Alethea Eason

Leaving

2009-06-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Mexican Twirlers (for lack of a better term) on a summer day in Valparaiso celebrating Mexican culture and the amistad entre Chile y Mexico.

Three weeks left to live in Chile. I haven't written as teaching and editing has taken most of my time and energy, but before I go I do want to leave some last thoughts to end my blogging about this part of my life.

Favorite Places: The little plaza in the barrio Concho y Torro in Santiago, Ancud, Chiloe, traveling through the desert, watching the ocean outside of my window in both places I've lived in Concon.

People I won't forget: Susana, Pamela, Ximena and her children Paz and Gaspar, nanny Inez,the English department at St. Margaret's, the Junior School staff, Joan in the photocopy room and the rest of the auxilaries, Pia and Carmen in the library, Paula in the library, Sandra, my neighbor . . . and my students, especially my 4th medio girls: the Andreas (A, H and P), Ashley, Romina, Alexandra, Ximena, Fernanda, Paz, Francisca, the Maria Joses J and C), Diana, Pauline, Isabella, and Maria Ignacia.

Most Chilean memory: Riding on the bus from Loncura at night, sometimes standing holding on to the seats when there were lots of people, people sleeping, listening to their MP3 players, children singing, lights from the refinary letting us know that we are almost in Concon, crossing the rotunda.

Strangest thing: The two headed baby girl floating in a large jar of formadehyde at the sad little natural history museum in Valparaiso.

Most distressing: too many swastikas painted on walls, the anti-Jewish grafiti in Valpo, Santiago and coming into Arica. Also, so many people who think fondly of Pinochet and who don't seem to know the role Nixon had in bringing down Allende. Allende wasn't a good administrator and factions got out of control, but he had called for a referendum to see if he should remain as president but the coup happened before it could occur. No one seems to know this, either. There is still a huge class system here, and a person's last name carries way too much importance. Pituto, or the practice of giving "ins" to people, using connections, is lauded here. I know it happens in the U.S., but I think most people do frown on it.

Second most distressing: the street dogs who, on one hand are delightful, but on the other, they break my heart.

Wish I had:learned more Spanish.

Most challenging things: dealing with paperwork and stamps and being told different things depending on which official I talk with.

Best places to walk: Valparaiso, the beach at Quintero

What I'll miss most: dinners with Susana, the fog, my classes at St. Margaret's, the wonderful fruit juice, the seafood.

What I won't miss: finding myself in vehicles without seatbelts, toilets with no seats or toilet paper or lights, and at times all three not present, honking horns, clocking in and out of work, things that don't work like lightbulbs right out of the pack, high prices for paper, toothpaste, lotion, shampoo, etc. etc.

Who I especially appreciate: all the people who have given me rides,and Rosemary Faille for being the fairy godmother of bureaucracy maneuvering. Melanie for making me feel at home,her wonderful voice and our adventures as mermaids.

I haven't been in a writerly mood lately. Perhaps I'll get to here and write another post or two, but something tells me I probably won't. I am thinking of a post I made last year about how I felt there was something in Chile that I felt was missing back home, a love of life, I think I said. I realize that this isn't quite as true for me now as it was. Being here has definitely made me appreciate the U.S. more I think we're all just people, wherever we might live and the life you choose to live is up to you. The longer I've lived here, the lonelier I've become, perhaps the newness washing off. It's time to go home. But Chile has become a part of me, and what a gift it has been to be here.

Notes from the English Department: Easter in Fall

2009-04-12T15:57:00.000-07:00

I'm writing as the sun is beginning to get low. A slow afternoon of not much going on. For lunch, we had salmon bought right from the fishmonger. One of them once told Bill he could come to her kitchen and cook anytime. I shared a bottle of wine with Bill. We rarely drink a whole bottle, but today is Easter and the afternoon slow. This morning I went to St. Peter's, the Anglican church in Vina Del Mar, which is very English. I learned that the Gospel According to Mark was written like a best seller, with an ending that leads you hanging and wanting to know more. I like trivia like that. But as lovely as the people are there, I miss St. John's, my church at home in Lake County, California, the place where most of the parishoners support Gay marriage and where Shared Ministry has been practiced because we can't afford a full time priest. That means we get to make a budget and plan the songs (not me because I can' t sing, but I did write the newsletter) and grumble a bit. I miss the grumbling. Before we sit down, most of us do a kind of little bow or curtsy to the alter that they don't do here, and we use the old form of the Lord's Prayer more often, which I prefer. We've kept more to the old forms in general. It's like how Americans still say gotten, but the English don't.

I'm reserved and my personality predisposes me to be one of the Frozen Chosen. There was guitar music during Holy Communion today and it annoyed me. I prefer the old hymns. I feel my English major coming to roost in them. I used to feel my bones were buried in an English churchyard in a past life. Weird. It passed, but the thought stayed with me for a long time as I got to know Episcopalians. I'm a latent one. Not from the cradle, as they say.

