Impossibly blue

Sunday, September 17

So I woke up and I honestly thought I couldn’t move. Luckily, the thought of warm oatmeal convinced me otherwise. Even so, in our communal state of absolute exhaustion and all-over pain, the most we could muster ourselves to think of doing was walk slowly somewhere. Per Germán’s suggestion, we headed to the privately-owned, rich-people-inhabited peninsula that juts out in the middle of Lake Villarrica. A group of playful dogs decided to join us as we wound our way around the five kilometer road that coughed up view after view of impossibly-colored scenery, and warm, sun-bathed rocks from which to sleepily drink it all in. We spent several hours nestled among the mosses and underbrush-carpeted hills and beaches just staring at how endlessly blue the water and the sky seemed to be. I feel like this country just makes it too easy to be inspired; it should be more difficult to find yourself overcome by an incredible urge to wax poetic…or, at the very least, creative nonfiction/travel writing.

Before catching our overnight bus back to Viña, we filled up on our last few rounds of southern completos, and even played several hands of hearts while sipping tasty fruit milkshakes. My trusty yogurt spoon triumphed once again come dinner time on the bus; and we all found it just a bit easier to sleep this time around as we lumbered north, leaving those misty trees and circus tent hills behind us.

Pucón Saturday

Saturday, September 16

Seeing as how I’m still not quite in volcano-scaling shape, Alex and I decided to forgo the requisite Pucón death-confronting stunt in favor of a day of horseback riding and mountain biking. Turns out, Alex had never been on a horse before, so it was quite impressive to watch him progress from novice equestrian trying to straddle his first saddle (haha…that’s just cute), to galloping away into the late-morning Pucón distance, barely out of reach of our chatty guide who was trying to catch up with Alex’s runaway horse. Luckily, no one died, and we got to see an amazing panorama of the area from atop a dry bluff, the freakishly Windows computer screen background-tinted blue sky hanging like a flat two-dimensional sheet just beyond reach. Past the mirador, our private huaso (cowboy) guide led us on foot down a steep trail to see the 80 meter salto de claro, the Claro Waterfall, which seemed to fall from the sky, or at least from somewhere really high up in the suddenly rainforest-like canopy. And amid the intermittent gasps of naturaleza-inspired awe, our guide told us about his one-year stint in the Chilean army where he learned to gallop while doing a headstand in his saddle (oh yeah, he demonstrated), about how his mom used to work for Chilean poet Vicente Huidobro (the very same Huidobro whose tomb was inconveniently closed in Cartagena), and how he now has one of the poet’s jackets hanging in his closet, and about the changes he’s seen in his native Pucón over the last fifteen to twenty years. By the end of the three hours, we were both in a fair amount of pain and ready for our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Oh, we also found out that Alex is deathly allergic to horses.

After lunch, and some Claritin, we rented bikes and headed out to see Chile. We hadn’t calculated, however, the doloroso effect horseback riding can have on the exact parts that take such a bicycle seat-beating as you roll speedily over rocks and holes. But no matter; there was a whole country to see. We went from the rushing waters of the Río Trancura up into the hills overlooking small farm houses, clusters sheep and cows, split wood fences, pastures and tree-dotted slopes with views of the volcano, to winding back roads and tiny villages sparsely populated by friendly, direction-giving locals, all the way to Los ojos de Carburgua, a rushing confluence of waterfalls and icy spray, where we locked our bikes and picked our way around slippery-when-wet exposed roots and over rickety wooden look-out bridges. By then it was getting late, and we were pretty tired, so we headed back to the highway to return to Pucón, a trip which ended up being a grueling eighteen kilometer jaunt on the side of the at times bike lane-less carretera in the face of a formidable head wind. I suppose we should have realized how far we were riding as the volcano stopped being the looming white conical thing off in the distance, and began being that looming white conical thing shrinking behind us. But, despite the mortifyingly painful bicycle-seat-on-butt conditions, it was undeniably incredible to bike toward the sinking sun as it glowed orange in front of us, lighting up the looming white conical thing a rosy pink to off-set the freakish Windows blue of the surrounding sky.

