Vexed

I've had to change peluqueros again. This must be the fifth or sixth one I've tried here. I've lost count.

After an incident with one in El Centro back in 2012, I'd been trekking out to Barrio Yungay to Marcos* who did a consistent job of maintaining my hair style.

The problem? It was two-fold. Over time, I'd noticed that all the magazines in the salon had disappeared and were replaced by religious pamphlets. Along with my haircut, I could expect an evangelical lecture.

Then, there arose the scenario of their son and his learning English. This year, he was accepted into a "prestigious" Chilean school. He had not learned much English before and, now, he is struggling at the new school.

On my last visit to the salon, I'd had the foresight to take my Kindle and was reading the latest trashy novel, in plain view of their religious propaganda, when I heard a little voice say, "Hello, Tía."

I looked up to find Juanito* peeking into the salon. Since they live upstairs, this didn't surprise me, but this time, his mother frog-marched him in, one hand on each shoulder, and plunked him down in a chair opposite me. In his 12-year old hands was his English textbook.

"Please, he needs help with his homework. He doesn't understand it," pleaded his mother.

This wasn't the first time that they had asked for my help. I'd given mini-English lessons on previous salon visits and, last year, his mother had emailed me a homework assignment, along with a note begging me to do it for him. The task had been to translate a report which he would then have to read in class.

Put between the rock and being forced to find a new hairdresser, I'd reluctantly done the translation and sent it back with a stern note, reminding her that Juanito would learn nothing this way. They calmed down for awhile, but this year at his new school, he seems completely lost.

I looked at Juanito, seated across from me, and started asking him questions in English. "Does your teacher speak to the class in English?" I already suspected the answer to this, and he confirmed it with the blank stare.

I asked him again, in Spanish, and he shook his head. "Can he speak English at all?"

"Oh, yes. He can."

"Then, why doesn't he?"

"The first day of school, he asked who could understand him in English. When no one raised his hand, he gave up and started speaking to us in Spanish."

Uh-huh. If the kids can't understand the English teacher, isn't it his job to actually make sure that they learn how? I suggested that Juanito's parents go to the school and speak with the teacher, ask him why the kids aren't being taught in English. If the teacher wasn't receptive, my advice would be to complain to the administration.

"But how could we do that?" What?! "Why don't you come and do some workshops?"

I explained that I would soon be leaving Chile for this year, that I was not available to begin workshops. I thought that they had understood me.

They ignored my recommendation that they speak with the teacher, but they went to the administration alright...to ask if I could come to the school to teach remedial workshops to Juanito's class.

Next thing I knew, I had received an email from an "inspector" at the school, inviting me to send in a proposal, along with lesson plans, so that they could approve it before I arrived to do the free workshops.

After stewing for a couple of weeks, I wrote the inspector a polite note, explaining that I'm not going to be here long enough to begin workshops this year. He wrote back to say that I should inform Juanito's parents.

Since I'd already tried to inform them and they'd chosen not to hear me, I didn't bother to attempt it again. This, of course, all means that I've had to find yet another peluquería.

I've managed to locate a salon downtown where I was able to relax and thumb through the latest issue of Vanidades while waiting, and best of all, the Linda Hunt doppelgänger stylist doesn't seem the least bit interested in learning English.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

*names changed

Happy Hours

Frequently, I am contacted by folks who read this blog and are planning a visit to Chile. They ask me where to stay, what to do, how to get from A to B. I enjoy playing virtual tour guide and I offer advice when I can.

Many people want to be in the heart of it all. They choose to stay in Barrio Bellas Artes or Barrio LaStarria where you can hop onto the Metro or a bus, and it's easy to walk to restaurants and bars.

When I first moved here, back in 2011, it was almost impossible to find a restaurant open between the hours of 5pm and 7pm. They firmly shut their doors after lunch and didn't reopen until Chilean dinner hour. Now, with a huge influx of tourists, more and more places are staying open all the way through, from lunch until closing.

Walking through LaStarria, you see signs announcing "Happy Hour." Though most Chileans don't arrive to get "happy" until around 9pm, the Happy Hours usually start after lunch, which means around 5pm.

A recent article in The Guardian said that Santiago is "out to surprise" and listed the Top 10 Bars in Santiago. I might disagree about some on the list, but I have visited most of them. Six of them are within a five minute walk from my apartment...and you wondered why I post so many photos of cocktails.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

¡Que se puede!

On Saturday evening, after Chile's historic win of the Copa America soccer tournament, there was jubilation in Santiago.

