A war with one’s host dog requires careful time and preparation. It is not, I repeat not, anything to be taken lightly. First, one must decide if said war is to be just or unjust. As a matter of policy, just wars are usually preferable for intra-familial relations, however if a goal of the war is to disrupt that fragile peace that is crashing a foreigner’s house as a source of income for several months, then an unjust war has many benefits. Because this latter situation should only be undertaken in extreme circumstances, and because this author desires no responsibility in such a war, we’ll carry on assuming all anthro-canine wars are just.
Coming up with just cause for a war is generally not very difficult. Suspecting your dog of dragging fleas into your bed, for example, is certainly within the bounds of just cause. Discovering that your dog has a certain fondness for emptying your trashcan all over your floor and bed a few times every week also qualifies. And, while slightly less definite of an example, discovering dog hair and clods of dirt on your bed daily is considered by most to be within limits as well. The most important thing to remember is that “just”, like “beauty” is often in the eyes of the beholder. Public perception of justice is much more essential than your own piece of mind. If you’re unleashing a war on your host dog, chances are you’ve thrown conscience to the wind at this point. As a result of this fact, one should also be sure to always consider one’s audience. If you want to be thought just in the eyes of your peers, your hatred for your dog’s little red sweater may be sufficient, however if you seek the approval of your host family, I’d steer clear of declaring a war on their dog because of a bad canine fashion choice that they themselves made.
After that first step, things can be a bit trickier, but this is where creativity comes into play. Much of the battle details will certainly depend on the battlefield (host home), troops (you, the dog, any other pets and humans in the home that happen to become involved), allies (this can get interesting…), etc. In my own experience, tactics have ranged from simply shutting the door in host dog’s face and not allowing him in the room to engaging in a growling match. Obviously, things get more complicated the more people become involved. For example, after I started closing the door more often, my host sister put the dog outside my door at one point and seemed to be waiting to see if I would let him in when I walked into my room. Being as I am not one to upset the delicate host family balance, I lost that battle, and Ino happily entered and leapt to his favorite spot by the window. My next move however, is one to be well noted: faking concern and care for the enemy to others is always a good method. “I’m keeping my door closed while I’m in class today because the window is open, and I’m afraid Ino might try to sit there and then fall.” Remember, it’s all about perception. And if all else fails, a good growling match never hurt anyone. It may sound crazy, but most dogs will think twice about coming to your chair at the dinner table after you’ve barked back. Just make sure nobody else sees.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Chilean Phenomenon #2: Confort
A reconsideration of the inelasticity of demand of toilet paper
In many places in Chile, one will not only find, but rather come to expect toilet paper not to be a luxury accompanying bathroom services. The industry, overcome by a Kleenex-like marvel in which the entire country calls the product by a brand name - “Confort” -, is also not graced with a __-style quality level perhaps implied by the name (Comfort in English), but comes in a more which-grain-of-sand-paper-would-you-like variety? Nice bathrooms do generally have toilet paper in the stalls, however the majority of bathrooms just have one roll outside of all the stalls, which has a 3 to 1 chance of being empty. Some bathrooms employ people to hand out a few squares Soviet Union-allowance-style to those willing to pay. And then there’s the approximately 14.5% of bathrooms that just don’t have toilet paper. Coming from a country where toilet paper is so taken for granted that we have full Seinfeld episodes devoted to “sparing a square”, it can be hard for Americans to get used to the frequent lack of toilet paper. Most begin carrying a roll with them in their backpacks, some take up what we experts like to call the “drip-dry” method. Some of us with very small blathers have developed somewhat of a complex and wake up in the middle of the night, desperately having to run to the bathroom after nightmares of TP-less bathrooms. It very much depends on the person. Discovering that your own home, in fact, is out of toilet paper, is a rather special situation, but one that I gather from my friends is not as common as I might think. I’m just the one with all the luck. And if you think it’s amazing that I just managed to easily turn out 300 words on toilets in Chile, you’re only beginning to understand the obsession that overcomes you when living here.
