This entry is long overdue (it actually happened the weekend after my “Remembering the World” post)…any complaints can be taken up with my literature professors at the university.

On a completely spur-of the moment idea, my friend Lilly (also from Middlebury) and I headed off to a whirlwind weekend tour of Chiloé, an island province about seven hours south of Valdivia. We spent one morning visiting penguins near the northern city of Ancud, where we also learned a bit about the famous Chilote mythology (ladies, beware of el Trauco, the sea god infamous for impregnating single women). We then headed south to Castro, the capital of the island, where we were inundated with wool products and saw the palafitos (stilted houses) that managed to survive the 1960 earthquake and following tidal wave. From there, we visited the little villages of Achao, Delcalhue, and spent the night in Chonchi, appreciating each of these towns’ traditional churches. These churches, built by Jesuit missionaries in the late 1700s and early 1800s are some of the world’s oldest surviving structures made entirely of wood. Several of the churches were recently named World Heritage Sites – something of great pride among the locals. The weekend was the prefect example of “playing it by ear” and taught Lilly and I several important lessons:

Things learned from a weekend in Chiloé:

Ask for directions sooner rather than later (in some cases, it’s even better to ask before you realize you have a question)

After missing or nearly missing an embarrassing number of buses for being too shy to ask where the bus stop is, or what times the buses run quickly reinforced this all-important lesson. Fortunately, buses in Chile run efficiently and frequently, meaning that our mistakes in this department were rarely catastrophic.

When reading a bus’s destination, it’s best to read the entire name, not just the first letter

Waking up early Saturday morning in the Castro, Lilly and I made our way through the rain to the bus terminal, hoping to catch the first bus to Achao, a small village on one of the islands in the Chilote archipelago. We checked our bags at the bus station and, as we were paying, I spotted a bus with the sign “A—-” pulling out of the station. “We can still make it!” I yell, and start tearing off after the bus. The driver sees my frantic arm-waving and pauses long enough for us to dive on. Pulling away from the station and heading out of town, Lilly and I slump into our seats, struggling to catch our breath. I’m just about to make some comment about what a close call we had when Lilly pauses.

“Where are we going, again?” she asks.

“Achao” I respond confidently.

“Are you sure this bus is going where we’re going?”

“Um….well, the first letter was the same.” At a critical look from Lilly, I add, “Maybe we should double-check?”

Lilly leans forward and asks the driver the destination.

“Ancud,” he responds.

Uh oh. Ancud was where we were yesterday…an hour and a half further north.

“What happened to the bus to Achao?” Lilly asks.

The driver points to the bus two cars in front of us pulling onto the highway, “There it goes!”

With faces burning and murmuring a number of expletives under our breaths, we ask the driver to let us off, and start sprinting back to the bus terminal. There is one more bus that leaves fifteen minutes after the first one, but the third bus doesn’t come for another hour. The one thing in Chile than runs better than on-time is the bus system, and if we don’t make it back in four minutes, we are out of luck. Three breathless blocks later, we are back at the terminal and, spot our bus. We triple-read the sign this time.

Never try to do anything in Chiloé (or Chile, for that matter) on a Sunday

Our last day in Chiloé, we had hoped to visit Isla Lemuy, another one of the smaller islands in the archipelago. Unfortunately, everything on a Sunday runs on a very-reduced schedule. We left our hostel in the small town of Chonchi, hoping to catch a bus to the ferry landing. Walking up toward the town center, we arrived just in time to watch the bus turning down another road and onto the highway (anyone detecting a theme here?). We decided that, instead of waiting, we would start walking toward the ferry and catch the next bus that passed.

We walked along the highway (really just a large road in this part of the island), chatting and, at the sound of an approaching vehicle, turning to make sure that it wasn’t our bus. Half and hour later, in the middle of a conversation, we didn’t hear the approaching vehicle. The sight of a huge, blue bus already past us and speeding away down the road caught our attention – ten seconds too late. Four kilometers later, we arrived at the ferry landing just in time to watch it pulling away from the dock. This really wasn’t our day.