In my doubts, which I have many, i found the first church I ever was comfortable at St. John's. Redwood gothic. It creaks like a ship. Motorcycles sometimes go up the street during hymns. We've had bikers come to church. If I'm really in a rush or haven't gotten the ironing done, Iwear jeans.

This Easter, as usual, my doubts seem larger than any belief. I feel Christian because I like Jesus. Not sure I love him; he seems a bit stern at times, but he'd be one of the people from history I'd have over for dinner if I could. I know that with my disposition, had I been born Jewish or Muslim or Hindu, I'd be in just about at the same place . . . probably attending a synagogue or mosque or temple with the same half-faith that I have lived with all of my life. As a child, my parents didn't go to church but would send me to whatever Southern Baptist church that was close by where I'd ask Jesus into my heart countless times, and not feeling he ever got there, kept on asking. I guess I still am in a way.

Mrs. Haines, my Sunday school teacher when I was eight, got mad at me because I went up to an alter call after having gotten down on my knees in her class a few weeks before and asked for salvation. You only do it once, according to her. She told us that the size of our houses in Heaven would be built according to how many souls we saved. Mrs. Haines warped me, and I got in trouble at home because people from the church came to tell my parents the good news, which they would have been just as happy not to have heard.

Bill and I are were in Valparaiso yesterday buying some extra macrame necklaces for our friend Charlene who is back in Canada. While we were talking to the vendors, beautiful young women in sight and soul who happen to be Communists, a couple of ragamuffins came and pulled on Bill's shirt. They wanted a donation for the Judas they had made. Today, many Judases, along with political figures, will be burned in the cerros on Valparaiso. One of the lovely Communistas said that Bush has been burned many times. That's an Easter, if you ask me. A little fire. A little effigy burning . . .now, that sounds like a party.

Last year as I went to St. Peters, a group of about two hundred Pentacostals passed me by, singing joyously, throwing confetti and handing out candy in celebration of the Lord's resurrection. I missed them this year; they must have taken another route. Even though I have my prejudices about conservative Christians, I kind of wanted to follow them because of the music and their energy. I'm not into contemporary Christian hymns. Most of them sound like they are being emitted from a bad FM station. Really bad rock and roll from the 80s, and the like. But I do like gospel music, and though this wasn't it, it had a great beat. They were joyous, an emotion that I have to admit I feel I haven't had my fair share of.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this other than I wish that I could look at life with eyes more open, find fewer barriers in my soul, unloosen a bit. I'm one of the shy people Garrison Keillor speaks of, even if I'm not a Lutheren. I'd love to be a Buddhist, actually. I sometime admire atheists. The dead Jesus thing gets to me. I learned a few years ago that the earliest Christians, those Communistas, would have never thought of putting up a crucifix. It was too real for them, too brutal. It was only after the memory of real crucifictions faded that they started to appear.

Truth be told, I might be a better Christian Scientist or a determined follower of A Course in Miracles, as they make more sense to me. Only the sensory elements don't. Or with the history I've had. I have too many fixed signs in my chart. Maybe that's why a half bottle of wine on an Easter afternoon beats Easter Eggs.

I want to burn effigies and handle snakes and find my mind overstepped by emotion. Forget about creeds. A problem for a Protestant, at least this one, who since Mrs. Haines and before (Dr. Bob at Central Baptist could probably have hosted Fox News) has worried about what to believe. I'm shy to admit this, like how uncool can I be?

Chile isn't necessary a Catholic country anymore . . .( my other influence as all of my parent's friends, retired cops from Detroit, were Catholic. We didn't eat meat on Fridays because we always had one or another of them over. I can still say the prayer from heart where you ask for blessing all the faithful departed may they rest in peace amen after asking for blessings for the bounty we were about to receive). The government made October 31st a holiday last year, the anti-Halloween. There are enough Evangelical voters now to be catered to. Lots of Mormons here. Seventh Day Adventist, too, who are mainstream other than that they eat healthier than the rest of us and have the Sabbath on the right day.

Notes from the English Department

2009-04-04T19:12:00.001-07:00

Rosa y Luna, photo credit:Sandra Edwards

Last night we decided to take the coastal route on the bus ride home from Vina del Mar. We got off far enough from the steps that lead up to our house for a chance to walk along the breakwater. The tide was high and waves splashed over the rocks, their last wisps directly below us. The moon lit the clouds, mottled like doeskin, and the rocks held the sheen of water and foam.

We found a path to a rickety staircase. My husband went down and sat on a lower rung that was right above the tongues of the waves. Susana spoke of how she swam naked with a friend a year ago in the sea, how cold the water was, and how much she wanted to do it again. When Bill climbed up to us, Susana said, "My turn," and glided down the steps, stepping on to the top of the rocks. Waves broke over her feet as she balanced above the water. I have lousy balance; I envied her ability to stand there, poised and laughing, as the waves surrounded her. She came back happy with wet shoes and pant legs. My emotions have been ebbing low. What a gift to watch the sea in the moonlight and to hear laughter in the midst of it.