Chile had never before won this tournament, and we watched, mesmerized, as Alexis Sanchez kicked the winning penalty goal. Thousands took to the streets to celebrate the victory. Plaza Italia, the designated gathering place for celebrations, as well as protests, was overrun with ecstatic fans.

Everything started off well, with honking horns and vuvuzelas. People, shouting in the streets, "Chi, Chi, Chi," and others responding, "le, le, le," but before the night had ended, there were three deaths, plus looting and vandalism.

Now that the initial thrill is winding down, it's back to the real world where Chile's got a few issues to resolve. As my musician friend, Polo* commented on Facebook, "YA ES NUESTRA LA COPA AMERICA. ¡QUE FELICIDAD! AHORA A GANAR LA COPA EN EDUCACION, SALUD, CULTURA, RESPETO, JUSTICIA." Now the Copa America is ours. What joy! Now, to win the Copa in education, healthcare, culture, respect, and justice.

I couldn't agree more, Polo. ¡Que se puede!

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

*a little jazz for your listening pleasure, brought to you by Polo.

Día del Patrimonio Cultural

There is a brass band playing outside. Enthusiastically, if slightly off-key. They are celebrating Día del Patrimonio Cultural de Chile, a nation-wide festival which lasts, not just one day, but all weekend to honor the different dimensions of cultural heritage in Chile.

In my neighborhood, the brass band is here in conjunction with the bomberos, the fire department. They play a song or two. Then, the bomberos release a stream of water from an antique steam-powered water canon, shooting it high into the air to entertain the cheering crowds.

I spoke with one of the bomberos, wearing his official company uniform which was festooned with medals. He explained to me that this engine was one of the first "fire trucks" in Santiago. It has been lovingly preserved and is used only for celebrations like this one.

When I first moved here, four years ago, a bombero approached me on the street. He had a clipboard and asked me to sign up to give a monthly donation to the fire department. In Chile, firemen are not paid. They are all volunteers.

I didn't know this at the time, and I was a little leery of signing up. "Let me think about it," I told him.

"If we get an alarm for your apartment, we're not going to think about it before we come to rescue you."

I signed up as a donor that day. Living only a block or two from the fire station, I hear the alarm at least once a day. Luckily, it's never rung for me.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

Poquito de todo

It's not all just about teaching, though. Would you take a look at this exquisite coastline?

Chileans joke that when God finished making all the other parts of the earth, he took what was left over and made Chile. Driest desert in the world, the majestic Andes, surf-worthy beaches, awe-inspiring forests, imposing glaciers, Chile has it all.

The WorldPost thinks so, too. Their "Through Your Lens" article's featured country this week is Chile, showcasing photos from social media users. They call Chile an "under-rated travel destination."

I'd have to agree. Chile is a photographer's dream. What are you waiting for?

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

Presenting A Million Sticky Kisses, the Story of a Gringa Teacher in Chile

People often ask me, "Why Chile?" If you've read this blog for awhile, you may already have a clue to the answer. If you haven't, I'll give you a hint: volunteer teaching.

If you'd like to know the story of my original visits to Chile to be a volunteer teacher, it's all in my book, A Million Sticky Kisses. Now available on Amazon in both print and Kindle versions.

Watch my new book trailer here.

~~Sally Rose
Author of Penny Possible & A Million Sticky Kisses
iamsallyrose.com

Time Warp

Back in Chile a little more than a month and I am just now settling into a regular routine again.

I suppose it didn't help that I arrived here exhausted, only stayed a few days, then set off for a week in Chiloé. In reality, I've only been back in Santiago for three weeks, but one thing is apparent. I'm not in Kansas any more, Dorothy.

I instantly jumped from spring into autumn. Skipping summer altogether, I returned to my tiny downtown Santiago apartment where my sedate existence was upturned. Like in Jerry Seinfeld's Bizarro World, everything is opposite.

Contrary to the quiet of the past six months, from 1 to 2pm, a lone saxophonist stands near the corner of Merced and Miraflores. I can hear him from my apartment if I am in my kitchen. In the evening, a band of buskers paints their faces and marches through the neighborhood like clockwork, an itinerant flute and drum corp. Late nights, I can hear another musician on a different corner. I'd feel like I'm living in the circus, except that I like this music and it's far enough away to sound soulful or lively, rather than ear-splitting.

My internal clock is now shoved forward a few hours. Instead of going to bed at 10pm like in the US, I'm sometimes finishing dinner at 10pm. Time slows down here, yet fast forwards to late night party and dinner invitations whose start time is more a suggestion than an expectation. Depending on where I am, I'm either in bed with the chickens or up until the cows come home. A slight exaggeration, but welcome to Bizarro World.