Somewhere around 25 miles and one fantastically hot shower later, Alex and I headed for dinner at the local vegetarian restaurant where we gingerly slid into our rather un-cushiony seats. I had the most amazing vegetable-filled omelette every made by man, and then we were joined by Amanda and Graciela, who had survived the looming white conical thing—for better or for worse—for some good old-fashioned bar crawling. It turned out to be a rather pained and short-lived crawl; we were all a bit sore and sleepy.

Pucón or bust

Friday, September 15-Sunday, September 17

Early Friday morning we climbed back onto a bus, our supermarket-inspired breakfasts in tow (Travel Lesson #1: a yogurt spoon, whether brought from home or acquired while away, is an excellent choice), enroute to Pucón, one of many outdoorsy/adventure capitals of Chile, about three hours east, near the Argentine border. With about half-an-hour left in the trip, we started to see the conical white outlines of Volcán Villarrica cut against the impossibly blue plate of sky bathing the normally rain-sodden ninth region. It rises up in a fairly perfect triangular cone, set curiously apart from the surrounding circus tent-like threads of hills. Its snowy slopes look odd next to the rolling greens and tans and browns of everything else.

We were met at the bus station by a highly convincing hostel owner named Germán (pronounced Heir-mahn), who offered to drive us to his hostel so we could check it out. We later decided that the cute puppies playing on the patio were really just a ploy to snag the weary gringos who have a soft-spot for warm fuzzy things that chew your fingers and stare endearingly at your shoe laces. It didn’t matter, though; puppies aside, I was sold the moment I saw the 24-hour fireplace that promised warmth and happiness.

Pucón is a bit of an oddity. About fifteen years ago, tourist agencies and adventure-seeking travelers began pouring into the tiny town, demanding condos and hostels, Arab and vegetarian food, package trekking tours and zip lines, English menus and low-season discounts. The town itself consists of about six blocks along la Avenida O’Higgins, Chilean everytown’s mainstreet. It reminded me of being in Breckinridge or Switzerland, but with a few more empanadas and that ridiculous volcano towering in the background. The decidedly outdoorsy, adventure-seeking slanted tourist vibe helped make the place feel a lot less disgusting than I think it could have.

We spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out what to do for the rest of our stay, and then came up with the great idea to let Graciela cook us dinner in the hostel (with our communal help and supervision, of course). Pasta in a mushroom cream sauce with cucumbers and hard-boiled eggs was amazing, not to mention the peanut butter and banana binge that followed (just before the coffee and chocolate course). Then it was off to bed in preparation for Pucón Saturday.

Headin’ south to Valdivia

Wednesday, September 13-Thursday, September 14

After my singular class of the week, and a bit of difficulty hoisting my stuffed pack onto my back, I met up with Graciela and Alex at the Viña bus terminal for our 13 hour jaunt to southern Valdivia where we would meet up with Amanda. My sketchily-abbreviated copy of Mario Vargas Llosa’s La ciudad y los perros and my snacks kept me occupied for all of hours one and two, but from there I hit a bit of a wall as I tried uncomfortably to sleep as every single passenger on the sold-out bus made their way to the sole—and cada vez más—smelly bathroom, conveniently located behind my seat.

Early the next morning, we rolled into sleepy, foggy, chilly Valdivia, a smallish university town on the coast of Chile’s ninth region. From inside our cozy bus, we watched heavy-eyed as the trees seemed to appear out of nowhere, in slow-motion, through the gauzy whiteness. Guide book-quality humble shacks dotted the paisaje, their chimneys beginning to signal the start of a new day. Climbing out of the bus, and then making our way to the nearest hostel, I became increasingly happy with my decision to have brought along my long underwear.