Today has been the first day I've wanted to write fiction again, after nine months (!) of time off. I've worried that blogging might take the place of making stories and novels. It's so immediate. Satisfying. And after a tap of a key, people can read it! Is the purpose of writing to be read? Or does writing itself, most of which stays in private nooks of computers and journals, the gift? These questions are too facile, but writing is lonely, and if you do it truthfully, hard work. With Internet and blogs, we are in a new world. What would the Bronte sisters do if they had blogs? Walk upon the moors, in the heather, and then come home to blog? Would novels be written?

I'm grateful that I have had the opportunity to be modestly published. I'm grateful for friends and relations who have read manuscripts during times I was still learning to believe in myself as a writer. Yesterday I was contacted by one of my most brilliant students, a young woman named Michelle Berger who was writing novels as a fifth grader. She told me she'd read Heron's Path, and it was the type of novel that she loves. A reader. Great joy. And yet, even without that reader, a writer writes.

The ocean is not far from my door. When it's especially quiet at night, we can hear it as we fall asleep. I open my window in my bedroom when I iron and watch small sailboats, seagulls and, on hot days, the usually smooth surface transformed into whitecaps as far as the horizon. I want to put life in words. I need to put my life in words, even if they're about a girl with six tentacles or two sisters who are not sisters, one of whom turns into a bird to take her real family home. Or to write a blog like I am tonight.

I don't know how this time in a foreign country will transform into fiction, but I begin to believe it will. We return in three months to California, and our life in Chile will be a dream: a cloudy night sky over the sea, saying the words for clouds and fog in Spanish, and watching a friend standing in the foam as waves rush past her feet. I will have these words to make it real.

Notes from the English Department

2009-03-25T03:58:00.001-07:00

Sandra and Alberto, my neighbors, had their stolen car returned to them by the Carabineros, the official state police of Chile. Unfortunately, the stereo, the ignition, several personal items and some alarms that Alberto uses in his security business (irony, here) were taken, and the windows were broken and the seats torn up. For the Carabineros to pursue the matter, Sandra would have to leave her car with them AND pay for the rental storage, so she's chosen to be philosophical, get her car repaired, use a neighbor's yard (and gate) for protection for overnight parking and move on.

On a happier note, congratulations to Alejandra and Ximena. They gave their speeches today for the teachers and girls of Cuarto Medeo English here at St. Margaret's, along with three other girls with wonderful speeches, and were chosen to go to Santiago on the 15th of April. They will attend the English Speaking Union's annual contest. Students from British Schools all over Chile will come, and the two top speakers will go to London for the international event. The theme of the event is Regeneration and Renewal. Ale's speech is about the transformation that technology is having on the ways we interact with each other, and Ximena's is on recent research into prolonging life, perhaps for as long as thousands of years. Would you choose to take a pill to prolong your life? At what costs? Would it be ethical in light of overpopulation and climate change?

My school is involved with the International Baccalaureate Program. This is my second year with an incredible group of fifteen girls who could shine in any Advance Placement English class in the United States. Unfortunately, school years are different in the northern and southern hemispheres, and I have to be ready to teach in California after Labor Day. Though there have been many wonderful (and challenging) experiences at St. Margaret's, this class has been the highlight of my time here; not being able to finish the year with them is the thing I regret most about having to leave in July.

Notes from the English Department

2009-03-22T14:31:00.000-07:00

Our neighbors, a woman with a bad back, a self-proclaimed black sheep of a well-known and wealthy family (they own one of the largest banks), and an old friend who just moved in with her, have called the Carboneros twice today. The first time was because of their stolen car. At 3 a.m., my husband heard the engine start and back out of our pasaje. She always turns the car around and then drives out. He got dressed and banged on her door. No answer. I woke and tried to call her, only to find that I hadn't saved her number on my cell phone. As no one answered, we hoped for the best, that they had decided to leave . . . to get cigarettes, perhaps . . . and went back to bed, not feeling very good about it. My husband wishes now he had made more of a ruckus and woke them.

Because they now have to walk and she can't afford a new car- her black sheep status has left her poor, our neighbors have become concerned about a dog in the neighborhood that we told them about and called the Carboneros again. We actually went to the police yesterday to make a complaint. The dog lives around the corner from us, and acts docile enough as long as his duenos aren't around. If they're there, standing out of their gate or coming in or out with the car, he turns into the Cujo of Golden Retrievers. Yes, a viscious Golden Retriever, the biggest that I've ever seen. He has a scar on his nose, so we've wondered if he's been beaten. The dog goes crazy and the owners do nothing. He almost attacked a good friend walking from the bus to our house on Friday night. Earlier in the day, my husband confronted the owner once after the dog snarled and rushed toward us. Bill picked up a tree branch to fight him off and asked the owner why the fuck he didn't do something about the dog. The owner's response was, "Why do you not respect me?"