~~Sally Rose

Santiago Street Art

Today, I took an Urban Art tour. We met at Metro Bellas Artes to begin with the murals painted by Chilean artist INTI.

From there, we walked down Santo Domingo, into Barrio Esmeralda, along the Mapocho River, and across into Bellavista. Our guide, Paola, was very well-versed because her boyfriend is a Chilean grafitero, a street artist. She explained the history of the art, the methods used to paint the murals, and the codes of conduct among the artists. We learned a bit about Chilean history and the back stories of the art, as well. See more photos of Santiago murals here.

Urban Art Tours is still in trial stages. Once it's up and running, I would highly recommend it if you enjoy viewing and photographing street art.

Same again, please

Since my return to Chile three weeks ago, I've noticed some changes that happened while I was away.

New buildings, like the hotel in this photo, are going up. I see signs of renovation and new construction everywhere. New restaurants, shops, and hotels are popping up like mushrooms in Bellas Artes and LaStarria.

Bike rental racks have appeared in random places, and lots of people are using them. Not just the tourists who mob barrio Bellas Artes, but Chileans, too, are riding around on the rented orange bikes.

I've also seen more police presence at the Metro stations, and since a bombing last year, plastic trash bags have been installed in the stations instead of the metal trash cans that used to be there.

Fewer people are smoking on the streets. It occurred to me that, while out running my daily errands, I no longer have to hold my breath when I pass by office buildings or walk behind someone in the street. There is less smoking going on since the Chilean government imposed a higher tax on cigarettes.

In my neighborhood, where we've always had street dogs lying around on corners during the day and sometimes running in packs at night, I have seen almost none since I got back. I don't know where they've gone, or why or how, but they're mostly gone from my immediate vicinity.

Some things, though, have remained the same. Last year, before I left, I went to Movistar, my local wifi provider, to cancel some of their services.

I was paying for a tri-pack which included home phone line, wifi, and TV cable. From the beginning the cable never worked right. You see, many buildings here were prewired for one company or their competition. My building is wired for Movistar wifi and VTR cable, so a tri-pack in this building is virtually impossible to provide.

The Movistar tech, Luis, came to install it all. Everything worked briefly, but after a couple of weeks, my cable was kaput. A call to Luis produced another week or two of TV viewing and, then, out again.

Every time he came by, he wanted a small "tip" so that he could "pay for parking." I began to suspect that he might have been cutting the cable himself since I learned that he had a storage unit in the basement and was here in the building every day. Finally, the cable started working consistently.

The phone line gave up the ghost in November of 2013. I used it so seldom that I didn't bother calling Luis to fix it, but in June 2014, the cable went out again. The concierge claimed that a VTR tech had come through and cut off all the illegally installed cables, including mine, which had been connected to VTR instead of Movistar. Luis offered to hook it up again for 25.000 pesos, about $50.

I lived without TV. Before I left last September, I went to the Movistar office to tell them that I wanted to reduce my service to only wifi since that's all I was receiving anyway. When the representative asked me why I wanted to reduce their service, I made the mistake of explaining to her exactly why.

She seemed appropriately incredulous, offered me a discount to continue with my tri-pack, promised that they would come out and make sure everything was working, and said that Movistar would investigate Luis.

When I left here in September, I gave my Chilean cell phone to a friend so that she could answer it when the technician called and make arrangements to meet him at my apartment. But of course, no pasa nada. The phone never rang.

My friend attempted to communicate with them to find out why no one had made contact, but something got lost in translation. Finally, I asked Vivi, my Spanish teacher, to phone Movistar. They told her that they "didn't have enough information" about the problems I was experiencing to send out a tech. What?! I would have to go into the office and make another complaint before they could send someone out.

Now I'm back and Luis is gone, but I still have no cable nor home phone. I went yesterday to the Movistar office, determined to insist that this time they reduce my service to wifi only.

I walked out of there with well-used landline phone, as a "gift," and a piece of paper which I'm praying has enough details that a tech can resolve my issues because, once again, those slick-talking thieves convinced me to stick with their tri-pack. The handsome young rep swore that someone would contact me "within days."

I'm giving them until Friday.

Silence Is Golden in Castro, Chiloé

For lunch today, the hotel receptionist recommended a small restaurant near Castro's town square.

