A Winter Shower in Valparaiso

Valparaiso is charmingly sketchy and beautiful in its own way. I have felt overwhelmed by the loud cars and busses, the huge buildings, the crush of people. Welcome back to civilization. Oh yes, and watch your bags like a hawk. No one is going to find your house and give you back the ipod you forgot here. 

It was a strange night in Santiago, a collision between nostalgia for the beginning of the program and saudade for those who never came back due to the weather, Chilean disorganization, and the occasional collapsed lung. It was incredibly helpful to have a sounding board of other volunteers to talk to about my experience, and to see them visually react to the set of circumstances that I've lived for the past five months felt cathartic in a way I did not anticipate. The weight lifted again.

I noticed that this time, Santiago didn't feel as scary as it did when I first arrived. Sure, the buildings felt huge and there were so many cars and busses and people everywhere...but even the stray tear gas didn't phase me. I just pulled up my scarf and walked on. It didn't burn too badly. I didn't get hit full on. Patagonia and crazy changing circumstances have made me adaptable as never before. 

That adaptability came in handy tonight when we arrived in Valparaiso with no hostel, no map, and not-quite-adjusted backpacks digging into our shoulders. We walked for over an hour, up stairways and down hills. Through sketchy passages marked as streets but little more than a one-person stairwell. We eventually found a cheap hostel (in every sense of the word) and checked in. 

I hadn't showered since Magallanes. Or brushed my hair. I slept fewer than three hours last night. Let's just say that not showering was not an option at this time. 

I went into the first bathroom in the hostel, and promptly turned around to leave. The toilet was jammed full of toilet paper and the shower had black mold growing almost in vines on the tub. My own personal Hanging Garden of Mold. I went to the other bathroom. 

The window to outside was wide open. No screen, but that's nothing new. The building has shifted and the window misses the mark by a good inch and a half. No big deal. I turn on the shower and struggle to find the sweet spot between heat to singe one's eyebrows and cold to freeze my feet to my flip flops. I finally found it and had just settled in to wash 1700 miles of dirt out of my hair when it turned cold and stayed cold. The shampoo in my hair wouldn't make lather. 

Between the cold air entering through the window and the freezing water, this shower had just turned into the coldest shower of my life. I stuck my head under the spray and tried desperately to avoid the freezing spray. When I put my head back up, I gasped at the knife-like cold of my hair on my neck, and then exhaled sharply. 

My breath appeared in a cloud in front of me. 

Yep. One more thing to put up with on this trip. Cold showers in the middle of winter with the window wide open.  I had no choice but to lather up, gather my determination, and wash under the stream of barely-liquid water. And now I can't seem to warm up. That which doesn't kill me...gives me a cold?

 

10,000 Miles Begins With A Single Three Hour Bus Ride

The sudden sterility of a room before a move. That space which was once a home, a refuge...vacant and scrubbed of all the marks of its former owner. I've moved ten times in the last four years, and so this moment of cleaning and removing and erasing one's presence is not unfamiliar to me. It even feels kind of good. A definitive closure. A ritual of passage. 

The journey that I am about to undertake will be the biggest distance covered in a month that I have ever attempted. The tentative (and extremely flexible) itinerary looks like this:

- Santiago de Chile (July 27)
- Valparaiso 
- San Pedro de Atacama
- Cusco
- Machu Pichu
- Lake Titicaca
- La Paz
- Potosi
- Salta 
- Cordoba
- Buenos Aires (August 21)

When I arrive in Denver after a red-eye flight and twelve-hour layover in Miami, I will have traveled over 10,000 miles in 25 days. About 400 miles a day, if it were actually divided equally (some days will be disproportionately long...48-hour bus rides tend to do that). 4,000 of those miles will be overland in busses. Four countries to cross- Chile (literally tip to tip), Peru, Bolivia, and Argentina. 

Yeah. It's gonna get crazy. 

This trip is taking me from the minor leagues of world travel to the major league. Even my friend who recently traveled solo through Eastern Europe for three months and went through several countries that until very recently were war zones said, "Holy shit" when I told him about the plan. 