So, I guess we'll tell our story again. My neighbors feel frightened and violated and wants to feel secure again; however, we're not really sure what else to say to the cops. Or how to say that they're overwrought and we didn't want to complain again unless it was necessary, as the police told us yesterday they'd speak to Cujo's owners. The survival Spanish we've cultivated so far doesn't go that far.

The Carboneros take pride in that they can't be bribed; it's good to live in a country where the police are honest. Unfortunately, thievery is common here, and growing more so. The son of the dog's owner have driven by in their huge pick-up and have threatened Bill after an earlier run-in, and so we definitely want the police on our side. Our little home feels close to paradise at times as the roses bloom in the garden and we listen to the sea at night. We will be going home to California in four months;things like this are helping us on our way.

Notes from the English Department

2009-03-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

St. Margaret's gates, just like Buckingham Palace's.

The last day of summer here in Concon has been foggy and cold. We went to Vina today to eat at our favorite little restaurant (soup, pork and rice for 1,200 pesos, just a bit over 2 dollars a piece) and people were dressed in their winter sweaters and hats, with bufandas wrapped snugly around their necks to keep out the chilly wind blowing on shore from the bay. I've grown to like the cooler weather and the fog. I like the mood fog puts me in, as well as wearing the beautiful sweaters here, especially my fuschia ruana (a shawl that acts a bit like a poncho) I bought in Arica. On the hill where St. Margaret's sits like a palatial English manor, it's even colder, a different micro-climate. The mist down here in the lowlands often becomes rain when I arrive to work in the morning. Teachers have said that for a British school, the climate is perfect.

Several teachers and students went to meet Prince Charles and Camilla while they were here in Chile a week or so ago. The prince was overheard saying that while Santiago is a beautiful city, Valparaiso is cool. They met him at the Prince of Wales Country Club, of all places. One of the surprising things about living here has been learning how extensive Britain's involvement has been with Chilean culture and history. Lord Cochrane, the 10th Earl of Dundonald and various other titles, fought with Chilenos in their War of Independence with Spain in the 18th century. His headquarters in Valparaiso has been perserved as a national monument. The Chilean word for plumber is "gasfitter," a left-over from the English era of manufactoring and shipping that made Valparaiso in some ways more English than Spanish in the 18th and19th centuries. It was a busy port before the Panama Canal was built, a place where ships that went around the Horn had to stop. Today, Cerro Concepcion and Alegre, the hills that were the center of British (and German) culture, are World Heritage sites and tourist areas where the corregated buildings with lots of gingerbread that were left stand in various stages of renovation or decay.

At school, the girls all stand and sing Happy Birthday to the Queen on her birthday. At one time, if girls were caught speaking Spanish at St. Margaret's they were punished. I've met several lovely women from that era who speak the Queen's English and have tea at 4 or 5 o'clock (which now is known as "onces" from the eleven letters of a brandy called Aquardiente that used to be put in tea long ago). Now, from sexto basico (6th grade) on up, all lessons are in Spanish, except for their English class. Standardized testing is requiring emphasis on Spanish literacy skills, especially the PSU, a test all quarto medeo (12th grade) students take. Performance determines what schools and professions students are allowed to go to in universities.

Saying this, there are times that I almost forget I'm in a Spanish speaking country, as I work in the English department. Margaret, the department head who shares her name with the school, helps me with my Americanisms as I make worksheets (my use of "gotten" and "jewelry" this week). I'm insisting on English only in my high school classes, which has proven very challenging. The girls thought I was afraid that they were talking about me in Spanish. I explained that that wasn't the case, I was just using a good teaching practice. My explanation seemed to be what was needed. A reward of a five minute break if they were polite and attentive during our 90 minutes together helped too.

A Llama, A Lot of Adobe, and a UFO

2009-02-20T15:47:00.000-08:00

We missed the UFO that flew over San Pedro de Atacama, a small village that not long ago had no electricity and was as far away from the modern world as you could imagine. It is now the most expensive place in South America to live, a mecca for tourists coming or going into Chile from Bolivia and Argentina. Streets mainly consist of restaurants, stores with items twice as expensive as in Arica, and places to book tours to various natural wonders that surround the town.

We had night of fitfull sleep worrying about our suitcase that a customs official in Arica had put not only on the wrong bus but with the wrong bus company. When we reached Calama,the Tur Bus driver drove the huge bus around town as dawn was breaking and located our bag at the Pullman station. Once in San Pedro, I was getting muscle cramps from being dehydrated from a stomach issue that began in Arica . . . we've seen restaurants in Chile called La Tourista and think No! No! No! . . . and trekking to La Valle de la Luna in 30 degrees Celcius or leaving at 4 a.m. to go to El Tatio Geysers, so high they're below freezing when the tourists arrive, weren't appealing choices. The mother of all bloody noses I got the first night sealed the deal: we were ending our vacation in the pursuit of shade and cerveza.

San Pedro is over 6,000 feet high and like most of the Atacama Desert, it never rains there. Ever. Irrigation water comes from the Andes but there is no potable drinking water. Many of the locals are being priced out of living there as new resorts are put in, salmon is shipped from the coast and prices for food, drinking water and other commodities soar.

