice (which I also didn't do).
Needless to say (French women notwithstanding) this time I'm not staying in that same hostel. Hostels in Buenos Aires have it tough. They get used heavily by RTWers who have grown socially disabled, believing themselves to be the center of the universe and tend to one-up even the most one-upmanshippy of the one-upmanshippers, and the party-harders, who come home at 8 AM and sleep the day away, rising to purchase beer in the early afternoon, sliding on flipflops and a colorful, shapeless shift (the women), playing with the ends of their overlyblonde hair from so much time on the beach in Brazil. The men occasionally pull shirts over their bellies before they go out, reminding themselves they're not in Bali anymore.
I'm not anti-hostel. But when you pick the easiest-to-party-in/big-hype/major transit point on a continent, you're going to get a lot of people who aren't in the same mindset as a traveler who just flew a couple of hours for a change of place, a change of air, and to see some thoroughly bizarre anti-fashion show produced by an old highschool friend who I used to sneak into clubs with when we were too young to even go to the Ritz (16!), because Irving Plaza (14) and CBGBs (also 14) just weren't our crowd. Yes, we were the whippersnappers who got out of our taxi and had the velvet rope dropped so we could prance right in. And no, that had nothing to do with me, it was all my glam friends, like MJ.
So I'm staying in an apartment in Palermo. If the experience is lovely, I will sing the company's praises. If the fashion is fashiony and nobody tries to get me to drink a Redbull, Battery or whatever BsAs' equivalent is, I will also report on that. If I end up partying like a rockstar, I will have my head examined. And if I get to hang out with Kate and make fun of stuff that needs to be made fun of, and take lots of pictures and walk long distances and drink too much coffee, I'll be sure to let you know about that, too.
There's also news that there might be a Buenos Aires meetup for Matadorians. If that's your bag (and wow, if you know me at all, you can guess it's probably not mine because it's at a big club with a gajillion people), drop me a line and I'll try to get you in touch. I'll probably show up, but just to reject offers of a Redbull and then go home and sleep on my rented bed, which sounds much seedier than I hope it is.
And now, for your navel-gazing pleasure, may I suggest the rest of the internet? Tomorrow at this time I should be in my rented apartment, trying for what my friend K from law school (and the person who I sheltered from Hurricane Katrina with in a trailer at a hunting camp in Missippi), "a geographical fix." Wish me luck, and pardon the departure from your regularly scheduled OMG, I'm an expat, things are so different here! (but if you want to read about one of my favorite fruits (nísperos) on NileGuide, feel free to do so here.
And so, in a state of tumult, there's nothing better to do than tumult myself some more, so I'm headed to Buenos Aires for a few days. There are a few reasons behind this trip. The last time I was in Buenos Aires (just a hop skip and a jump if you get a wicked cheap flight on LAN, like I did, or a 30-hour busride for the long-busride nonaverse), I was waiting out the fallout of the earthquake, waiting to find out if my apartment was habitable, and recovering from a wicked case of NZ-induced jetlag. I stayed in a hostel that was fine, but dirty by my standards, kind of unkempt, and had a really lame-o kitchen where all I was inspired to cook was pasta and sauce, and that was only because I scoured out a pot while perched over a pile of trash that seemed too damp to kick out of the way. The hostel did have a nifty rooftop deck though, where I could inhale all the second hand smoke I wanted and wish to high heaven I spoke more French so I could talk to the two women who had come over hill, dale, river, swamp and several borders from French Guyana, where one worked as a midwife, and the other an osteopath. From what I could piece together, they were living life well, and loving it. I wanted to shrink myself down and hang out in their unwashed backpacks. And come back to Chile and study French, que tampoco hice (which I also didn't do).
Needless to say (French women notwithstanding) this time I'm not staying in that same hostel. Hostels in Buenos Aires have it tough. They get used heavily by RTWers who have grown socially disabled, believing themselves to be the center of the universe and tend to one-up even the most one-upmanshippy of the one-upmanshippers, and the party-harders, who come home at 8 AM and sleep the day away, rising to purchase beer in the early afternoon, sliding on flipflops and a colorful, shapeless shift (the women), playing with the ends of their overlyblonde hair from so much time on the beach in Brazil. The men occasionally pull shirts over their bellies before they go out, reminding themselves they're not in Bali anymore.