What with the limited ferry schedule and our own bus-trip back to Valdivia waiting for us in Castro, there was nothing for it but to say goodbye to our Lemuy plans and to walk back to Chonchi. We were a bit bummed, but all-in-all it didn’t really matter. The rolling green hills that dipped down into the sea were gorgeous, and it was nice to just take our time and soak in the views.

Don’t over-think signs…many times it’s easier than you might think

The mistake that taught us this lesson is a bit too embarrassing to be retold. Let’s just say that we seriously considered going to a different restaurant to eat rather than suffer the embarrassment of entering after our misinterpretation.

Gotta love the lana!

Lana (wool) is one of the traditional products of the island, and every market we encountered was overflowing with every imaginable souvenir made from wool: sweaters, hats, gloves, scarves, socks, dresses, slippers, toys, and key chains…you name it, they probably had it. See my facebook album for a picture of Lilly and I modeling some of the local wear.

Talk with the locals

We met several incredible individuals in the course of the weekend, some of which included a very friendly taxi driver, our penguin-tour guide, the women who ran the first two hostels where we stayed, and an opinionated Canadian ex-pat who owned the third hostel (and who had not the slightest qualms about spouting his views of life, the universe, and everything for as long as his listener was still standing).

However, the most notable was the abuelita (little grandmother) we talked to at a local artisan fair in Ancud. We passed by her stall, where she was selling her wool products and somehow fell into conversation with her. What an amazing woman! She told us how she runs the stall with two other women, and how she loves her life – being able to earn a living by selling the things she makes. She wouldn’t want to live anywhere else or do anything differently. She was so happy that we were studying in Valdivia, and so thrilled that we had come to visit Chiloé that she gave us both keychains so that we would always remember our trip. The generosity and joy exuding from this woman was unbelievably touching.

Sometimes no plan is the best plan.

Lilly and I left for this weekend without a clue about where we were going to stay or what we were going to see. We drew up a plan on the bus ride down, and every plan that we made changed at least once, if not more. But it didn’t matter. We were there together, we were completely free, and the world (well, maybe just Chiloé) was our oyster.

For pictures from the trip, click here to see the album on facebook. Hope you are all doing well!

Map of my host country

Destination for our weekend get-away

For those who haven’t seen Tina Fey’s phenomenal impersonations of Governor Sarah Palin, you need to watch these!

Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton:

VP Debate:

Tina Fey and Sarah Palin:

I think of all of us have the tendency to get a bit too wrapped up in ourselves at times, thinking that the world begins and ends with our personal trials and stresses. There comes a point every so often where it is important to take a step back and look at ourselves against the backdrop of the world that we have forgotten.

The last few weeks, I had been struggling. I missed my friends from home, I missed my friends from school, and I missed my family. Despite my best efforts to try and meet Chileans, I still hadn’t made the friendships that I wanted. I missed English, where I could make jokes and carry on a conversation, and where I could tell a story without first deciding whether it was worth the effort and the time it would take to articulate it. I missed being able to use words like “articulate.”

Two weeks ago, I hit a low point. On top of my homesickness was dumped a massive and seemingly insurmountable mountain of homework. Hundreds of pages of reading, a quiz, and a looming 7-page essay are daunting obstacles in English, let alone in Spanish. I was extremely stressed. How was I going to read everything, study for the quiz, and finish my essay and get good grades in all my classes? The grim reality was that it wasn’t going to happen, and perfectionist Allison was not happy with that answer.

