Culture. Culture. Culture.

Words + Books (two of my fav things) at
Centro Cultural Palacio de La Moneda. More on that in a bit.

This week, the circumference of the area of Santiago I can recognize got considerably larger. Thanks to a couple of excursions hosted by my language school and another spontaneous outing or two, I have quite the round-up of city culture to share with you to prove that it’s certainly not for nothing that The New York Times voted this fair city its Numero Uno travel destination for 2011.

Impressive entry, eh?
We made it to the top!

1. Cerro Santa Lucia. This hill in the middle of Santiago offers an incredible wraparound view of the city, only to be beat by Cerro San CristĂłbal one carro over. My new friends and I certainly weren’t complaining. Thanks to this being one of our teacher’s favorite spots in the entire city, she told us all  about the man who inspired the park (and founded the city on my birthday–in 1541–no less), conquistador Pedro de Valdivia.

Students have lodged desks and
chairs into the fencing of schools
all over the city.

2. GAM (Centro Gabriela Mistral). This contemporary cultural center (also pictured in the NYTimes feature) is in my new fav neighborhood, Belles Artes, and like its neighboring barrio, Bellavista, sports healthy doses of Bohemian chic, great restaurants, and that energy I always feel when I cross into the East Village, the Mission, the Castro, various SoHos, etc. It also has the Universidad CatĂłlica across the street, so my friends and I emerged from the metro in the middle of one of the student protests (don’t worry, this one was peaceful and sans tear gas) that have been going on the past month or so. The students are calling for real reform for equalized and affordable access to higher ed. It’s humbling, inspiring, and daunting to know the lengths to which these students are going to in order to fight for education rights. My friend and I knew best to just get out of their way and we headed into GAM to check out “InspiraciĂłn: Sara Facio en Chile,” a retrospective exhibition of photography spanning 1960-2005. I wasn’t familiar with Sara Facio’s work, but I’m now her new biggest fan. Her black/whites captured Pablo Neruda and every Latin American escritor you can think of (and all the ones you can’t), Salvador Allende, and luminaries of film and feminism.

At only 150 years old,
these statures carved by the
Mapuches to guide you to the
afterlife are the youngest
objets d’art in the museo.
The First Computer!! A.k.a. The Quipu.
This impressive weaving of strings and knots
recorded information about the
Incan Empire’s food supplies, population, etc.

3. Museo Chileno de Arte Precolumbino. Our school group was supposed to tour Pablo Neruda’s Santiago home today, but rain put the power out, so we retreated into this amazing museum (near Santiago’s Plaza de Armas, a square with the national post office, a gorgeous cathedral, and within spitting distance of many a government building.) I have to admit that on paper this place doesn’t exactly have my name all over it, but I’m so glad I viewed its incredible collection of ceramics and textiles from South and Central America. I highly recommend a guided tour as our docent told us incredible things about the artifacts housed here, many dating back at least 500 years (Pre-Columbus y conquistadores, as is the museum’s premise) and others up to 5,000 years!!!

The lobby, lined in bambo and a
bookstore. What could be better?!

4. Centro Cultural Palacio de La Moneda. This cultural center is within walking distance of Museo Chileno de Arte Precolumbino, but is all new. It opened in 2006 and houses Chile’s national film archive, the Cineteca Nacional. Many shops offer modern versions of the artifacts across the street as well as classes so you can try your own hand at weaving and metalwork.

All of this culture makes for one week with five three-hour Spanish lessons, three museums, and one big hill! I can’t wait to see what’s in store next as I keep expanding the circumference I navigate down here.

Santiago and I have a lot in common 🙂

The Bolso Thief

 

The above pic reflects my love of my new fav restaurant, Liguria, but first I have to tell you how we got there…

Whenever we travel abroad, we are warned to keep a close eye on our belongings. Leave the nicer jewelry at home. Get a fanny pack. Keep your passport in the hotel safe. Don’t carry all your cash at once… We do this mostly because we think the caution will prevent the theft. Unfortunately, this advice had a big pay out yesterday for one of my new school friends when we dined at “Oh! Salad Garden” (the name is apt, as stumbling upon a hearty, healthy salad bar in the middle of Providencia and a stone’s throw from Mickey D’s did literally inspire an Oh! Salad! response from me and my lunch cohorts.)