In many places in Chile, one will not only find, but rather come to expect toilet paper not to be a luxury accompanying bathroom services. The industry, overcome by a Kleenex-like marvel in which the entire country calls the product by a brand name - “Confort” -, is also not graced with a __-style quality level perhaps implied by the name (Comfort in English), but comes in a more which-grain-of-sand-paper-would-you-like variety? Nice bathrooms do generally have toilet paper in the stalls, however the majority of bathrooms just have one roll outside of all the stalls, which has a 3 to 1 chance of being empty. Some bathrooms employ people to hand out a few squares Soviet Union-allowance-style to those willing to pay. And then there’s the approximately 14.5% of bathrooms that just don’t have toilet paper. Coming from a country where toilet paper is so taken for granted that we have full Seinfeld episodes devoted to “sparing a square”, it can be hard for Americans to get used to the frequent lack of toilet paper. Most begin carrying a roll with them in their backpacks, some take up what we experts like to call the “drip-dry” method. Some of us with very small blathers have developed somewhat of a complex and wake up in the middle of the night, desperately having to run to the bathroom after nightmares of TP-less bathrooms. It very much depends on the person. Discovering that your own home, in fact, is out of toilet paper, is a rather special situation, but one that I gather from my friends is not as common as I might think. I’m just the one with all the luck. And if you think it’s amazing that I just managed to easily turn out 300 words on toilets in Chile, you’re only beginning to understand the obsession that overcomes you when living here.
“This is how I imagined Chile: strange men offering me avocados on the bus.”
Ashley and I took off for a day trip yesterday to the small town of La Ligua, about 3 hours from Valparaíso. Towns in Chile have a odd tendency to specialize in one thing, and everyone in the town takes up that trade. Last week we went to Polmeire, the pottery town, this week was the town of sweaters and sweets. Unlike Polmeire, where every store seemed to have the exact same things, the sweaters of the Valle Hermoso in La Ligua were often distinct. Unfortunately for the sweater lover in me, but luckily for the cheap college student in me, a lot of the sweaters were more thinly woven, light sweaters since it’s spring, and I had more interest in warmer winter sweaters. Still, that didn’t stop me from buying several Christmas presents and two items for myself, along with several dulces, sweets, the main ingredient of which is manjar – Chilean dulce de leche, or a caramel type spread.
The whole thing was a really awesome experience, and another fun cultural glimpse. Ashley commented on how she couldn’t imagine living in a small house and knitting her whole life, and a certain spoiled someone responded, “I know, I bet there’s practically no internet.” (Meaghan, maybe I’m starting to understand your fear of boats.) The waiter at the restaurant (and when I say the restaurant, I really mean that it was one of only two restaurants on the street), rather than handing us a menu, asked if we wanted the stew or the chicken. I had chicken breast – white meat! – for the first time since being here. The food was amazing, but the two-item menu definitely threw me.
The most insane experience of the day, though, was the trip home. Ashley and I chose the cleanest looking seats on our bus, about 5 rows from the back. Spread out throughout the bus were about 10 children, all dressed in school uniforms (not a shock since public and private schools wear them here, so uniforms are the natural and expected attire of all kids everywhere in Chile), and all between the ages of 6 and 14. Gradually, these kids began making their ways toward us until Ashley and I were literally surrounded on all sides by children. There was a man sitting in one of the seats in front of us, but besides him, every seat remotely adjoining ours, plus the aisle, was filled with kids, standing and staring at us.
Finally, Ashley took the first step and said hello to one of them, and gradually the questions began. The most interesting were about transportation to and from the US: How did you get here? How long did it take? Can I take a bus if I want to go to the United States? It was about then that we realized that not only had these kids never been anywhere near an airplane, but telling them 9 hours on a plane meant absolutely nothing to them in terms of distance. The kid sitting behind me kept touching my hair in amazement, and one of the kids sitting near Ashley smelled distinctly of urine. In the midst of the cultural drill session (the questions didn’t stop, which was fine because it was better than them staring at us), the man in the seat in front of us turned around to face us as well. I thought he was going to offer some words of encouragement, but instead, he just handed each of us an avocado and turned around again. Talk about the bizarre express.
Luckily, the students got off in about 20 minutes. I was willing to answer questions for that long, but certainly not 3 hours worth. Somewhere during all that time, the man turned to us again and instructed us to eat our avocados. Because that was exactly what I wanted: raw avocado on a bus in rural Chile. Not knowing what else to do, we dug in, and Ashley turned to me and said, “Somehow, this is exactly how I imagined Chile: strange men offering me avocados on the bus.”