So when Rocío, a girl from my soccer team, invited me to join her in a construction for Un Techo para Chile (A Roof For Chile), I hesitated in agreeing. Techo is a non-profit organization that, among their many programs, helps build homes for Chileans living in extreme poverty. Rational Allison knew that this would be an amazing life-experience that I shouldn’t turn down, but Perfectionist Allison could think of nothing but what a lost weekend of homework time would do to her GPA. Rational Allison won the battle, and I agreed, but Perfectionist Allison didn’t die quietly, and the combined stress of homework and preparing to be thrown, completely alone, into a group of Chileans I had never met was doing nothing to ease my fears. By the time I left the house Friday night to join Rocío, I was so overwhelmed that I was on the brink of tears.

The weekend was far from easy. Meeting people in large group settings has never come easily for me, and I had to push myself to speak even as little as I did during the course of those two days. In addition, I had to learn just about every word we used that weekend – for some reason, construction words were never a unit in my Spanish education. After adding hammer, nail, tar paper, screw driver, beam, hinge, and level (to name only a few) to my vocabulary, I had to learn how to actually use the objects, since I had never had any experience with construction before. Everyone was extremely helpful and ready to teach me, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so incompetent.

But the experience was unforgettable. We were working in a neighborhood that was less than 10 minutes from where I live, yet I had never known that it existed. On top of that, the level of poverty was something that I had never seen before. The house we built was for an older couple who were living in a room smaller than my bedroom here. In that space was a tiny bed, a stove, a table for eating, and all of their personal belongings. The house was built out of whatever pieces of scrap metal and wood that could be found; the roof covered with pieces of metal and sheets of plastic weighed down by old tires. The house that we built was extremely simple: no insulation, no heat (and winters here are cold without heat), no running water, and no electricity. It really puts things in perspective when 3×5 meters of space, a wood floor, four walls, two tiny windows, a door, and a roof are improvements to what they were living in before.

The thing that struck me most about the weekend was the interaction between the volunteers and the families we were helping. The tío worked alongside us the entire time while the tía made us lunch, squeezing us into her house and serving us such generous portions of food that eating it all was probably the most physically trying part of the weekend. The students treated the family with complete respect and humility. One might expect the volunteers to have a slightly virtuous air about them, but it was the exact opposite: it wasn’t a guardian angel come to save a poor human, just one human reaching out to help another.

I left the weekend extremely moved, but not completely cured. My homework load was still weighing on me and, after a busy Monday morning, I was quickly falling back into my usual routine of stress and self-pity. After a quick lunch and an hour at my internship, I headed to Villa Huidif for my weekly English class, eager to just get it over with so that I could go back to my room and sleep.

Arriving early, I headed into the main house to visit some of the younger girls before starting the class. As I entered the room where the girls were studying, twenty faces looked up to see me, and twenty faces broke into a huge smile. My ears were filled with choruses of, “Tía! Tía! How do you say _________ in English?” and “Tía! Tía! Do you have computers in the United States? Roads? Houses?” and “Tía! Tía! How do you pronounce my name in English?” I was surrounded by little girls trying to get close enough for their kiss-on-the-cheek greeting, each wanting to give me a hug, hold my hand, or play with my hair.

I was truly touched.

These girls are orphans, live in extreme poverty, have been exposed to drug and alcohol abuse, or have been abused physically or sexually by their families. Every one of them has dealt with hardships that I can’t possibly imagine, have never experienced, and probably will never experience. If anyone has the right to feel angry, hurt, or mistrustful, these girls do. And yet here they were: so generous with their love, so open and trusting, so eager to be pleased, asking for nothing more in return than a smile or a hug. In a moment when I had been feeling depressed, these girls reached out to me – a complete stranger.

I felt myself shrinking in front of them, humbled this display of love.

When I left the house, I couldn’t stop smiling. My paper still existed, and I knew I would still have to do it, but the stress was gone. How can you feel stressed or upset when there is such love in the world, coming from the most unlikely places?

I know that I am a long ways from cured – Perfectionist Allison is still there, and it is unrealistic to expect to change an identity overnight. I am sure that I will forget (sooner than I might like) the lessons that I learned this past weekend. But for the moment, I have been given the opportunity to look around myself and remember that greater things exist in the world beyond. Happiness and success aren’t measured by the money that we make, or the grades we earn, but by the people we touch and the people who touch us in return.

