Hot Avocado

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

Living in a foreign country means having to adapt to a new culture, whether you like it or not.  If you are lucky enough to like the cultural aspect, then go ahead and smile while skipping circles around it.  If you don’t happen to like it, then shove the middle finger in its face and change it.  My French roommates can help me explain this theory.  I live in a second floor apartment with what I consider 7 other roommates.  My depto (like the apt abbreviation in Spanish) houses me, a Chilean loud music loving chico, a Bolivian drunk, an adorable Costa Rican girl, and little Pepinito (whose real name is Pierre), a French student.  We share an enormously large terrace with our 3 French neighbors, innocent and pretty Cyrielle, always high on life Alo, and just-living-in-Chile-to-dick-around-with-his-friends-for-two-months Luke.  I love them all.  Unfortunately every other person living in our building despises them.  I just can’t understand why.  Bringing back hookers, getting the cops called on you, and blasting music till 4:00am are things I would categorize under friendly neighbor behavior, don’t you? Our doorman literally gives me nightmares with his continuously frowning face, and refused to let me through the front gate during my first two weeks because he was convinced I was just a strange visitor.  The administrator of the building lives two doors down from us, and as my crazy French roommates are convinced, had set them up for ultimate failure. One Tuesday night, the anal old woman left her door open a crack, and at 4:00am as the boys came drunkenly stumbling down the hallway, they kicked the door open.  According to the old woman, the boys shouted vulgar things into her apartment and then gave her the bird.  Luke said he didn’t remember much, but truly believes the woman made up the story so she could have a reasonable excuse to kick us all out.  Whether or not the story is true is irrelevant, because a “town meeting” was called, and the whole apartment building collectively decided that “us foreigners are unaware of the Chilean apartment code of normal behavior,” and therefore ought to evicted.  After going back and forth between thinking they were totally serious about this, or just yanking our chains, I think at this point we are surprisingly allowed to stay.  I don’t know how we went about winning this case, because the complaints just keep piling up.  So now we are basically being held as prisoners in our own apartment, wtih strict rules not to make a peep for the rest of our time here.  I guess you can’t call yourself a French badass without saying you were threatened to get kicked out of your apartment right?  My favorite part about this whole thing is how the neighbors questioned our knowledge of “normal Chilean apartment behavior.”  I could just imagine a bunch of old people sitting around a table saying “well I don’t know how them foreigners do it in their countries, but here in Chile it’s not acceptable to knock down your neighbors door, swear at them, and then flip them off.” Where do these people think we originally reside from, the effing slammer? Is this behavior acceptable anywhere else? That’s probably where they wish we all were right now, doing our normal “foreign” things.  It may sound like these old people offended me, but honestly it just made me that much more proud to be a foreigner.  This only encourages more obscene behavior when we return to our naughty home countries.  