I'm ready. Travel is adventure and struggle and fulfilment...the sum of all I want life to be. I am happiest when I am constantly moving and adapting at a cheetah's pace. Everything that I learned in this semester of teaching will come into play. I will need every ounce of change and growth and experience that I've gained. 

The journey of ten thousand miles begins with a single step: Get to Punta Arenas in the snow. It's time for Puerto Natales to fade into the Patagonian snow until I can return. 

Chile's Version of Cardiac Massage

"¿De que te cansas, Coleen? ¿Que puedes tener que te cansa?"  

Why am I so tired, Chilean host mother? Oh, I don't know...maybe it is that I worked a forty-hour week trying to control thirty high schoolers who don't speak English (and protect and support a pregnant fifteen year old) while speaking in my fourth language, after teaching my ass off in a high-risk public school for the last five months? Oh yes, and the fact that I went to sleep at 6:30 this morning and only slept until you woke me up by beating on my door at 10, admonishing me for missing breakfast. 

Luckily, I only have to put up with this for one more week. Otherwise I might just pour my very proper tea out onto this table and tell you where you can put your bowl of Manjar.

Chile and I have had a hell of a ride. Now that I am in the transition stage from Tía Coleen to Kick-Ass-Traveling-4000-Miles-Overland-Coleen and as my my final obligations to the EOD program are wrapping up, I find myself spending a great portion of my time thinking about what has changed about me since I moved to this continent. 

It's strange, because in some ways I don't feel changed. In my most self-pitying moments, I tell myself that it was all for nought and that it changed neither me nor my students nor the world that I came here. Obviously, this is a product of the lethal combination of a little too much time spent on the uncomfortable plywood floor of my room alone and a chronic lack of sunlight. When I step back a bit and actually name the changes, it becomes clear that my self-pity has no relationship with reality. 

I have an image in my head of Chile (who I somehow picture as a big-boned Salweskar woman) reaching into my chest up to her wrists and opening my ribcage, to massage and form and enliven my heart. Like cardiac massage that surgeons perform, but with blood everywhere in big arterial spurts. To any observer including me it appears that she has been trying to kill me, with stress and frustration and futility and ankle-biting poodles. 

But she was actually trying to save me. 

Chile woke me up and made me realize that I have a lot of work to do on myself before my life can have stability and I can truly be happy. She laid my own issues and those of the world bare, forcing me to deal with pain, sadness, lonliness, anger, and my own personal tormentors from the past. She forced me to give up a lot about my own way of viewing the world and to try to get by on fumes (and a ton of white bread) even when I was exhausted. She made me feel so tiny and powerless in thhe face of mountains and the problems of her society, but yet huge and powerful as the most noticeable gringa this side of Puerto Montt and able to do something to help those students. 

I think the change snuck up on me, and that it happened so quickly that I didn't even realize it. Somewhere between the crazy 16-hour flight to Santiago and the trip to the post office this morning, a new Coleen took the place of the old one. 

I even look different. 

The Development of a Stoplight Morality

Miss Coleen Monroe, B.A. in Anthropology speaking. It's time we had a little talk about universiality, cultural relativism, and cutting up meat with rusty hacksaws. 

In college I read a now-uncountable number of pages from books and articles and treatises arguing with each other about the nature of culture. Since I tended to lean toward exploring the biological side of human nature, I didn't pay much mind to a central conflict within cultural anthropology since its inception...universalism versus cultural relativism. 

Incomplete definitions in few words. 
Universalism = Moral codes apply everywhere, as we can objectively say that one way of doing things is better than another. 
Cultural Relativism = Everything humans do is dictated by culture and none is superior to the other, so no universal Wrongs or Rights exist. 

Anthropologists ran into the dilemna of whether to apply these ideas when they conducted their fieldwork in far-flung corners of the world and tried to engage deeply, richly, thickly (to borrow Clifford Geertz's term) with a culture different from their own. In writing their enthographies and making their analyses, they often found themselves judging another culture...assuming it was better or worse than their own. Before the field suffered a crisis of representation in the 1980s and cleaned up its act, much of the work was fairly heavily based on cultural imperialism. White man comes to foreign village. Lives there several months. Writes a scathing ethnography about their practices from his beautiful armchair back in the civilized world. Rinse. Repeat. 

