Knock, knock...housekeeping! As the more perceptive among you have surely realized, a few things have changed here on CaminoChile. There are new reaction buttons to give your opinion of a piece in one click. I highly suggest the overuse of the "WTF" button (because who doesn't like a few explitives here and there? Or everywhere?)
On your right you will find a new section weaving common threads out of the chaotic rantings that you often find here, for everything from "Coincidences" to "Armed Robbery." There is even one for "Chaos" if you feel like putting all of it in one place at a time. Fair warning, the chaos might jump out of the computer screen and manifest itself in your life. Then we can be comrades in arms.
Johanel, one of my sixth graders, made a keen observation today. It snowed for the first time last night here in Natales, and even the air appeared to have crystallized. Winter clarity of light and sight is here, complete with the pastel colors of sky and ice that signal the change of season. He looked up from copying "The Road Less Travelled" by Robert Frost.
"It snowed," he stated in Spanish. "Does it snow a lot in Colorado, Tía?"
"Yes, it snows a lot where I live. Nieve mucho dondé yo vivo." My customary double answer in English and then Spanish.
"Seems so," Johanel continued, "In Southpark the ground is always snowy. So Southpark and Colorado must be like Puerto Natales. And we are like the kids in the show."
Couldn't have put it better myself. Sometimes I feel as though I am teaching at Southpark Elementary, not Escuela 5. How funny would a volunteer teacher comes to town episode be? Right, probably not that funny for most. But for me it would be!
Life here in Natales grinds on like the bumpers barely held on by duct tape to some of the cars that drive down our street grind on the dirt. We are currently celebrating the 100th anniversary of the founding of this oasis in the vast wilderness of Patagonia, with shows and art and even fireworks next weekend.
It appears I chose to come here at just the correct time to have everything line up. If I had come even a few months later, I would never have known that the biggest fiesta in Natales' history had happened. I might not have met the wonderful friends I did. Some of my students might never have met me, since they dropped out or changed schools to escape bullying in the months since I arrived.
Everything continues to happen for a reason. I wrote it almost 90 days ago...feeling my heart swell with the knowledge that there was not simply one reason I moved to Chile, but a multitude. One by one, the reasons take their turns drifting into the dance of my life, cutting in on each other and passing me from one to the next in a grand choreography.
Showing posts with label Coincidences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Coincidences. Show all posts
09 March 2011
Repetition of Forms
Losing my Religion by REM is following me everywhere. It appeared the other day when I went to Valparaiso while we waited for the metro to take us to Vina del Mar. It floated out of a bar on the walking mall in Vina while we walked toward the bus station. It signalled the end of the night here in the hostel by showing up to let everyone know it was time for bed.
Art, too, appears to be becoming a repetitive force in my life while I walk through Chile. The murals in Valpo, around each turn and every color-bathed corner. The hearts sprouting wings in graffiti around the barrios of Santiago. A new friend who signed the back of a ping-pong paddle for me, whose art is in an exhibition in Budapest. Wild, contrasting photography in the Bellas Artes Museum coexisting with plaster reproductions of Michaelangelo´s works and styrofoam scultptures from Chilean contemporary art.
My stories seem to go in circles, since each new contact and acquaintance asks the same questions and walks into the same stories. Our orientation repeats not only itself, but the TEFL course we all were supposed to finish. Even the food is repeated.
Repetition of forms in Renaissance architecture sought to bring order to an otherwise chaotic world. The clean lines and repetitive forms brought a sense of planning and forethought. These repeated forms sought a higher purpose.
What higher purpose are these personal repetitions seeking? At this point, it's abundantly unclear. Flexibility? Patience? Faith? Letting go of my desire to control/understand? Pissing me off for the fun of it?
The process is just beginning, and our meager time in this insulated and cushy Gringo Paradise is nearing it's end. I wonder if I'm prepared for what this will actually be, for what my assignment will bring and where my adventure will really take me. The decision comes tomorrow, and then there's no turning back. I can't wait.
To get back to Santiago from Vina del Mar was a process, and a stressfully crowded experience with humanity crammed into a grungy bus terminal. As usual for Chile, it was barely controlled chaos. Even the Chileans milling about wore my expression of confusion and supressed terror that the bus would never arrive and we would have to sleep in the terminal with the stray dogs. In a certain sense, that feeling of worry and waiting for an unknown objective permeates this experience. But the bus is coming, the repetitions and omens continue to beckon, and in the end it's all temporary anyway.
Eyes up. Time to get down to business.
Art, too, appears to be becoming a repetitive force in my life while I walk through Chile. The murals in Valpo, around each turn and every color-bathed corner. The hearts sprouting wings in graffiti around the barrios of Santiago. A new friend who signed the back of a ping-pong paddle for me, whose art is in an exhibition in Budapest. Wild, contrasting photography in the Bellas Artes Museum coexisting with plaster reproductions of Michaelangelo´s works and styrofoam scultptures from Chilean contemporary art.
My stories seem to go in circles, since each new contact and acquaintance asks the same questions and walks into the same stories. Our orientation repeats not only itself, but the TEFL course we all were supposed to finish. Even the food is repeated.
Repetition of forms in Renaissance architecture sought to bring order to an otherwise chaotic world. The clean lines and repetitive forms brought a sense of planning and forethought. These repeated forms sought a higher purpose.
What higher purpose are these personal repetitions seeking? At this point, it's abundantly unclear. Flexibility? Patience? Faith? Letting go of my desire to control/understand? Pissing me off for the fun of it?