Nuestro Mama, a drunken creation displayed on top of the fridge  

Sometimes in life you have to work your ass off to make things happen, and other times you just have to be Stephanie Polvere and Carly Barrie. This past weekend we were lucky enough to have a few good bloggable things happen to us, both fortunate and unfortunate. First of all, I am fortunate to have Pablo as one of my students.  Pabs is the man, and if he wasn’t 33 and totally in love with his wife and kids, I would bang him and his subtle chest hair.  But considering the latter, our relationship is restricted to an uneven give and take friendship. At this point we have completely thrown all of my institute’s rules out the window, and have ever since the first time he offered to let me stay in his mansion of a house in Vina del Mar anytime I wanted.  He said “don’t worry Carly, anytime you want I can give you a ride to Vina, you can stay in my house, my wife will cook for you, and my kids would love to practice English with you.”  Considering I teach this general manager of a large multinational insurance company in his 21^st floor office, I took the offer seriously.  The only thing in it for Pablo is that he gets to practice his English with me.  Coincidently, Steph teaches Pablo’s bff Carlos, a less insane more Latino version of Chris Farley, whose level of English makes him that much more appealing.  Pablo and Carlos decided that they LOVED Steph and I, and threw out this diamond of an idea. “How about we take you two out for dinner and drinks at this delicious vegetarian restaurant and we pay for all of it! Only condition is we have to speak in English the whole time. Deal?” Honestly who’s the real winner in this situation?  The answer was yes, and how can we go about making this a weekly thing? So Thursday night the four of us met up at El Patio de Providencia for a night of drinking, eating, and “teaching English”.  Pablo said we could order whatever we wanted, so instead of being timid and polite by going for the more reasonably priced beverage, I went straight for the expensive and delicious tequila sunrise.  Steph was concerned that she would get too drunk and not be able to make it to her 8am class the next morning.  Being the good friend that I am, I insisted on ordering her third tequila sunrise for her, so she wouldn’t feel guilty about doing it herself.  Two hours into the night we had each consumed three beverages and enough quesadillas and pizza to feed the state of New Jersey.  We then started getting onto the subject of inappropriate words and phrases and how they translate from English to Spanish, which is always a favorite topic of mine.  Pablo said the Chilean slang phrase for “riding my ass”, and was trying to explain it in English by describing a situation with their boss Diana.  Carlos didn’t think he was doing a very good job, so he interfered. He said “Girls please try not to judge or think any differently of me after I say what I am about to say.  But this phrase means that your boss’s donkey sized penis is up your asshole.” Thank you Carlos, I think I now understand.  Steph must be working wonders in the classroom, because for a beginner to be able to spit out that vocabulary is beyond impressive.  After realizing it was midnight, we had Pablo and Carlos drive us to our friend’s apartment, where we met up with our “wannagetthose crew”, our all-time favorite Chilean drunks.  These are the guys that Steph, Jackie, and I had broken all of our moral codes with during the famous Chilean holiday over a month ago. The night was overall fabulous as usual, and was only meddled with by the usual gentlemen drama.  Steph finally got to make out with her boy band loving crush, only to be ditched by him later in the night unknowingly. The boy who I had been spending all night with (and had many nights previously) accused me of taking advantage of him.  Apparently genital parts get swapped when alcohol is present in our relationship.  Jackie on the other hand wins the prize with Lord Douche III.  After spending all night dancing and talking with her, he walked her home while insulting her Spanish and questioning why she wasn’t better at it considering the length of her stay in Chile.  He then shamelessly requested if he could spend the night, which naturally got turned down. “Do you even know my name?” Jackie said, as he asked for her number instead.  When he couldn’t answer that, you can guess that the fugly douche walked home empty handed.  Steph and I crashed in her bed around 4am, only to wake up 3 hours later so she could make it to her 8am class.  After waiting for her student to show up for 45 minutes, then being informed that he had a meeting and would not be able to attend class today, I met Steph at the Starbucks next to her class.  We had plans to go to Vina del Mar that weekend because we were running in its annual 10k, so we wanted to get waxed.  After searching for a half hour, we finally hunted down the salon that Steph’s friend had given us chicken scratch directions for.  We didn’t know how to say waxing in Spanish, so we motioned with our hands to try to get our point across.  After the tiny wide-eyed Chilean woman motioned toward her vagina and said the word vagina in Spanish (which is luckily also vagina), we knew we were in agreement.  I went first, considering I was a virgin at this.  I also didn’t want the disoriented-still-drunk-from-the-night-before feeling to wear off because I thought it would help with the pain.  Once I got into the room I could understand 90% of what she was saying, and that 10% existence of a language barrier actually made me feel more comfortable.  I hope there are Latino salons back in the States that I can visit once I return home, because the wax was divine.  At around 5:30pm Steph and I headed to Vina, but not in a bus like the layman folk would do.  We got a ride from good old Pablo, in his company black leather seat car.  He purchased us apple flavored water at the gas station, and dropped us off promptly in front of our apartment that we were planning on staying at with friends. I would have preferred to stay at his house for the weekend for free, but considering there were 7 of us running the 10k, we just decided to rent an apartment together. We spent all day Saturday living a rough life.  Lying on the beach while eating popsicles and avocados is really challenging, I feel bad for anyone who has to do it. We got a good night of sleep and woke up jacked and ready to go for our 10k.  We decided that the guy friends we were staying with were really anal and lame that weekend, so Steph and I began the 30min walk from our depto to the start of the race without them.  It was freakishly rainy and cold that morning, but likely our names are Steph and Carly, and things fall into our laps like magic.  Five minutes into our walk a lovely old couple pulled over to the side of the road and asked if we wanted a ride to the race, which we immediately jumped at.  Despite the fact that my empanada dinner from the night before gave me the urge to crap during the entire race, we finished at our desired pace, and even sprinted at the end like rock stars.  My crazy Chilean friend Kike had drunkenly called me the night before saying he would give me, Steph, and Fro a ride back to Santiago in the afternoon on Sunday.  I had hoped this offer was still standing when I returned from the race, until I received a much delayed text from him stating “im in stgo” at 1:00pm.  I simply texted him back “ur a puta” as we headed to the bus station.  I found out later that he had driven back to Santiago the night before because of lack of sleeping space.  The words “trust” and “Kike” should never be put in the same sentence, unless you are saying “don’t trust Kike”. Oh well, me and Steph basically had the whole bus to ourselves to pass out on during the ride home.  I don’t know why we were so tired…oh wait that’s right because we ran a 10k!  Starting a new Monday after a fun weekend went at usual; stressing out about plans for the following weekend.  As soon as I conquer how to relax, I get that much better at stressing.  I will continue to tell people that I don’t get stressed easily, because I DON’T GET STRESSED EASILY.  Honestly though, at the end of the day, I have absolutely no reason not to love my life.  Besides, any bit of stress can be taken away by two great pastries. 