I'm not anti-hostel. But when you pick the easiest-to-party-in/big-hype/major transit point on a continent, you're going to get a lot of people who aren't in the same mindset as a traveler who just flew a couple of hours for a change of place, a change of air, and to see some thoroughly bizarre anti-fashion show produced by an old highschool friend who I used to sneak into clubs with when we were too young to even go to the Ritz (16!), because Irving Plaza (14) and CBGBs (also 14) just weren't our crowd. Yes, we were the whippersnappers who got out of our taxi and had the velvet rope dropped so we could prance right in. And no, that had nothing to do with me, it was all my glam friends, like MJ.
So I'm staying in an apartment in Palermo. If the experience is lovely, I will sing the company's praises. If the fashion is fashiony and nobody tries to get me to drink a Redbull, Battery or whatever BsAs' equivalent is, I will also report on that. If I end up partying like a rockstar, I will have my head examined. And if I get to hang out with Kate and make fun of stuff that needs to be made fun of, and take lots of pictures and walk long distances and drink too much coffee, I'll be sure to let you know about that, too.
There's also news that there might be a Buenos Aires meetup for Matadorians. If that's your bag (and wow, if you know me at all, you can guess it's probably not mine because it's at a big club with a gajillion people), drop me a line and I'll try to get you in touch. I'll probably show up, but just to reject offers of a Redbull and then go home and sleep on my rented bed, which sounds much seedier than I hope it is.
And now, for your navel-gazing pleasure, may I suggest the rest of the internet? Tomorrow at this time I should be in my rented apartment, trying for what my friend K from law school (and the person who I sheltered from Hurricane Katrina with in a trailer at a hunting camp in Missippi), "a geographical fix." Wish me luck, and pardon the departure from your regularly scheduled OMG, I'm an expat, things are so different here! (but if you want to read about one of my favorite fruits (nísperos) on NileGuide, feel free to do so here.
Monday, December 13, 2010
End Brooklyn
In San Francisco, when you reach the end of a street, where there is no more asphalt, and where it simply ceases to exist, they put up this little sign that says "End."
And it got me thinking. What if you knew when it was the last time you'd ever go somewhere, ever belong somewhere? Would you hold on to the moment, tying it around your wrist like a helium balloon? Or would you let it float away, knowing it would be replaced by more timely locations?
And what about people? If you knew it was the last time you'd see someone, the last time you'd talk? Would you create a preemptive nostalgia, drinking in every second until the tiny sign appeared, saying "End" and then slither away, a snake down the stairs, a stain down a drain?
I never knew when the last time was that I'd call Brooklyn home. I was away at college when my mother called to let me know that she'd sold the home where we'd lived from the mid 70s, where I'd carved the word "DOOR" into a door with the end of a screw I'd found, and then tried to deny it, where I'd run my hand through a plate glass window, where we lived with my father until he died.
I never knew when the last day was that I'd call Brooklyn home, and I definitely didn't know that walking down the street with my mother and sister and tiny nephew who would later shout "love you, love you, love you!" as a farewell, that I would see a sign that said "End Brooklyn" and wonder about any of this.
It's amazing what the folds of your brain can unfurl when you're busy doing something else.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
What I ate and wore: Lo Vasquez (Trip report)
I've done this trip many times, during the day and at night, though during the day when the highway is not closed, it's quite different, as you have to call SOS to take you through the tunnels, which cuts a tiny bit of pedal time, and adds a lot of standing around. Ideally, you can go in a group of people where some are much faster than you (easy for me!), and they can call SOS while you're still pedaling up there. But sometimes you have to wait all the same.
Having done this trip many times, you'd think I'd have a system, a plan, a working knowlege of what to eat/drink/wear etc. Every year I learn more, and after not bringing enough food last year (based on a previous year where I pedalled in record time, and therefore needed less food on the road), I have proven to myself that every year brings its challenges. Here I'm writing this all down so I can remember, and in case you're thinking of riding Lo Vasquez next year, maybe this can help you to figure out your gear.
This year's challenges were: not realizing I'd grabbed a pair of bike tights without a chamois inside (owie), wearing a backpack with my camera in it (which made me sweat and froze me, and also killed my back), and thicky, soupy fog for many km.
What I wore:
-aforementioned capri-length biketights. They used to have a chamois in them and it ripped, so I did surgery on them. They're fine for spinning, not so great for 125 km.
