In Omaha

Sitting at the reception desk at a law firm, I realized that close to four months have passed not only since my last post, but since the earthquake, and shortly thereafter, my return home. I now fill my time with family, friends, and temp jobs. Still discontent on settling down in the city of my birth right now, that leaves this period of time as merely the "interim" of what was and what is to come.

I wouldn't be content as a receptionist or administrative assistant in the long-term, but switching it up every few days or weeks keeps me entertained enough. This week I hopped into a position that allows me not only to answer a phone that never stops ringing, but also to try to appease the seven lawyers who can't all play by the same rules. If that were not enough, I am also responsible for keeping the fish alive and making sure the break room has clean dishes and a water-stocked fridge. I've learned that creatures like that of Meryl Streep on the Devil Wears Prada do in fact exist and it makes me ever-so-grateful that the word "temp" is tacked onto my receptionist title.

It's my second summer of the year. The first signs of fall revealed themselves as I lived without power, food, water, or communication my last week in Conce and I arrived in Omaha to the remaining signs of winter. Storms and record rainfall have prevailed, but the hot, humid summer is now upon us. All the while, this is home, and that makes it a great place to be.

4 weeks

The sounds of Havana floud my room upon my recent return from tonight's asado. It's a disco across the street; no worries, I have not fled to Cuba. By day seagulls caw overhead, by night music blares from within.

It is 2:42 am and I sit here on my bed realizing I have now been in Conce four weeks...that's a month. I don't understand where time goes, but one short month from now I'll be boarding that plane...

Meat and wine settle in my stomach. It was my first asado in Conce, which I find rare given the normal frequency of Chilean bbqs. Wednesday I taught my first class with the new English institute I'll be working for this next month. Those students planned tonight to welcome me and I'm thankful we seem to get along since we'll be spending 9 hours a week together over the next month!

In seven hours I'll be teaching once again. At 11 am I have a class of high school boys that I must admit, I enjoy quite a bit. The other day one of them asked if he could ask me something bad. I said, "sure" of course. He asked the difference between "f* it" and "f* you". I can only dream of what they'll ask me tomorrow!

Que duerman con los angelitos

History Lesson of the Day

Raul is my oldest student; probably upper sixties. He's a dedicated member of my 8:00 conversation class and I believe talking to be one of his greatest hobbies. We began discussing childhood memories and how past sibling discrepancies can affect adulthood in a less than positive way.

"This conversation takes me back," he stated, and then in his less-than-perfect English, he recounted the following:

It was December 15, 1973 and my brother had invited me over for dinner. Before long the military patrol was at our doorstep arresting my brother and me. They took us to the stadium where I was held until December 23. My brother, however, was imprisoned for eleven months. He was ironically moved to my mother's hometown in a city up north near Antofagasta. They eventually had to let him go because they couldn't prove his allegiance to the government.

Before moving to Chile, my Lonely Planet book had enlightened me to the tumultuous past of this country. Even still, history has never been my forte and I would have never guessed the number of times the topic would come up in conversation. One of my co-workers in Santiago had recently moved back to Chile after his family was exiled during the rule of Pinochet. He grew up in Australia, which was one of a handful of countries that welcomed Chileans with open arms during the dictatorship.

I recalled another co-worker's mention of this time as I lay on my stomach soaking up ultraviolet rays at the beach today. The front cover of my recently purchased copy of El plan infinito lay open in front of me. As I gazed upon the photo of Isabel Allende, I remembered Chris, my co-worker, describing the many times he and his cousin Isabel would go to the beach together in Venezuela. "She had an ass this big," he commented as he reached his hands out to the side, "and she would wear a thong this big," he showed me with his fingers. The reason the two Chilean natives were in Venezuela was indeed because of the military dictatorship.

Raul continued his story with further background information:

The leftist party had the radical idea of dissolving the economy. They increased our salaries dramatically and I was suddenly able to afford anything I wanted. My brother and I were university students at the time and I remember lines growing long everywhere you went to purchase something.

Of course, the wealthy were displeased with the changes and this led to the formation of the coup who proceeded to overthrow the government September 11, 1973. Anyone with suspected allegiance to the socialist party was at great risk. My brother was a leader at our university and it was a mere three months after September 11 that they found us.

It's events such as these that grant me a bit more understanding as to why this culture is so pillo (takes advantage of any lack of attentiveness).

Life Update

New Year.

Peru and back.

Change of cities.

Whole new life.

If you need to find me, I´m here:

Barras Arana 1375, depto. 301

Concepción, Chile

This Christmas

Twas the day before Christmas and hace calor

La familia chilena had opened their door

for the gringita y mas the poor on the street

who Christmas dinner now would be able to eat.

El viejito pascuero, el niño Jesus...

but wait, where is that to which I'm used?

No stockings are hung, no snowfall to see,

un monton de pan de pascua; in Chile I must be.

taco (traffic)

the micro (intercity bus) was super full today. just so happened to break-down on the way. trying to open stuck windows in hopes of attaining airflow, older men shouted,

"donde está un hombre? un hombre! un hombre de verdad!"

junior high boys hopped on and acted mischievously in back where i finally landed a seat. i arrived home and announced to my chilean bro that it took me 1.5 hours. his response,

"mucho taco."

Tear Gas

It started off another usual day in December in the city of Santiago. Eighty degree weather, sunshine, the annoying metro, and English courses downtown.

I'm teaching my classes noticing attendance is down and realizing that a big soccer game is in the works. It's all well and fine until my Chilean brother sends me a text with the news that Colo Colo won the game.

Now, soccer fanatics are rather intense in this land of latin america, but to make matters worse, Colo Colo is perhaps holder of the most violent fanatics around. And of course these fanatics congregate downtown to "celebrate".

"Celebrating" involves drinking and stealing. It tends to also include driving around with flags out the window, or for those without cars but more friends, storming onto a bus and demanding the driver take them where they order.

It's 10:00 and best friend, Sara, and I walk out of class down the main street towards the metro. Groups of fanatics run around screaming and one of those big, iron police vans is parked with plenty of officers holding batons.

Conveniently, a bus stops to let off some passengers and Colo Colo fans hop on back. I watch as a policeman drags one of them off and spanks him with the baton. Perhaps that shouldn't have made me laugh, but public spankings are rather sparse in the states!

I make it to the metro, which feels like a safe zone. I'm three trains away from home and the only risky part now should be the seven minute walk from the station to home. Sara and I are making our first line transfer when we walk onto the platform and I wonder why everyone sounds so sick.

People all around are sneezing, coughing, and breathing into their clothes. I think to myself, "Great, not only is there violence, but perhaps we'll get sick, too." I ask Sara, "Why is everyone sneezing?" Two steps further, it hits me.

My eyes turn five shades of red, I start to cough, and I'm praying that train gets here pronto. My throat and nose feels like they have pepper burning inside. Sara can't stop laughing at me, and when we board the train she comments how interesting it is that this is normal for people of Santiago. "Is tear gas really that normal, you think?" Her response, "Well, I'm sure they didn't have to ask why everyone was sneezing!"

I texted my Chilean brother from the metro so he would meet me there and walk me home. I therefore had a narrator of the events around me. "Up there is where fanatics congregate to grab purses from people riding the bus when it stops." Fantastic, I thought.

The good news: that healthy dose of fear that I seemed to be lacking before my travels here has now kicked-in just fine, and who doesn't want to experience tear gas at least once in their life?!