The town is made completely of adobe. Even the swankier places being built are using the traditional style. The street below is in the newer section of town.

We stayed at a modest house for a modest price, sleeping beneath a ceiling made the traditional way with small limbs of trees tied together. Our floor was dusty and the outdoor showers cold, but the people who took care of it had an adorable five year old whom we listened to chat away while we laid low in the afternoons hiding from the heat.

This was the threshold to our room which we thought was beautiful because it was so worn.

We decided to visit the town of Toconao, 1000 pesos by local bus, located about forty kilometers away from San Pedro and several hundred feet higher, the cleanest place I've seen in all of Chile. There was NO litter anywhere. The town was charming, the buildings formed from a volcanic stone called laparita .

There is a very pretty Plaza de Armas, as all plazas in Chile seem to be, and a lovely church called Iglesia de San Lucas with a convent with no windows.

One of the doors to the convent made out of a type cypress.

We wandered into a taller, a workshop for handmade sweaters, scarfs, shawls and mittens made from alpaca and llama hair. We met Luisa, her daughter, and her pet llama. She was using cactus spines to knit a small puppet.

Louisa and her llama

She told us to follow the signs to take a walk in the bosque above.

Later as we waited for the bus, we walked to the other side of town and Bill spotted this volcano. It always smolders. We were told that it is the only active volcano in Region Two, but then we were also told it's in Argentina.

In the San Pedro area the light seemed crisper and the land full of a special energy that might make encountering things out of the ordinary possible. Please forgive the science fiction writer in me, but both the cloudless ultra-blue sky and the diamond pinpoints of stars at night made my imagination go to work. I wanted to keep going into Bolvia which was only a few kilometers away and run away from the school year that's facing me. Of course, I hoped for some kind of mystical experience, but somehow I just don't encounter them.

During our first night in San Pedro, we saw a man set up a telescope in the middle of the street. Looking behind me, Venus was was bigger and brighter because of the altitude and clear atmosphere. I thought he was charging money to look through the thing but later that night in the hostel we were told that he was there because something large was moving very fast and irradically. Oh, well. Even though I missed the UFO right above my head, but later that night I finally saw the Southern Cross as I made my way in the dark to the outdoor latrine.

My husband and I have camped in the most isolated places you could imagine in the Nevada desert or along the narrow spine of California between the Sierras and the Nevada state line. You'd think if there were UFOs, we'd have seen one. The only thing I know is that I've met many people, down-to-earth types, who have. More UFOs have been reported in Chile than in any other country. There was one last year right here in Concon, in fact. The caretaker where we live, a woman with no ego, told us that a something huge spun above her head for ten minutes a few years ago, only to vanish within seconds.

Right before we moved to Chile, I met a woman who had just returned from Peru and had this to say about her experience at Lake Titicaca: She and her fellow travelers were getting ready for a walk at the lake where they'd reach a viewpoint just as the sun was rising. It was around 3 a.m. and they were adjusting their cameras, snapping practice shots. People around her started to gasp. She clicked her camera and saw herself on the screen floating transparent but illuminated with a cord that stretched out of the picture reaching back to her. She and some others went back to their hotel and asked about this. The woman at the desk said, Are they your spirits or our spirits? She showed her picture and the woman said, Oh, they're yours. Later as they were reaching their destination and light was beginning to appear, she said three large "crafts" streaked through the sky, shaped unlike any airplane she'd ever seen. They fell then into the lake and disappeared.

Anyway, an interesting story for what it's worth.

We left San Pedro for a 22 hour bus ride through the desert to home. This last shot was taken an hour or so out of Antofagasta, the setting sun on a beautifully barren mountain with nothing but sky above it. It was all I really needed to see.

Arica and Tacna, Peru

2009-02-16T19:32:00.000-08:00

Traditional Dancer from Los Diablos, Dancing Fraternity from Bolivia

We hadn't planned on going to Arica when we left home, but in Iquique we decided to go as far north as time allowed. It took five hours on the bus, a snap after our other marathon rides, while we passed more behemoth mines and an oasis or two where melons and olives grew. The bus climbed a steep grade until a sheer drop of at least a thousand feet was below us and then crossed the top of a desolate mesa that stretched for several kilometers. We climbed even higher before making an ear popping plunge to sea level and the city of Arica.

I was glad I had a novel to read (Nancy Kress' Probability Sun) along the way. I looked out the window below us for as long as I could stand it, but when the bus raced around a curve I diverted my eyes and went back to the literary comfort of the possibilty of all of space-time unraveling.

Arica lies just south of the Peruvian border. Russ, a Kiwi who with his wife runs the Sunny Days Hostel, told us that there are two or three rain showers a year at the the end of February which lasts for fifteen or twenty minutes, the entire precipitation for the year. The city's slogan is "The City of Eternal Spring," though it felt like eternal summer while we were there. But that was a good thing. We spent a couple of wonderfully lazy days walking in the morning and then coming back for a siesta of reading and the best naps of summer. The evenings were paradise, warm but with the ocean breeze flowing onshore.

