More Lessons from Chile

(With regard to the previous post...)

"Yes," you may have said to me in your head, "that is all fine and well, Caitlin. Your classes seem to have been quite successful and overall, you have had a fulfilling academic semester. Contrary to your belief, my dear, that was indeed rather interesting. But pray tell what have you learned outside the classroom? What sort of life experience have you been able to extract from this trip?"

Well, let me report such findings. But before I proceed, let me also tell you, I had originally planned on ending the previous post with these "lessons outside the classroom" but (and I think you will all agree) it was already long enough in the first place. I was not about to extend it.

I have wanted to tell you these stories for a while now. I have encountered so much in these past four months, and I think there are probably still lessons sinking in and lessons that will continue to sink in even once I'm back state-side. There is no way I can address, process and produce in a witty, entertaining and moving manner the absolutely immense amount of information that I have taken in this past semester, but I will attempt to share with you a few things that have caught my attention or have affected me so far, just a few more little tidbits of information that I can share with you about the Chilean lifestyle.

And so, to begin... I shall start with the lesson in Irony. Yes, I learned a little about our sometimes good friend, sometimes not, on the night of a soccer game, my first and, consequently, last soccer game here in Chile. Irony is a fickle one. For example, I often appreciate him when I am reading literature. He makes a story interesting, like when Juliet kills herself after finding that her beloved has committed suicide, but only because he had thought that she was dead. Dramatic and situational. Or when Alanis Morissette became the target of critique for her song, "Ironic" that actually included inaccurate examples of Irony. Now that's Ironic. But there are times when I wish that Irony had more personal hobbies that kept him indoors and less free time to go wandering about, finding unsuspecting individuals like myself, and playing teacher.

The lesson began while we were leaving the soccer stadium. We were headed for the metro stop along with all the other fans. I was walking with a friend of mine, when he casually asked me what I would do in the event that a kid came up and tried to mug me. I answered that, of course, I would try and stop the thief; I would chase them down. The intention of his question, however, was not whether I would defend my own honor or attempt to right a wrong, but rather, would I try and talk sense into the youngster. Would I try and explain that robbing people isn't a proper way to go about behaving oneself?

"Maybe," I thought.

If it were a really, really young kid and if had I been able to stop them before any mugging occurred, perhaps I would try to affect them - I'm sure they don't hear a lot of positive advice very often, seeing as their conscience doesn't stop them from stealing from others. And just at that moment, the moment we had each been in our own worlds of contemplation over the issue, I suddenly became surrounded by two or three men. Men or boys. “Males” is generic enough; we'll go with males. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by two or three males, I assume to confuse me. One of them tugged at my wallet that I had hidden in my pocket after roping it through one of my belt loops and then through itself. Finding the wallet attached to something seemed to catch this male a tad off-guard. And in his moment of slight confusion, I realized what was going on. With one swift jerk, he broke the clasp of my wallet, freeing it from its leash and I immediately grabbed the first thing nearest me. It was the wrist of a boy, probably no older than thirteen. They all scattered in opposite directions, including the boy who's wrist I had in my possession. And as I chased after him, I dropped the Colo Colo team flag that I had just bought not ten minutes before. And this had all happened so fast that my friend, meanwhile, hadn't realized that a robbery had just taken place. He saw my flag fall and assumed that that was the reason I was chasing after some kid. "Caitlin," he yelled, "I have your flag! Its right here!" Then realizing that a two-dollar flag could not be the reason that I was in attack-mode, he ran over to assist.

All previously possible options of talking sense into anyone were long gone as I recaptured my assailant and demanded that he tell me where my wallet was. In spurts of Spanish and English I accused and interrogated and even patted the boy down, until finally I decided, mostly by the scared-to-death look on his face, that he must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The thieves had gotten away, and I felt incredibly violated. They had taken something directly off of my person. And, ironically, in their quest for money from who they thought was a well-off white foreigner, what they found was about two mil (a little less than $4.00), my second-favorite chap-stick and my house keys. But the thing most important to me that they had found was a memory card from my then recently-deceased camera. Worthless to them, priceless to me. All my photos from La Serena were on that card. Our four day weekend with all the IFSA-Bulter students had been stolen from me, and would probably end up in the trash.