The process is just beginning, and our meager time in this insulated and cushy Gringo Paradise is nearing it's end. I wonder if I'm prepared for what this will actually be, for what my assignment will bring and where my adventure will really take me. The decision comes tomorrow, and then there's no turning back. I can't wait.
To get back to Santiago from Vina del Mar was a process, and a stressfully crowded experience with humanity crammed into a grungy bus terminal. As usual for Chile, it was barely controlled chaos. Even the Chileans milling about wore my expression of confusion and supressed terror that the bus would never arrive and we would have to sleep in the terminal with the stray dogs. In a certain sense, that feeling of worry and waiting for an unknown objective permeates this experience. But the bus is coming, the repetitions and omens continue to beckon, and in the end it's all temporary anyway.
Eyes up. Time to get down to business.
03 March 2011
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.
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.
02 March 2011
Everything Continues to Happen for a Reason
At a crosswalk today in the searing heat of afternoon, I found myself standing with my hands on my hips, sunk into my hips and an expression on my face of disbelief that the light had the audacity to make me stop for a moment. The second the cars moved away from the line and passed, I darted out into the street and walked briskly to the other side, ignoring the beeping motorcycle trying to make a right over my shoulder.
As I reached the other side, I wondered what had come over me. I don't stand like that...I don't cross like that. But then, Santiago is a city that makes sure you are aware of its millions of inhabitants at all times. The collective peer pressure is immense. Even more so when one sticks out like an ostrich in a chicken coop.
So now I have a Santiago strut.
I love many things about Chile already (food, wine, art, eating schedule, and even language), but one thing that really bothers me is how much attention my blonde hair sets me up for from the men. I went out to the college district for a beer with friends last night and walking through the crowds was like running the gauntlet. 20 comments in 20 feet, mostly along the lines of "Hello, woman..." (yes, in English) and "Deliciosa." Even though I'm dressed down and a Chilen woman in a miniskirt and tube top is right next to me.
I dealt with this BS before in Italy, but the machismo in Santiago is on a whole other level. Funniest part is that in the crowds were hard core punk rockers, business men, college students, and older men who all used the same tired lines to try to catch my attention. In Italy the attention felt complimentary in some ways. This feels more predatory. As long as I'm with friends, I'm fine. And it feels safe here nonetheless.
When traveling, I often keep to myself. This trip I've been the most social ever, meeting friends in the hostel and having some truly great conversations. We are all in limbo in a way, transitory beings who come and go almost without being noticed or missed.
But then occasionally one meets a person with whom they connect on so many levels, a kindred spirit out on the road. They become a close friend within days or hours, a confidant and someone who doesn't make judgments. You both know time is limited and that this is only a meeting by chance, but for a short time it feels like you've been friends forever.
And one of you has to leave. Or both. Either way the jaunt of friendship comes to a screeching halt and you say your goodbyes. It's a big world, and you might never cross paths again. But then, the world is getting smaller all the time with Facebook and email and Skype. Like-minded people will likely remain like-minded and seek out the same type of path. That's what brought you to meet in the first place, right?
If there is one lesson that the universe has been trying to beat into my head over the last few weeks, it's that everything happens for a reason. Things that have no business happening happen all the time, things that should be statistically near-impossible. Why I meet one person and not another is always a mystery.
And occasionally a shooting star that only I get to see shows up and streaks across my life. And I get to be satisfied that there are people like me out there in the world, and that we occasionally find one another.
As I reached the other side, I wondered what had come over me. I don't stand like that...I don't cross like that. But then, Santiago is a city that makes sure you are aware of its millions of inhabitants at all times. The collective peer pressure is immense. Even more so when one sticks out like an ostrich in a chicken coop.
So now I have a Santiago strut.
I love many things about Chile already (food, wine, art, eating schedule, and even language), but one thing that really bothers me is how much attention my blonde hair sets me up for from the men. I went out to the college district for a beer with friends last night and walking through the crowds was like running the gauntlet. 20 comments in 20 feet, mostly along the lines of "Hello, woman..." (yes, in English) and "Deliciosa." Even though I'm dressed down and a Chilen woman in a miniskirt and tube top is right next to me.
I dealt with this BS before in Italy, but the machismo in Santiago is on a whole other level. Funniest part is that in the crowds were hard core punk rockers, business men, college students, and older men who all used the same tired lines to try to catch my attention. In Italy the attention felt complimentary in some ways. This feels more predatory. As long as I'm with friends, I'm fine. And it feels safe here nonetheless.
When traveling, I often keep to myself. This trip I've been the most social ever, meeting friends in the hostel and having some truly great conversations. We are all in limbo in a way, transitory beings who come and go almost without being noticed or missed.
But then occasionally one meets a person with whom they connect on so many levels, a kindred spirit out on the road. They become a close friend within days or hours, a confidant and someone who doesn't make judgments. You both know time is limited and that this is only a meeting by chance, but for a short time it feels like you've been friends forever.
And one of you has to leave. Or both. Either way the jaunt of friendship comes to a screeching halt and you say your goodbyes. It's a big world, and you might never cross paths again. But then, the world is getting smaller all the time with Facebook and email and Skype. Like-minded people will likely remain like-minded and seek out the same type of path. That's what brought you to meet in the first place, right?
If there is one lesson that the universe has been trying to beat into my head over the last few weeks, it's that everything happens for a reason. Things that have no business happening happen all the time, things that should be statistically near-impossible. Why I meet one person and not another is always a mystery.
And occasionally a shooting star that only I get to see shows up and streaks across my life. And I get to be satisfied that there are people like me out there in the world, and that we occasionally find one another.
27 February 2011
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.
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.
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