There we were, upstairs, in a corner booth, literally suspended over the first floor. Our collective caution may have wained, as surely no one could do a drive-by bag-snatching from this vantage point! It wasn’t until we were gathering our belongings to leave that we realized someone had done just that — made off with my friend’s bag! But how could this be?! The party of three dining next to us didn’t see anything. No one pulled the ‘Oh, I’m sorry to bump into you like this (while I reach into your pocket and grab your wallet)’ routine. Sure enough, the second we went downstairs and mentioned bolso to the cashier, she nodded her head, gave us that knowing look that requires no translation, and inside of five seconds pulled up the footage of not one, but four security cameras. Looking like the unawares subjects of a “Candid Camera” episode, there we were paying for our meal. There we were taking our seats. And there we were putting our bags down (mine under the table, but my friend’s on the ground next to her feet.)

Oh, and there was that nice looking woman taking a seat just before the party of three sat down. Wait, she didn’t even have a tray with an Oh! Salad! on it. There she was taking off her coat and putting it on the back of her chair as she slyly sussed out of our table goods. There she was making her move, using her foot (Oh! Her Foot!) to ever so subtly hook the loose shoulder-strap and drag the bag under her own table like it was being heave-hoed by an army of ants. Within another minute, she was up, bag concealed, and on her way… It happened right before my eyes and I didn’t see a thing.

My friend, though shocked, kept her cool to an admirable degree. She lost a hefty wad of cash, a credit card, a driver’s license, a library card, a camera. But at least she wasn’t carrying her passport. At least her debit card was back at their apartment. At least these were just things that can all be replaced. At least this was, for all intents and purposes, a petty crime. But it’s a violation nonetheless, a theft of an extension of your body if you read enough medical terminology about peripersonal space.

She canceled her credit card and found out that our bolso thief had made but one charge in the meantime — to that same Mickey D’s down the street! For all of a double-quarter-pounder-sized fee of $9.01. At this, we had to laugh. Our thief stole a wallet from Oh! Salad Garden and headed straight to McDonald’s!?

We reported the crime to the school and went to the police station to write up a report, which had its own allure thanks to the pure novelty of it. What would a Chilean police station look like?! I imagine this is what first-time visitors to the U.S. might say about an opportunity to go to the DMV or the neighborhood laundromat. In other words, there wasn’t much to it. A few carabineros lined up, a ticket number to pull like we were in line at the deli, the Chile v. Peru game of the Copa AmĂ©rica about to start on the mounted tele. And, even though our number was next to be called, a good long while to wait. But first we had to find the camisarĂ©ia de policĂ­a, which is always a little tricky when street signs look like this:

 

Then we did the only thing there was left to do — take my new friend for a glass of wine and a good meal, which we found at adorable Liguria in Providencia. There, we relaxed, caught Chile’s last-minute goal to secure a victory over Peru and chanting cheers from our fellow diners, and realized that while she may have lost her bag, at least she had the best excuse in the book for not being able to complete her Spanish homework that night. A bolso thief stole her homework — literally.

Today, I told my Spanish teacher what happened (as I may not have spent too much time on the future tense myself thanks to our unexpected adventure). Our incident was no surprise to my profesora, who shared a saying here in Chile that I like for many reasons: Tu ves caras, pero no corazones, which means “You see faces, but not hearts.” Wolves have a habit of dressing in sheep’s clothing in other words. That said, without exception, the people I’ve gotten to know here in Chile soon show helpful, open, smiling hearts, whether it was the director of the school who told us what to do or the guy at the police stall next to us who learned English at a German school once and offered to stick around and translate our story so the policeman could file the report (What? Bolsa del ella ropa doesn’t tell the story? Of course it doesn’t since that actually means “the plastic bag of the girl clothing.” (The verb I actually needed was fue robado, but I won’t be learning the past tense until tomorrow.)

So, I don’t share this story to make anyone weary of Santiago or Santiaguinos. I mean, the same crimes (and far worse) go down back home, back everywhere (coming out of the metro in Paris, a nice woman pushing 70 jabbered at me in fast French until I noticed her tiny hand was in my own bolso and on my wallet). Rather, this is all to say that by the end of a harried day, I had made two new friends, which is what I need more than anything here. After all, little did we know that when we sat down to lunch, we’d be sharing dinner a few hours later and would each be a key figure in one of those stories you just have to tell people when you get home.

The Self Once Removed

Hola! Hmm….

Back to the books, er, los libros.