Now this was a little while ago, so I am no longer bitter or depressed by all this. I know I will never get those photos back, but I have photos that my friends took during the trip, so while they are not photos through my lens, or my perspective, they will serve to remind me of the adventures we had and of the stories that I can still tell.

And on that note, I have also learned a little about letting things go, about having a little patience with my language learning and about not giving myself such a hard time. This is a much more pleasant lesson that began one Wednesday on my walk home from Drawing class. I had my headphones in, as usual, when I looked up and saw an elderly woman walking down the sidewalk in my direction. I began to move out of her way so that she could pass on the inner sidewalk lane, being the polite young lady that I am, but as I did so, she made eye contact and stepped with me, keeping us on the same path. Thinking that it was a mistake, that she was just trying to be polite as well, I smiled and stepped aside again. And as she covered the few steps that remained between us, I could hear a shrill, very gleeful, incredibly fast and completely unintelligible voice talking to me through my headphones. From her hand movements and questioning inflection I could tell that she was asking some sort of directions, but had no idea what she was asking about. She repeated her jumble of words as I removed my earbuds, and I wondered to myself for a second whether she belonged in the nursing home nearby and had gotten out by mistake. I hated to think that it was my Spanish abilities that were failing this conversation.

Never breaking her child-like smile, she asked if I spoke English and then proceeded to inquire, in very broken English, about the same street I kept telling her I was unfamiliar with. Finally, I think she decided that I could not help her, and with a pat on my shoulder she said, "Congratulations," and was on her merry way, shuffling again back down the street.

The rest of my walk home was spent trying to understand the interaction that had just taken place. And as much as I could fault her rapid, nonsensical form of communication for the misunderstanding, I was feeling a little down about the epic fail that had been our encounter. I had had the opportunity to speak to a random Chilean and to practice a little Spanish, and it was over before I knew what had begun.

But the day went on, however, and I had Gramatica later that afternoon. It went well, I'm sure I turned in a paper, or a revision of a paper, and learned still a little more about the Spanish language. Yet on my way home, just as I was turning into my neighborhood, a man stopped me to ask directions. My first thought was "why on Earth can people on this street not find their way" (Avenida Eliecer Parada, both times). And my second was "Hey! I know what street he is asking about." We discussed his problem for another minute or two, and he thanked me before continuing on in his search.

I felt so much more at peace walking away then, than I had that morning, leaving my first conversation. Not only had I carried on decently and at a respectable pace, but I had assisted him in his quest for an illusive street. I practically floated the rest of the way home, and since this was back around April or May, I sat outside as the sun set, reading a little more of The Sun Also Rises on the back porch before coming inside for Once (tea time). Learning another language is difficult, but what makes it so rewarding is when you realize that all the obstacles and frustrations are really just the necessary processes of acquiring the knowledge of something, first-hand. It doesn't make them less frustrating, but it helps to make them worth the pain, worth the effort.

And speaking of obstacles, something else that has been forcibly thrust into view is my new perspective on the role of certain "Necessities." I'm not talking about the real necessities in life: clothes, food, shelter, love, or loved ones... I am referring to the conveniences that are not available to me that were in the states or those that have been less convenient here in Chile. To begin with the shower: hot water, adjustable hot water, constant temperature and water pressure - for a good amount of time they were all reduced to mere memories of showering back in the states. My own car. A microwave (only up until a few weeks ago did we not have one). Central heating and air-conditioning. My own car. The concept of parking side-by-side in a driveway. A clothes dryer. My own car.

Some of these "necessities" have been missed just a tad more than others, as you can see, but their absences have all contributed to distinguishing my semester here from my normal life in Georgetown. The shower has been a constant foe from the very first week. Most frequently it would not provide me with hot water. Then, when it did, it would only provide me scalding hot, burning water for about four minutes until it turned cold again. And the water pressure was a joke. My host mom told me that I should set the water temperature using the tub spout before turning the water on up at the showerhead. That seemed to work, until I switched it to the showerhead, when the same problems would arise. I was so desperate for constant, warm water that I ended up taking showers from the lower faucet (that did provide the constant warm agua) more often than attempting to battle with the upper spout. This is embarrassing and I really can't believe I am telling you this, but it serves a purpose. Next time you hop into your shower, be thankful that it delivers on its promises and does its part in your bathing process, because I know that I will. Eventually my host mother took the thing apart and had a good look inside. Apparently there was some soft type of washer that had become so old that it was almost disintegrating. I have no idea how one silly washer was causing me so much exasperation, but the shower only acts up every once in a while now, and all I have to do is turn the water off and restart. After close to three months of my patience being tested, I could finally bathe myself without wanting to scream.

