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.