I think this reminder was as important for me to hear as it was for the seven other girls in the classroom. I definitely feel stupid a lot of the time. Living in a world where my thoughts and words are based around a very limited vocabulary, it’s not uncommon that I feel like I’ve dropped a few years — or decades — in intelligence (though what I lack in smarts I’m making up for in units of character built through the experience). I remember playing hangman about a month ago when, after I beat the game, my friend told me, “Very good, Allison! Manolla wouldn’t have been able to guess that word!”

Great. I have managed to surpass the intelligence level of a six-year-old.

But let me give you the context for this entry’s title: Two weeks ago, Ryan and I started to give English classes at Villa Huidif — a home for girls who have been orphaned, abandoned, or come from abusive or unhealthy families. There are about 40 girls from ages 1-17 living in the home and it is truly touching to see how loving and open they are, despite the challenges that they’ve had to deal with at such an early age. We first visited the home a few weeks ago with Jacqui and Manolla when they went to drop off some of the clothes Manolla had outgrown. At the end of our visit, as we were saying goodbye, the tía (tía/o is the Spanish word for aunt or uncle, but is often used in Chile as a term of respect for teachers or other adults…in this case, the tía is one of the women who works in the home) asked us whether we could come back and give English lessons. Smart woman. She appreciates the impossibility of saying no to twenty girls looking up at you with pleading eyes.

So, two weeks later, we were back at Villa Huidif for our first English class with a small group of girls between the ages of 14 and 16 who are all studying the language in their respective schools. The beginning of the class was a bit uncomfortable as the girls and the teachers jockeyed for control of the room. When one of the girls started made a whispered comment to her friend about the two new (and slightly clueless teachers), the tía hushed them saying, “Son gringos, no tontos! Ellos pueden entenderte!” (“They’re gringos, not stupid! They can understand you!”). Unfortunately, the tía gave me more credit that I deserved: I knew they were talking about me, but I hadn’t understood a word.

Overall, the class went very well. The girls are all at a very basic level of English, so we spent the first class teaching the letters of the alphabet and singing the alphabet song. We ended with a slang exchange: the girls asked us for translations of commonly-used Chilean slang, which usually involved them first teaching us what the words meant before we could come up with the English equivalent. Some of the solicited words were “cheat sheet,” “incredibly boring,” and “duh.” I don’t want to know how the words are going to be used. However, despite the vast wealth of knowledge that we will be imparting to these young girls, I think the people learning most from the classes will be the teachers.

*******

Speaking of teaching, I am collecting suggestions. If anyone has any tips for teaching introductory foreign language, I would love to hear any advice that you have to offer. Also, for those of you who have studied or are studying a foreign language and remember games that you enjoyed playing or teaching techniques that helped you learn more easily, any and all contributions would be extremely appreciated!

A big hug to everyone! I miss you all!

If you want to make sure a Dappen gets her exercise, make her pay to use the transportation. I will be coming back to the states a lean, mean, walking machine! In order to avoid the steep bus fees ($0.34 during the week, $0.70 on weekends) I often find myself slogging through torrential rain, wading through puddles up to my knees, getting sprayed with mud by passing cars, fighting off the cat-calls that plague me in the streets, and getting lost in the thick morning fog. Let me tell you, every day is an uphill battle…but if it keeps those 34 precious cents in my pocket, I consider it time well-spent.

Okay, so perhaps I exaggerate a bit. Though paying to ride the bus twice a day pains me slightly, it’s cheaper than filling up the gas tank at home. Nevertheless, I find myself jealously guarding my change and judging the value of items by the number of bus rides I could take with the same amount of money. If I would rather ride the bus than buy something, I know it can’t be that important. And, though I may have exaggerated the conditions through which I walk, it is true that I have been walking a lot. I often choose to walk the 25 minutes to my internship or the 30 minutes to the university, not just because it saves me the bus fee (though that is an important motivation), but also because the ability to turn on my music and shut off my brain for a half hour is great way to relax and take a breather from speaking Spanish while enjoying the springtime weather.