Yeah, how was it that I “technically” just spoke in Spanish with a teacher and another student for three hours?! Yet, ask me to repeat any of it now and, well, you’ll get some hemming and hawing that might not be discernible in either language. To better qualify, thirty percent of my participation during the lesson was Italian or some sort of combination thereof, as somehow the nascent Italian I stumbled through during two years of undergrad percolates to the surface the moment I’m in any foreign country (it need not be Italy). However, when I do have the good fortune to be in Italy, 8th grade Spanish elbows Italian right out of the way in order to come out first. Now, here in Santiago, I find myself grabbing for short Italian straws when I’m trying to tell my ever-patient, kind, and all-around lovely maestra (see, that’s Italian) which two streets my house is between or that my cup (vaso, not copa, fyi) has coffee in it (of course it does).

Nonetheless, it was riveting (read: exhausting) to communicate completely in my target language for such an extended period of time (my longest Spanish convo to date happened in a check-out line). Even if the vocabulary was sparse and everything was in the present tense, it was the kickstart I needed to know that I can leave the house and communicate. That I will. That my ability to do so will improve. Let’s not forget, I’m doing this all over again tomorrow (for hundreds of tomorrows).

After all, we learn about ourselves all over again when we have to translate our ideas, jokes, professions, family stats, etc., into another language for others to figure out who the heck we are. It’s the self, once removed, if you will. For instance, now I know: Yo soy periodista. Estoy estudiando pedagogĂ­a en InglĂ©s. Let’s stop there; that will do. Back home, I could spin yarns about working in magazines for however many years now, how I studied English and Creative Writing as an undergrad and grad and TA’ed for that senior thesis class. Oh, you lived in NY then, too? Oh, you’ve read such-and-such also? Wasn’t that great?! Et cetera. Here, my relevant professional background and interests boil down to two short sentences, which is two more than I had when I left the house and didn’t know the word for pencil (lápiz). Class was wonderful because my hitherto-truncated personality peeked out to say hello. For three weeks in Chile, I’ve been used to having a joke at the ready and absolutely no way to express it (and the punchline won’t really wait for Google Translate). Instead, it’s usually been a laugh and a nod and there you have it.

I know I’m not the first person to move to a foreign country sans competence in said foreign country’s language. I remember from the reassurance of others that once I start dreaming in the new language, that will be the sign. At that point, I will be immersed! I will be fluent(ish)! There has been absolutely nada dreaming in Spanish, but I did have an interesting and perhaps revealing dream… I got added to the old cast of SNL and got to do a skit with Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon (I know, best dream ever). Except, things went horribly wrong. I had to wend my way through the skit with a male Russian accent, I spent the whole time waiting for the laughs, and Tina got fired for hiring me. When I shared this dream with Ryan, he said he had some similar “acting/performance” dreams when he first moved here because that’s exactly what speaking in a foreign tongue — for most of the day — demands of you: performed language, performed self. One day, they merge, right? I guess that’s when I’ll start dreaming in Spanish. And Tina Fey won’t get fired for my lame jokes.

Okay, best get going on my homework in my book that, like class, sports ZERO English! I guess my Italian-Spanish will just have to figure out the rest.

Hasta luego!

LOST.

I was about to start blogging about my new favorite pencils (I mean these are some pretty cool writing devices), so I knew it was time to leave the house.
Love me some old-school pencils.

I’ll admit it, I’ve been a bit of a hermit the past couple of weeks (no worries, this is a proven symptom of culture shock). Sure, I’ve managed the market and even walked a couple of barrios over to get my Visa pics snapped, but I’ve spent the majority of my time indoors, adding pages to the novel, brushing up on my English grammar as I prep for my TEFL course, and let’s be honest, nursing a healthy-sized social media addiction since it’s the easiest, fastest way to both stay in the loop with friends and publishing buzz back home, and this blog seems to be the fastest, easiest way to share my goings-on with all of you. I’ll say right here that it means a great deal to me that you all read this and comment and cheer me on. Thanks to Twitter, I now have even more blogs and websites to visit in the AM, as I’m sure all of you do too, so I appreciate you stopping to check in. It makes those 6,000 miles shrink a bit — and I thank you.

So pretty.