-clipless bike shoes
-long wool socks, pulled up or down as the weather dictated
-shoe covers (windproof, waterproof covers you pull over your shoes. They may also protect you from peeing on your shoes themselves in an ill-pointed squat. Just saying.)
-shimmel, long-sportsbra to the waist. This may also have contributed to the sweating
-breathable sporty shirt (purple) from the year of the flood
-arm warmers, like legwarmers but for your arms, pukey green
for bundling:
- an REI-brand jacket that I should have bought ten of, it's for x-country skiing, is windproof and has pull-outable sleevelets to use as gloves. It's beat up, but I will keep it.
- a fleece vest
- a crappy acrylic Bolivian poncho I bought for three dollars in La Paz.
- a pair of wind-proof gloves
I also wore a skirt, which was a whimsical addition (also purple), and made it clear to everyone from a distance (as though there were any question) that I am female. Also, my buddy Sonia was wearing a purple sweatshirt, so we were quite the purple pair. The poncho was a last minute throw-in, as I had lots of room in my panniers, and it weighs nothing. I imagined I could also use it to lie down on if I had to, though it's quite small.
What I ate/drank:
I have two secret weapons for falling-apartedness on the road. Hypersweetened cold tea and gummi something. I dislike both sweet tea and gummi anything, but when you just need a little extra kick, both seem to do the job. The gummis especially seem to release slow enough to get you farther than just another 500 meters. I had Haribo something sour and many of them were grapefruit flavored, which was quite horrible, but they did the trick. In the past, I've had gummi bears, and those work well, too.
-sweetened iced tea (homemade)
-water, I ended up drinking about 40 or so oz, which is not much, but it was pretty cold, and I also drank the iced tea and the coffee below
-thermos of black coffee
-gummi sours
- three small sandwiches, two of cream cheese and tomato, one of cream cheese and blackberry stuff (similar to quince paste, but made of blackberry)
Stuff I brought but didn't need:
-one pair extra socks for either changing in Valpo if it was too hot or extra bundling if it was too cold on the road. Didn't need them.
-chocolate. Everyone (amateur cyclists) says to bring chocolate, and I know I eat cream cheese which seems like it would be a bad idea because it's fatty, but I could not stomach the chocolate at all on the road. In all fairness, I don't love chocolate to begin with, and adding a sleepless night didn't make it more appealing.
Normally the weather holds until you reach the first tunnel (Lo Prado), and everyone comes out, suits up and holds on for dear, freezing life on a very fast downhill over the valley, and where the geniuses who put together the ride put a flood light on the right side as you're coming down, so you are blinded by it and cannot see once you get past it. This year it was strangely warmer when we got to the end of the first tunnel. I just put on the windproof fleeceish things, gloves and shoecovers.
We later found out why it was so warm, as the humidity levels had risen, and there was a very dense fog from after the second tunnel to quite a big past Casablanca, and again at Lo Vasquez itself. If it had continued much longer I might have gotten wet through the fleecey thing. Mist collected on our sleeves like a dusting of snow. This is the first year I've gone without a windbreaker. I might go back to that next year, or at least have one on hand.
When we got to Valparaíso, we headed straight to the bus station, each bought a small can of potato chips (craving salt) and some water, were horribly mistreated by a malas pulgas (evil-mooded, easily upset) busdriver who was flying without his assistant that day, and fell asleep on the bus for the long ride home. Since the highway is closed, the bus takes another route back and it's long enough for a decent nap (usually 1.5 hours, with this route more like 3)
So lessons learned:
No chamois-less bike tights
Chocolate optional
Think about bringing a windbreaker
Weather unpredictable
Preheat thermos before pouring in coffee
oh, and the best one: do some training before you go. Seriously, I'm not getting any younger here!
Bonus:
Stuff I wish everyone had:
-Lights, for the love of God, I cannot see you if you are not illuminated. I don't know how many pedestrians were almost hit on this journey. Cyclists also need to have lights. or a glow stick. Glowy bracelets are less than a quarter en route (100 pesos)
-the sense not to wear jeans. This doesn't impact my comfort, but it definitley impacts yours. Use some sense!
Stuff I wish no one had:
-Audible music, or at least ugly audible music. Though these people tend not to pedal very fast, so you can get past them easily.
Oh, and if you're late to the party, this is what I'm talking about.
