Blog Abroad @ MindSay

ONE OF THE NEW BLOG ABROAD PEOPLE IS FROM HSU!!!! THAT'S WHERE I GO TO COLLEGE!!!! YOU ALL NEED TO CHECK OUT HER BLOG AND FOLLOW ALL HER TRAVELS!!!

namasteindia 

while I'm feeling good, i might as well add that last night we had a little meeting with the NORML officers and i'm so excited for it this year! i'm gonna be secretary and that's going to help me be a lot more involved. Meetings are kinda late, though, but last night Eric, the guy who was president last year, is also a psyc major, and is also a sophomore, (and was there when I spoke at the "silence = violence" rally in April) gave me a ride home from Terra, the new president's place last night after the meeting, so maybe he can after these other meetings? i dunno; I'm deffinately excited for this year, though and i hope i can be as active as I want to be despite the 16 units I'm taking and the fact that i'm still trying to find a job here in Arcata. i guess we'll just see...

   Study abroad horror stories.  Losing credit cards, money, digital camaras.  Being mugged.  Accidentally eating undercooked cow tongue.  Though I have survived all these things and more, I recently experienced something even more terrifying.  I was taken to...(dramatic music)..."the end of the line."  Just days before, an unfortunate friend had a similar experience, in which the micro driver failed to inform her when to get off the bus, and thus she ended up at what she referred to as "the source" (ie bus terminal.)  This, she, revealed in hushed tones, was frightening enough, though the mix-up occured during daylight hours and in a decent neighborhood.  I, however, would not be so lucky...

   The day began like any other.  After a quick breakfast of toasted bread and coffee, I joined the countless rush-hour commuters packing themselves into the metro and attended a few morning classes at Catòlica.  After more metro rides, an hour walk to the UChile campus (though still "en toma," selected professors are now holding classes for international students,) I sat through my 2 hour class, in which the professor informed us that  "the two good things to come out of your country are John Wayne movies and jazz." 

   He concluded the class by reiterating the impossibility of understanding US culture without a working knowledge of westerns, jazz, and (most importantly) Chuck Norris.  I was relieved when class ended and a friend informed us that she was having a party, gave us directions to her house in Tobalaba (one of the nicer neighborhoods,) and told us to come around 10. 

    Thus, vowing to be punctual (for once,) I left my house at 9, allowing plenty of time to track down a micro and travel to Tobalaba, normally a 20 minute ride.  Since micros at night are usually more difficult to find, I was thrilled when one reading "Tobalaba" (along with some other destinations I did not bother to notice) pulled up a few blocks from my house.  My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat when the bus turned in the opposite direction of Tobalaba, but, confident in my familiarity with Santiaguian public transportation, I felt sure it would circle around at some point. 

   An hour later, I became suspicious when we passed a sign welcoming us to Maipu.  My false confidence was replaced with a growing sense of dread.  Trying to recall if I had ever heard of Maipu, I attempted to regain a sense of direction.  Envisioning Dorothy in Oz, I noticed that the neighborhood had changed somewhat, and began to doubt the wisdom of allowing certain passengers to board.  The angry clowns spray-painted on a nearby gas station did nothing to lessen my concerns.  Gradually, the bus grew empty and the neighborhoods more questionable.  As the last passengers exited, the bus went dark.   

   I approached the driver.  "¿Vamos (we`re going) to Tobablaba?" I inquired, ever hopeful.  He grunted and killed the engine.  "This was my last run.  Take a taxi," he muttered.  Though I am normally fine with taxis, suggesting I wait for anything on a corner in that neighborhood seemed equivalent to proposing I jump off a bridge or run into a burning building. 

   "What time is it?" I squeaked, hoping he would realize the danger that may befall a lone gringa wandering through Maipu in the dark. 

   "After 11," he informed me, lighting up a cigarette.  "Where did you get on?"  My reply provoked a long whistle.  He mopped his forehead.  "That`s nearly two hours from here."  He shook his head.  "Good luck."  I stood on the dark bus, envisioning my friends feasting on hot dogs and cake, wondering why I never showed up. 

    Fortunately, as I debated how much a taxi from Maipu would actually cost (probably over $40,) he paused and turned around.  "I`ll see what I can do," he promised.  "Stay on the bus."

    30 minutes and a fair amount of pleading later, another driver agreed to take me back into Santiago after he finished fixing his tire.  The ride home, (which ended up being complimentary,) involved an interesting discussion with the driver regarding the current situation in Bolivia and the "Chilean mentality," among other things.  Our blatant disregard for the "Don`t Talk to the Driver" sign ended when, making a strong point about Catholicism, he nearly drove us into a cement barrier.  We rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence. 

