Since I started traveling and no longer have a permanent residence or personal computer, I decided it would be too hard to keep up with blogging.  However I am back in Santiago for a few days before I start heading to the north, and have far too much free time not to write a little something about the past 3 weeks.  Ever since my trip to Pucon, Chile in December, I was in love with the South and knew I wanted to spend a significant amount of time there. Fro, Steph, and I had designated almost 3 weeks to Patagonia (the general southern region of Chile and Argentina) plus the island of Chiloe, and couldn’t wait to get started. Its hard to squeeze 19 days worth of travelling into one post without making it a small novel, so I have turned it into a competition amongst stories.  Only the most memorable people and places will win.  And the winners are…

The Penguins and Vasilis in Punta Arenas

Punta Arenas is the southern most city in Chile that you can fly into, so we decided to start there and work our way up.  Google map it, it’s freakishly close to Antarctica!  Its summer time down there so it was a nice temp somewhere between Northface jacket and windbreaker, not my idea of summer but it was a nice break from the disgustingly hot weather in Santiago.  Punta Arenas isn’t that marvelous of a town, but there is nothing a 2 hour ferry ride to an island full of penguin that cant fix that.  I had been craving a boat ride, so the large cargo ship looking ferry sort of satisfied that.  I had also been craving an animal sighting, which the hundreds of midget penguins also satisfied.  The island reminded me of that creepy island in The Ring, with the same old lighthouse, except the only civilization is literally buttloads of penguins.   We got to walk around the island for an hour, taking pictures and watching them crawl in and out of their “sex holes”.  They dig a hole in the ground for mating purposes, so when you see one penguin coming out (that’s what she said) you will usually see another one right after, looking proud and spent.  They were pretty damn cute.  Punta Arenas is also where we met Vasilis, the vegetarian Russell Brand look-a-like from England traveling solo from the South of Chile up to Canada.  Vas for short, is an experienced couch surfer, getting around with only his bod and a tiny backpack, and speaks German and Spanish.  He knows a lot about a lot, and is the kind of guy you love to love. Safe travels Vas!

Poop and Sophie in Torres del Paine

After Punta Arenas we headed north to the classic Torres del Paine multi-day hike.  I love hiking and also love camping, but have never done them at the same time for 5 days straight.  We spent over an hour at a store with everything essential for an outdoor adventure, and spent an arm and a leg on a tent, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, cooking gear, a headlamp and socks.  We figured buying everything instead of renting would be worth the money, because of all the roadside sleeping we wanted to do while hitchhiking out of Patagonia (hitchhiking never happened, ran out of time and ended up traveling for 2 straight days on a bus instead. Probably better for our parents’ sanity anyway).  The national park of Torres del Paine is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to, and sweet jesus did I need that 5 day hike to get my ass back into shape.  This was no ordinary hike, because we had backpacks full of food, clothes and camping gear along for the ride, making us feel pretty mountain womanish as we sweated our way up and down hills.  Each day was marked by something significant, whether it was the massive Glacier on day 1, or the beautiful sunrise on day 5, but one of mine and Fros favorite parts was the miracle poop on day 2.  Both of us had gone far too many days without a bowel movement, so we took down some natural pills found at a pharmacy a few days before, ate a kilo of dried fruit, and then hiked up steep rocks for multiple hours.  At coincidentally the exact same time, we rushed into the woods for the infamous “miracle poop” that we still cant stop talking about.  At the end of the 5 day hike when Steph asked Fro what her favorite part was, she responded “the miracle poop”.  Even our new friend Sophie was happy for us.  We met her at the hostel the day before the hike, and ended up hiking almost the entire 5 days with her.  This petite yet buff ultimate Frisbee blond 20 year old with abs of steel was doing the hike solo, so I think she enjoyed the company.  We didn’t buy enough food for our raging appetites, so her overwhelming amounts of trail mix and energy bars brought from the States made us really like her.  We also liked her because she tolerated us talking about pooping for what was probably an unnecessary amount of time.  It was a bitch of a hike that I will never forget.

Yoga and Chocolate in Bariloche

After TDP we mobilized up to Bariloche, Argentina.  This Argentinean town is like a Swiss Colorado that is famous for its chocolate.  I think I broke a record for how much chocolate I ate in 3 days, and now have a serious addiction.  Our hostel also offered a free yoga class out on the front deck looking over the lake.  My dream job is no longer to work at Google thanks to that class. It is now to become a Spanish/English yoga instructor.  Gracias Bariloche!

Eduardo, Dina, and Blue Whales in Chiloe

The last week of our trip was spent on the island of Chiloe and then another smaller island off the coast of that island called Melinka.  Fro’s friend Tim flew down to meet up with us, expanding our group to 4. We hit the jackpot when we chose our hostel in Ancud, the first big city you hit at the top of Chiloe.  The minute we walked through the door, we were greeted by Eduardo, a 30 something carefree Chilean, informing us about his one year wedding anniversary party that would be taking place that night.  Him and Dina, his 26 year old Russian wife, met while traveling in Nicaragua and got married 6 months later.  They now own a hostel and were treating all their guests with free homemade sushi and sangria.  That night we all got drunk for the first time in weeks, and bonded with their two housekeepers.  One of them was wearing a Jack-o-lantern tee shirt and barfed from too much tequila, and the other was a 16 year old mother hen.  She formed an organized group of hostel goers to head to the local bar and instructed us on when we were allowed to go inside, when we were allowed to dance in the designated circle, and when we were allowed to leave.  I had to sneak out undetected so I wouldn’t get grounded.  The next morning Eduardo drove the 4 of us around town in his jeep.  We drove down private beaches where we hung out with clam divers preparing to dive in for their daily clam hunt, took a mini boat out to see some penguins and sea lions, and ate fresh seafood empanadas with white wine.  After that day Eduardo and Dina decided to make us their guinea pigs. We cancelled all our previous plans and decided to pack up for an impromptu road trip down the entire island of Chiloe.  We ate lunch at a restaurant shaped like a boat, where Steph bought a homeless man two empanadas after he gave her a puppy dog look and said he was hungry.  We shopped for cheap homemade headbands and booties, and took pictures of old wooden churches.  Our destination was the southern city of Quellon, where we would embark on a ferry to Melinka.  Let me tell ya, islands are cool, and so are islanders.  Melinka has only 2 hostels and a little over 1,000 habitants.  Its completely run down and very few people actually walk the streets, yet everyone we met was more than friendly.  We ran into a group of kids and chatted about Justin Bieber, and got permission from a few locals to raid their backyard beaches for shellfish.  We literally got down on our hands and knees and collected enough clams and other unknown shellfish to eat for a family of 15.  At one point we just broke open the shells right there on the beach and popped them into our mouths.  That night I got pretty tipsy off wine and chocolate and slept like a baby in our hostel looking over the beach sunset.  Next day was blue whale day.  It was Steph’s dream to see blue whales, which was the whole reason we went to Melinka in the first place.  We found a local fisherman with a bangin yacht to take us out for a 5 hour trip out on the open sea to search for blue whales.  I was taking a nap on the bow of the boat when all of sudden I heard Eduardo shout that he spotted some.  For about 30 minutes we all watched in awe as 3 blue whales slowly swam across of the calm water, spraying water out of their blow holes.  I had no idea I would get so excited! Knowing how rare it is to see blue whales, the biggest animals that have ever lived, made the whole experience so surreal and magical. The entire trip had been going so well, so it wasn’t a surprise when the last two days went down the shitter. It all started with the shocking wake up call for the ferry ride home. It was supposed to arrive at 9am, so when we heard the blow horn go off at 6am alarming the entire island that the ferry was 3 hours early, we ignored the sound until Eduardo came rushing into our rooms informing us we had 20 minutes to get our asses up and out on the pier to board the boat.  The island doesn’t have electricity between 2am and 7am, so we packed our bags by the light of a few flashlights.  A few hours later we were half way through our ferry ride when it halted for 2 hours to save some lives.  Apparently the captain spotted a sinking fishing boat and decided it was our responsibility to save their lives.  Nothing like a little life saving to start your morning.  We also got a call from the hostel owner informing us that he had found a camera left behind in one of the rooms.  Steph’s face dropped when she realized she had accidentally left my camera on the nightstand after taking it out of my purse.  Good thing I like the girl, because otherwise I would have kicked her in the ovaries right then and there.  Also a good thing that the hostel owner is a nice enough guy to send it to Santiago for me.  Our luck didn’t end there, because after traveling by ferry, then car, then bus, we arrived in Puerto Montt, the shit stained armpit of Chile, at 8pm to find out that there were no more buses back to Santiago until the following evening.  We all cried a bit and accepted the fact that we had to spend a night in literally the worst town I have ever stepped foot in.  We found a nice old lady that turned her home into a hostel and stayed with her.  It was more like a nursing home than a hostel but hey at least she gave us some towels and permission to shower.   When we finally arrived in Santiago the following night it was close to midnight and time to celebrate my birthday.  I am now back in Santiago, waiting for the arrival of my camera, and back to sitting on Jackies couch all day long.  Next leg of the trip, north of Chile!  