Now, what does all of that lofty rhetoric have to do with me living in Puerto Natales? A change in my own thinking about universal moral guidelines and cultural exchange. 

In the four months I have been living here, I have tried very hard to adapt and integrate and change to accomodate differences in culture between myself and those around me. Everything is different, down to the way one eats (using a piece of bread to load a fork instead of a knife) or dresses or wears one's hair. Most of the differences are superificial and sneak in without much effort, becoming habit so quickly that I don't even realize they are happening until it's already there. 

Others are tougher and take a conscious effort to include in my life. Everything is late here. Regulations fall through. There is compulsory military service for all men over 17. Most people don't use seatbelts. Men and women still occupy very separate spheres and roles. Divorce was only made legal six years ago. My bosses can make jokes about me being their wife or lover without fearing a sexual harassment lawsuit. No one sterilizes their dogs or cats, meaning roaming packs wander the streets and occasionally try to bite you (Side note: It's always the tiny, poodle-y ones. Watch your ankles). Being openly gay would be an abberation. They teach religion in school. 

Oh yes, and we cut up the meat for our dinners using a rusty hacksaw. 

Just because these things are different shouldn't mean that they are wrong, right? Or should I apply my own culture as universal and lament Chilean backwardness? Or am I falling into the trap of manicheism (wrong or right. Black or white, no gray) that a lot of people from the USA have been reared on? When I bring up the differences, I am often told that as a foreigner I am the one who has to adapt, and that others do not have to. Shouldn't. That my very being here could be a form of cultural imperialism (check out the issue here http://caminochile.blogspot.com/2011/03/lightbulb-in-my-bathroom-is-out.html). As a result I tried to adapt more, to change more, to judge less and less until I found myself shrugging my shoulders at everything...even the things that really bother me. 

Walking around the town the other day, thinking about whether I could say objectively that these differences were anything more than irritating to me personally...I passed a stoplight. I realized that it looked exactly like the ones at home. Red, yellow, green. Simple, easy to learn, and it works. Could it be that this could apply to morality and cultural encounters? 

In that moment I became a fan of Stoplightism.

There are many differences between the macro-cultures of countries and regions, and many more between the micro-cultures of families, schools, and towns. By and large, they just don't matter that much. One arriving and living there should adapt to the change of circumstances and change themselves to fit them. But occasionally the differences are actually objectively wrong or right, but in a flexible definition of both with lots of gray. 

When can we objectively say, "Ok, that's just not right" and not be a cultural imperialist? When whatever it endangers people, causes loss of resources for no good reason, or reinforces inequalities. Simple, easy to learn, and works. Racism=wrong. Sexism=wrong. Killing=wrong. Stealing=wrong. Willful ignorance=wrong. Irresponsibility=wrong. Not because a god says so, or because my culture says so...but because they cause harm and waste and lead to other problems. Cutting meat with a hacksaw = probably wrong...given the potential harm of metal shavings in the stomach. 

Judging cultures based on a simple, functional morality with a lot of room for gray area means that cultural exchanges like the one I am in are opportunities to compare moral notes with other humans and find out what is really important. Meaning that in order for them to function, it has to be a two-way street. Both sides have to consider their customs and change when necessary.

That is why it is called an exchange and not simply a change. It works even better in Spanish (un intercambio inves de sólo un cambio). Equal sharing between cultures to find the simple parts that overlap for good reason, and offer new ways of relating for both to consider. 

I have done the best job I could do to change and adapt and accept. A lot of what I have learned and changed is great, and I will use the new point of view Chile has offered me to judge my own life more carefully. But that doesn't mean I should lose myself completely either. My own culture and identity have a lot to offer, and the exchange should change Puerto Natales and the people I meet as well. 

And it is OK for me to refuse to eat meat cut up with a rusty saw if I don't want to have metal shavings in my stomach. Just like it's OK for me to bring a bunch of Yerba Mate home to drink like a Patagonian. The cultural exchange will continue and both sides will consider the changes they can and should make to their own moral stoplights. 

Eventually we will realize that many of the important things are already the same. 

Lighten Your Load--Can I Live With Half?