I made my way there and easily found the place, but it was mobbed, every table taken. There was a small round table for three out on the patio, but it had the remains of someone else's lunch still on it. One of the waiters motioned me over there anyway, mumbling something about clearing it, but I sat in front of a pile of dirty dishes for at least ten minutes before someone came to clear them away and take my order.

Meanwhile, a young man came in, carrying a yellow plastic bag. He hovered near my table, which put me on guard, but the waiters all greeted him as if he were a regular there. Next thing I knew, he said something to me that I had to ask him to repeat.

"¿Puedo almorzar en su mesa?" Can I eat lunch at your table?

Surely, I hadn't heard him right. In four years, I had never been asked to share a table at a restaurant in Chile. Most Chileans would be too polite, too embarrassed, or too timid to ever do so, but this young man was flaunting tradition. I nodded my assent and he sat down.

I had just spent yesterday touring around with another guest from my same hotel who had been Chatty Charlie. After that, I wasn't looking forward to a gabby lunch companion today, but I needn't have worried. Except for ordering, "Hector" was silent, scarfing down bread and double-dipping it into the spicy pebre. I tried not to think about any floating germs, as I tried to eat the pebre around the edges of the bowl.

In the end, we did talk a little. He was a Socialist from Santiago, here for work, who was curious about my political views. I think we were both surprised when we found some common ground. We raised our voices, but only so that we could hear each other over the guitar player to my right and the loudspeakers that blared Latin jazz on the other side.

He finished before I did and, as he left, he reached into his yellow bag and laid two apples in front of me. "From my tree," he said.

Silence is golden, but meeting new people is priceless.

Happy Easter from Chiloé

When I arrived here in Chiloé on Friday afternoon, it was raining cats and dogs. I got soaked just dragging my bag from the bus terminal to the taxi stand. Rain was predicted for every day this week, but miraculously, that evening, it cleared up and, except for a fierce fog this morning, has been beautiful ever since.

Yesterday, after breakfast, I went straight to the Visitors Center of the Churches because I wanted to see their display of Chiloé's famed wooden churches, declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Cerrado. Closed for Easter weekend. Instead, I walked back to visit the Ancud Museum. It was a small museum, but entry was free and they had some interesting exhibits. After that, I walked to the Mercado and the Feria.

I had been told that I could arrange a tour of the area in one of tourist centers at the Mercado, but they, too, were cerrado. It seemed to me that most everything was closed for Easter.

I walked two circles of downtown Ancud before finally returning to my hotel in frustration. At the reception desk, I asked the young lady how in the world I was going to see anything of the area if there were no tours.

At first, she just shook her head at me and I was giving up hope of seeing more than the few blocks around the hotel when she had an idea. She dialed a phone number and, suddenly, I was connected with a tour guide who was available, willing, and able to conduct a tour on Easter Sunday.

We made the arrangements and he arrived precisely on time this morning at 10:15. We traversed the entire northern end of Chiloé. We visited a wooden church, Caleta Puñihuil, Faro Corona (Corona Lighthouse), a chicha (fermented apple cider) festival, and other parts before arriving back at the hotel at 6:30.

I had spent a unique day touring this spectacular area of Chile. If you ever need a tour of Ancud, contact me because I know a good guide.

Happy Easter!

Chasing Winter

One week from now, I will be on my way to the airport, heading back to Chile for their fall and winter. I'm a winter-chaser. I admit it. While some people are "snowbirds," avoiding winter. I am a "sunbird." I dodge summer.


If the temperature goes above 70º, about 20º Celsius, I am uncomfortable. Considering that air conditioning is not the norm in Santiago, and that my apartment has none, I stay away during Chile's hotter months.

I've been watching the weather carefully this year. A few weeks ago, it looked like summer in Santiago was on the wane and fall temperatures had arrived, but last week, summer came back with a vengeance. Santiago temperatures reached up into the 90's. Whoa!

Some like it hot, and then there's me. Since I can't change my return date, I guess I'll have to sweat it out for a bit, literally, when I return, but I'm considering another alternative. Land in Santiago, repack, and then go further south to the island of Chiloé where it's a blissful 57º today.

According to a report on Philly.com, fall is a great time to visit. "After summer vacation...Local tourists go home; the leaves turn red and yellow." One woman is quoted in the article as saying, "I know this is Chile, but I feel as if I'm somewhere else, in Vermont or England."

Fall is my very favorite season and I've wanted to visit Chiloé for a very long time. Bonus: I hear the seafood there is to die for. Thanks for the push, climate change.

Am I Culturally Chilean Yet?