No pictures for this post…we all know why

Based on the success of our Argentinean Xmas, Steph, Fro and I were excited to spend 4 days in the big city of Buenos Aires.  However when I woke up at 6:00am after too much wine and not enough sleep, I knew the morning wasn’t going to be smooth.  I had heard BA was disgustingly hot in February, and because I knew I would be traveling solo for the first day, I only wanted to bring enough stuff to fit into my small backpack.  Santiago was chilly that morning as I arrived to the airport in nothing but jean shorts, an army print tank top, and llama leg warmers on my arms (thank you Kooch’s lady friend for leaving those behind).  I was feeling progressively more hung over as I buckled myself into my seat before takeoff.  I couldn’t decide which 2 year old made me want to shoot myself more, the one kicking behind me or the one shrieking next to me, as the plane starting wobbly taking off.  Shit started to get really bad when the urge to vomit came over me.  Palms sweating, mouth watering, I swallowed hard to get it down, but couldn’t help the massive dry heave.  I think I pulled it off as sort of a burp/hiccup because the people sitting next to me didn’t seem phased.  When I finally arrived in BA I was greeted by a stupid $140 reciprocity fee that all Americans have to pay at the international airport. If I would have traveled by bus, ferry, car, rocket ship or one of the 2 other airports I wouldn’t have to pay, but of course I had to arrive through “the most important Argentinean airport”.  Since Steph and Fro weren’t arriving until 8:00pm from Uruguay, I spent the first afternoon wandering around by myself.  I walked into stores but didn’t buy anything, sat at a café and read a 5 month old magazine, and took a quick nap in a park next to a semi homeless man.  Eventually I made my way across town to the apartment where we were planning on crashing for the week. Steph has a friend who has a friend, and that friend’s name is Vic. Vic is like the coolest Argentinean ever, who knows more American slang than I do.  We couldn’t be more thankful for her incredible welcome as she told us everything there is to know about BA.  After recovering from my hangover, we headed to a drum show for our first night.  Here is where I realized two things about Argentinean men; they are smokin hot, but so effing annoying.  It was nice to finally be surrounded by so many attractive men for once, but there is nothing I hate more than being used for my native English when trying to get my party on.  For once I would like a man to be interested in talking to me other than a means for him to practice his English.  That first night we were actually able to find two nice gents, Juan Martin and Rodrigo, who were willing to speak Spanish for the rest of the night.  We had even scheduled a bbq at Rodrigo’s house for the next night, but when we found out he lived in the ghetto about 45 minutes away, we bailed.  Even though Steph stole Juan’s jacket and Rodrigo had a brand new cast on his arm, we really didn’t feel that bad about ditching them and their million pounds of meat they probably bought for us.  Oops. Instead of the bbq we went to a kickass restaurant with Vic and her friend Q instead.  Seeing as February was a new month, Steph and I were allowed to eat meat.  While yes some of the steak was quite tasty, I refused to consume the kidney, intestines, and blood sausage that were also presented to our table.  After stuffing face all I wanted to do was pass out because it had been a long second day.  I was dumb enough to think that walking around dodging non-shaded sidewalks would prevent me from getting sunburned, but I was false, and had to deal with nasty painful tan lines.  I was also exhausted from the near theft I had earlier in the day.  The 3 of us were walking around BA’s botanical gardens, taking pictures intimidating statues, when we paused in front of a statue to take “jumping pictures”.  I set my fanny pack on the ground in order to get into jumping position, and left it there while finishing up our photo shoot.  A man approached us and asked for directions, even though it was obvious we were foreigners.  While we listened to him ask another question, I heard the jingle of change behind me, and my heart sank.  I instantly knew it was someone picking up my fanny pack, so when I shot my head around to see if I was right, I wasn’t surprised to see a man making his way around the statue with my fanny in hand.  I shouted as loud as I could and ran towards him.  Busted loser, I win. He got scared in his tracks and handed over the fanny, as I shouted, “fuck you” into his face.  He picked the wrong rubia to mess with, as I have experience in preventing robberies. My heart was beating mad fast as the next 10 minutes we talked about how awesome it was that we caught a thief.   However day 3 we weren’t so lucky.  Fro left her camera at an internet café where it was snatched up within a matter of minutes before she realized it.  We decided that day was going to be a “lets just sit inside and forget about the crap of life with boxed wine” kind of day.   It hadn’t been more than 20 minutes into drinking that Steph brought up the tattoo.  Steph had mentioned before that she wanted to get the phrase “this too shall pass” tattooed on her bod, but wasn’t sure if she was ready yet.  I helped her brainstorm possible body parts and got her a little more used to the idea, but she was still iffy.  It wasn’t until I said “ill do it if you do it” that made her finally agree with full confidence.  “Maybe we could do it when we go to the South of Chile?” I asked, and she responded, “or maybe we could do it tomorrow!” Less than 24 hours later Steph was getting her love handle hair shaved off by Pablo at AmericanTattoo.  Steph isn’t a huge fan of pain, especially sharp needles, so I agreed to let her hold my hand while getting inked.  After about 20 seconds, with her face as concentrated as if she was defusing a bomb, her nails were digging full force onto the back of my hand. “I want you to be in as much pain as I am right now,” she breathed as she dug a little deeper.  Pablo told her not to worry, and said, “don’t cry for me Argentina” as she fought the pain.  Pretty soon she was done, and I was pulling down my shorts for him to prepare my upper butt cheek.  For literally deciding the day before that I was even getting this tattoo, it looks pretty damn brilliant. From now on whenever something shitty happens, Steph and I point to our backs and say, “this too shall pass.”  I’m glad I got the phrase permanently engraved on my body because I had already found myself using it soon after.  That night we went out to a few clubs to celebrate our last night in BA, and again there were annoying dudes.  After the 10^th thick accented “hello where are you from?” I was done being polite.  A man in a blue polo crouched towards my face and sure thing asked where I was from, after which I kindly responded “your asshole” before turning back around.  Oh well, better luck next time.   After going back to Vic’s place for a quick 30 minute nap, I hopped into a cab at 4:15am and headed for the bus station.  I realized when I got in that I had only had enough money for him to take me about 2 blocks away, but wasn’t about to tell him that obviously.  When we pulled up to the bus station I gave him an innocent pout and apologized for not having enough cash.  I told him I would go look inside for an ATM and be right back, even though I knew for a fact that there wasn’t one.  I honestly felt terrible, but what was I supposed to do? Pull coins out of my butt? I paid for a bus ticket to the airport, and arrived about an hour and a half before my flight.  I did one of those quick check ins and printed out my boarding pass, only it didn’t have the name of the gate I was supposed to be at.  I approached a nice man in a blue vest and asked him where I was supposed to be.  His response was as calm and nonchalant as effing possible, despite the fact that he was saying “the other airport.”  WHAT??!!!!!! Tears instantly flooded my face, because the other airport is literally located 10 minutes way from Vic’s apartment, where I had just spent an hour traveling away from.  Who thinks to check that they might be flying out of a different airport than they flew into? Not me, which is why I was crying.  I ran to the taxi stand and paid a cringing $50 to get my ass to the other airport as fast as possible.  I arrived 30 minutes before my flight was to leave, but figured I could still make it.  My flight was scheduled to leave at 7:30am and head to Mendoza, Argentina, where I would then fly to Santiago.  To my surprise I saw that my flight was luckily delayed, but unluckily delayed so much that I would definitely miss my connecting flight.  I literally just plopped down on a chair and contemplated how I should deal with my emotions, when over the loud speaker I heard “Carly Barrie please report to Gate 9.”  I felt like a celebrity as an airport employee personally guided me to the international side of the airport, and told me she was putting me on the next direct flight to Santiago.  All my tension was released as I smiled at my upper butt cheek and said to myself “this too DID pass bitch!” On the plane ride home I reviewed the past few days, and wondered if I could ever actually live in Buenos Aires some day.  While avocado is not as widely available as it is in Chile, it does have some damn good pizza and ice cream.  After taking a quick tango lesson on night 3, I could see myself liking it, although at the time my douchbag partner made me feel like a one-legged toddler could dance better than me.  I like that the metro costs only 25 cents to ride, but don’t like that every second your purse could be ransacked.  I still haven’t decided yet, but if I could make more friends like Vic and Q, I could stay for a long time. 