As a child, I used to cry over every lost possession as if it were a dear friend. Balloons that flew away into the clouds. Rocks that disappeared from my pockets. Books and pictures and clothes and shoes and notebooks. Being  very sentimental child when it came to just abput everything, I placed value on them to the point of anthropomophism and clung to them tightly...fearing that if I let go I would lose friends, not things.

Since leaving the house to go to university, I began accumulating more. Furniture for apartments. A bed. A desk. Pots and pans. Tables. A television. Shelves. Dishes. Silverware. Towels. Christmas decorations. With the help of my parents I often provided the nessecities for the places that I lived, dragging a bigger and bigger pile with me each time I moved (eight times in four years...or roughly once a semester). 

After I began to travel more ambitiously, I realized how much of a huge waste of effort this instinct to collect and save and stash away is. Never again, I swore to myself after my journey home from Italy, when I had far too much crap to fit into my suitcases and had to throw things away at five AM in the Bologna airport's check in line. Not to mention that I realized that this same hoarding instinct can land you on A&E after twenty years, claiming sanity amidst the fifty piles of unused Charmin toilet paper blocking your living room. "I'm a collector, I swear! Don't take my Charmin! i know them all by name!"

I got rid of a ton of stuff when I got home from studying abroad. I took boxes and bags to good will. But the true test came when I decided to move to South America for six months. My packing criteria:
Six months' worth of versitile, warm, layerable clothing of various levels of formality. I needed to be able to dress up for work and special events or dress down for clamboring through mud in the campo. Waterproof layers a plus. I managed to cram it all into a backpack and a suitcase. Most other stuff like contacts and toiletries fit into a purse.

Since actually arriving in South America, my clothing situation has held up nicely...even through the strain of being washed weekly in the shower with shampoo (Yes, I've been doing this for about two months...and yes, my clothes are going to be pretty gross by the end of this). I still find myself wishing I had less, even though I recycle the same outfits over and over each week and despite the holes in basically every piece of clothing I own here. I've started to chafe under the weight of all the things in my room, knowing I will have to carry them on my back in about a month. To chafe under its un-necessity. 

But I am about to find relief. This week, my parents are coming to visit (REJOICE)! They have offered to unburden me of some of my things and lighten the load. I have halved my clothing and objects. Don't believe me? Here are the pictures to prove it. 

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100270152264593.2723997.10231884&l=433a89021b

The rest of the things that will not go with my parents I will donate, give away, or ditch. I want to see what I really need to get along. Something tells me that it is even less than my already significantly reduced collection. Already I feel lighter. Cleaner. Freer. 

When I return to the States, I plan on further reducing my burden of things and giving away most of my possessions. Anything that I truly need I will keep, but any time I receive or buy something new the new rule will be that I must then choose something else to give away to keep the balance of simplicity in my life and to afford my fellow beings the chance to simply live (à la Mahatma Ghandi). Of course, I am not even close to a Ghandi. Not yet. But this is a good first step to living without the burden of things taking the place of the truly important people, experiences, and feelings that life ought to be made up of in their place.

"Generosity is what keeps the things I own from owning me." Eugene Cho, founder of the One Day's Wages movement (for more information, http://www.onedayswages.org/).

The Next Challenge

I am seeking ideas for what I should do and where after my time in Chile must inevitably end. As those of you reading this blog regularly might (or might not) have noticed, this experience is teaching me to adapt and change and grow...preparing me for the next challenge. I hope to go somewhere else in the world, within the US or internationally and volunteer my time and self for education, empowerment of women and children, public health, or some other task that has not yet revealed itself to me.

Any suggestions/advice/recommendations would be extremely appreciated. I am seriously open to just about anywhere in the world...but seriously. I sound like one of the many students I advised in my old job at the International Office of my university, the ones who made it super hard to advise. But it is true.

See the "Comment" button below? Please use it. Please. Or write me at Cmonroe161@yahoo.com.

Thanks!

Chile Doesn't Ask. She Demands.

Just ONCE in Chile I would like to have a heads up more beforehand if I have no more classes, have to organize a field trip, have to attend an assembly, partcipate in a national holiday or community one, meet the governor, or attend a meeting. And just ONCE I would like someone to tell me that it was their mistake or change of attitude or unwillingness to speak clearer Spanish (and not my stupid Gringa-ness) that caused the misunderstanding between us. And just ONCE I would like someone to acknowledge that I am working three times as hard for half of the recognition (school full-time, hostal part-time, fourth language all the time).