We arrived on the first night of Carvinal Fuerza del Sol by happenstance. We soon learned that dancing fraternities whose participants, mostly indiginous Aymaras from Chile, Peru and Bolivia, compete for the equivalent of 10,000 dollars worth of prizes. Most groups consist of children and adults. They practice every night in their hometowns as precision and creativity are highly valued. Each group had a band and the drums beat like hearts as they wound through the streets, finally ending at the Plaza de Armas where the judging stands were located.

This is the first group we came upon. Many of the people dancing here are elderly and we wondered at their endurance as their costumes seemed to be very heavy. They kept this pace for hours. Even with frequent cups of water, it had to take stamina:

Young children often danced in the front, followed by a drum major (for lack of a better term) and group of pretty young women in short frilly dresses that chanted things like: We're from Tacna, and we're the best. Watch us win the prize. Woooo! as they shimmied down the streets in high heels. Sometimes there were young men dressed in modified conquistador costumes with bells attached to their legs that went ching-ching-ching as they paraded after the young women. A group of mature dancers, usually the largest contingent, was the focal point of the dance, and finally the band would appear with the drum and horn section blasting away, their music mingling with the bands in front and behind them. The farther away from the parade we got, even miles away at our hostel, the beat could still be felt and the music floated to us in a wave of cacophony.

The costumes cost millions of pesos (or their equivalent in soles or bolivianos). Carnivals are held all over the region and the fraternities tour from town to town. This carnival was a family affair, unlike what I imagine Fat Tuesday is like on Bourbon Street. I saw no one drunk and children were out until the early morning hours. There were stands for refreshments, an artisan market, and a dry multi-level fmunicipal fountain and an old train engine that the children climbed on with little supervision.

This young woman charmed us into buying a calendar we didn't need to help support her group.

The Aymara are one of the biggest indigenous cultures in the Americas, consisting of over two million people. Traditional beliefs include a concept of time in which the past is in front of them and the future behind. It is their culture that the coca irradication the United States has pursued in Bolivia has affected the most, devestating their way of life. For them, the coca plant is a mild stimulant that helps them deal with cold, hunger and high altitudes. Bill and I have had matte from the coca plant a few times. I don't get any more of a "high" from it than I do with a cup of English Breakfast tea.

These are quiet people and as I looked at their faces as they danced, or saw women during the day with their long braids, bowler hats--a large shipment of these hats came from England in the 1920s. They were too small and so given to the Aymara's who have worn them ever since-- and colorful skirts, they seemed like the most beautiful people on Earth. I know I'm projecting, but they just appeared to be so connected with each other, and part of something in a way I've never felt as a norteamericana.

The Plaza de Armas in Arica is located beneath El Morro, a huge rock that looms over the city. The plaza is full of palm trees (beware the yeco birds that nest in them), dancing fountains and has an expansive space that sets off the cathedral and the Aduana de Arica, the former custom's office, now a museum. Both buildings are made of cast iron designed and prefabricated by Eiffel in Paris. Arica has been destroyed by both earthquake and tidal waves more than once. Peruvian officials ordered these buildings to withstand disasters, and they have done so. Unfortunately for Peru, Chile wrestled Arica away in the decisive battle of the War of the Pacific in 1880 and the town has been a part of Chile ever since.

Iglesia San Marcos

Interior detail of spiral staircase, Aduana de Arica

This young man from the Chilean Army asked to have his picture taken with us.

We enjoyed our time at the hostel, as we always do. I love the blend of languages and accents. It's a common practice for young people, mostly English, Australians and Germans, but also some French to take at least a year off after college (for some before entering) to travel the world. It's expected by the culture and supported by parents at least in encouragement, if not financially. Many young women travel alone, blithely traveling through places like Bolivia that have proven difficult for many of the older tourist we've met. We meet very few people from the United States.

At Sunny Days, we met a young Australian woman named Ann who lives in Cochabamba, Bolivia working with young men aged 16 to 25 who are learning to transition from institutional life in the hope they won't return to living on the streets. Another Aussie couple, two sweethearts who had just earned their teaching certificate, arrived on our last day to rest before they completed their journey to central Peru where they would also be working with street children for several months.

Found at a flea market in Arica

Perhaps if we had known we'd end up in Arica, we might have brought warmer clothes and made a trip to Parque National Lauca, though we might have had to drink a lot of coca matte as it's over 17,000 feet. I fell asleep one night listening to the young people talk about the altitude pills they'd brought with them (I didn't even know they existed) and their excitement about seeing vicunas, flamingos and bathing in thermal pools. We decided instead to go to the town of Putre, near the park, at a mere 10,000 feet, but once we made up our mind we werer told there was no public transportation on the day we needed to go.