Steph and I after the race

I live for the weekends, and spent this last one almost dying. Ok I didn’t actually come close to dying, but I definitely put myself through quite a test. Chile loves its long weekends, and uses any excuse to take a Monday off of work. This weekend was Halloween, and even though most Chileans don’t celebrate it quite as extravagantly as us Americans, they still thought it was necessary to make Monday a holiday. Fine by me. My weekend started on Friday where I spent the night slamming shots of Bolivian beer to an 80’s power hour mix and eating non-seedless grapes at the boy’s depto. I probably should have just gone to bed at 1:00am like a lady, but instead got conned into accompanying Zach and Steve to the salsa bar. Bad life decision. As soon as we got to the bar they met up with their Chilean doctor female friends as I roamed around the bathroom and dance floor pretending to be busy. As each Chilean man asked me to join them on the dance floor for a little salsa-ing, I shrugged my shoulders and thought “fuck it I have nothing else to do, I might as well give this guys a shot.” Yet each man failed to meet my standards of a good dancer. Come on guys, you are Latino and present in a salsa bar, at least have some descent rhythm. I decided I was done being thrown around like koosh ball by 5 different men, and said peace out to Zach and Steve. I spent all the money I had on a churro instead of cab, so was forced to walk home by myself. Thank you baby Jesus that the weekend only improved 10 fold after that night. Saturday night was Jackie’s roomie’s bday, and we celebrated it at their depto. At the beginning of the night Steph and Fro (Stephs best friend from home whose totes cool and will therefore be mentioned in future blogs) asked me if I wanted to go trekking with them in the morning. My idea of making good memories often includes alcohol, but usually it’s the sober outdoor adventures that really tickle my fancy. Oh and by the way trekking is the Spanish equivalent to hiking. Despite polishing off a full bottle of wine at the party, I was still set on going on this hike. The 7am wake up call that Steph promised me still didn’t keep this demon from going to bed early, and as I strolled into my room at 4am thinking to myself how interesting it would be 3 hours from now. I heard my skype ringing at 7:30am, and answered to Steph saying her, Fro, their friend Nico and his friend Marcel were leaving in 15 minutes. I paused for a second, weighting the two options. I could either A) go back to sleep and miss out on the day long hike on Halloween, or B) man up and get my ass into some appropriate gym shoes. I initially chose option A, and said goodbye to Steph. Forty five seconds later I was calling her back, saying that I had changed my mind because the guilt had quickly overcome me. How could I possibly sleep knowing that Steph and Fro were going hiking in the Andes Mountains in gorgeous weather? In 10 minutes I was out the door and hoping into Nico’s car, not really 100% sure if I was either properly prepared or totally awake. I knew absolutely zero details about this trip, and really only said yes because I saw a blog-able opportunity. I also felt I needed a new prof pic and thought this would produce one. As we began the car ride up into the mountains, shit hit the fan. I’ve had quite an extensive track record of getting motion sickness, and when the heavy breathing didn’t help, I knew bad news was in the near future. Nico informed us that we were almost to the top, but we forced him to pull over anyway. The urge to vomit was so intense, yet nothing was coming out. Steph insisted that she was really good at making people puke by pretending to puke herself, and gave it a shot. Still a no go…that is until 2 minutes later back inside the car. I could feel the vom quickly approaching, and I calmly asked for a bag. Steph emptied our groceries out of a plastic shopping bag and threw it to me just in time for my morning apple and last nights McDonalds French fries to make its way out of my mouth. While yes the vomiting was unpleasant, we still didn’t deem it extreme enough to stop the car again. So instead I just held the bag full of vom out the window in between voming sessions. Upchucking my breakfast while snuggled in the backseat didn’t