The whole thing was a really awesome experience, and another fun cultural glimpse. Ashley commented on how she couldn’t imagine living in a small house and knitting her whole life, and a certain spoiled someone responded, “I know, I bet there’s practically no internet.” (Meaghan, maybe I’m starting to understand your fear of boats.) The waiter at the restaurant (and when I say the restaurant, I really mean that it was one of only two restaurants on the street), rather than handing us a menu, asked if we wanted the stew or the chicken. I had chicken breast – white meat! – for the first time since being here. The food was amazing, but the two-item menu definitely threw me.
The most insane experience of the day, though, was the trip home. Ashley and I chose the cleanest looking seats on our bus, about 5 rows from the back. Spread out throughout the bus were about 10 children, all dressed in school uniforms (not a shock since public and private schools wear them here, so uniforms are the natural and expected attire of all kids everywhere in Chile), and all between the ages of 6 and 14. Gradually, these kids began making their ways toward us until Ashley and I were literally surrounded on all sides by children. There was a man sitting in one of the seats in front of us, but besides him, every seat remotely adjoining ours, plus the aisle, was filled with kids, standing and staring at us.
Finally, Ashley took the first step and said hello to one of them, and gradually the questions began. The most interesting were about transportation to and from the US: How did you get here? How long did it take? Can I take a bus if I want to go to the United States? It was about then that we realized that not only had these kids never been anywhere near an airplane, but telling them 9 hours on a plane meant absolutely nothing to them in terms of distance. The kid sitting behind me kept touching my hair in amazement, and one of the kids sitting near Ashley smelled distinctly of urine. In the midst of the cultural drill session (the questions didn’t stop, which was fine because it was better than them staring at us), the man in the seat in front of us turned around to face us as well. I thought he was going to offer some words of encouragement, but instead, he just handed each of us an avocado and turned around again. Talk about the bizarre express.
Luckily, the students got off in about 20 minutes. I was willing to answer questions for that long, but certainly not 3 hours worth. Somewhere during all that time, the man turned to us again and instructed us to eat our avocados. Because that was exactly what I wanted: raw avocado on a bus in rural Chile. Not knowing what else to do, we dug in, and Ashley turned to me and said, “Somehow, this is exactly how I imagined Chile: strange men offering me avocados on the bus.”
Study Abroad In Chile, Kent State-Style
I don’t really feel I have the right to be telling this story, since it didn’t happen to me, but I also don’t think an account of my Chilean experience would be complete without it. Ashley came over to my house Thursday night for a study and knitting party, despite the fact that neither of us had classes on Friday. I’m in “force myself to stay home sometimes” mode, even when it is a weekend night, trying not to get overwhelmed with homework, which is easy to do in my classes. As soon as we took a break from my family, Ashley broke out into English because, as she said, some things are just too hard to tell about in Spanish.
Ashley and I attend different universities on opposite sides of the same Chilean city. My university is the private public school, hers is the public university. My classmates wear fairly simple clothing for the most part, hers have forgotten how to bathe properly and dress in a sort of punk grunge fusion. My school is very calm and go with the flow, hers misses several weeks of class every semester for strikes. And the most popular time to strike for young militant communists like them? Right around September 11, the date of Pinochet’s military takeover of Allende’s Communist-run government.
This year the strikes started on Thursday, which is what Ashley had to tell me about. Earlier in the week, the school had been turned into a Communist’s playground with pictures of Allende and hammer-and-sickle’s everywhere. It was obvious the strikes were beginning soon, but Ashley had no idea when or how big of a deal they would be. On Thursday, during a break in her class, her professor and some students went to the window and started speaking quickly. Then, they looked at her and said, “What do we do about her?” She was told that, because she was a US citizen, it was more dangerous for her to be there and that she should probably go home. Most of the people here have been pretty good about separating the things they don’t like about the US from us students, but you never know what excited militant communists might be moved to.
So classes ended and Ashley went outside to discover that the strikes had in fact started. She told me it was insane: people everywhere, roadblocks, everyone basically going crazy. She wanted to stay a few minutes and observe, but realized things were starting to get a big rowdy, and started heading down the hill, away from the university. And who do you think was coming up the hill in hummers and trucks but the Chilean police, the carabineros. They busted through the roadblock, and just started spraying tear gas into the crowd. Because that’s a calm response to a half-an-hour old protest. Ashley, a block away from where the gas was spraying, did the natural and intelligent thing and booked it out of there, walked the several miles to her house, and stopped for ice cream along the way.