Having done this trip many times, you'd think I'd have a system, a plan, a working knowlege of what to eat/drink/wear etc. Every year I learn more, and after not bringing enough food last year (based on a previous year where I pedalled in record time, and therefore needed less food on the road), I have proven to myself that every year brings its challenges. Here I'm writing this all down so I can remember, and in case you're thinking of riding Lo Vasquez next year, maybe this can help you to figure out your gear.
This year's challenges were: not realizing I'd grabbed a pair of bike tights without a chamois inside (owie), wearing a backpack with my camera in it (which made me sweat and froze me, and also killed my back), and thicky, soupy fog for many km.
What I wore:
-aforementioned capri-length biketights. They used to have a chamois in them and it ripped, so I did surgery on them. They're fine for spinning, not so great for 125 km.
-clipless bike shoes
-long wool socks, pulled up or down as the weather dictated
-shoe covers (windproof, waterproof covers you pull over your shoes. They may also protect you from peeing on your shoes themselves in an ill-pointed squat. Just saying.)
-shimmel, long-sportsbra to the waist. This may also have contributed to the sweating
-breathable sporty shirt (purple) from the year of the flood
-arm warmers, like legwarmers but for your arms, pukey green
for bundling:
- an REI-brand jacket that I should have bought ten of, it's for x-country skiing, is windproof and has pull-outable sleevelets to use as gloves. It's beat up, but I will keep it.
- a fleece vest
- a crappy acrylic Bolivian poncho I bought for three dollars in La Paz.
- a pair of wind-proof gloves
I also wore a skirt, which was a whimsical addition (also purple), and made it clear to everyone from a distance (as though there were any question) that I am female. Also, my buddy Sonia was wearing a purple sweatshirt, so we were quite the purple pair. The poncho was a last minute throw-in, as I had lots of room in my panniers, and it weighs nothing. I imagined I could also use it to lie down on if I had to, though it's quite small.
What I ate/drank:
I have two secret weapons for falling-apartedness on the road. Hypersweetened cold tea and gummi something. I dislike both sweet tea and gummi anything, but when you just need a little extra kick, both seem to do the job. The gummis especially seem to release slow enough to get you farther than just another 500 meters. I had Haribo something sour and many of them were grapefruit flavored, which was quite horrible, but they did the trick. In the past, I've had gummi bears, and those work well, too.
-sweetened iced tea (homemade)
-water, I ended up drinking about 40 or so oz, which is not much, but it was pretty cold, and I also drank the iced tea and the coffee below
-thermos of black coffee
-gummi sours
- three small sandwiches, two of cream cheese and tomato, one of cream cheese and blackberry stuff (similar to quince paste, but made of blackberry)
Stuff I brought but didn't need:
-one pair extra socks for either changing in Valpo if it was too hot or extra bundling if it was too cold on the road. Didn't need them.
-chocolate. Everyone (amateur cyclists) says to bring chocolate, and I know I eat cream cheese which seems like it would be a bad idea because it's fatty, but I could not stomach the chocolate at all on the road. In all fairness, I don't love chocolate to begin with, and adding a sleepless night didn't make it more appealing.
Normally the weather holds until you reach the first tunnel (Lo Prado), and everyone comes out, suits up and holds on for dear, freezing life on a very fast downhill over the valley, and where the geniuses who put together the ride put a flood light on the right side as you're coming down, so you are blinded by it and cannot see once you get past it. This year it was strangely warmer when we got to the end of the first tunnel. I just put on the windproof fleeceish things, gloves and shoecovers.
We later found out why it was so warm, as the humidity levels had risen, and there was a very dense fog from after the second tunnel to quite a big past Casablanca, and again at Lo Vasquez itself. If it had continued much longer I might have gotten wet through the fleecey thing. Mist collected on our sleeves like a dusting of snow. This is the first year I've gone without a windbreaker. I might go back to that next year, or at least have one on hand.
When we got to Valparaíso, we headed straight to the bus station, each bought a small can of potato chips (craving salt) and some water, were horribly mistreated by a malas pulgas (evil-mooded, easily upset) busdriver who was flying without his assistant that day, and fell asleep on the bus for the long ride home. Since the highway is closed, the bus takes another route back and it's long enough for a decent nap (usually 1.5 hours, with this route more like 3)
So lessons learned:
No chamois-less bike tights
Chocolate optional
Think about bringing a windbreaker
Weather unpredictable
Preheat thermos before pouring in coffee
oh, and the best one: do some training before you go. Seriously, I'm not getting any younger here!