making like statues and posing

Vic and Fro after licking the meat clean 

I’m great at saying hello, but horrible at goodbyes.  Introduce me to a new friend and Ill make them feel like I’ve know them for years, but force me to say goodbye to them and I brush our relationship off my shoulder like its no pasa nada. I don’t say goodbye, I say see you later, even if I know realistically I wont ever see that person again (I’m trying to save my dramatic goodbyes for when I am The Bachelorette). The process started with saying goodbye to the rest of my students.  A little over a week ago I had my last day teaching, which felt more like a semester ending more so than a job ending.  Saying goodbye to a class as a student is usually a joyous celebration, including burning notebooks and only giving as much as a head nod to the teacher while walking out the door.  But this time I was the teacher, and I wanted to cry each time I said goodbye to one of my students (except Alicia, she was bipolar whorebag).  Emilio’s last class was held at El Hoyo, a restaurant that sells terremotos. He invited his adorable mustached friend so he could practice English too, and I invited 6 or 7 gringos because we were also using the night as Steph’s going away.  I asked Emilio if I was his favorite teacher, and he said while he did like me a lot, his best teacher was his first one, because she actually taught him stuff.  A few minutes later I gracefully chugged half a glass of terremoto in about 1.8 seconds, without belching.  He was impressed and afterwards exclaimed, “ok now you are my favorite teacher!” Yeah that’s right Emilio, don’t you dare say otherwise! For Pablo’s last class I nearly thought I was going to fall into his arms and start whimpering like a little girl, but of course I played it cool.  So now I am officially a retired ESL teacher, and starting my 5-month stint of unemployment.  My first adventure while being unemployed started with the little trip from Mary Barrie and Carlos.  This, while it did include a heartbreaking goodbye at the end, was a maryfull hello. The madre traveled in the teens of hours to see her baby girl, something I never thought would happen.  Mare is not a traveler, and her only time out of the country was when she went to Mexico, but we all know that this really doesn’t count.  Thankfully Carlos and I speak Spanish, because the poor woman’s “si” and “muy bien” wouldn’t last her very long alone.   All I really needed to do was give her one alcoholic beverage and point her towards some sort of a shopping market, after that she was a happy camper. On the first day of their visit we climbed Cerro Santa Lucia to see a view of the city, which satisfied any touristy thing on the list of things to do in Santiago.  A quick sweaty walk up a hill to snap photos and bam, you officially visited Santiago. Before the end of their first day they had purchased me a slew of things, including a fanny pack and fleite pants (colorful hippie pants that Chileans wear).  If you ever wanna get some quick shopping done do it with Carlos and the Madre, they have good taste and quick decision making skills…oh and a heavy and easy to open wallet also helps.   We spent four days at the beach after that, which was basically a rotation of eating, drinking, shopping, and sleeping.  The sleeping however was mostly on Carlos’s part.  My mom had warned me that he was snorer, but I didn’t realize how severe the situation was until I woke up in the middle of night to what I thought was an earthquake.  My vibrating bed and loud rhythmic sounds were in fact not from an earthquake, but from the bellowing mouth of Carlos in the next room.  Every morning we woke up and discussed the previous nights “earthquake” that had struck the hotel.  At the beach we stayed at a Bed & Breakfast owned by an Argentinean couple.  Jose Maria and his wife are good people, but note to Jose, if you want tourists to keep coming back, perhaps you could keep the Chilean and American insults to a minimum.  I can only hear how much you hate Chilean slang and how “estupido” it is that South Americans have to learn English so many times in one day.   At the end of the trip I was thrilled that I got to play tour guide for the fam, so seeing them go was again made as if I was going to be seeing them again very soon. After they left I got lonely as usual, so I headed over to the boys place.  I was greeted by Zach, who was dressed in a semi-black eye and a thumb the size of Rhode Island.  It would figure that on the last weekend of them living right around the corner from a tranny prostitute hangout hot spot that someone would get their shit rocked.  Zach’s usual tranny encounters were kept relatively innocent, only involving a few penis grabs and the theft of his apartment keys, but this time they didn’t play so fair.  Zach was cornered by 10 beefy transvestite prostitutes, leaving him with nothing to do but to snap out of his wasted state and attempt to defend himself.  While I fought between the urges of laughing and crying while listening to this story, I couldn’t help but think how few people can say they’ve been beat up by trannies in Chile.  However we were told that his injuries were to be blamed on a previous rough soccer game, because that night we all were invited to our friend Belen’s house for her dad’s bday party.  It was my first time actually being in a house in Santiago, and Belen’s family was your standard Chilean hospitable crew.  Her dad gave everyone kisses on the mouth while her mom refused to accept NO as an answer to her multiple food and beverage offers.  The night was going swell, but the awkwardness of Belen’s uncle quoting Pablo Neruda poems and talking about his lost soul got us all politely getting the hell out. The next night it was time to say goodbye to Kooch and Dman, as they were both leaving Santiago for good. Lucky for Kooch he gets to spend 4 months traveling and volunteering with me starting in March so saying goodbye to him actually was a ‘see you later’. For their going away we made the 30-minute strenuous walking trek up Cerro San Cristobal filled with bags of food and drink for an asado.  By walking I mean we stepped into and out of the taxi that drug us up there. It always feels good to get drunk and reminisce on good times and ponder about future ones, however it never feels good to do this before a 6am wake up call to catch a flight to Buenos Aires.  The hangover made saying goodbye to the boys and their infamous apartment easier at least, cause damn I loved those buffoons. 