So Tacna, Peru was our next choice. We wanted to go on a train with an open wagon and springboard seats for passengers. It left every Monday. We woke up early; at 6 a.m. the music from the carnival was still going strong as it drifted across town to us. At the railway station, it turned out that, yes, the train went on Mondays, but not on our particular Monday. We ended up taking a bus, disappointed because we were looking forward to the train trip more than the city.

We filled out the customs cards in pencil, which turned out to be VERY BAD. The Chilean border guards were grumpy with us. A woman lent us her pen while we were at the border for new cards. Once in Tacna, we got a cab from the bus station to a mercado Russ suggested we visit. We walked up and down the street bombarded by young men thrusting optomitrist cards at us. We seemed to have landed at eye glass central, had I known I'd have brought my presciption. In the midst of this chaos, we heard a friendly voice. The same woman who had helped us earlier was there with her two daughters and her mother. She told us her name was Gema and that she made false teeth, crowns and bridges in her own lab at home in Arica.

The flat tax for anything bought in Chile, including food, is 19%, so many Aricanos come to Tacna for deals. Gema's mom was in search of silver jewelry and she was looking for supplies for her lab. After shopping and a visit to friends, a trip was planned for Bolivia the next day to go to the dentist. They were headed to the mercado too, which we had mananged to walk past three times.

Later Gema and her family took us to the cathedral. Before they left us there, they told us more than once not to pay more than two and a half soles for a taxi ride. Gema gave us her email address, and with her farewell beso said to contact her the next time we were Arica, we always would have a place to stay.

Madonnas are especially sorrowful in South America

We sat for awhile in the cathedral because it was cool and wondered if the arch next to us really would be seismicaly safe as the sign beneath it was promising. We then crossed over to the plaza above and several young men came rushing at us with shoeshine boxes. Bill said yes. Two boys got close to me insisting my sneakers (with the toe beginning to peal off of one of them) needed to be cleaned. I kept saying No, but they wouldn't stop pestering. Finally, I used my "teacher voice," NO! and they ran off.

Less than a minute later, they came back and quietly sat at my feet. One of them kept touching my shoe and the other one complimented my bag that I had an iron grip on. When Bill's shoes were done, his shoe shiner said, Okay, five, ten dollar American. Bill gave him a little over a dollar in soles. As we walked off, the young man still was scolding us.

We had lunch and then walked back to the bus station. A colectivo driver followed us across the street into the station, hounding us to have him take us back to Chile for 4,000 pesos. We knew that the standard fare was 1,500 and just kept walking. The guy could win a prize for persistance, which is a polite way of saying her was a pain in the ass. He kept up with us until it we went through a gate where a bus for Chile was waiting.

Iquique

2009-02-14T11:26:00.000-08:00

Festival Danza America Iquique/Chilean Folklorico- Polynesian Dance

Seven hours to La Serena, twelve to Antofagasta, and another eight to Iquique, all through exquisitely stark desert. In Copiapo, a large town which is a base for mining, I stepped off the bus to ask how long we'd be there. Standing with people who were waiting to retrieve their bags, someone bumped me. Back on the bus, I found that all of my zippers on my backpack had been opened. I had nothing of worth in it and so hadn't been careful. If they wanted my chapstick or tissues they were welcome to them, but it reinforced the need for constant vigilance of bags and purses and pockets.

Quantum of Solace, except for the trash. Some Chileans protested as the James Bond film was being made because the film claimed the desert was in Bolivia.

Strolling down Calle Banquedano in Iquique during our last evening, we saw there was going to be a perfomance which would feature dance troupes from all over South America. The picture above is of the Chilean performers doing one of the most erotic dances I've ever seen. Chile includes parts of Polynesia: the Isla de Pasquas (Easter Islan or Rapa Nui), Isla de Juan Fernandez and Isla Robinson Crusoe, named for the same Robinson Crusue Daniel Defoe wrote about. By the way, Friday never lived there.

Another of this group's perfomances honored the city of Valparaiso which had a section featuring a sailor and his pareja that made me want to smoke a cigarette afterwards. Videos of some of the dances can be found at the end of this blog, however we didn't catch the two I've just describe. I know, darn.

Iquique is morphing into a major beach resort. There are expensive hotels and a casino at the south end of town. Gambling doesn't interest us, so we didn't check these out. On Banquedano, there are beautifully restored Georgian buildings, wooden sidewalks, and restaurants that serve excellent food. We found that you can get real salads in restaurants! It's confusing to us that in a country with such a wealth of fruits and vegetables, where they come cheap in the outdoor ferias, the salads usually consists of finely chopped iceberg lettuce, a slice of tomato and maybe a beet. Even the bread in our hotel had a crusty crust like good French breads. The fact we were hundreds of kilometers from any place made this abundance especially pleasing, but shipping the food is probably not that great for global warming.

The first night we didn't venture off Banquedano. I kept asking Bill, Are we still in Chile? We peeked through a window of the Casino Espanol (not to be confused with the modern one to the south of town) and it looked like what I imagine the Alhambra might be like, intricate mosiacs covering every inch of wall space, but also with elegant tables with candles, fine linen, and stuffy waiters in tuxes.