A little while later, we found ourselves with a few extra layers of clothing sitting down to a breakfast of eggs and completos—the first of many Chilean-style, everything goes hot dogs of the trip. After breakfast, we strolled through the outdoor seafood market and some surrounding parks as we headed out to Niebla, a small town with the ruins of 17^th-century Spanish settlements. We happened to stumble upon the annual fiestas patrias parade as we walked into town, so we mingled with the clusters of Niebla-folk as they cheered on the rows of carabineros, school children, volunteer bomberos (fire-fighters), members of the local workers’ union, traditionally-clad dancers and singers, gun-toting regiments in silly hats, and gun-toting regiments in silly hats riding horses. There were small Chilean children dressed in impossibly adorable outfits hopping around with their kerchiefs to la cueca, and a tent-sheltered cluster of important people being presented with a mysterious jug filled with mysterious liquid—we later learned it was filled with traditional Chilean chicha, a type of wine.

As the parade petered out, we made our way to the remains of the Spanish fort, which sits atop a lovely outcropping of cliff overlooking a winding lake that separates Niebla from the cliffy outcroppings across the way. In addition to the sweet canons we spent time gazing at, we picked our way through the prickly, yellow-flowered thickets and underbrush, climbing around the ruins, taking pictures of the lighthouse, and reuniting with the various gun-toting regiments in silly hats (though without horses) who had apparently decided to re-take the fort just as we were intent on exploring it. They marched through the fort in neat little rows and then lined up in more neat little rows to have their pictures taken. Then they decided to take pictures of Amanda and Graciela, which we all found a bit strange, so we went away and left them to their neat little rows.

From Niebla, we stopped at the Cervecería Kuntsman on the road back to Valdivia to sample Chile’s very own beer. The guide book-promised tours were apparently a lie, but after lingering around for awhile and ordering a requisite one beer and completo piled high with palta, one of the bartenders took us on an improvised tour of the barley-smelling rooms behind the restaurant where they distill and filter and do all the wonderful things that they do to bring you their lovely Kuntsman beer. Alex was particularly excited by the fact that he was skipping a day of class in order to go to a beer factory.

No one had really slept on the bus ride the night before and, despite a stop for coffee before leaving Niebla, palta-flavored rejuvenation, and sun-soaked resting among Spanish fortifications, we decided it was time for a nap and some even more necessary showering. I’ve never really been able to sleep on demand, though, so I made myself satisfied with a sporadically hot shower and clean socks. Then we headed for food and soon found ourselves practically drowning in seafood deliciousness and bread. I love how varying degrees of chewiness can keep my mouth entertained for many dinners on end. My seafood stew was overflowing with squishy tentacles and lots of curly arm-looking things that were all quite tasty and intriguing. But the chewy squishiness eventually se acabo’d, and we changed locations to Bunkers, a bar Minna had told me about that was just across the river. We happily passed the rest of the night away sampling our first vainas, another Chilean aperitif that’s kind of like the eggnog version of pisco sours, as well as some exceptional daiquiris. There was even a mid-evening chocolate run involved before we finally gave in to the call of our frigid—though decidedly more comfortable than bus seats—hostel beds.

Monday, September 11

After a fairly depressing physical therapy session which ended with us deciding that I couldn’t really do anything that day due to the incredibly contracted and painful state of my leg muscles (way to go, Valpo), as well as the recent discovery of a rather large, rather raised, rather disturbing mass in the exact place that damn shopping cart fell on top of my ankle, I returned home for lunch with Seba, my mom, an uncle, and a cousin. Tasty garbanzos made physical therapy yummily melt away, and I chuckled at times slightly uncomfortably as the four of them went on an anti-leftist rant. Pinochet, who came to power in Chile in 1973 through a military coup, chose September 11^th as the day to oust the socialist Salvador Allende amid a smattering of bombs, arrests, and general maiming (not to mention the occasional CIA assistance). The country, still noticeably divided between those who supported the coup and those who didn’t, get a bit touchy whenever the subject comes up, especially if it’s September. So there I was, garbanzo-laden spoon half-way between my bowl and my mouth, when my host mom proclaims she’s as far-right as you can get and can’t stand anyone with socialist leanings, my brother curses all the crazies at the U. de Valpo, my happily revolutionary sanctuary four blocks from home, and all four of them gasp as I tell them that after lunch I’m planning on heading to Valpo—yes, all by myself—that I kind of want to see the yearly protests in the Plaza Sotomayor. Suddenly the conversation switches gears and we’re once again discussing the respective prices of meat at the Santa Isabel around the corner and the one by the mall.

