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

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

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.

Welcome Back

Back in Chile and the cupboard is bare, so I went to Lider on Sunday afternoon to get a few essentials.

The place was swarming, but I managed to snag a head of broccoli and a packet of chicken before heading to the coffee aisle where their shelves were as bare as mine. Sitting there were 3 or 4 lonely bags of coffee. None of them my brand. There was Starbucks and Juan Valdez. Cha-ching!

Scrunched way in the back, I spotted one bag of something else. Some brand I'd never heard of, but was "Colombian." I grabbed it and was off to the body products aisle, looking for my brand of deodorant. I'd say that this was essential, especially since it's supposed to be 85º here today and higher tomorrow.

I use roll-on in the "powder" scent, Rexona. There was Rexona "powder," in a spray, but no roll-on to be had. There was another brand whose label had the same coloring and style. In my state of exhaustion, I nearly reached for it before I realized that it was not Rexona. At the last moment, I pulled back, feeling smug, and thinking, "Sneaky of them."

A stocker was nearby, so I stopped him to ask, "Where is the Rexona roll-on?"

I heard the dreaded words. "No me queda." We're out of it.

Sighing, I left Lider with only my chicken, broccoli, and packet of coffee. It was later that evening when I realized that the coffee I'd bought wasn't decaf. In my fog of jet lag, I had bought regular coffee which I no longer drink. Too tired to go out again in search of decaf, I resigned myself to drinking instant decaf, from my reserve tin, the next morning.

The following day, I went to a different Lider in another part of town. Same result, no decaf. in fact, no bags of coffee at all, and no Rexona roll-on, either.

Across the street, at a pharmacy, I found my Rexona. Happy that it hadn't been discontinued, I picked up two and stood in line to pay as person after person went ahead of me. Obviously, still jet lagged, I had forgotten that you need to pull a number from the ever-present red plastic dispenser by the door before they will wait on you. I sometimes wonder if I were the only person in the store, would I still have to pull a number?

It's a rhetorical question, of course, but the answer is "Probably."

Buh-bye, 2014!

I'm all set. Tonight, I'll be wearing red for good luck, and I'll be burning a bayberry candle because it attracts prosperity. I plan to make lots of noise at midnight to welcome in the new year. Not sure exactly how I will accomplish this one without bothering my neighbors, but maybe they will be partying, too, happy to begin a new chapter, as I am.

If I were in Chile tonight, I might be wearing red underwear to attract a new love or yellow to attract prosperity. And if I wanted to attract both or just a prosperous lover, could I mix it up and wear orange undies for that?

To attract travel in 2015, I would take my suitcase out and make a midnight stroll around the block with it. Then, tomorrow, I would eat lentils for good luck. Here in the US, I will be eating black-eyed peas and cabbage for the same reason.

I've started on those pesky New Year's resolutions, too. Goals, intentions, whatever you call them. Top of the list is spending less time on "social media." You know what I'm talking about.

An inordinate amount of my day is spent scrolling through all the "stuff" that appears in my newsfeed. I enjoy seeing friends' photos or reading things they post, but it's like mining for nuggets of gold. I have to sift through all the inane things that people I have only met once or twice think is important enough or funny enough or witty enough to post on Wastebook. By the time I've reached the end, looking for posts from people I actually know, I have to start over again because there are 48 new posts to ferret through.

For me, it equals an enormous time drain. I'd quit using it altogether except that some of my friends use it instead of email. To stay in touch with them, I have to continue it, but I'm going to attempt the practically impossible--only doing one big "read" of it every day instead of scrolling endlessly.

Here's to spending less time on social media and more time being social in 2015. Cheers!

Happy New Year.

'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.

Happy Thanksgiving

Here I am in the good ol' US of A. Day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving, my first here since 2010.

I've bought my free-range, "hormone-free" turkey breast and organic white and sweet potatoes. I will admit to cheating by using Stovetop Cornbread Stuffing. My friend is bringing a vegetable and a pie, probably from Costco. My stomach doesn't like GMO-laden stuff so I hope it doesn't protest too loudly over the stuffing or the dessert.

I remember a few years back when an incident on a Black Friday, traditionally the day after Thanksgiving, caused a tragedy at a Walmart. A fight over some popular item resulted in death.

I have not been in the US for Thanksgiving in four years. Maybe it's been around for awhile, but I am noticing a particular trend this year. Black Friday doesn't start on Friday any more. Now, it starts on Thursday at 6:00pm.  Or 5:00pm. Or 4:00pm. Heck, maybe some stores are open all day.

Is nothing sacred? What happened to Thanksgiving? I remember when we anticipated it all week long. We dreamed of stuffing ourselves with yummy delicacies reserved for holidays. What happened to enjoying a leisurely family meal, then sitting around in a tryptophan stupor waiting until we could attack the desserts or go for another round of savory carbs?

It was probably sexist. Women washing up while men bonded over football, but we were together, a family unit. No one ever thought about rushing off to do Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving Day. It was a day of leisure with family and friends.

Now, it's woe to the cook whose family wants to take advantage of Black Friday. They might as well get up at midnight on Thanksgiving Eve and start cooking so that, as soon as the last fork is put down, they can warm up the car and take off for the mall to beat the crowds of other crazed shoppers.

I wonder what's the point of Thanksgiving. Are we such consumers that shopping is more important than spending time with family? Maybe, in the future, we will do away with it altogether.

Or maybe I'm just an expat who sees things from a different perspective now.

Shifting

"Are you missing Santiago at all?", my friend asked.

Since moving to Chile in 2011, I had previously only left for the summer because hot weather and I are not friends and I have no air conditioner in Chile.

When I moved there, I went with the idea of permanency, but this year, I've been out of Chile more than not. I even bought a small condo in the US during one of my visits. So now I have a place to go when I'm not in Chile. It has air conditioning and central heating. Though it's a one-bedroom, it's almost double the size of my two-bedroom Santiago apartment. I have my own parking space and I can easily run to Walmart, Walgreen's, or Whole Foods at almost any time of the day or night.

Do I miss Chile at all? Yes. I prefer walking across the street and shopping at the woefully understocked Lider where I have to time my visits so that I'm not there immediately before work, during lunchtime, or after work unless I want to stand in a long line.

I miss tasty food that is not (yet) completely GMO-tainted, eating things that are in season like we used to do when I was a kid. I miss good olive oil and delicious, inexpensive wine. I even miss marraqueta.

I miss my view of the Andes Mountains though the snow is probably melted by now.

The Metro in Santiago is overcrowded and malfunctioned on a grand scale recently, but it generally works fairly well. And then there are the micros, buses, and also swarms of taxis, not exorbitantly priced. I dislike driving and I miss mass transit, awful as it can be, because apparently I'm a city chick.

I miss my friends and wonder if it's really possible to maintain intimate relationships long distance.

There are many things I don't miss too, but that's for another post. With one foot in Chile and the other in the US, I should feel balanced and grounded. Oddly, I feel just the opposite, as if I'm shifting from one foot to the other, not sure I belong in either place.

*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!