Bonus:
Stuff I wish everyone had:
-Lights, for the love of God, I cannot see you if you are not illuminated. I don't know how many pedestrians were almost hit on this journey. Cyclists also need to have lights. or a glow stick. Glowy bracelets are less than a quarter en route (100 pesos)
-the sense not to wear jeans. This doesn't impact my comfort, but it definitley impacts yours. Use some sense!
Stuff I wish no one had:
-Audible music, or at least ugly audible music. Though these people tend not to pedal very fast, so you can get past them easily.
Oh, and if you're late to the party, this is what I'm talking about.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
While you were sleeping
I was out riding through a fog so thick it looked like I could have eaten it with a spoon, had the gummy worms (secret weapon #2, with #1 being sweetened cold tea in one of the water bottles) not been enough.
Every year they close the highway from Santiago to Valparaíso, a distance of about 120 km from where I sit, and a whole bunch of people walk and ride out to Lo Vasquez, a Catholic sanctuary that celebrates Mary for the Assumption of Mary, Dec 8th. Many of them are religious pilgrims, I am a person who enjoys long, car-free bike rides.
I have many things to say about this tradition, and about different experiences I've had on the road from here to there. As luck would have it, I am about six breaths away from falling over. Turns out replacing a night of sleep with a night of pedalling isn't really an even exchange. You can add the bike, but you cannot remove the sleep from the equation.
But the thing I am struck by now is Luis. Luis was a guy I worked with at a publishing company. I was getting really into swimming, and told him how I was working towards a mile. And he said "you should never swim a mile." Why? I asked. Because you'll always want to swim a mile after that, and you have better things to do in the pool and with your time, unless you're planning on becoming a distance swimmer. Luis was a triathelete when I knew him, and I have reason to believe that he's correct.
Which brings me (right now, surely after I wake up I'll be in another place) to the thought, now that I've done this ride so many times, will I always want to do it, even though sometimes sleeping or riding half way or walking or not going at all would really be a better use of my time?
I have 364 more days to ponder. Coming up, what I brought, ate and saw. And if you think you've heard part of this story before, you have a very good memory, because here is last year's report. Now go eat some fog.
Every year they close the highway from Santiago to Valparaíso, a distance of about 120 km from where I sit, and a whole bunch of people walk and ride out to Lo Vasquez, a Catholic sanctuary that celebrates Mary for the Assumption of Mary, Dec 8th. Many of them are religious pilgrims, I am a person who enjoys long, car-free bike rides.
I have many things to say about this tradition, and about different experiences I've had on the road from here to there. As luck would have it, I am about six breaths away from falling over. Turns out replacing a night of sleep with a night of pedalling isn't really an even exchange. You can add the bike, but you cannot remove the sleep from the equation.
But the thing I am struck by now is Luis. Luis was a guy I worked with at a publishing company. I was getting really into swimming, and told him how I was working towards a mile. And he said "you should never swim a mile." Why? I asked. Because you'll always want to swim a mile after that, and you have better things to do in the pool and with your time, unless you're planning on becoming a distance swimmer. Luis was a triathelete when I knew him, and I have reason to believe that he's correct.
Which brings me (right now, surely after I wake up I'll be in another place) to the thought, now that I've done this ride so many times, will I always want to do it, even though sometimes sleeping or riding half way or walking or not going at all would really be a better use of my time?
I have 364 more days to ponder. Coming up, what I brought, ate and saw. And if you think you've heard part of this story before, you have a very good memory, because here is last year's report. Now go eat some fog.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Bearshapedsphere, please help me!!!!
As the internet lives and breathes and expands and contracts and mostly expands again, and lots of people have Chile on the brain, what with the giant earthquake, World Cup and then the miners, and the tiny piece of the web I've carved out for myself with blogging and writing for other outlets and generalized loud-mouthedness, I get more than a smattering of "heys" from around the place.
Some are from people that I've talked with for months or years, travelers that want to come and check out Santiago, or people who want to talk to me about blogging, or new business ventures in Chile or other generalized stuff. Sometimes it works out and we grab a coffee or run around the city at breakneck speed stopping for tasty treats and photo ops. It's kind of a fun way for me to travel without ever really going anywhere, which, though it may not appear that way from the outside, is what it feels like alot of the time).
And sometimes I get strange inquiries, like from the NY Post looking for stringers in Chile. Now that's a strange fit. I used to like the NY Post when I was a kid, but that's because it had the comics in it, and the NYTimes (paper of choice) only had political cartoons.