My trek through Valpo, camera slyly tucked away in my fleece pocket, in search of the heavily-touted manifestaciones turned out rather disappointing. Apparently they had taken place at exactly the same time I was not doing physical therapy. So, a bit irritated, I took to wandering again, this time uncovering a slightly seedier end of the city, and then later finding a cool arty store where I bought some postcards. Finding myself again in Plaza Victoria, I called Cristian to see if I could stop by his apartment to pick up some photocopies he’d gotten for me for our geography class. “Stopping by” turned into coffee, which turned into onces, which turned into picking up Chinese spring rolls and bread, which turned into a chocolate run, which turned into camping out in his apartment until about 1a.m. with Minna and his cousin, finishing off their rum and laughing about the fact that I still had this essay I needed to write before my 10a.m. class the next day. It was okay, though, because in this oddity of a pair of cities, the micros are always full and always running, be it a Monday, be it at 5a.m., be it cold and windy with clouds rolling in from the north (something that signals bad weather’s on it’s way—thank you monográfico de la geografía de Chile). And besides, it’s worth it if it means discovering that, in some past life, you had a Chilean alter-ego/gemelo.

Sunday in the city

After a relaxing morning updating facebook and catching up on my correspondence, I struck out yesterday in the direction of Valparaíso. It was another gorgeous day, the sky streaked by light fingery clouds high above the impossibly flat blue sea. I got off the micro near the port, just past the Plaza Sotomayor in the financial heart of the city. I was determined to find el Museo Lukas which I’d passed many weeks earlier on the COPA tour of Valpo. “Lukas,” which is actually a pseudonym that stands in for a six-word-long Italian name, was a famous Chilean cartoonist who lived in Valparaíso, worked for El Mercurio, and won a whole bunch of journalist and cartoonist awards. It took me awhile, but after riding up the Ascensor Peral on Cerro Alegre, asking a friendly man for directions, bajando-ing and then subiendo-ing a few times, walking past the Mirador Atkins on Cerro Concepción twice (and having the Historia de Valparaíso thrust in my face when I asked someone else for directions), and some more looping back and forth through the seemingly endless curves and hills, I finally found the museum. I apparently wasn’t the only one who had trouble finding it, because I practically had the place to myself, meaning that I was able to take full advantage the fact that there wasn’t anyone around to give me strange looks as I chuckled to myself and made funny faces in reaction to Lukas’ cartoons.

Satisfied with the level of Lukas, I left the museum to wander. In trying to locate a guide book-recommended boutique, which turned out to be appropriately closed since it was Sunday, I found myself hiking up some deserted streets below Ascensor Concepción, and then heaving my way up a series of stairs next to the Ascensor Espiritu Santo. The view of the harbor, of the plan, of Viña and Reñaca and Con Con off in the distance, of the thinly-stretched shelves of clouds hanging above the horizon, makes me want to sit down in the middle of the sidewalk and paint…or write. Or just sit there and stare, perhaps with a picnic of some sort. And it’s not just the view that has me so thoroughly taken with this city; it’s the visible, tangible expression of personality, of life that’s so overwhelming. All available wall space in this place is overrun by color. Not only are the houses and shutters and doors painted vibrantly, but there are murals and stencils and mosaics and sculptures and graffiti and drawings wherever you look. And the winding streets and sidewalks and paths take you right through peoples’ backyards, through narrow passageways, by kitchen windows, next to porches and patios. It feels so intimate and secluded, but still very warm and inclusive. And oh goodness, people are friendly.

After my large amount of wandering, which landed me in Plaza Victoria, browsing artisan stalls, I called Cristian and we met up for coffee. He took me to this great coffee shop that I’d passed about an hour before and had decided I wanted to come back to. We spent a couple of hours lounging on the couches in the basement, chatting about traveling and Chile and who knows what. It’s so cool to find myself having long conversations in Chilean Spanish. Then for dinner Alex and I went to Jerusalem, the hummus-dispensing Middle Eastern restaurant of amazingness that I recently discovered in Viña. It was amazing. Back at home, he even massaged my muscularly-challenged leg, per therapist’s orders. Oh, how convenient. Oh, what a lovely day. A day which, by the way, ended with the whole family talking and laughing around cake.