To put so much heart into it and get so little response infuriates the part of me that craves equality in the world. Perhaps I am still too much of an idealist, and all of this is one big fat reality check to transform me into an idealistic pragmatist.

Do what you can, with what you have, in the time you are given. No one can ask anything more of you.

I thought I had reached a hard limit of how much I could give this week...of how much I can take. Turns out, Chile demands more. She is pushing me to new limits, forcing me to adapt and learn and change. She is demanding. Exigente. And then I remember what I tell my students when they are frustrated. When they say I am demanding or mean or pesada (lit. "heavy").

"When a teacher demands a lot of you, it is because they are demanding that you learn. It is because they know you can do better."

Bring it, Chile. I made it this far and if you demand more...it must be because you know I will find it within me to take it.

I'm Not Leaving Until Someone Gives Me My Passport...

The only thing that never changes is that everythhng does.

I am nearly at the midpoint of my time in Chile, which seems to simulatneously be a sad realization and a happy one. I know that I am growing and changing...I feel it down to the muscles in my legs that have grown hard and flexible from all the walking, hiking, jumping fences, yoga, and aerobics. I feel it in my ability to put up with more than I ever thought I would, both in terms of culture shock and work. I see it in my mentality. I see it in my style. I hear it in my voice.

Could it be that I am finally growing up? For realsies this time? I notice a strength and determination that I always knew was within me, but that almost never had a true challenge to withstand and overcome. I am learning to choose my battles wisely. To express myself concretely. To assure that everyone knows how hard I and the other volunteers are working. Prhaps most importantly, I am learning to trust my own internal compass and follow what I know to be true or correct without giving too much credence to the opinions of detractors.

A good example of all of this came about yesterday at the office responsible for doling out visas for foreigners in Chile. I went in last week to give my passport to the woman who processes them, so that she could finally allow me to legally live and volunteer in Chile (two months late...eh, pasa nada). She told me it would be ready on Thursday of last week.

When I returned on Thursday, I noticed that the office was closed. I asked around for Señora Edith, but she wasn't there. A few more days passed with my passport in her filing cabinet.

Yesterday, I went back to the office and the Señora was in a meeting. "I can't help you," said the woman telling me that she was busy, "I know nothing about foreign visas."

"I just want my passport back, please. It has been here a week. I cannot go around without it any longer," I said. Secretly, I feared she had somehow lost it.

"I can't help you. Come back later."

"I am teaching in a school here in Natales all day, every day. I cannot come back later. May I speak with Señora Edith please?"

"She is busy."

"She told me it would be ready on Thursday."

"She is in a meeting."

"Please, I need my passport. It cannot stay here longer."

"I can't help you."

"Right. I am not leaving until someone gives me my passport."

The woman I was talking to (mind you, this whole conversation was in Spanish) blinked in disbelief.

"I cannot return later. Is there someone who can give me my passport, please?"

She rolled her eyes and grabbed another woman from the office. She began looking for my passport, and tried to hand me a Russian one that happened to be on the desk.

"I am not Russian. I am from the US. My name is Coleen Monroe."

Searching through the filing cabinet, she asked me to repeat my name two more times. Eventually I helped point out my folder to her and she finally gave my passport back to me. Phew. No calling the US consulate in Santiago for me to say that the gobernación took my passport.

"Thank you very much. Have a good day."

Despite all this lofty rhetoric, the days continue to pass in some semblance of normality. Maybe it isn't a grand victory that I managed to get my passport back. Maybe it shouldn't have to be such a fight for every little daily task. Maybe I am exaggerating how much it can be a pain in the ass to do these simple things.

Sure feels like a small victory, though. I've got to take them where I can.

Delusions and Illusions of Stability

People come and go in our lives, always. For one reason or another, there is often a reason to leave and continue onward without the people that were so important up to that moment.

Here in Chile, thhe process appears to be accelerated. I meet someone, make friends, and then for some reason or another they disappear and go to a new city to work or study...often without time to even say goodbye. They seem to drift quickly and without warning, and everyone seems accustomed to the sudden changes.