And apparently this is normal. Ashley’s host mother had about the same reaction mine did to the flea news: uh-huh. Tear gas and parasites, these are the things we’re used to here. Ashley was terrified, but says that, since she got out unharmed, it was definitely one of those top memorable experiences. Is it wrong that I think it’s awesome that she witnessed a Chilean Militant protest and lived to tell about it? Well, never fear, Comrades, I won’t be marching over to join in but will be content to watch on the news.
Ashley and I attend different universities on opposite sides of the same Chilean city. My university is the private public school, hers is the public university. My classmates wear fairly simple clothing for the most part, hers have forgotten how to bathe properly and dress in a sort of punk grunge fusion. My school is very calm and go with the flow, hers misses several weeks of class every semester for strikes. And the most popular time to strike for young militant communists like them? Right around September 11, the date of Pinochet’s military takeover of Allende’s Communist-run government.
This year the strikes started on Thursday, which is what Ashley had to tell me about. Earlier in the week, the school had been turned into a Communist’s playground with pictures of Allende and hammer-and-sickle’s everywhere. It was obvious the strikes were beginning soon, but Ashley had no idea when or how big of a deal they would be. On Thursday, during a break in her class, her professor and some students went to the window and started speaking quickly. Then, they looked at her and said, “What do we do about her?” She was told that, because she was a US citizen, it was more dangerous for her to be there and that she should probably go home. Most of the people here have been pretty good about separating the things they don’t like about the US from us students, but you never know what excited militant communists might be moved to.
So classes ended and Ashley went outside to discover that the strikes had in fact started. She told me it was insane: people everywhere, roadblocks, everyone basically going crazy. She wanted to stay a few minutes and observe, but realized things were starting to get a big rowdy, and started heading down the hill, away from the university. And who do you think was coming up the hill in hummers and trucks but the Chilean police, the carabineros. They busted through the roadblock, and just started spraying tear gas into the crowd. Because that’s a calm response to a half-an-hour old protest. Ashley, a block away from where the gas was spraying, did the natural and intelligent thing and booked it out of there, walked the several miles to her house, and stopped for ice cream along the way.
And apparently this is normal. Ashley’s host mother had about the same reaction mine did to the flea news: uh-huh. Tear gas and parasites, these are the things we’re used to here. Ashley was terrified, but says that, since she got out unharmed, it was definitely one of those top memorable experiences. Is it wrong that I think it’s awesome that she witnessed a Chilean Militant protest and lived to tell about it? Well, never fear, Comrades, I won’t be marching over to join in but will be content to watch on the news.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Today started out as a hope-that’s-shower-condensation-on-the-toiled-seat kind of day. I had to wake up at 6:45 to travel into a poorer area of urban Chile (after several nights of very little sleep and very much studying), and I was not in the mood to play guessing games with the sanitation of my bathroom. But I was going to said area to teach English to 5th graders, and besides, Pame had just taken a shower, it probably was just condensation on the toilet seat.
I feel like anyone who’s spent time in a place where his or her second language is spoken will agree with me when I say it’s hard to speak that language in the morning, especially after waking up from a very short amount of sleep. I had the misfortune of arriving at the school on the same day as several education students who are doing their student teacher assignments at the school. Practicing the Jessie’s Travel Rule #2: English speakers Non-Disclosure Rule, I walked into the school yard a little bewildered and nodded or said “Gracias” with my best Chilean accent as teachers pointed me toward where they thought I was supposed to be: the school director’s office where the education students were introducing themselves. I popped into the room, obviously realized that I was interrupting, and continued my attempt to appear intelligent in the ways of Spanish by simply nodding while the director explained to me that these were pedagogy students and to the students that I was an exchange student. Then he of course turned to me and said something that involved several female names. Of course, I understand everything but the question I have to answer. Looking a bit confused, I answered (in Spanish of course), “I’m Caitlin.” He gave me a pathetic look and nodded, saying, in English, “Yes. Come with me,” and lead me to the teachers lounge.