A quick review

So not only was there a lack of a history test on Thursday, there was also a lack of classes in general at UV. In their place, I stumbled upon piles of history and philosophy students huddled in groups in random corners and stairways of the facultad, drinking cheap wine and beer, eating empanadas and completos, smoking a variety of things, and being generally content in the class-less environment. I did have Spanish class, though, so it wasn't a complete vacation. Afterward, I trekked through the nearby Jumbo in search of Jew food ingredients since there is an epic multicultural dinner in the works--between myself, Alex, Minna, Cristian, Graciela, and Cristian's friend Juan, we should be finding ourselves swimming among Jewish, Irish, Finnish, Chilean, Mexican, and Italian yumminess. Unfortanetly, Chile doesn't seem to believe in most Jewish food, so the search continues...and the dinner is temporarily suspendida.

Thursday night poker with friendly Chileans who live above a grocery store (it's like my dream...) may become a weekly thing. I was even treated to some of Carlos' banana bread--he's so domestic! Afterward, there was a bit of a Carleton reunion at Huevo, where we happily danced the night away--and I managed to avoid spilling my piña colada on my shoe this time. The next day, I ecstatically located the guide book-highlighted Arab restaurant in Viña and purchased some super-exciting hummus that I'd been craving. Later that night, Graciela and I headed over to Cristian's apartment for a party that interestingly included our history class TA and his girlfriend. We somehow managed to spend a good six hours crouching around the potato chips and eclectic assortment of copetes, singing various national anthems (it's quite a multicultural group, as has already been established), taking pictures, and chatting it up in that silly Chilean dialect. I got to poke fun at my impressively drunk ayudante, and I may even have secured myself a passing grade on the test...if we ever end up having it, that is. And even though I sometimes feel a little confused by my friendship with Cristian and Minna--or really confused, depending on how much "tutoring" has taken place that day--I had a really good time with them and everyone else, and I honestly feel like they've become more than just missionary friends. I'm still not exactly sure how or why that happened, but it's a pretty amazing feeling to suddenly find yourself surrounded by a roomful of boisterously-friendly Chileans et. al. who genuinely like you and enjoy spending time with you--and with whom you can actually participate. It made me smile. Plus, I got to tell my host parents this morning that I got home at 5am, which I think scored me points with my mom.

Alex came over for lunch today to meet the parents--for some reason the usually overflowing apartment was just the four of us, but that probably made things less overwhelming. It's comforting to have someone wholeheartedly agree with my at times luke-warm feelings about my family situation. I think I made Alex feel super-excited about his own family (who had sushi the other night, by the way). Graciela, Alex, and I then headed off to buy bus tickets--we're headed for Valdivia and then Pucón this coming Wednesday for some brewery touring, volcano summiting, mountain biking, and general Lake District amazingness. The plan is to be back early Monday morning so we can still enjoy the Fiestas Patrias (September 18 is Chilean Independence Day). Later I wandered around Valpo in search of La ciudad y los perros, a novel by Mario Vargas Llosa that Cristian and I have to read for our project in history. I can't believe how little time I've spent exploring that city--it's an amazing place, especially on bright, sunny Saturdays when the streets and plazas are overflowing with antiques-vendors, used-book sellers, random Fiestas Patrias accoutrements, all kinds of food and shoes and packages of pills. I finally decided on a version that's a bit shorter than what Cristian has--I haven't quite decided if that was a good idea or not since I just realized that the index doesn't quite match up with the page numbers.

Oh, history

So that test that was supposed to be Monday but that got moved to Thursday has now been “suspendida” once again. Cristian called me around 9pm, his cell phone cutting in and out, to tell me that I could stop studying because Josue had just called him with the news. Once again camped out on my bed, surrounded by my now-completed fichas (about 70 or so in total), I smiled and thought to myself how very strange this country is.