It got me thinking about stability in life. In my life in the States, things appear mostly stable. Similar things happen every year. Governments change but nothing changes that much on the municipal level. Things have a certain rhthym and people are more or less consistent. Goodbyes are as important as they are rare.

But suppose that the stability is all an illusion? Even with all that consistency, the possibility of massive rapid changes is ever-present. People graduate. They move. They break up. They occasionally get hit by buses.

People here appear to have accepted and internalized that there is no real stability or consistency in life. I believe that this must play into the mentality of "al tiro or never" that everything has here. You have to do things in the moment they come up or changing circumstances of instability will prevent it.

In Chile there is no illusion of stability. And it might just be better that way. No pretending that things will always be the same when, without fail, they will not. Carpe diem...for example by going to a Chilean aerobics class suddenly and dancing my butt off. Doing exactly what I can do with what I have in the time I am given without wastingg time.

I am learning, I swear.

Let Go and Abide in the Contradiction

Is the moral of the story here in Chile that everything is just in constant flux? 

Much of today was not very good. Classes were tough and I was totally thrown off by a mean old bastard who threw rocks at and tried to stomp to death a kitten I had been playing with. There is a limit to which I can give cultural leeway, and trying to murder an innocent is one. I yelled at him. He grunted at me. I have to walk past his house every day on the way to school. 

Bring it, old man. Next time you try to stomp a kitten to death in front of me, a fat rock is going through your kitchen window. Fair warning. 

Maybe it was because I felt the need to rid myself of the bad juju that had been following me around since Saturday night that I washed and washed and washed tonight. Almost all the dishes. Didn't really bother me, especially since the warm water felt good on my hands. Gave me time to think.

Eventually my host mom said, "For the love of God, Coleen! That's enough washing! Go rest!" Seems like a complete turnaround from yesterday, right? That would be because it is. I'm beginning to let go of my need to understand and just abide in the contradictions of daily life here. Maybe I am leanring to be zen? 

I feel a lot better. And the clothes I washed in the shower last night are nearly dry. Tomorrow is another day. 

Harden by Softening

Walking to school this morning, I realized that the mud in the unpaved street of Puerto Natales is the exact same color as my coffee. Or rather that my coffee is the same color as the mud in the streets. Delicious, delicious mud coffee.

Every day in Puerto Natales, I walk down to the shore and along the waterfront. Every day is different, with a constantly changing view and shifting clouds above. One second there is strong sunlight...the next the wind picks up and blasts against my jacket. In the last few days, the mountains around town have pulled up their blankets of snow for the winter. The mountains are snow-capped now, and I am just waiting for a clear day to allow me a glimpse of them in their full splendor.

It is starting to be cold, but I am happy. This weather makes me feel at home, and it feels good to live in a place that toughens a person while softening them. What do I mean by that?

The weather, certain aspects of school, some experiences with people in town, and the landscape here in Patagonia are slowly polishing and scrubbing me until I am stronger. At the same time, most people are so friendly, my students are the sweetest, and the warmth of wood fires serve to soft my heart and warm it up. Stronger and weaker...toughen and softer simultaneously.

At Least Nobody Got Stabbed

I got robbed today. But that's not the story here. The story is about how the worst in one person often brings out the best in another. 

It was a beautiful and sunny afternoon in Santiago, and I didn't want to just sit in the hostel and read, so I went to buy a Coke and decided to walk to the Cerro Santa Lucia, a park I had visited a few days ago that is really pretty and that normally gives shelter to young couples under its trees. 

I had been sitting for some time on a bench in the beautiful sunlight, reading my book of Pablo Neruda's poetry. I was just getting ready to leave when a glint of light caught my eye. A boy of about fifteen, fashionably dressed and in sunglasses, was right next to me and picking up my coke. He grabbed my purse and started to run. 

No shoes. I knew I couldn't catch him. He was gaining distance on me with every step. My sunglasses fell off my head and onto the cobblestone. The only thing I had left was the Neruda book in my hand. Just me and Neruda at this point. 

"Ayuda!" The Spanish tore from my throat without me even thinking. "Ayuda por favor! Es mi bolsa! Es mi bolsa!" 