The microwave situation didn't cause me quite the same amount of stress, but I did come to realize how convenient it is when you are hungry. Everything we eat here must be made on the stove. It takes a little longer and requires a bit more attention, but that has just been part of the lesson in slowing myself down. I would have an ulcer by now if I took time as seriously as I did back at Southwestern. There are so many things here that (I am convinced) exist only to remind you how time is not under your control. It always seems that the more I try to rush something, the more resistance I will encounter. Sometimes things take time, and there is nothing you can do about it. And you have to eat, so you might as well enjoy it, or at the very least, accept it.

Central air-conditioning has not been a big deal for me since I am studying here for their fall semester. However, the lack of central heating has not gone unnoticed, not by an inch. The nights can get so cold here that I am able to see my breath while lying in bed. I wear pants, socks, house shoes and a jacket of some sort at all times. There was even a short period when I was wearing my ski pants around the house because it was the warmest thing I had.

Apparently the issue of "heat" in general has been a popular topic here so far, so we'll keep it up. I could write a love letter to my dryer back home about how much I have missed it here in Chile. During the first month or so, washing clothes was only a slightly more laborious task than I was used to: hanging my clothes outside on the line. But when the weather chilled, all former contentment turned into frozen hands and visions of magical, swirling appliances that would deliver to me warm, toasty, dry clothing at the end of a fifty minute cycle. Cold, possibly-dry-but-too-cold-to-really-tell clothing is one of my least favorite things, I have decided.

Something taken note of, but not directly affecting me, while living with Maggie and Arturo (and Cynthia, Gonzalo, Martina and Francisco in the other half of the house as well as the two or three [I don't know how many they are seeing as I never really see them] neighbors renting my host parent's guest house, if you want to be particular) has been the curious problem of getting cars out of a three-car, vertical driveway (not up and down, obviously, just not side-by-side). One is lucky if their car is the last parked because all one must do is unlock and open the gate, drive out, re-lock the gate, return to said car and be on one's way. If you are the second car parked, the process includes moving two cars out and replacing one. But if your car is the first one parked in the driveway, somewhat of a "musical chairs" gets to be played before you can be on your way to where ever it is that you are blessed enough to have a car in which to take yourself to. I'm sure more people around the world must deal with this sort of annoyance, but I am not one of them, and it pains me to think that if I had access to a car I would be included in this category.

Most influential though has been the absence of a personal mode of transportation. As I have stated before, it takes me about fifteen minutes to walk to my nearest metro station and usually another thirty to forty-five to get to my desired destination. When out about in the city I must either always be aware of the nearest metro, attempt to navigate the bus system back to my neighborhood or hail a taxi. Option two has been the least attempted as well as the most often screwed up.

And I do not look forward to having my own car again just for the ease and convenience of avoiding public transportation. The thing I most appreciate about having a car is that, to me, a car has symbolized the one place of complete freedom. I can go where ever a road leads, I can discover new places, listen to whatever I want and sing as loud as I possibly can without disturbing or being bothered by anyone else. Yes, driving is one of the things I am most looking forward to when I get back, two weeks from today.

I live a hard life, I know. For the most part, these differences (in theory; I didn't specifically anticipate all of them) were to be expected, and I am not complaining about any of it. Well, maybe the showering section... But all these things, from the mugging, to the direction-giving, to the living situation and the amenities that come with it, or don't, have helped to create my environment here and good or bad, they have been the pushing and pulling, the kneading and tugging necessary to form a very unique experience for me these past four and a half months.

And as I promised a little while back, the only count down (that I am allowing myself) I have been counting down for is approaching. KIMBERLY AND JADE ARE ARRIVING IN SANTIAGO MONDAY MORNING!!!

Wish us luck, and I will let you know how everything is going at some point within the next two weeks.