I’ve found myself once again running (still not literally, but I think I’m getting closer!) from one thing to the next this week. Despite how obnoxious it is to always feel like you’re pressed for time, it’s kind of comforting—a sure sign that I’m settling myself into a routine and acostumbrandome. I’ve got myself a nice little schedule that includes two classes a day Monday through Thursday (though that includes a three-hour-long class on Tuesdays before my COPA Spanish class), physical therapy three times a week, and three happy days of weekend and Viña/Valpo nightlife. My host mom has even come around to the idea of me making my own dinners when I get home at night—I think she might even enjoy it now.

Alex and I finally got to spend some time together last night. We went searching for a place to have dinner and somehow found ourselves deciding between gringo-plastered Café Journal and a bar/restaurant across the street. We elected for the place across the street only to find that they were empanada-less for the day (this, of course, was only found out after we’d ordered a starter-sandwich because they’d told us they’d be ready in an hour). It was okay, though, because their pisco sours were really cheap, and the sandwich ended up being really big. But in the end we gave in and transferred to Café Journal a few hours later, where we ordered an empanada. It’s an oddly surreal feeling to suddenly find yourself leaning on the arm of someone so intimately familiar in a place that has nothing to do with the origin of that familiarity. I keep having to remind myself that yes, it is possible for us to both be here, at the same time, together. But strangeness aside—or maybe strangeness on top of strangeness; it depends on how I choose to approach it—it seems that, in addition to the fact that it’s possible for us to both be here, I think it’s also possible for us to successfully both be here—as a couple, and as individuals. So that’s cool, if complicated.

After my poetry class today, I met up with Cristian in Valpo and we headed to the municipal library (cool, by the way) to study for our test…which at the time was not suspendida. My relationship with Cristian confuses me sometimes. I’m not exactly sure why he’s chosen to take me under his wing. I’ve recently developed the theory that he and Minna see themselves as exchange student missionaries—they search out bumbling gringas and invite them to their house, to their parties, to their study sessions; they make them feel like they have friends; then they release them back into the wild of their home countries where the students are able to proudly declare that they made friends with the natives (and the overly-blonde, casi-natives), and here’s a picture of us at Isla Negra as proof. It turned out that 1., Cristian had lent his fichas to Ernesto, and therefore had no materials with him, that 2., he already knew everything there was to know about Latin America ever, and that 3., he had decided that he would teach me, the poor, stupid, bumbling gringa all his wondrous knowledge in the most condescending way possible. Lovely. I’ll be the first to admit that, despite the fact that I’m a Latin American Studies major, my knowledge of Latin American history is sorely lacking, but I wasn’t quite prepared to feel as degraded as I ended up feeling. I’m really not used to finding myself in a position in which I feel like my very ability to reason is being questioned. It’s an odd feeling when you realize that the person you’re with may actually think you’re completely stupid. And it’s not your broken Spanish that’s struggling to explain the concept of Latin American economic development “hacia adentro” that makes the person question your IQ; it’s the simple fact that he thinks you’re dumb. And you don’t really have a way to prove him otherwise. So we sat there for a couple hours, and despite the soul-crushing condescension, I learned some good stuff about Latin American history. Plus, he invited me to Huevo for tomorrow night.

It's just dreadfully blue

Weekends really have a way of taking it out of you. After my ever-so-short reunion with Alex on Friday afternoon, I met up with my friend Cristian and his girlfriend Minna and we headed off to San Antonio, his hometown. As our bus whisked its way through the windy roads of Valpo and out into the surrounding hillside, I couldn’t help but smile a bit overly-gleefully at the fact that I was starring out the window, drinking in the darkening countryside, on my way to my Chilean friend’s hometown.