MICROS:

The micros in Valdivia are my preferred mode of transportation, mostly because they have character…and they’re the cheapest. A trip with a student pass costs about $0.30 and, though I don’t have a student pass (long story involving lots of Chilean bureaucracy), I can usually fudge it during the week…you just have to carry a school bag, hand over the correct amount of money, and look like you know exactly what you’re doing. In my days of innocence and naivety, I must have looked a bit hesitant when handing over my not-quite-legal student rate, and usually ended up paying the adult rate when the drivers saw the fear in my eyes. However, I have learned much since then and have perfected the technique…so much so that, even on bus routes not commonly taken by university students I can usually get the discount if it’s the right time of day. It gets a bit awkward if I’m asked for my student pass and I don’t have it, but it’s worth it if it saves me some of my valuable change.

For those of you who are wondering “what in the world is a micro?” let me explain. Micros are small buses on the shabbier end of their lifespan (I once heard Jacqui say that Valdivia inherits hand-me-downs from Santiago and other bigger cities) that run through the city at break-neck speed on the most twisting, roundabout routes imaginable. Micros are privately-owned and therefore do not receive a fixed salary from the government. What they make from their passengers is what they take home at the end of the day. The same system was used in Santiago until the competition between drivers became so dangerous that a change was needed. The drivers now work for the city and are paid a fixed salary.

The government must have figured that, since the preservation of the Chilean race is assured now that 40% of the country’s population rides on rule-abiding buses in Santiago, to hell with the rest of the country. As many of the Valdivian micros overlap in their routes and each bus is trying to pick up as many passengers as possible, the result is a high-speed free-for-all in high-density traffic as the drivers compete to be the first to get to the passengers waiting on the curb. I was on one micro with a driver attempting to pass another micro that was moving too slow for his taste. Suddenly snapping out of his fit of road-rage and horn-honking, he realized he was about to pass a very valuable bus stop. From the farthest left lane, he glimpsed a 5-foot gap between two other micros also parked at the stop and decided to make a break for it. Now I know these guys are skilled drivers, but I can’t imagine how he thought he could fit into that space. The other buses weren’t too eager to let him in and share the wealth of passengers, and the end result was us waiting for five minutes for the other buses to move, while completely blocking three lanes of busy lunch-time traffic. I’m not quite sure how we survived.

That said, I have to be fair to the drivers–their skills are incredible! Despite the hair-raising style of driving, I haven’t seen a single accident in my time here.

Learning to ride the micros has been its own adventure, though I’m finally starting to get the hang of it. In my first few weeks, I had no idea which numbers went to which places (and had received many a strange look for asking where I could find a published map of the bus routes). I usually ended up making a random guess, jumping on the first bus that came by, and then jumping off as soon as I had a glimpse of my destination, afraid that the bus would turn down some new maze of side-streets and leave me completely lost. I usually ended up walking an extra five minutes, feeling slightly stupid and incompetent as I watched the bus I had just left pass by the door of said destination. The first time I tried to take the micro to my internship, I knew that I wanted a low number…but I wasn’t sure exactly which (Numbers 1-3 went to my internship). When number 4 appeared, I figured that it was probably low enough, and hopped on. We headed down towards the center of town. Everything looking good. We passed the plaza. Still good. All we needed to do was take a turn to the left and…shoot. We weren’t turning. Not good. Instead, we were crossing a bridge. Definitely not good. I got down as quickly as I could, but not before I was about as far away from my internship as I had been before I got on the bus. I walked for three weeks until I could get up the courage to try again.