I force jumping pictures even on the old folks (Ma and Los in Vina del Mar)

we set records for finishing guac (at the going away bbq)

It’s such a strange feeling, calling this place home.  I have never been away from my friends and family in the States for more than 2 months, so it was always referred to as my home.  Is it possible that this place, once considered so foreign and far away, could NOW be my home?  As soon as it started to feel amazing to actually say those words, it started breaking my heart at the same time.  Over a month ago I made plans to start backpacking South America in February, followed by a 9 week volunteer program in Ecuador, after which I will head back to the States in June.  At the time the plan sounded wonderful. Who wouldn’t want to backpack through 4 different countries and spend a few months with monkeys and indigenous Ecuadorians?  However at this moment, as I finish up my last few English classes and prepare for my final weeks in Santiago, I am overcome with contradicting emotions.  I can only think to compare it to an example, bare with me.  Imagine taking the craziest rode trip across the country to a place that you heard is beyond outrageous.  Along the way you run into people who are the most interesting, kindest, and royally effed up world citizens you have ever met.  They teach you about gratitude and forgiveness, about religion and languages, and what it means to be a true friend.  They guide you down a road you never thought you’d go down, and show you that if you are not learning, you are not even living.  Some of these people are left behind on the road as only distant memories, while others stick along for the long haul. During this road trip you sometimes forget that there is even an end, because you are having too much fun getting lost between bottles of wine and avocado along the way. After what feels like forever and a day, you finally arrive at the destination you previously didn’t have the ability to imagine.  Here is where you have a night that you can only describe as, indescribable. The night pretty much consists of sex, drugs, and alcohol intermixed with dancing, eating, and eventually some sleeping. The next morning you wake up with the biggest hangover, only being able to recall the highlights and some other random details that you are puzzled as to why you even remember at all.  Your friends pick you up to make sure you are alive, and then deliver the news that they are getting back in the car and heading home.  You are suddenly overcome with the emotion that you are, simply put, just not ready to leave.  You feel like while the night was lacking almost nothing, you want to repeat it.  You want that crazy night again to see what else could happen.  But what if all your friends hop back in the car and have another memorable road trip without you? Are you willing to give up what might happen along the way back home? Or do you stay in this new place in order to find out if it could be your NEW home? Both outcomes are completely unknown, so what do you do?  Normally when I am faced with this kind of situation I listen to my heart and let it decide for me, but this time my heart is scared shitless and has completely lost all self control.  Since my stupid heart can’t make up its mind, I have to move on and get advice from my head.  Based on previous experience, I have the time of my life wherever I go and with whomever I go with, so it’s impossible to make a wrong decision.  If for some reason my heart snaps out of it and decides that it wants to do something else, then I will just go ahead and do it.  Are you following? Basically what I have decided to do is leave Santiago (even though I don’t feel ready) and begin what I know will be an amazing journey throughout South America.  When I return back to the States I will check out life there, and if it’s not what I want, then I will come back to Santiago. Yes I know that was much shorter and less confusing, but I just had to humor you all with that ridiculous story.  