Nobody moved. It's gone, I thought. My camera, my wallet, my diary from the last five months, and even my phrasebook. 

A man in a red polo shirt jumped up. In a flash, he was in front of the thief. I stopped, looking around to make sure he couldn't run away down some other path. If he came towards me, it was almost certain he could dodge around me. 

I looked back toward him, and saw something small in his hand. The man in red also held a small object, which caught the light of the sun for a brief second. It dawned on me...they both had knives. 

Holy shit. I'm about to see someone get stabbed. 

I backed away two steps, and called to the people who were still sitting on another bench for help. The man in red was calmly talking to the kid, in thick Chileno Spanish I didn't catch a word of. The thief tried half-heartedly to menace the man in red with the knife, but the man did not back down. I think he was asking, "Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" A second that seemed like an eternity passed like cold molasses. I realized I didn't know the number for an ambulance.

The thief glanced inside my purse and threw it to the side. He ran off down the hill. 

I got to it and fell to my knees with the Neruda book on top of my recovered belongings. As I struggled to catch my breath I realized that my feet hurt a lot from running on the cobblestones. I was shaking all over. 

The man in red asked me if I was OK as he closed his switchblade. Words escaped me. He helped me up and asked me if anything else was missing. We gathered my sunglasses and my shoes. I still couldn't talk. 

"Gracias. Thank you, thank you. Can't say...so much." Broken, breathless Spanish.

"You alone? Here, I'll walk you back to your hostel. Better that I go with you."

We walked and tried to talk, despite my terrible and confused Spanish. Italian phrases snuck into my speech at odd moments. He asked what I was in Chile for. I told him I was going to teach in Patagonia. He smiled something along the lines of, "Don't worry. It will be beautiful. Tranquil. Lots of nature. No one will try to rob you there..."

"Como se llama?" I asked. 

"Yo?" he said, "Me llama Girardo."

"Muchas Gracias, Girardo. Debo...debo...decir a mis padres...Che Girardo me he salvado..." (More or less-- " Thank you so much, Girardo. I must...I must tell my parents...that Girardo saved me..."

He accompanied me back to the hostel and suggested I drink a beer straight away. I thanked him again and he went on his way. 

All returned. All my sentimental things. I had fewer than $20 in pesos in my wallet and the only thing of value the thief would have gotten was my camera, which is well-worn from my travels. The diary is priceless. The other books in there less so. The thief must've looked in my purse and seen only books, no wallet and no camera. My nerdiness may well have saved me. 

So now, beer in hand and purse in lap, I'm back in the hostel. I can't believe my good fortune. I might sleep with my purse in my arms tonight. 

Even for this, I'm sure there is a reason. If nothing else it taught me to expect both the worst and the best out of my fellow beings...and to trust that if I really am in need someone will show up and help me. 

Winks and Nods

A gold star stuck to my pant leg. Flocks of birds congregating in DIA's main terminal. Compliments from strangers as the last conversation in the States and the first in Chile.

Ever since I finally got on my way, little signs and winks and omens have been popping up everywhere. Little encouragements that I am doing the right thing, that this is the right path...and the biggest one came last night while I was talking with Pablo, a friend of the hostel's owner. He is from the South of Chile and was an exchange student in high school and college in the US. He even lived in Colorado for four months! We talked about skiing and Colorado microbrews and how girls from Colorado are awesome (because we are...).

As we started to talk about Chile and what it's really like outside of Hostel-land (where everyone speaks English and it's all a little cushy and comfortably familiar), his eyes lit up. It's clear that people here are really proud to be Chilean, and proud of what their country has to offer. Pablo lowers his voice.

"People come to Chile all the time," he says, "They stay in Santiago For a week and leave once to the South for a day. They think they are seeing the country," he scoffs.

"But you," he pokes me on the knee (a very Latin gesture I remember from Italy). "You will see the real Chile. You will live the real Chile."

A massive green streak darts across the sky, lighting it up behind Pablo's head. It races from left to right for ten seconds. The largest shooting star I have ever seen in my life. Not one of the other twenty people on the roof saw it. It was as if it showed up only for me, as a little empahasis on Pablo's statement. Even as I write it reads like a made up fairy tale.

As far as winks go, that was about as obvious as it gets.