COLECTIVOS:

Basically taxis with a fixed route that you share with four other people. You flag one down like you would a bus and squeeze yourself in alongside other people going in the same direction. For students, the rate is more expensive than the micros, but their routes are much more logical and direct, which can save you a lot of time depending on where you are going.

TAXIS:

A pricier option, but necessary for getting to some of the more obscure locations in town. However, taking a taxi involves overcoming my fear of talking with strangers on the phone. Though I have essentially conquered this fear in English, I’m not quite ready to tackle it in Spanish.

CARS:

What are those?

My family doesn’t own a car but, funnily enough, green and white Subarus are a common sighting here. Doesn’t matter whether I’m in Washington, Vermont, or South America…I can’t escape them!

*****

Alright, I think I have written more than enough about transportation for one day. If you made it all the way to this message, my congratulations!

Hope you are all well! Would love to hear from anyone who has the time to shoot me an email or leave me a post !

If you were to combine Independence Day, Thanksgiving, and Apple Blossom (for those of us from Wenatchee) and then pump the whole thing full of accordion music and chicha, you would begin to get the sense of what Fiestas Patrias (Chilean Independence Day) is all about. A woman from my internship said that September really only counts for two work weeks: the Chileans spend the first week working, the second week preparing for Fiestas Patrias, the third week actually celebrating Fiestas Patrias, and the fourth week back at work again. This isn’t far from the truth. The news channels started showing pictures of empanadas and asado at the beginning of the month (not exactly sure what the news was–am still having trouble understanding the tv) and, though we at the university only had a four-day weekend, much of the country has the entire week off from work to dedicate solely to visiting family, dancing cueca, relaxing, and eating as much as they possibly can.

The traditional foods for this time of the year are empanadas, fried or oven-baked bread filled with different types of meat-based deliciousness; anticucho, every possible type of meat on a stick; and chicha, a type of hard cider made from apple or grape juice. Though I’m not a huge fan of the chicha, I certainly ate my fair share of empanadas!

La cueca, Chile’s national dance, is probably my favorite thing about Fiestas Patrias, and I can’t help but smile every time I watch it! Each region of the country has it’s own distinct style and costume for the dance — from the plain, wool clothing of the south, to the extravagant skirts and spurs in the central valley. And, because it is taught in school, everybody knows the dance! When the music comes on, half the room grabs a makeshift handkerchief (scarves, napkins, socks, and toilet paper all seem to function) and a partner and moves onto the dance floor, while the onlookers clap out the rhythm of the music: clap clap, clap clap, clap clap. The dance is one of flirtation and conquest and mimics the mating ritual between rooster and hen. The resemblance is perfect — the man with his flashy, strutting steps pursuing the woman who daintily evades him, all the while shooting flirtatious glances at him from behind her handkerchief. Though partners barely touch throughout the progression of the song, with their eye contact, they manage to create a captivating energy. The dancers circle one another, handkerchiefs waving, occasionally passing close enough to exchange a significant glance before spinning away again until, in the end, they come together and walk off arm-in-arm. I found myself feeling sad that we don’t have something similar in the US — the music might get a bit tiresome after a few hours, but there is something truly beautiful in watching a six-year-old couple dancing alongside their grandparents while the community looks on, clapping out the beat.

I’ve included a link to some footage of cueca (the dancers happen to be Brazilian, but we won’t worry about the details) to give you a sense of what the dance looks like, though it really can’t capture the atmosphere of watching it live.

____

For our days of vacation, Jacqui, Manolla, and I went twice to one of the public parks in the city where the set-up is very similar to Apple Blossom — carnival rides (reminding us that carnivals are ALWAYS sketchy, no matter where in the world you happen to find them), artisans selling their goods, and food stalls. The park was full of people and families enjoying the sun, eating, and flying kites. We made two separate attempts to participate in the kite-flying and decided that it was really much more fun to watch Manolla sprint around the park with the kite streaming after her, body-checking toddlers that happened to be in her way, than to just sit in one place and tug occasionally on a string like the skilled kite-flyers were doing.