This simple yet inspiring quote, meaning “and today, why not?” has shaped mine and my friends’ lives down here in Chile.  Kooch’s seriousness about the matter even provoked him to tattoo his body with it,  just in case he got lost along the way.  While money sometimes holds me back from a few things (shoe shopping and skydiving), I ultimately try my hardest to say ‘no’ to little and ‘yes’ to all.  If it requires money that I don’t have, I often find a way to make it free. If it requires doing something that is maybe a tad bit illegal or totally inappropriate, I convince myself otherwise. Because of this my zone of comfort has escalated, and has turned my life into something that I have always wanted it to be; the opposite of normal. Compared to those crazy world travelers who appear in lonely planet or the travel channel, my life is as plain as uncooked zucchini; but to me it’s the most delicious grilled zucchini I’ve ever tasted.  I take chances, and turn whatever the outcome is into a lesson never regretted.  Let’s discuss examples shall we?!  For NYE there was a bunch of hype about going to Valparaiso, the famous and beautiful coastal town 1.5 hours from Santiago.  I was having one of my usual freak outs about needing to save money, so was considering not going. What the hell was I thinking? If I couldn’t make this work then I would be sadly disappointed in my networking abilities. Due to the insanely popular NYE destination that Valparaiso is, accommodations were ridiculously outside our price range, so finding a free place to stay was the only option.  Night Uno was spent at the cozy house of Pablo, complete with the only way he knows how to do hospitality; over the top.  I swear that man deserves a fucking medal. Steph, Jackie, and I drove with him from Santiago to his home, where dinner and wine were promptly waiting for us.  After enjoying a delicious fajita dinner, it was time for bed. But wherever would we sleep? Oh, duh, his 12 year old son’s bedroom, where else? I am sure most little boys enjoy giving up their rooms to 3 gringas right?  The next morning Pablo called us down to breakfast, where we sat around the dining room table sipping on coffee and nibbling on avocado while speaking Spanish with his gorgeous wife who is equally as generous and caring as he is.  Pablo then drove us to where we would spend Night Dos, with a new gaggle of gringos.  This gaggle included Kooch, Fro, DFro ( Fro’s 21 year old brother who was paying a visit to Chile), our friend Joe and his 3 younger brothers who were also visiting.  Joe and his family were housed up in two very awkwardly large hotel rooms, with an excessive amount of beds.  They needed help filling the beds, so we kindly offered our bodies to do so. However sleeping in those beds would later get complicated, and didn’t happen till about 4:30am.  By midday on NYE the gaggle found itself climbing the steep and graffiti filled hills of Valparaiso to a hidden magic filled house snuggled at the top of a hill.  I love meeting friendly strangers, and this house was full of them. I remember the hot surfer with his dreads in a ponytail because…well he was really hot.  I also remember the dude with 20 stitches in his ear due to a fight he got in the day before involving an angry Chilean and a rock. The habitants of the house also shared the yummy appetizers they had made, and we all know that if you give me some guacamole, you instantly move up on my list.  Just before midnight we all climbed the hill to watch the record breaking fireworks set off over the ocean.  As I kissed about 10 different people a Happy New Year and got Champaign and beer sprayed all over me, you could have said I was satisfied.  Now of course we wouldn’t be the classic gringos that we are without some solid vomiting, so good thing DFro and Joe’s 17 year old brother Mac took care of that.  Mac vomed in the shopping bag that previously held all the vomit inducing alcohol, while DFro managed to aim for a toilet and the thankfully empty bowl of guacamole. After Fro and I cleaned up DFro’s upchuck and instructed him that stealing a crochet blanket from a strangers house was impolite, we made our way back to the hotel through the trash filled streets.  After getting almost no sleep that night (note to brother number 3, while you are quite the looker, you need to work on your spooning skills), I made it back home to Santiago around dinner time.  This brings me to example number 2 of “y hoy porque no?”, which is my current living situation.  As you might remember, I was living with a bunch of students who liked to piss off my landlord. One by one, all of them started moving out, either back to France or into a better less strict apartment in Santiago.  Within a weeks time my apartment had suddenly consisted of 4 Chilean men plus my rubia self. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t so bad living with those guys.  Even though one talked to himself on a regular basis and another gave me dirty looks, I could have made peace with it.  That was until I was given the opportunity to live in an apartment rent free for my last month in the city.  So here I am now, living in a 17^th floor bachelor pad with my 41 year old recently divorced ex-student. My roomie lives alone in a two-bedroom and needs to practice his English, and I need to save money for my travels, so it’s a match made in bizarre Chilean heaven.  As long as we speak English when we are both home, I don’t have to pay a penny to live here.  While the apartment is all the way in buttfuck Las Condes (which is actually the rich and privileged neighborhood of the city), do I really have any room to complain? Do you think its totally sketchy or big tits awesome? Whichever way you twist the situation doesn’t matter, because it’s working out marvelously in both of our favors.  I especially like when he shares his wine and wants to speak Spanish, I feel like it’s a bonus paycheck.  When that happens, I do all the dishes to make up for him getting the short end of the stick. Shout out to the roomie for being a cool guy, gracias para todo. So all in all I have been overly pleased with the decisions I have made while being down here, even the ones that don’t end up so hot.  Because today, why not?

our gaggle

Jackie, Fro, and Steph, who without my blogs would be nothing 

Steph and Fro’s time in Chile is dwindling down, so we are trying to take advantage of every free weekend they have left to do some desired traveling. Mendoza, Argentina was on the list of attractions, so we used the Christmas weekend to book a trip there. Mendoza is the first main town over the border into Argentina, so it’s just a quick hop step and a jump over the mountains. Including a stop at the border to make sure we are legally living in Chile and aren’t smuggling drugs up our butts, the entire ride takes about 7.5 hours.  Taking night buses is golden; you open your eyes from a nap and BAM you are in Argentina! We arrived Thursday morning around 7am.  Steph was in a rush to pack, and didn’t write down the address of the hostel we had booked. At the time we thought it was a non issue because we figured if we asked enough locals we would find ourselves plopped right in front of our hostel within no time. Falso mis amigos, we ended up spending the first two hours in Mendoza taking advice from cab drivers, tourist office workers, and hostel receptionists, only to find out that the city is host to 4 hostels with the same name as the one we were looking for. We made a pit stop at the Grand Hyatt Hotel to use their ATM and clean facilities. Our freshly off the bus dirty and poor look didn’t blend well with the hotel goers, so when a clean cut staff member headed towards us with an interested look on his face, we immediately shot at him that we were just leaving. Apparently all he wanted to do was ask us if we needed anything, however I seriously doubt that given how disgusting I looked.  After finally locating the hostel, we passed the fuck out in our 6 bedroom dorm room for a few hours.  We woke up to find Denise, our awkward and unfriendly dark skinned Dutch roommate.  She got pissed when Steph used “si” instead of “yes” in response to a question she asked, and said she one should never assume someone speaks Spanish. This was the first sign that she was an unfriendly whore.  Other signs were her open angriness towards our whispering at 9am in the morning, and her story about spending an entire week inside a hotel room in Bolivia with nothing but her boyfriend and cheap cocaine.  We left Denise alone as much as we could to enjoy the city.  The wine and bike tour was one of the main highlights of our trip.  On Christmas Eve we rode bikes to 3 different wine vineyards and learned how Argentina makes organic wine. We met a Danish crew (apparently northern Europe likes this place?) and spent an hour getting drunk off pricey wine at the last vineyard.  Our extremely attractive tour guides forced us back into the van en route back to our hostel.  We played the “lets pass around open liquor and get more shittied in the van” game. Its fun you should try it sometime. After napping and showering, it was time to locate a restaurant and get a typical Argentinean steak dinner.  There was one restaurant open on xmas eve, so it was an easy choice.  After the Independence Day meat eating incident, Steph has convinced me that we can eat it once a month. A few weeks ago we got kicked out of my depto for playing beer pong on my balcony, and because of depression ate a churripan (chorizo sausage link with bread).  This normally would have counted as our “December meat” but because we didn’t eat any meat in November we justified it accordingly.  Argentina is known for its man steaks, thick and grande, so we expected a show.  It was descent yet mediocre, but we figured our trip to Buenos Aires a month from now will make up for it. Even though the meat didn’t live up to our expectations, the Argentinean people far surpassed any prospect we might have had.  They have a steamy sex appeal about them that boasts a certain confidence.  They chain smoke and have a French like accent, which makes their friendly DTF attitude look a bit more attractive than normal.  Fro fell in love with our wine tour guide, and spent Christmas day getting lost in his eyes and making out in front of complete strangers.  After dinner on xmas eve we needed to hunt down the location of the hostel party we told our Danish friends we would meet them at.  When you don’t have the address for something and there are no taxis available, what do you do? You flag down a lovely and lonely Argentinean in a blue sedan and politely ask him if he wouldn’t mind driving around 3 lost gringas in their search for a holiday party.  We told him to just drive down all the main streets in Mendoza, after which we were bound to recognize the name of the hostel.  Jackpot!  While Mr. Smokes-a-Lot discussed his holiday plans and drove us aimlessly around the center of town, we had miraculously spotted the hostel. Thanking him mucho, we strolled into the hostel party not knowing what to expect.  I’m sorry did I say we wanted to go to a hostel party? I meant a frat party, because that is exactly where we found ourselves.  The hostel freakishly resembled a U of I frat house, complete with two bars stocked with booze and drunk bartenders.  A little less than 100% of the people were from a foreign country, including our Danish friends.  We used billiards references to refer to two of the boys, because there wasn’t a chance in hell that we were going to remember their actual names. Stripes had big round ears, but seemed less douchey than solids. They were both blonde and maybe at some point in time bangable, but we were too busy enjoying other features of the party to stay too interested.  A shirtless man was passing around straws for the vodka watermelon he was carrying like a baby, and another man was spraying everyone with fake snow (which I am pretty sure was just shaving cream).  I met Carter, a gay 25 year old from DC traveling for a month on holiday.  I was telling everyone he was the father of my 4 month child, promptly followed by me showing off my protruding belly.  Large steak dinner + lots of booze + a long maternity looking dress = a damn good bump.  After Carter and I challenged each other to a cartwheel contest out on the front sidewalk, we headed back inside for some more wine and free toffee candies.  The night finally ended with us splitting a cab ride home with a single Dad from our hostel, a conversation that I wouldn’t bet even a single Argentinean peso on remembering.  The next day was Christmas, and while Fro cuddled up with her dark skinned light eyed sex pot on a hiking tour, me and Steph took naps and ate store bought gnocchi back in the 95 degree hostel.  By the end of the trip I was dirty, sweaty, and tired. You know what they say, when you are not dirty, sweaty, and tired, you are not living.  Even though the weekend was low key (I know the vodkamelon and hitchhiking may suggest otherwise), we still had a fabulous time.  Gracias Argentina for being smart, you really know how to make a girl happy.     