I was welcomed into his family’s toasty-warm living room where we were all treated to a starch-filled onces and quality Chilean banter. Cristian has two younger siblings, a brother who’s 17 and a sister who’s 11, who decided fairly early on that my still relatively limited grasp of Chilean Spanish makes for a great laughter target. His mom seemed to agree. Later that night we went over to Cristian’s best friend’s house where some other people met up for a night of music videos and karaoke. Someone forgot to tell me that San Antonio, though only an hour and a half south of Valpo, is quite ridiculously cold. I huddled shivering on the couch, clutching my copete, and feigning recognition every time a new song came on that still hadn’t broken into the Clear Channel market. His friends were really nice, though, and I’ve decided I really like Minna, even though her accent makes me cringe with jealousy (she spent a year in San Antonio while in high school, and has been living in Chile on and off for a couple years, I think. Were it not for her highly-blonde appearance, you’d never suspect her of having non-Chilean ancestry). As it neared 3am—or 4am, I’m never really sure—I was doing everything I could to stave off the highly-attractive force of the arm of the couch. In doing so, I discovered a wonderful Chilean snack mix that included something reminiscent of Cheetos among the other rather delightful components. When we finally got back to Cristian’s house, Minna and I climbed into his twin-sized bed, shivering uncontrollably (despite our high levels of copete) in his decidedly helado room. But I was too tired to care; I wrapped myself around my five layers of clothing and fell fast asleep.

The next morning, Cristian lovingly woke us at 10am so we could have some breakfast and then make our way to Isla Negra, where Pablo Neruda’s favorite house is. In diligent Emily fashion, I reached for my camera as our bus heaved us alongside the ridiculously-blue Chilean mar. I love how every town in this country seems to just cascade down the rolling green hills, their colorful square houses falling gently on top of each other, picturesquely clustering themselves just above the jagged rocks and crashing foam of the coast. It didn’t hurt that the sun had decided to ease last night’s frigidness, lighting up the sky so the blue above met the blue below with a certain sharpness that you just couldn’t stop starring at.

I have to say, I wasn’t exactly brimming with excitement at the idea of paying to see another one of Pablo Neruda’s houses, but it turns out that a visit to Isla Negra is one of the most stirring experiences on the planet. I felt like poetry was seeping out of my pores. His house, which is filled with some of the most unbelievable collections of everything ever imaginable, is perched above a wind-swept span of rock and sand and waves. Contemplative travelers dotted the boulder-filled beach, their backs toward the house, taking in the spray that sprang up every time another giant wave crashed against the rocks, temporarily obscuring the fields of seaweed that clung to the lower rocky outcroppings. Cristian helped me climb out to the more heavily-sprayed boulders, and Minna and I took pictures with the stone Pablo Neruda head that sat atop one of them, ever pondering the seductive Chilean mar.

When we’d had our fill of house and mar, we headed to a nearby restaurant where we had our fill of Chilean fixed-price lunches, which were quite tasty despite the fact that my “ensalada surtida” was composed of four slices of cooked beets, a peeled tomato that had seen better days, a serving of frozen mixed vegetables that didn’t really have any taste, and potato “salad,” which was really just cubed potatoes covered in Chilean-style mayonnaise. But the chicken was good.

Afterwards, we headed to Cartagena, another coastal town about fifteen minutes away, where we strolled along the beach, played a few games of foosball, and then went in search of the poet Vicente Huidobro’s tombstone. A few wrong turns and an unexpectedly-long hike later, we found his grave, though it was apparently closed for the day, meaning that it was surrounded by a ten-foot fence. Luckily, my new Finnish friend wouldn’t rest until she’s scaled the fence and taken a series of photos of the gravestone for me to show my poetry professor (we’re currently reading Huidobro). Once she’d safely made it back over the fence, we headed back to San Antonio where I unsuccessfully tried to nap in preparation for that night’s asado and carreteando. A shower and another bread-filled onces were had instead, and before I knew it I was shivering again, though this time in someone else’s house. The asado took a bit longer than expected—we didn’t end up eating until 1:30am, but I had a really good time with the dozen-or-so friends that showed up. There was even guitar-playing and group singing led by a dread-lock-toting random Chilean. And when it was finally ready, the meat, potatoes, and churripan were pretty amazing.