I recently ran across an article called 20 Signs You're Culturally Chilean, written by Elyssa Garrett and posted on Matador Network.


It lists twenty things that are uniquely Chilean. I found myself laughing out loud as I read through the list. At least half of them apply to me, particularly Nº.s 1, 2, 5, 6, 7... You get the idea.


Nº. 16, regarding Chilean wine, I absolutely claim. Not sure whether to be proud of that or embarrassed by it.

Coming Soon

Ever since my first volunteer visits to Chile, I've been threatening to publish a book about my experiences.

That was back in 2009 and 2010. The story was written then and has sat, forlorn, in a computer file until now.

Last September, I returned to the US to publish this book. Little did I realize how long it would take to actually get it done. I was blissfully ignorant of the endless edits, the delays, the waiting. The revisions. I have read and reread the manuscript until I am cross-eyed.

Now, I can see light at the end of the tunnel. I've approved the cover and the final "big" revision is done. "A Million Sticky Kisses" is now being formatted.

It's a good thing, too, because I want to have this book in my suitcase when I board the plane to return to Chile. With less than three weeks to go, I feel like I am playing Beat the Clock.

Coming soon, very soon, "A Million Sticky Kisses," the story of a gringa teacher in Chile.

Happy anyway

The following is an except from my upcoming book, A Million Sticky Kisses.

"After school, I was invited to go with the chorus to the annual Christmas concert at a nearby cathedral. Students from each of The Network’s schools participated. My kids were partnered with girls from the adjacent high school.

We left from school in a large van, zigging and zagging down narrow backstreets to arrive at the church just in time. In the 90-degree heat, my clothes clung to me as we hurried the kids inside to find our pews. I left summer temperatures behind as I stepped into the ancient church where it was blessedly cool. The air smelled of candles and furniture wax.

I sat with the mother of one of my students and kept an eye on them. In our chorus were eighteen girls and one lone boy. They were the only ones wearing their “every day” uniforms, the same tired, gray sweatsuits that they wore to school. Choir members from the other schools had on school uniforms, too, but they were cleaner, dressier, and more expensive. White shirts, navy pants for boys and white shirts with navy jumpers for girls. I had never seen my kids in any uniform except the sweatsuit and I wondered if my school might be the poorest in The Network.

Hearing commotion behind me, I turned around to find little girls pushing off one side and sliding to the opposite end of the polished pew. I gave them a look that included an arched eyebrow and they settled down again, giggling.

The concert began, only fifteen minutes late, with "It Came upon a Midnight Clear." I recognized it from the melody, not the lyrics, since it was sung in Spanish. My kids were next. I'd never heard their song before, but it was beautiful with their young voices echoing strong in the vaulted cathedral. They accompanied the song by clapping their hands in flamenco-style rhythm as the youngest girl pinged on a triangle.

Out of the twenty or more songs that were sung, I only recognized five. The rest were traditional Chilean Christmas songs, unknown to me.

After the concert, we were dropped off back at school. It was later than usual when I boarded the Metro to go home. The train car was crowded and, at first, I didn't notice the man who had followed me in..."

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays, Happy Whatever-You-Celebrate or even if you don't, Happy anyway.

'Tis the season

'Tis the season, so I was invited to a Christmas party last Saturday night. The invitation was for 6:00pm.

After living in Chile for almost four years, I sometimes forget that, in the US, it's not okay to arrive at a dinner or a party really, really late. I was only running slightly late, about twenty minutes, but when I arrived, the party was in full swing. There were other stragglers who arrived after I had, but the majority of the guests had arrived on time.

Everyone brought a dish to share and the hosts had prepared food, too. The tables were groaning, heavy with ham, turkey, enchiladas, posole, vegetables, desserts. You name it, we had it.

Many of us did not already know each other. We got acquainted while nibbling appetizers. Then, around quarter to seven, one of the hosts announced that it was time to eat dinner. People began filling plates and finding places to sit where they could balance them on their knees.

About half an hour later, I began to notice something, an exodus. People who had finished eating started to leave the party. By 7:30, half the guests were out the door and, by eight o'clock when I left, there were only a few diehards still there. I was home by 8:30.

I had fun at the party, but when I told this story to my Spanish teacher Vivi, she was incredulous. ¿A las seis? Her eyes went wide when I told her the party had started at 6:00pm. They began to roll around when I told her that I was home by 8:30. I could read her thoughts. ¡Que fome!