Friday, we went down to the center of town to watch the military parade — teaching me that soldiers with skis are much cooler than soldiers with guns (see my facebook album) and that, when trying to pick people out of a Chilean crowd, it’s convenient to have blond friends.

Saturday, I went with my friend Alex (also from the Midd program) to Curiñanco, a costal town about an hour and a half from Valdivia, where we spent the afternoon enjoying gorgeous weather and walking through a natural reserve with gorgeous views of the coast.

All-in-all it was a great, relaxing way to spend a weekend. Click here to see the pictures!

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.

Whoops…almost forgot. For those of you who are following the visual side of my travels, click here to see pictures from the weekend (in the second half of the album).

For those who want to read more about the facts of Chile’s largest city, or who would like to see more professional pictures without smog (digitally removed??), click here to see Wikipedia’s entry.

Well, I’m proud to say that I’ve fallen a bit behind in my blogging! This might sound like a strange comment, coming from me, but my tardiness in keeping you all updated is the first symptom I’m actually starting to be busy here in Chile. More to come on the details of what is filling my schedule later. First things first:

Two weekends ago, the plan had been for all the students involved in a Middlebury program in Chile to meet in Valparaíso to help with Techo Para Chile (A Roof for Chile), an organization similar to Habitat for Humanity that helps build houses for people living in extreme poverty. However, things fell through with the organization and, feeling guilty that we were going to be deprived of a weekend outing, Jeff and Aki (our program directors) instead organized a weekend of luxury in Santiago. The contrast between the intended plan and the actual outing was so extreme that it bordered on ridiculous. Instead of cold showers and limited running water, we stayed in a gorgeous hotel in one of the upscale neighborhoods of Santiago. Instead of simple, traditional food, we were treated to three multi-course meals each day and, instead of views of poverty-stricken neighborhoods, we were given tours of organic vineyards and Santiago’s largest tourist attractions. While I was disappointed that we weren’t able to help with Techo para Chile, I’m certainly not complaining…especially when Middlebury covered the bill for the entire trip!

Those of us from the south had to earn our weekend of ease and luxury, leaving Valdivia Friday evening on the night bus. Eleven hours and one construction cone collision later, we stumbled off the bus and made our way groggily toward the metro station to head to Middlebury’s office in Santiago. When the train pulled into the station, I think twelve pairs of eyebrows were raised in shock. Santiago is home to more than 6 million people (37% of the country’s total population), and I think the train that we were about to board held about 50% of that population. We pushed and squeezed our way on and, had my backpack been an inch larger, I’m pretty sure I would have lost it to the guillotine of the metro doors. There was no need to worry about not being able to reach a hand hold–we were so tightly packed together that I wasn’t going anywhere.

About twenty minutes later we emerged in front of the Middlebury office and spent the morning eating a leisurely breakfast, trying to shake of our bus-lag, and waiting for the kids from Valparaíso and Viña del Mar to arrive. After a quick stop at the hotel to drop off our things, we were taken to Cerro Santa Lucía — a sort of botanical paradise in the center of a metropolitan labyrinth. From the top of the little hill we had our first views of a portion of Santiago’s skyline. I’m not sure if there is a limit to building height in the city because of earthquake regulations, but the majority of the buildings we could see were remarkably uniform in height–as if a giant had stomped through the city with a club, whacking off the tops of all the buildings that stuck up too high.

The title of this entry could as easily be called “How to Hold Your Breath for a Weekend.” The pollution was unbelievable: a nice brownish-white cloud of smog hanging over the city and nearly blocking out the view of the Cordillera of the Andes that rises above the city. I’m not sure if it was real or psychological, but I could swear that I felt my eyes burning. Speaking of the Andes, what we could see of them was incredible! These are serious mountains–rather than wasting time with foothills, they just jump right to the conclusion, jutting out of the flat valley and forming a formidable border to city.