Well, one blunder isn’t terrible, and one blunder it was, because the rest of the time was amazing. Can I just teach Chilean children my whole time here? Okay, maybe I don’t want to do that, but it was a great hour and a half, and I get to do it every week, what luck! The teacher I was helping left me alone with the students every now and then, at which point they all burst with excitement and would run up to me, begging me to tell them what the English versions of their names are and pleading for my autograph. And I thought REACH skits at the elementary schools of Main Line Pennsylvania were crazy. That’s right, I’m now a star in the Achupallas neighborhood of Viña del Mar, Chile. Pretty exciting. Of course, there were a couple awkward questions I had to field with the grace and charm we all know I possess, like when two boys asked me what it meant when someone said “son of a bitch”. I wasn’t ready to start out my first day with letting the teacher overhear me saying “hijo de puta” to the students. Even during those times, though, I was on a high. When I left, the students closest to the door came to kiss me goodbye and everyone else shouted their own happy goodbyes. I now know the recipe to instant mood boost: be an American around young students who as of yet are not disenchanted with the United States and just admire it’s movies and music. And be the person in charge who’s not giving them homework; that always helps too.
I feel like anyone who’s spent time in a place where his or her second language is spoken will agree with me when I say it’s hard to speak that language in the morning, especially after waking up from a very short amount of sleep. I had the misfortune of arriving at the school on the same day as several education students who are doing their student teacher assignments at the school. Practicing the Jessie’s Travel Rule #2: English speakers Non-Disclosure Rule, I walked into the school yard a little bewildered and nodded or said “Gracias” with my best Chilean accent as teachers pointed me toward where they thought I was supposed to be: the school director’s office where the education students were introducing themselves. I popped into the room, obviously realized that I was interrupting, and continued my attempt to appear intelligent in the ways of Spanish by simply nodding while the director explained to me that these were pedagogy students and to the students that I was an exchange student. Then he of course turned to me and said something that involved several female names. Of course, I understand everything but the question I have to answer. Looking a bit confused, I answered (in Spanish of course), “I’m Caitlin.” He gave me a pathetic look and nodded, saying, in English, “Yes. Come with me,” and lead me to the teachers lounge.
Well, one blunder isn’t terrible, and one blunder it was, because the rest of the time was amazing. Can I just teach Chilean children my whole time here? Okay, maybe I don’t want to do that, but it was a great hour and a half, and I get to do it every week, what luck! The teacher I was helping left me alone with the students every now and then, at which point they all burst with excitement and would run up to me, begging me to tell them what the English versions of their names are and pleading for my autograph. And I thought REACH skits at the elementary schools of Main Line Pennsylvania were crazy. That’s right, I’m now a star in the Achupallas neighborhood of Viña del Mar, Chile. Pretty exciting. Of course, there were a couple awkward questions I had to field with the grace and charm we all know I possess, like when two boys asked me what it meant when someone said “son of a bitch”. I wasn’t ready to start out my first day with letting the teacher overhear me saying “hijo de puta” to the students. Even during those times, though, I was on a high. When I left, the students closest to the door came to kiss me goodbye and everyone else shouted their own happy goodbyes. I now know the recipe to instant mood boost: be an American around young students who as of yet are not disenchanted with the United States and just admire it’s movies and music. And be the person in charge who’s not giving them homework; that always helps too.
Just Another Night with Chilean Transvestites
I’ve been thinking for a while that maybe I should write about a different Chilean phenomenon each week. You know, familiarize my friends and family at home with the wonder that is Chilean culture. After last night, now seems like an appropriate time to write about the Chilean phenomenon that is “machismo”. The large majority of the visible, Chilean male population is desperate and outspoken cowards. If you have of remotely light-colored hair, they’ll say just about anything and everything to you and give you looks that actually do make your skin crawl. As Lucy Alta pointed out, the guys with their heads hanging out their car windows make you want to scream, “You are going to crash. Why don’t you look where you are driving??” In the end however, these men won’t actually do a thing. You can glare at most of them and they cower. My biggest problem is that I’ll probably get accustomed to being honked at while running here and will go home to the states and give one of my friends the finger when they try to honk a friendly hello. Still, although most men would never do anything, sometimes I get freaked out. Especially when returning from a dance club at five in the morning.
Lucy Alta, Katie, and I, had all been at the discotheque at the casino, a place where those who can afford to gather to dance poorly to (as Katie put it) all the 80s music you want to forget. We’re talking lots of men with glasses (the dorky, not the cute kind) who are slightly too old trying far too hard to look like they have any idea what they’re doing. Lucy and I walked Katie to her apartment, and then began walking down Libertad, one of the safest streets in Viña, to find a colectivo together, a sort of taxi that drives along certain lines. While walking along Libertad, two men passed us, glared in that way, slowed down, allowed us to pass, and began following us. Which was odd, but unfortunately not totally unusual, and we weren’t exactly positive they were following us. So we just kept looking for a colectivo, with perhaps a slightly hastened pace. Fate then provided us with what would soon be a much-needed bit of comic relief. Lucy and I definitely passed by two Chilean transvestites. Working the corner in a country where homosexuality and confused gender roles alike are less accepted than at a Christian Right tea party. Chilean transvestites, I applaud you.