 bus ride back from the vineyards

enjoying a melon

Teaching English to children is probably very rewarding.  You can see great progress in a short period of time, they are adorable, and they look up to you. However you can’t get drunk and talk about your sex life with them, which is why I prefer teaching adults.  Some of my most memorable times here in Santiago have been spent with my students, either inside or outside the classroom.  I tend to bond quite well with majority of them, and some I have bonded with maybe a little too much. I have crossed the line so far that it is now a dot.  Oops. Yet in my defense, every outing and every topic of conversation that has taken place has been initiated by my students, and I just simple nod my head in agreement because isn’t that what a good teacher does? You all already know about Pablo (who is finally coming home from his two week vacation and I couldn’t be happier about it).  Recently Pablo and I have stopped using the textbook altogether, and instead have mini therapy sessions.  If I am having a bad day he can tell, and vice versa, so we just talk it out like friends would. We discussed how one time he almost had an affair, but then realized his wife was too amazing to give up.  I talk about my parents divorce, my past boyfriends, and all other drama in my life, while he tells me about the frequent cougar stalkers he has to deal with.  It’s a true friendship, and I know if I need him for anything he would be there (for example a free ride to the beach, a free place to stay at the beach, and a free meal at the beach).  Then there is Emilio.  Emilio is a 28 year old manager at Ernst & Young, whose English is the closest to fluency out of all my students.  Emilio likes to informally cancel class and then reschedule those missing hours by taking me out for drinks or dinner.  The first time he did this I said yes because I thought it was an overall win win situation for me. I don’t have to wake up for our normal 8:00am class, I still get paid for it, and I get some free mojitos.  Emilio is a great guy, but I am not interested in his balls nor being the best of friends.  I tell him I respect my job and therefore lay down some rules. 1) We are not allowed to be fb friends 2) I will not act like my “crazy American self” in front on him (talking about sex, taking shots, etc etc) and 3) I will not go dancing with him.  All of these are rules I have no problem breaking with Pablo or some of my other students, but unfortunately for Emilio I was forced to establish these guidelines when he started calling me Carly Rose and drooled when he said he loved blonde hair light eyed women.  I should just turn him down when he asks to take me to dinner, but what poor 22 year old would turn down free Peruvian food and Mango Sours? I thought maybe if I lied and told him I had a pololo (boyfriend in Chilean Spanish) he would back off the obsessive desire to want to take me out on dates. Nope, all he said was “oh I hope he doesn’t get jealous when we go dancing together.” At least I tried.  For now I will continue roughing it through these free dinners (I know, I feel sorry for myself too).  I have a group of upper level students who overall are extremely boring, mostly because they don’t give me free things. How rude. However sometimes one thing will lead to another and we will end up talking about something sexual and inappropriate.  I taught them what “that’s what she said” means, and told them their homework was to be able to use it in a sentence before the next class.  They always ask a lot of questions, and one time Rodrigo showed me a definition on his iphone that he looked up previously that day and didn’t know what it meant. The word was coitus interruptus, which based on the definition is the scientific term for pulling out. I had to explain this to my students with a straight face…not easy. Afterwards things got a bit awkward, but we managed to get back on track.  Lastly I think it is also necessary to discuss my group of beginner students.  I just finished up teaching an accelerated course to a group of hooligans in their 30’s.  They were by far my worst students, and we usually spent half the class speaking Spanish. They would always rather be doing something else other than learning English. After realizing this I slowly started to not give a shit about making sure they did well on their exams, and focused more on making them like me.  The last few days of class instead of opening the book, we displayed YouTube on the projector screen and sang karaoke to Bon Jovi and Shakira.  I would occasionally take off my shoes and sit Indian style, and let them speak as much Spanish as they wanted. After class one day three of the guys took me out for some beers, and we discussed how many times a week they have sex with their senoras. Luis is a newlywed so he does it 5 times a week. Cristian impressed me with 3 times a week considering he has young children and has been with his woman for 10 years. Jose didn’t respond, which gave away his obvious answer of almost never. Our last class was scheduled for Thursday, and instead of having it at the office like normal, we had a bbq on the balcony of my oldest student, Eduardo.  I essentially got paid to get drunk and speak Spanish with a bunch of crazy Chileans, as they shouted how this was the best English class they had ever taken.  Things started getting out of control when I noticed Luis, who said he never drinks, started dancing by himself in the corner, and one of the candles had caught someone’s cigarette box on fire. Cigars were being passed around like candy, and reggaeton music was flowing.  My students love to dance reggaeton, which is basically just grinding upon ones genitalia.  They kept telling me “Carly you are doing it wrong, dance more near more near!” They couldn’t understand why I felt uncomfortable riding the cock of my student. I wondered what these guys were like back in their prime college years, and also wondered how often they bend the truth to their significant others in order to get shitty with coworkers.  If their actions are any indication of what corporate America is like, I am so in. So even though my hourly teaching wage is rather low, the extra benefits are more than worth it.  As long as my students give me good reviews, I am more than happy to answer their questions about sex positions and accept their invitations for a good time.