From Cerro Santa Lucía we walked through the city to Cerro San Cristobal — a park with a zoo, swimming pools, bike trails, and japanese garden. We took a funicular up to the top of the hill for more views of the city, then took a gondola (teleférico) part-way down to a restaurant where we stopped to have lunch. Dressed in our jeans and t-shirts, we were served champagne by waiters with white gloves, while being eyed curiously by the other guests in their suits and dresses.

The next day, we headed out of the city to the Maipo valley, where we were given a tour of Sol y Viento (Sun and Wind), an organic vineyard. We spent the afternoon walking around the vineyard and eating another amazing lunch at a nearby golf club before heading back to the city to catch our buses. Looking forward to my eleven-hour bus ride, I was slightly envious of the Valparaíso clan and their two-hour trip. However, hearing stories from the other kids and seeing Santiago, I’m glad to be living in Valdivia. The big cities are fun to visit, but it’s nice to go home to the more mellow, relaxed pace of small-city life.

TOTAL BUS HOURS (Since arrival in Santiago July 29th): 48.5

This past weekend, Ryan and I went to Puerto Montt with Jorge (one of our friends from the pensión). Puerto Montt is a port city about three and a half hours south of Valdivia, just north of where the archipelago of southern Chile begins. While there, we stayed with Yasna, friend of Jorge’s who lived in the pensión for six months before Ryan and I arrived. She and her husband live in Puerto Montt and where kind enough to extend their invitation to Jorge to include Ryan and I.

Puerto Montt itself is not the most attractive of cities, but the area in which it is located is phenomenal! Yasna and her husband Cristian drove us to Parque Nacional Vicente Peréz Rosales, a park surrounded by conical volcanoes (whose summits were unfortunately invisible the entire day on account of the weather) and on the edge of the cordillera of the Andes. Inside the park, we visited the Saltos de Petrohué — a series of cascades and waterfalls flowing through channels in an old lava flow. The water had the beautiful turquoise color created by glacial flour, and the saltos with the sunlight and the mountains in the background were gorgeous. This was the first attraction we have seen in Chile that is supposedly better in the winter than the summer! Apparently the water level in the summer is much lower and the saltos are slightly less spectacular, so our struggles through the cold and wind were not for nothing

After walking around the saltos and the surrounding area for a bit, we headed further down the road to Lago Todos Los Santos where we had some beautiful views of the beginnings of the Andes and what was visible of Volcán Osorno. From this point, it is possible to take the boat up-lake to the border with Argentina.

The next day, we ate a leisurely breakfast with Yasna before catching a bus to Puerto Varas, a nearby town to Puerto Montt that is more tourist-oriented and therefore more attractive. We visited the town to go to a church service and meet up with a friend of Jorge’s.

In the afternoon, we wandered briefly through Puerto Montt’s mall and then headed to Angelmó, Puerto Montt’s fishing district. The area is filled with little stalls selling wool and alpaca products and tiny sea-food restaurants. We met up with Cristian and Yasna for lunch in one of these restaurants before heading to the bus station to catch our ride back to Valdivia. Our bus ride went smoothly for the first hour and a half until we reached the city of Osorno. At the bus station, three people got on who claimed to have our tickets. After reviewing our own tickets, we eventually realized that we had been sold return tickets for the day before, and therefore didn’t have seats. Our options were to stay in Osorno until the next day or pay for our tickets again and go on foot. We opted for the on-foot option, which had us standing for the next two hours back to Valdivia. The standing wasn’t so bad but, as a Dappen, I was a bit put-out about having to pay another $8 for my ride home.

It was a great weekend. Yasna and Cristian were extremely kind and welcoming, and traveling with Chileans makes everything so much easier…resolving problems is so much faster and it’s nice to know that at least one person understands 100% of what’s going on! Feel free to check out the pictures from the trip in my facebook album.