   Fortunately, I was actually able to attend a party last night.  (We walked.)

   Friday night marked the beginning of a new stage in my life:  I have now seen (and enjoyed) a genuine opera.  I have always loved musicals and theatre productions from both sides of the stage, however, when a few "more cultured" European friends suggested an evening at the opera, I was a bit skeptical.  Initial feelings of hesitancy increased when my friends arrived late and we were unable to enter the theatre, encouraged instead to watch the first 53 minutes of Carmen on a large TV screen in the lobby. 

   Once inside, however, I was able to enjoy the true "opera experience."  Santiago`s gorgeous Teatro Municipal is filled with antique chandeliers and traditional red velvet seating-(my favorite amenity, however, was the subtle screen situated above the stage, which displayed Spanish subtitles throughout the performance.  Since I have never studied French-and opera is hard to understand regardless of the language-the subtitles were much appreciated.)  I did, however, recognize several of the songs, many of which are played repeatedly on Saturday morning cartoon shows.  Dinner in one of Santiago`s classier neighborhoods (brandy soup and almond ravioli) completed the evening. 

    Saturday morning a few friends and I tried something else new:  the Chilean version of blueberry pancakes.  "Panqueques" here are always crepes, and we had yet to find a restaurant serving traditional US breakfast food.  As we perused the menu, delirious with the promise of fried eggs, hash browns, and french toast (all outrageously expensive,) I acknowledged my newfound appreciation for Denny`s.  The restaurant, Cafè Melba, is located in the heart of Santiago`s wealthy East side, ("The dogs here are brushed and there are no loose power lines," my friend observed.)  However, strolling past a nearby street filled with US restaurants, we decided that guests at the nearby upscale hotels would not obtain a very complete view of Santiago if they limited themselves to this neighborhood.

    A few hours later I was on the bus to Valparaíso, savoring a chicken sandwich (another milestone, this is the first "non-ham-and-cheese-sandwich" I have been served by my host mother since arriving in Santiago nearly 4 months ago.)  Since it was already dark when our bus arrived, we warily accepted the bus station offer of a nearby hostal and were pleasantly surprised.  Featuring hot water and two bathrooms for $8/night (per person,) the hostal was also centrally located. 

   After dropping off our luggage we headed to a classic Chilean bar for drinks and the Bolivia/Chile fùtbol game.  Screaming with the locals each time Chile scored a goal and scarfing down fries smothered in steak and eggs was a true cultural experience.  Though the bar was supposed to feature live music on weekends, the unfortunate musician was booed off the stage when he interrupted the game with his accordion.

   Sunday was spent exploring the coastal roads and hills of Valpo.  Our first stop was Plaza Victoria, a smaller version of Santiago`s Plaza de Armas, featuring a small carnival, an enormous tree (which one of my friends was anxious to climb) and countless vendors and families enjoying the 60 degree weather.  On the other side of the main street, lined with palm trees, was "Vitamin Service," a curiously christened ice cream shop noted by the guide books for its "scrumptious sandwiches."  We, however, were more impressed by the 2-for-1 ice cream deal.  Unaware of the deal, we ordered 4 flavors. 

   8 scoops of ice cream later, we took acensor (cable car) Espiritù Sanctu up one of Valpo`s many hills, hoping to emerge near our destination, Pablo Neruda`s "La Sebastiana."  Neruda`s third house in Chile, "La Sebastiana" features his trademark nautical decor and collections of interesting souvenirs.  Fortunately, the acensor took us only partially up the hill, and (though this required another exhausting half hour of ascent) it gave us the opportunity to walk past countless murals painted on the surrounding buildings.  The views of the harbor from Neruda`s house were magnificent, and we decided to sit outside after our tour and watch the sun set over the water. 

   Though it was now growing dark, I was determined to show my friends one more Valpo landmark, "Brighton," the restaurant with the great view and fabulous milkshakes I remembered from my previous visit.  "It`s on a hill, overlooking the water," I recalled; "It`s yellow."  My friends proceeded to point out various yellow buildings dotting the surrounding hills, all of them with excellent views of the harbor.  However, in the spirit of our family vacations, I was undeterred and led them in (what I remembered as) the general direction.  We navigated the maze of back streets and sketchy alleys, reaching Brighton a few short hours later.  (Though they seemed a little discouraged at times, morale improved when I offered to buy everyone dinner if we were going the wrong way.)  As I remembered, the view and the milkshakes made the journey worthwhile.