Like I said, it proved itself much needed when, in the middle of the next block, a shady looking man in a large jacket and a skull cap walking toward us on the sidewalk did not move aside as he came closer to us, but rather, came right up next to us and began whispering sketchily under his breath before passing us by. It’s amazing how even a word like “beautiful” can make you shiver when said in a certain way. That wasn’t what made the humor necessary though. It was when I turned around to check on our two followers and noticed that the shady, skull-capped man had also turned around and was following closely. We once again picked up our pace, dashing toward the Plaza where the colectivos wait for passengers. We noticed that at this point, the first two men had positioned themselves on either side of us, which, while I was trying to stay calm, really did freak me out. We hopped in a colectivo, not bothering to argue much when the driver told us she was going to charge us double the usual (it’s still a $1.50 cab ride), and took off.
Sure, it’s possible that the two original guys slowed down because they wanted to watch two blondes go down the street and were actually going their separate ways and not trying to surround us when they split to either side of us. Not terribly harmful. And the man in the huge coat who muttered under his breath at us could have just turned around because he forgot something wherever he was coming from. In fact, that’s the worst part of all of it is that a girl feels like she can’t trust men here because they’re men, which seems so stupid. Like the fact that I can’t offer my seat to a tired-looking man on the bus because he “can’t” take it. The gender relations, as I’ve often said here, are the one thing I could never get used to. But things have to be changing, which is good news…here’s to Chilean transvestites everywhere!
Lucy Alta, Katie, and I, had all been at the discotheque at the casino, a place where those who can afford to gather to dance poorly to (as Katie put it) all the 80s music you want to forget. We’re talking lots of men with glasses (the dorky, not the cute kind) who are slightly too old trying far too hard to look like they have any idea what they’re doing. Lucy and I walked Katie to her apartment, and then began walking down Libertad, one of the safest streets in Viña, to find a colectivo together, a sort of taxi that drives along certain lines. While walking along Libertad, two men passed us, glared in that way, slowed down, allowed us to pass, and began following us. Which was odd, but unfortunately not totally unusual, and we weren’t exactly positive they were following us. So we just kept looking for a colectivo, with perhaps a slightly hastened pace. Fate then provided us with what would soon be a much-needed bit of comic relief. Lucy and I definitely passed by two Chilean transvestites. Working the corner in a country where homosexuality and confused gender roles alike are less accepted than at a Christian Right tea party. Chilean transvestites, I applaud you.
Like I said, it proved itself much needed when, in the middle of the next block, a shady looking man in a large jacket and a skull cap walking toward us on the sidewalk did not move aside as he came closer to us, but rather, came right up next to us and began whispering sketchily under his breath before passing us by. It’s amazing how even a word like “beautiful” can make you shiver when said in a certain way. That wasn’t what made the humor necessary though. It was when I turned around to check on our two followers and noticed that the shady, skull-capped man had also turned around and was following closely. We once again picked up our pace, dashing toward the Plaza where the colectivos wait for passengers. We noticed that at this point, the first two men had positioned themselves on either side of us, which, while I was trying to stay calm, really did freak me out. We hopped in a colectivo, not bothering to argue much when the driver told us she was going to charge us double the usual (it’s still a $1.50 cab ride), and took off.
Sure, it’s possible that the two original guys slowed down because they wanted to watch two blondes go down the street and were actually going their separate ways and not trying to surround us when they split to either side of us. Not terribly harmful. And the man in the huge coat who muttered under his breath at us could have just turned around because he forgot something wherever he was coming from. In fact, that’s the worst part of all of it is that a girl feels like she can’t trust men here because they’re men, which seems so stupid. Like the fact that I can’t offer my seat to a tired-looking man on the bus because he “can’t” take it. The gender relations, as I’ve often said here, are the one thing I could never get used to. But things have to be changing, which is good news…here’s to Chilean transvestites everywhere!
