I had been starting to get a bit worried that I was doing something wrong in my first weeks here in Chile. All through our orientation we women had been warned that “piropos” (cat-calls) were a common part of Chilean culture and that, especially as Americans, we would be plagued by whistles and rude comments. It was something that I was really dreading having to get used to and yet, after a month in Valdivia, I was still piropo-less. Rather than feeling relieved, I felt slightly let-down. I was missing out on a classic Chilean experience. Was I doing something wrong? I analyzed my behavior and my walking habits and realized that I had made a crucial error:. The majority of the time I’m out walking, I’m with other people and, since my circle of acquaintance only includes the boys in the house and the students from the Midd program (2/3 of which are guys), that means that I’m usually not without a male escort.

So, on a sunny day about a week ago, I took fate into my own hands and ventured out alone to look for my first piropo (ok, so I was really just heading to the university, but it’s a better story this way, right?). Walking along the riverside, I passed the first fifteen minutes unbothered. Rats! I was starting to lose hope when I passed two men washing their delivery truck on the side of the road. One of the men looked up from his work and, nudging his friend, said in a loud voice “Mira la rubia!” (Look at the blonde). It wasn’t really a true piropo–there was nothing rude or offensive in the comment, it was just an observation–but I was still so excited that I had to resist the urge to run over to him, tell him to “chócalo” (give me a high-five) and congratulate him on delivering my first cat-call. My Chilean experience is now complete.

Talking with other students from the program, Valdivia is definitely different from other cities in the level of cat-calling. It sounds like, in the larger cities, it is a much more common and more offensive problem. Yet another point in favor of small cities!

The Chilean preoccupation with colds is another cultural difference that has been a source of simultaneous amusement and frustration. The concept of colds as a product of a virus does not seem to have spread as far south of Chile and, as a members of the fairer sex, we women have to be especially careful to avoid the dangers of this affliction.

I’ve been gently chided many times for forgetting to wear shoes or slippers inside the house, and the family has been very concerned by the fact that I walk from the pension to the casita (a distance of about 12 feet) without putting on a coat. I have been stopped countless times on the doorstep with the cautioning advice that I should really wear more layers to protect myself from the change of temperature between the house and damp weather outside. The conversation goes something like this:

“Allison, can I give you a bit of advice?”

“Sure”

“It’s cold outside, and the change in temperature between the house and the outdoors is not good for you. You should really bundle up before going outside.”

“But it’s only 4 meters to the other house. I’ll run.” (Allison is also thinking about how outside is only about five degrees colder than the house).

“Of course, it’s just advice, but the shock of the cold air is really not good for you.”

“I appreciate the advice, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. The weather at my school in the states is much colder, and I’ve run longer distances without doing any serious damage to my health.”

“But is it humid at your school?”

(Allison is forced to grudgingly admit that, no, it’s not)

“Well, there you have it. The humidity here really makes a difference, and it’s something that you’re not accustomed to.”

“Next time I’ll wear a coat…this time I’m going to make a break for it.”

Two days later I sit down to breakfast with a runny nose and a slight cough. The family looks at me pityingly and says, their voice dripping with I-told-you-so’s: “You caught a cold.” I nod my consent.

Manolla reaches over to tap me on the arm and says, “You know it’s because you don’t bundle up enough.”

An “I told you so” never sounds more humiliating than when it’s coming from a six-year-old.