Ok, back to my outdoor adventure. My mission? Scout out two hotels for upcoming visitors – my mom and “big sis” Macey. So, I did what any smart/cell-phone-less person would do. I looked up the locales on a certain online mapping service and wrote out some directions with paper and pencil (see above), and set out! The sun was shining, I bought myself a gelato, the daytime stars were aligning. I was downright owning this new city. Until I got lost. Now, I know there’s much to be discovered from getting lost and all that jazz, but at the moment I was just heading back and forth across the same bridge (which it turned out never required crossing) not once, but twice in an effort to find the first hotel. I mean, this trusty mapping service told me Diego de Velasquez was on the left, so if I just keep crossing this bridge, I know I’ll find it, right? Wrong. I felt like Michael Scott from that episode of The Office when he drives his rental car straight into a pond just because the GPS told him to.

View from the bridge I crossed four times.
Think that bird was as lost as I was.

Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I was able to get myself back onto 11 de Septiembre and locate the hotel. Success! Until I attempted the second hotel. Sta. Beatriz should just be right off Providencia, right? Well, right, except that that trusty mapping service told me to go left instead of right, so I was pretty much home before I realized my error. I even circled back and still didn’t find it, but tried to at least track down serge protectors and a desk lamp on this leg of the sojourn, also without success, at which point I came home, pretty much owned by this city. 
Just like this. I do <3 R after all.

At home, where I promptly let out a little whimper over my failed mission, my amazing husband reminded me about patience and not being so hard on myself. I just had to chalk this up to being one of the moments when living in a foreign land makes it impossible to check anything off the list. Hotel search? Well, that’s half a point. Desk lamp? Fat chance. Serge protectors? You crazy, girl. Sore throat from the smog? Okay, we’ll throw you that bone. But none of it really mattered in the bigger scheme of things, even if I gained new understanding of what the movie Lost In Translation was really all about. I’m still here on the adventure. I’m not getting off the ride.

Best lost find ever!!
I felt like Scarlett Johansson’s character
when she discovers the Japanese tea garden in bloom.

To stay focused on the positive, there is something liberating about being phone-less and truly on your own in an unknown place. It will make you approach locals in your choppy Spanish, even if three different folks also don’t know where Sta. Beatriz happens to be. Hey, at least you’re not alone! At least you share a joke with the florist. At least you stop and listen to the music (literally). At least you take some inspiring pics along the way of your new city where one day (hopefully sooner rather than later), you’ll set out down the same path and know exactly where you are and where you’re going.

Hard to see, but the music these two were playing
stopped me cold in my tracks
from clear across the boulevard.
Reminded me of stumbling across Two Gallants in SF.

How do I know this? Because I’m getting a phone today 🙂

Adventures in Baking

Sometimes you want a manual–to operate that new piece of technology, sure–but what about how to work your new Chilean oven? I’d be fine with words to translate, but last night I wasn’t sure I could de-code these symbols in time to bake some nice gluten-free potatoes for dinner. Fortunately, the Internet can be the best manual out there, so thanks to a quick Google Image search on “odd oven symbols” I stumbled upon a few other expat bloggers who turned to online forums for help with these interesting codes (Sweden has a similar symbol issue, for instance, and I’ll take my solidarity where I can get it).

Here’s a sampling of what we’ve got going on:

 

Knob on the left points to “bake,” or at least I think it does (quick sneak peak: potatoes turned out great, so whatever it means, it worked!). Knob on the right indicates degrees in Celcius, so 350F is 177C (And, no, I’m not whipping out Fahrenheit/Celsius conversions that easily; I keep a handy Post-it on the fridge). But this above pic illustrates all she wrote when it comes to oven language. I think my mom’s back home has something like 25 buttons and various words like “off” and “on.” (I know, probably not that helpful 🙂

 

These Chilean oven knobs are symbolic (pun intended) because it’s not just about translating language down here (though I have various other Post-its up around the house). It’s about decoding an entire culture, one that I will never gain full access to, no matter how long we live in Chile. I will always be from California, I will always have learned Spanish AFTER I moved to a Spanish-speaking country, and Ryan and I will always be skirting around (together at least) on the outside of things, with occasional peeks at the inner circle. That’s fine, of course. I didn’t come here to pass, but there is a sense of accomplishment in breaking a code or two.

Now, decode this!

 

Trick question. All that symbol means is that the heat comes from the top of the oven. Now, switch back to “bake” and follow this recipe for the perfect baked potatoes. I managed to and they were delish! We added freshly chopped green onion, grated cheese, black beans, sour cream, and crispy bacon (don’t worry, alongside a fresh green salad). YUM!

Happy baking, everyone!