(unfortunately I dont have any pictures of my students….use your imagination) 

For some unknown reason I have been in a weird, depressing, don’t-exactly-feel-like-myself funk the past few weeks, and therefore have not been blogging. I apologize for being so rude. Nothing drastic in my life has changed, or at least what I can see is obvious, and seasonal depression can’t be the culprit because its summer in Santiago.  In order to make myself feel better, I have tried a number of things.  First thing I did was take a 4 day vacation in the extreme sports capital of Chile, because isn’t that what everybody does? This city is named Pucon, and it managed to take me temporarily out of my funk during those 4 days.  In response to Steph’s comment, “Why didn’t you blog about Pucon, did it mean nothing to you?!”….yes of course! It meant the world to me, because it made me fall in deep deep love with the South of Chile.  Pucon is like the Michigan of Chile, except with less Chicagoen tourists and more large active volcanoes.  We did however give the town a strong American feeling considering we rolled 11 gringos deep and weren’t afraid to show it.  Yet Pucon also differs from Mich because it pummels over its outdoor adventure activity department.  This is mostly because the US outlaws hydrospeeding, and Pucon encourages it.  I will get to hydrospeeding later, but first lets talk about this beautiful bitch of a volcano we climbed.  I didn’t ever think I would tell people that I climbed a volcano at some point in my life, but that’s the glory of being in Chile, it allows you to do things that you never thought you would (like talking about the term ‘pulling out’ with your students).  Just like how you can’t leave Vegas without destroying your self respect, you can’t leave Pucon without climbing Mt.Villarrica.  This active volcano smiles its big snow covered ass at you from 2,800 meters above the small town, so pretty much if you don’t go on the climb you are considered a pussy and should be embarrassed.  Trekking up a volcano isn’t something you hear about often, so I had no idea what to expect. We had to take a ski lift past the bottom part of the mountain, and on the way up the nerves started kicking in (To all you fuckers who think this is cheating, you can suck it, our tour guides made us do it). The wind was so strong that at times you couldn’t even hear the person shouting next to you. Kooch and I cried out “what are we doing?! we’re just not that extreme!” as we wavered on the shaky lift.  Once we started gearing up in our head to toe winter windbreakers and clamp-on shoes I was beyond pumped.  It took us 4 hours to climb up the beast, including taking 10 minute breaks every 45 minutes.  Breaks would involve us using our ice picks to dig a hole in the side of the volcano to plop down in while we snacked on nuts and sandwiches.  True or False?  It is possible to craft a zucchini and cheese sandwich while seated numbly on a steep snow covered volcano…Fact. At times the climb was pretty painful to my legs, but I blamed it on the 4 hour mountain bike ride we accidently stumbled ourselves upon the day before.  The stupid volcano was spewing toxic gas and ash that day, so we couldn’t climb all the way to the summit. I hate it when that happens. Instead we climbed as high as we could, and took some amazing photos from there.  I thought my pics alone were worth the climb, but that was until we started the descent.  Our guides strapped us into these black canvas sliding pads that went under our butts.  We referred to them as our diapers, and when our Chilean tour guides asked us what that word meant, I said underwear for babies. “Oh you mean a Pampers?” they responded. Yeah sure, just like a Post It note or Kleenex, a diaper is a Pampers.  If you have never before slide down a volcano with nothing but an ice pick and your ass, you should consider it because it’s freaking awesome.  There were slide like divots formed on the side of the mountain that we just shimmied ourselves down while simultaneously screaming “I love my life” and shatting our pants in fear.  The last stretch we attached ourselves like a human toboggan and rode down in true American fashion, fist pumping and all. Well at least I was fist pumping.  Later that night we hopped in a sketchy van and cruised to the natural hot springs for some hot tub like bathing.  I don’t do well when tired, and boy was I tired, so I wasn’t in the best of moods.  Ill have to admit sitting in a naturally heated pond of water surrounded by a starry night was pretty nice, but it wasn’t enough to cheer me up.  Playing “are you better at snuggling or sex” with a gaggle of tipsy gringos also didn’t cheer me up.  No pasa nada though, because the next day was a new day, and we spent it getting shitty at the beach.  Another great thing about Pucon is you can be hiking in snow before breakfast, then swimming in your trunks for lunch.  We were the obvious group of obnoxious Americans ruining everyone’s pleasant time on the private beach, but like always, we didn’t give a flying fuck. I’m going to take all the inappropriate and hilarious pictures I want, while your children watch in wonderment.  Could this be why Americans don’t have the best reputation?  On our last day in Pucon, 5 of us did a little thing called hydrospeeding.  Rafting is for people who like to have fun, but hydrospeeding is for people who call themselves rock stars.  It’s illegal in the States because insurance companies think it’s too dangerous, which immediately attracted me to it. It’s a simple concept, you pretty much rest your arms on a styrofoam raft the size of a large toddler, and float your body downstream over rapids.  Requires some coordination and quick thinking, but overall the river pretty much does it for you. By the end of the entire weekend I had never felt so badass.  I dreamed about what it would be like to live and work in Pucon, giving tours up volcanoes and drinking wine at the beach on my days off.  It sounds like magic. Who knows, maybe one day. 