To my surprise, at 3am Cristian decided that he still wanted to go out dancing, so we trekked through the now even chillier San Antonio air toward the club. I found this annoying, given the fact that I’d decided not to bring my boot and was now hobbling uncomfortably in my brace and black going-out shoes, but I was happy to find myself suddenly much warmer as we entered the overflowing club. After dancing off a good portion of the night’s churripan, we headed for home (this time, thankfully, in a colectivo), and Minna and I again climbed into bed where I curled up in my now six layers of clothing.

Sunday, which happily didn’t start for me until about noon, was pretty much marked by Cristian and my desperate attempts to find out if Monday’s scheduled test in contemporary history had or had not been changed to Thursday. In between our fruitless efforts to get in touch with our TA, though, there was a good amount of almorzandoing and onceing to be done. There was even a good portion of Emily compulsively freaking out and camping herself at the dining room table to work on history fichas (index cards). After a rather overwhelming stop at Cristian’s grandparents’ house, we boarded our bus and headed back to Valpo. I frantically did fichas the entire way back. But in between the fichas, Cristian, Minna, and I talked about various plans that included camping and making s’mores and having Jewish/Finnish/Chilean dinners (I, by the way, am the first Jew Cristian has ever met. We both found this strange). Right before I got off the bus in Viña, and after Cristian and Minna had already gotten off at their stop in Valpo, I started talking with a fellow U. de Valpo student who was also on the bus and had recognized me (and who was surprised when I told him I was from the U.S.; he though I was French). Walking home across the bridge from the plaza, I couldn’t hide my stupid gringa smile. I don’t really know when it happened, but I’ve made myself a little life here. And this time, I feel like I’ve really done it on my own—without the help of pre-approved Mexican consejeros. I can’t help but feel at least a little pleased with myself.

Around 12:45am, sitting on my bed surrounded by my growing pile of completed fichas, though eyeing the stack of lectura that still had to be dealt with and trying to measure it in relation to how much coffee I would have to make, I got a call from the TA who told me that the test had been moved to Thursday.

I heart Special K

So despite yesterday's unexpected downpour--that left me very near to being stranded once again in the middle of my street (though this time without a friendly car-toting Chilean in sight)--I woke up to a gorgeous spring-like blue mixed with gorgeous spring-like brightness and even some gorgeous spring-like warmth. Quite the day for Alex to finally arrive. I'll have to remember to never take international flights with him--wherever he tries to go, he attracts hurricanes and freak thunderstorms like tiny magnetic filaments...though, admittedly, they're probably really destructive filaments. Anyway, it was great fun calling him from outside the hotel window as he was in the middle of having lunch with his group. His leader joined in on the fun and started taking pictures with his camera phone, first through the window and then later outside with us on the street, as we said hello. The 21 or so girls in his program thought it was quite cute. And now I have a gigantic box of Mexican-style Special K sitting in my armoir in my room. It may look like it's been through a few wars--and I suppose the situation in the zocaló of Oaxaca wasn´t too far off from that--but I couldn't be happier. How strange it is, after so much time bitterly eyeing the montón of couples mauling each other on every single bench in every single rincón of Chile, to finally find myself next to Alex again. It's fairly surreal, but in a good way.

After our short reunion, I met up with my UV advisor, Pepe, to complete the matriculation process for my three recently decided upon courses. While we were waiting for one of the secretaries to get back from lunch, we chatted about all the places he's been and how neither of us can stand the bureaucracy that is Chile. He also told me that I have a very resistant quality that not everyone has. I don't think it translates very well to English, but I promise it sounded like a compliment--something about being independent, I believe. He seemed impressed that I was managing to live between/within two different worlds--that of the typical extranjero experience, replete with lots of Americans and group activities, and that of a stronger immersion experience. I don't know if I'd go quite that far, but I definitely feel like I'm managing to construct some sort of balance between spending time with friends on the program and spending time trying to truly live as a Chilean. At the very least, I'm super-excited by the fact that I have Chilean friends--friends who seem quite eager to let me copy their homework and tests, which I find odd. Cheating is apparently the norm in this country. But anyway, I'm off to San Antonio for the weekend...which feels kind of odd given the fact that Alex just got here, but I'm excited.