Confessions of an American Shopaholic in Chile
Okay, it’s time to lay it all out on the table. It started with a little thing I like to call Líder. It seemed so practical at first, the ability to buy everything cheaply all in one place. Sure, it eerily resembled Wal-Mart, though not as sketchy. (Note: I apologize if Wal-Mart does not seem sketchy to you. If you would like to have a conversation about it later, fine, but that’s really not the point of this story, so, moving along…) Then I began noticing the font of the Líder signs, not to mention the striking similarity between Walmart and Líder slogans, the latter of which translated is: Always the lowest prices. Always. That’s right, “Attention world shoppers: Caitlin is shopping at Chilean Wal-Mart.” Somehow managing to justify recent purchases with the desperate situation of the stained comforter (see previous entries), I am still trying to cut back on my frequency of Líder trips.
My shopping problems do not end there, though. Yesterday, at the end of a pleasant day of café-ing with Ashley, we dashed into Ripley to see if they had anymore functional; much needed; and, most importantly, cheap turtlenecks. (Ripley and Falabella are the two big Chilean department stores. Unlike US department stores, Ripley and Falabella are where just about everyone goes for standard, classic clothing. Read: where I go when I’m missing the Gap. The quality is not quite as great, but it’s certainly not terrible. The prices are higher than in some small stores, but still drastically lower than in the states.) Somehow the fact that they didn’t have any turtlenecks didn’t stop me from buying two pairs of pants (complete with J. Crew style belts); a rugby style shirt; and a, if I do say so myself, rather slick zip-up sweater. Figuring I had done enough damage for one day and needing to finish my homework, I hopped on a micro and headed back home to Viña.
Not wasting an opportunity to be an obnoxious American, I was talking to my friend Maria on my cell phone on the micro, and it ran out of its prepaid minutes. Being as desperately attached to my cell phone as I am and noticing that the bus I was on went to the mall, I decided to skip my stop and go straight there to buy another cellular card. Somewhere, somehow, between the ride to the mall and the buying more minutes, I managed to get a tiny bit homesick. Deciding in this unwell state that I didn’t want to return home, I made the unwise decision to “window shop”. I had wanted to check out the prices of some US stores here, such as ZARA and Ralph Lauren and United Colors of Benetton, the last of which I entered casually. All of a sudden I was standing in line, holding a 30 USD corduroy and suede bag, nodding in agreement to the liquidation no-exchange policy. I walked out of the store, realizing what I had done (but - let’s face it - still loving my new bag). I made myself leave the mall right away, declaring a moratorium on shopping. Except for the next day in Pomeire, a pottery village, “‘cause, those are, like, souvenirs”; or anything really, really cute or really, really cheap…
My shopping problems do not end there, though. Yesterday, at the end of a pleasant day of café-ing with Ashley, we dashed into Ripley to see if they had anymore functional; much needed; and, most importantly, cheap turtlenecks. (Ripley and Falabella are the two big Chilean department stores. Unlike US department stores, Ripley and Falabella are where just about everyone goes for standard, classic clothing. Read: where I go when I’m missing the Gap. The quality is not quite as great, but it’s certainly not terrible. The prices are higher than in some small stores, but still drastically lower than in the states.) Somehow the fact that they didn’t have any turtlenecks didn’t stop me from buying two pairs of pants (complete with J. Crew style belts); a rugby style shirt; and a, if I do say so myself, rather slick zip-up sweater. Figuring I had done enough damage for one day and needing to finish my homework, I hopped on a micro and headed back home to Viña.
Not wasting an opportunity to be an obnoxious American, I was talking to my friend Maria on my cell phone on the micro, and it ran out of its prepaid minutes. Being as desperately attached to my cell phone as I am and noticing that the bus I was on went to the mall, I decided to skip my stop and go straight there to buy another cellular card. Somewhere, somehow, between the ride to the mall and the buying more minutes, I managed to get a tiny bit homesick. Deciding in this unwell state that I didn’t want to return home, I made the unwise decision to “window shop”. I had wanted to check out the prices of some US stores here, such as ZARA and Ralph Lauren and United Colors of Benetton, the last of which I entered casually. All of a sudden I was standing in line, holding a 30 USD corduroy and suede bag, nodding in agreement to the liquidation no-exchange policy. I walked out of the store, realizing what I had done (but - let’s face it - still loving my new bag). I made myself leave the mall right away, declaring a moratorium on shopping. Except for the next day in Pomeire, a pottery village, “‘cause, those are, like, souvenirs”; or anything really, really cute or really, really cheap…