sliding down Mt.Villarrica 

enjoying the lake with some Coronas 

When your parents come to visit you in a foreign country you want to show them what your new hometown is all about. Take them to the touristy areas, have them eat traditional food, and get them drunk off traditional drinks.  However it’s important to leave room for the unexpected, which in Kooch’s case ended up being the first 24 hours of his parents visit.  Kooch’s parents are the epitome of an adorable and loving Russian couple, and I fell in love with them the second they walked through the door.  After traveling 13 hours to see their only child, Kooch wanted to make sure their time spent in Santiago was well worth it, and Dustin and I wanted to come along for the ride.  Saturday afternoon we took them to Mercado Central, a fish market lined with small restaurants selling traditional Chilean seafood dishes.  It smells like, you guessed it, fish. Kooch’s dad scurried away immediately with a green face, but we convinced him the aroma was worth it and he was going to have to trust us.  The restaurants are in mad competition to get the most daily customers, and therefore aggressively shout at you as you walk by saying things like “just look at the name of our restaurant, we are clearly the best”, or “look we have a table available right here!”  After a while the shouting gets so frustrating that you just end up succumbing to the first waiter who gives you the two-seconds-away-from-spitting-in-your-face look.  We picked one with an upper level, and settled into a table just big enough for the 5 of us.  I think Kooch’s parents would rather eat my left pinky toe than shellfish, but they love their son more than anything, so therefore sat at the table with a big smile.  Though we were hot and sweaty, we were actually having a wonderful time, as we watched Kooch and Dustin slowly take down a dish filled with oddly colored and shaped chewy pieces of seafood.  That was until we were approached by a coked out drunken Chilean woman, who I will hereafter refer to as Guadalupe. This middle aged woman was eating lunch two tables down from us when she got up and stumbled her drunk-ass over to give us some advice.  Guadalupe was having trouble getting even one sentence out, but said something along the lines of “don’t drink your drinks, they will make your stomach sick.”  We stared at her waiting to see if she would ever make any sense, and when she didn’t, I got bored.  I told her she was being rude and asked, with a smile on my face, if she would please leave.  Bewildered and looking as if she would vomit at any moment, she didn’t budge.  I got our waiters attention and he guided her back to her table.  However that wasn’t the last of Guadalupe.  Moments later, in what seemed like slow motion, she charged towards our table with an empty wine glass.  We all watched in fear as Guadalupe winded up and threw the wine glass at the wall between me and Dustin, shouting “NO TOMAS!” (don’t drink). The shattering sound of the glass made everyone in the restaurant pause mid sentence, and stare at the crazy woman with the shaking hands.  As our waiter threw her out of the restaurant, Kooch’s mom and I couldn’t help but start laughing uncontrollable.  Dustin asked our waiter if the woman who had just made a fool out of herself did so just because she was drunk.  He responded by shrugging his shoulders and saying “yes, but its normal.”  Looks like Guadalupe is a frequent disturber of Saturday lunches at the fish market.  You would think the violence would end there, but au contraire my friends it did not.  In celebration of having such a wonderful afternoon, we moved the party to La Piojera for some terremotos.  La Piojera is the biggest shit dump hole-in-the-wall bar we know, which is why I love it, but taking someone’s innocent parents there at 4 o clock in the afternoon is more than a gamble.  Charlie the Clown was entertaining Kooch’s lightweight mother, who was only a quarter into her terremoto and already crossing over the line of tipsy, right before yet another rupture of violence occured.  A fight broke out inside and it took almost the entire staff, armed with wicker chairs, to get the guy out.  Instead of trying to convince the padres that we honestly do live in a pretty safe city, I explained that these situations are actually positive things. Having a story to tell, no matter what the circumstance was, is always better than having nothing to say at all.

I google imaged this photo not gonna lie, but this woman could easily be Guadalupe in about 10 years

I’ve been trying to increase the amount of mediums I use to improve my Spanish, other than reading the signs on the metro and talking to the doormen at work.  A few weeks ago I bought Tropico de Cancer and a small pocket dictionary at a used bookstore for $8.00, and started spending my free time in between classes trying to get through one page at a time. This old and erotic book is quite the dirty one, so I am more than enjoying bettering my vocabulary in the body parts category.  I also spontaneously signed up for a job interview after seeing a hiring sign at the small fruits and vegetable store by my apartment.  I thought working part time selling avocados would be a win win situation for me, because I could practice my Spanish and make some extra cash. However when I arrived the next day at the office where the interview was being held, my eyes widened as I realized I had been incredibly misinformed.  I walked up to the second floor and ran smack into about 100 young people in suits and nervous faces.  I was the only foreigner in the room, and the only one not dressed in business professional (I thought my cotton dress and leggings would suffice for business casual).  As I was herded into a room big enough for only 2/3rds of the people in it, I quickly realized what I was getting myself into.  They were recruiting people to work for a big scam company, where you try their weight loss products in hopes of miraculously losing weight so you can share your story and convince other people to buy the products too.  I knew immediately that I was not interested in this bullshit, but instead of walking out, I figured I could use the 45 minute presentation as a way to practice my Spanish listening skills.  After intently listening to everyone’s non-inspirational and most likely fake stories, I actually considered moving on the next step and having a one-on-one interview for some more practice.  However when they asked me what my weight was in kg and my height in meters, I didn’t know the answer, so I gracefully slipped out the back staircase and out onto the street.  Oh well.  My favorite new way of practicing my Spanish however is finding conversation buddies. My friends and I have chosen to use this creepy yet effective conversation exchange website.  Kooch basically uses it to find Chilean girls who are DTF, but I use it to make new friends who are interested in exchanging languages, not bodily fluids.  Last Thursday I hit the jackpot of conversation exchanges.  Patricio, a 26 year old student, contacted me and wanted to set up a group conversation.  Him and his friends wanted to take me and my friends out for a typical Chilean good time so we could more naturally practice each other’s native languages.  On Thursday night, as Fro, Steph, and I headed out to find the college bar we were instructed to meet them at, we were practically pissing our pants with excitement. I had no idea what Patricio and his friends looked like, so we walked into the bar hoping a friendly group of 7 Chileans would recognize the out-of-place gringas and invite us over their way.  At first we were welcomed by a group of creepy men desperate for American attention, until we saw a group smiling in the corner waving us over.  A few beers later we were laughing and chatting as if we had known each other for years.  It was the perfect group, filled with gay men who loved to dance, straight men with girlfriends who were therefore out of the creeper category, and non jealous and totally fun to be around fashion forward girls. It was love at first sight. As we walked into bar number 2 and saw shirtless men with mullets dancing to a live typical Chilean band, I saw only good things in the future.  As I downed a $2 terremoto, I let my dance moves run wild.  At one point a man wearing a colorful ninja outfit with a green ski mask crawled under my legs as I rode him like a miniature pony, because at the time it seemed the fairly appropriate.  A drunken overly excited man with a mustache was walking around delivering beers out of an orange traffic cone (he may or may not have been trying to sell these as his only source of income, but either way I happily received the beer he placed into my empty hand).  Steph and I also taught the “suck it” move to our new friends.  Even though they were skeptical and admitted feeling wrong doing it, I think they liked it.  After Steph’s third terremoto and multiple rounds of dancing with strangers, she surprised me by declaring that she would “have sex with a monkey right now.”  Good to know Steph, ill make sure to have one waiting for you when we get back to your apartment. After registering what she had just said, she realized it was time to get some fresh air and head home. We night capped the evening by performing a dance with an impromptu street band and a happy toothless homeless man in the park across from the bar.  Hey the homeless are entitled to some partying too.  The next morning Steph and I reminisced about the evening over a bowl of fish soup at Mercado Central, and couldn’t wait to plan our next “conversation exchange” with our new friends.  I may not have learned new vocabulary during this exchange, but I did discover how the power of a sketchy website and alcohol can create life long memories.   

Coversation Buds

Teaching “suck it” to Chileans