First of all, in Chile, a party like this would never have started until at least 8:00, more likely 9:00 or 10:00. And even then, most people wouldn't have shown up for another hour or so. They would not be ready to leave after only an hour and a half either. In fact, after an hour and a half, they might not have eaten yet and, even if they had, they would still linger long into the night.

After a Chilean party, the host might find their bed at 2:00 or 3:00 or 4:00am. Time well spent with people whom they had probably seen the week before.

Don't ask which is my preference. With friends, all parties are fun, but if I had my druthers, I'd probably split the difference and have three- or four-hour parties. I wonder which country in the world does that.

Hurry up and wait

In Santiago Centro, they have installed a lot of crossing lights with the little walking-man and a box below him to tell you how long it will be before the light changes again.

I don't know if it makes it better or worse to know exactly how many seconds of my day are spent waiting. Sometimes I stand there and stare at the number, "29" or "43" or "91" and think, "I am wasting 91 seconds of my life waiting here!"

Who comes up with these numbers? "91." Not "90" or "92," precisely "91" seconds are allotted for people to cross at this particular corner. I'm sure that the numbers were not assigned randomly. Someone, somewhere, must have conducted an exhaustive survey on the subject.

I can see it now--some man out on the corner with a stopwatch in his hands, timing people as they cross. Or maybe they time the cars. How many should pass through before the light changes? Someone decides these things.

If you're waiting at a red with the little still-man figure, when the light changes, he turns green and starts "walking." As the timer ticks down, he starts walking faster and faster until he's running as though he were in a dead heat at the Olympics. I wouldn't recommend trying to dash across in the final few seconds because the drivers here are both lead-footed and sporting.

As I waited at one of the long ones today, I observed three men waiting to cross ahead of me. One of the nicely dressed, middle-aged men was laughing heartily and practically skipping in a circle around the other two.

I watched in amazement as he did it twice more. Other passersby kept glancing sideways at him as they gave this most un-Chilean-like behavior a wide berth. Exhibiting joy and frivolity at 2:00pm on a Thursday afternoon in downtown Santiago? Nah, not done.

Wondering if he were actually Chilean, I turned the other way at the next block, but I hope he got hold of himself before he reached Plaza de Armas. Otherwise, the carabineros might have revoked his carnet.

*DISLIKE*

I have a young Chilean acquaintance whom I don't really know very well. Having mutual friends, we sometimes socialize in the same circles and I run into him from time to time.

When I found out, thanks to Facebook, that he was having a birthday, I sent him a congratulatory greeting. He responded with hearty thanks and then asked, "Are you coming (to the party today)?"

I played dumb. "What party?"

"The party, my birthday party." Oops, this was inconvenient because I hadn't been invited to his birthday party.

"Ummm, I don't know anything about your birthday party."

He apologized profusely. Twice. I wasn't particularly surprised that I hadn't been invited. After all, we are only acquaintances, not old friends, but he seemed genuinely sad that I'd been overlooked. If he were that regretful, I wondered why he didn't offer me a last-minute invitation.

Staring at my computer, I kept thinking that he would simply invite me then, but he never did. He just kept repeating how sorry he was.

Puzzled, I consulted our mutual friends. They told me that the party was about to start and was being held outside of Santiago in a little town an hour or so away. I understood then why there was no spur of the moment invite.

Now I'll bet that, if I run into this young man at another event, he will be stand-offish and awkward around me. Not just at one party, but......forever!

Why? Because the one thing that Chileans absolutely cannot bear is feeling embarrassed. Even though I am not angry or upset with him, he will probably be embarrassed by it and verguenza, más que nada, is insupportable for a Chilean.

*DISLIKE*

¡Viva El Centro!

I wish the man who's outside yelling would be quiet. I really do.

Even up here on the 16th floor, his chatter is loud, if not quite clear. He's talking so fast that I can't precisely make it out, but he's probably trying to sell ice cream because it sounds vaguely like, "Helado, helado, helado, helado......." 

Except that in "Chilean," with their rapid-fire, smoosh-everything-together, swallow-the-words, and always drop "s" and "d" form of speech, it sounds like "lao, lao, lao, lao, lao, lao, lao....." 

Every now and then, he goes silent for a blessed bit. I'm presuming that he briefly stops hollering as he makes a sale, but then he starts again, seemingly louder than before.

I managed to block it out the first 8,999,999 times he did it. Then, it began to get on my nerves. I wish he'd move down a block or two. Just a little buffer to muffle him.

My friends would probably give me a shrug and an eye roll and remind me that I like living downtown where the action is. They're right. I do, but sometimes "less" might be "more."

¡Viva El Centro!