stop me from spotting the wild horses on the side of the road however. As I came up for air I demanded someone else take a picture of them because I was a little occupied. Most people probably take it easy after a good old barf fest; I however wiped my mouth, grabbed a hiking stick, and joined the rest of the gang on our trek. Nothing like a little nausea to put a pep in your step. This hike was unlike anything I have ever done before. Instead of climbing up and down a mountain like you would think, we meandered our way through a valley that was once covered in snow. There was not one cloud in the sky, and throughout the trip we could see a beautiful white mountain peak far in the distance. Every 5 minutes we would run into a heaping pile of cow poop…or maybe it was horse poop…either way cow poop is more fun to say so I am sticking with that. Every once in a while we would also run into some marsh-like land, requiring us to either be crafty and search for a rock path, or give up and run straight through it. At one point when Steph, Fro and I were far behind and left to find our own way, we ran into a marsh that had to have been soaking in cow poop for at least a few months. We slushed through what I referred to as cow poop soup, soaking our feet with mud and probably all kinds of crazy stuff that I don’t even want to think about. We then cheered ourselves up by singing Disney songs whilst climbing piles of rocks. All of the struggles of the hike were more than worth the view of the glowing icy waterfall that we reached at the end of the trek. We were in awe the whole trip, in disbelief that we had actually just hiked 9.1 miles…or no wait did I say 9.1? I meant 20 miles! When we were first informed that the hike was only 9.1 miles, we agreed to round up to 10 to sound more badass. Yet when we found out we had actually hiked 20 miles, for a duration of 8 hours, we voted it “incredible” and internally gave ourselves personalized gold stars. We couldn’t forget however that it was still October 31st. Despite my sunburn hurting like a mother effer, and my toes feeling like raisins (thanks Steph), we still had to go home and change into our costumes. The day before Jackie, Steph and I had bought mouse ears for $1 and decided to go as the 3 Blind Mice. Easy, cheap, and a total attention getter, because lets face it who doesn’t like to stare at the girls in a group costume? We mustered up the strength to make it to California Cantina, THE gringo bar of Santiago. The dance floor literally felt like an oven, yet the Chileans we found dressed as miners made it worth the sweat. I have yet to meet a Chilean as nuts as this miner was. He either really like me or wanted me dead, because he picked me up on numerous occasions and twirled me around quite dangerously. Every time he did I would wave to the people surrounding me as if I were the Queen. Wouldn’t you if the most popular occupation in Chile was giving you praise? At one point he was carrying me down some stairs while holding me over his shoulders, as I shouted “omg this is the death of me! This is how I am going to die!” Thankfully Jackie saved my head from being smacked into the ceiling, and I was returned safely back to my feet. While I did love their costumes, my favorite was the blue popsicle. A very tall black American man walked past me in a giant blue popsicle suit, that read “Helado Azul…Chupalo”, which means “Blue Ice Cream….Suck it”. I commented on it, but he seemed upset and said “yeah I really like it but apparently Chileans aren’t keen on the phrase chupalo.” To make him feel better, every time I walked past him I would shout “yeah yeah Chupalo wooooo,” but I’m not so sure he liked that. Even though I was the floating in a sea of sleep deprivation and beer the whole night, I still managed to make it to 4am again. I woke up the next morning far earlier than I needed to because of the blistering of my sunburn, yet felt 110% satisfied with the outcome of my weekend. “Vale la pena” was the theme phrase of the weekend, which means “worth it”. For example, vomiting in a plastic grocery bag in front of Chileans I just met? Vale la pena! My sunburn may go away, but those memories will last forever…deep stuff.

Yerba Loca aka Crazy Weed, where we hiked

posing in front of the cascada

3 Blind Mice con los Mineros!