And then sometimes it's reporters. Or documentarians. Or people who just want to know how to get to Chile from Argentina (this is a strange request, as there are scads of websites giving out that info, and why you'd think I'm a better resource than them is beyond me).
I recently got a request from a reporter from a major news outlet to give her just a touch of information about:
cool places in Santiago
hip bars in Santiago
things most tourists wouldn't do in Santiago
and
expats living in cool homes in Santiago
There was no offer of a coffee, no "hey, let's get to know each other" just a generalized, "you, do my job for me." Really? Do your job for you? Well that seems fair. I'll do your job for you, and you can do mine for me. I'll leave my computer on and ready with the several places I work for's info on a long sheet of paper written in blue felt-tip pen, and lend you my brain, and you can just run along and be me. And me? I'll be me, too. That seems fair.
I wrote back a very polite note saying I didn't think I'd be able to help, holding my tongue about how truly annoyed I was by this reporter's patudez (freshness, and not in that morning mist kind of a way.
Then just yesterday I got a message from a documentarian who explained the project he's working on, and wondering if I could put him in contact with people that might be interviewed about something he's interested in (sorry for vagueness, will come back with more info as the project develops and I'm told I can put it out there). It was a paragraph or so long, had a sweet halago (compliment/flattery) about the blog and my wordsmithing, and was just generally on point.
See the difference? Get to know me, treat me like a human and not a fact-spewing machine, and have a project that's about communication or Chile or something else that has something to do with me, be polite and correcto and don't ask me to do your job, and you get results.
Julie recently wrote on her blog of writerly wisdom, Cuaderno Inédito about reciprocity re: asking for writing advice. It's terribly on point, and worth a read even you don't write for a living (or aspire to). It's about being connected, never asking for more than you can give (maybe to someone else), and about not asking other people to do your work for you. Words to live by.
Some are from people that I've talked with for months or years, travelers that want to come and check out Santiago, or people who want to talk to me about blogging, or new business ventures in Chile or other generalized stuff. Sometimes it works out and we grab a coffee or run around the city at breakneck speed stopping for tasty treats and photo ops. It's kind of a fun way for me to travel without ever really going anywhere, which, though it may not appear that way from the outside, is what it feels like alot of the time).
And sometimes I get strange inquiries, like from the NY Post looking for stringers in Chile. Now that's a strange fit. I used to like the NY Post when I was a kid, but that's because it had the comics in it, and the NYTimes (paper of choice) only had political cartoons.
And then sometimes it's reporters. Or documentarians. Or people who just want to know how to get to Chile from Argentina (this is a strange request, as there are scads of websites giving out that info, and why you'd think I'm a better resource than them is beyond me).
I recently got a request from a reporter from a major news outlet to give her just a touch of information about:
cool places in Santiago
hip bars in Santiago
things most tourists wouldn't do in Santiago
and
expats living in cool homes in Santiago
There was no offer of a coffee, no "hey, let's get to know each other" just a generalized, "you, do my job for me." Really? Do your job for you? Well that seems fair. I'll do your job for you, and you can do mine for me. I'll leave my computer on and ready with the several places I work for's info on a long sheet of paper written in blue felt-tip pen, and lend you my brain, and you can just run along and be me. And me? I'll be me, too. That seems fair.
I wrote back a very polite note saying I didn't think I'd be able to help, holding my tongue about how truly annoyed I was by this reporter's patudez (freshness, and not in that morning mist kind of a way.
Then just yesterday I got a message from a documentarian who explained the project he's working on, and wondering if I could put him in contact with people that might be interviewed about something he's interested in (sorry for vagueness, will come back with more info as the project develops and I'm told I can put it out there). It was a paragraph or so long, had a sweet halago (compliment/flattery) about the blog and my wordsmithing, and was just generally on point.
See the difference? Get to know me, treat me like a human and not a fact-spewing machine, and have a project that's about communication or Chile or something else that has something to do with me, be polite and correcto and don't ask me to do your job, and you get results.
Julie recently wrote on her blog of writerly wisdom, Cuaderno Inédito about reciprocity re: asking for writing advice. It's terribly on point, and worth a read even you don't write for a living (or aspire to). It's about being connected, never asking for more than you can give (maybe to someone else), and about not asking other people to do your work for you. Words to live by.
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