When Iquique was a boom town in the 19th century, it was said that more Champaign was consumed here than in any other place on Earth. The rich, most whom were English, lived in luxury, while the local population of Indians and Meztizos endured miserable short lives working in the mines, a historical lesson that is too familiar, no?

Above, the clock tower memorial to Arturo Pratt, hero and Chile's most revered martyr of the Battle of Iquique against Peru.

The next day as we walked around the rest of the town, the answer to my question was yes, we were in Chile. Only a block away, Iquique bustled with commerce admist a hodgepodge of shops with their metal doors rolled up, the honking of buses and taxis, car alarms screaming and vendors selling their wares on blankets or in small carts that dotted the streets. I've gotten used to this now and feeling more comfortable with chaos, but in the middle of the hussle we found a pretty courtyard just off the street with benches and shade trees. Crimson bouganvillas hung along the walls, and we rested for quite awhile from the heat and the noise.

Earlier in the day, we took a colectivo through the town to the Mercado Central to find lunch. It was a wild lurching ride. I'm cautious by nature and always look for seat belts. Usually there are none, so rides are exercises in letting go, enjoying the experience and not obsessing on being thrown through the windshield. We wove through the streets, skimmed by micros and squeezed into narrow spaces in the traffic. The next day headline news was about a collision with a collectivo and a micro. We lucked out once again.

I snapped pictures from the back seat.

The butt shot below is a common sight in Chile. There seems to be an obsession with young women's potitos. All summer long there have been news updates about each of the beach resorts from Renaca, near where I live, all the way north to "conditions" in Arica. There are multiple close-ups of the bottoms of young women on each playa, with new ones featured every night. Our friend Norm, the Canuck, said that he saw more cleavage here in six months than in the rest of his life. Well . . . I suppose being from Saskatchewan might be a reason, but he's right. There is a lot. Cleavage and buns here don't rival Brazil but they're definitely a commodity and a national past time.

When we got to the Mercado Central, a barker for an upstairs restaurant attached himself to us and we were whisked to the second level, urged on through another busy restaurant to his smaller one in the back. He was so persistant that I was turned off and didn't want to go. A perky young waitress showed us the menu for the Restaurant Shalom at the same time he was pointing to his tables. Charm won over desperation. Also, almost every table at Restaurant Shalom was full and there was no one in the smaller place. I asked, Gente saben su restaurant es mejor? And she answered, Si, gente saben. (I hope someday to go over my blog when I have access to a Spanish keyboard. Si, I know, needs an accent). My pollo asado was the best I've had here in Chile; afterwards, though, both Bill and I felt bad for not going to the other place. After my initial response, I realized that the franticness of the man had to do with the fact he needed to survive.

Chileans of all social classes love to shop. Flea markets and malls buzz no matter where you go. This mall in Iquique is a tourist mecca, a duty free zone filled with things that didn't interest Bill nor I much. If we wanted a new camera, it would have been the place to go, but all we needed was air conditioning. We hung out just to cool off for an hour or so.

As we walked to the mall, we found some of the worst slums we've seen, rivaling Valparaiso's hillside shacks, just across the street. Corregated tin and cardboard are flung helter skelter and these miniscule houses barely hang on the hillside. I wanted a picture to contrast with the one above, but the taxi ride didn't turn up toward them. I took the photo below on our way out of Iquique, and it gives somewhat of an idea, except imagine two or three hundred crunched together.

Chile has the highest standard of living in South America and is considered a median income country for the world. There is a big middle class here and it's slowly growing. There are government programs to help the best students in the poorest schools go to college. However, the poorest schools lack resources, no lab equipment, for example, so these students still don't compete well with those who go to private schools. Even with good things happening, the gap between the richest and poorests is one of the biggest in the world.

Our bus chugged up a steep ascent as we left Iquique for Arica. We climbed above sand dunes has high as some mountains on the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S. Hang gliders frolicked above us as we made our way to Arica, another five hours to the north.

So, back to the dance concert. I've never been an aficionada of dance. When my husband suggested we go I said, It sounds better than going back to the hotel and watching TV. He hasn't let me live that down. From ten p.m. to one in the morning, groups from Argentina, Chile, Columbia, Peru and Bolivia entertained the audience with an amazing display of athleticism, drama, proud displays of cultural heritage and down right alegre, complete with a TV announcer who could roll his rrrrrrs longer than anyone I've ever heard. I understood him!!! It was wonderful to finally know exactly what was going on. The comments he made impressed me, as similar ones have done during our time here, in that the people in Chile feel they are Americans too. The United States doesn't have a monopoly on the word.

Before closing this section, I need to say that the generosity of Chilians to foreigners is heartfelt and wonderful to receive. The tickets we got wouldn't let Bill and I sit together. The woman who was in charge of the front of the "house" must have seen the bewilderment on our faces while we were still figuring out if the number on the tickets matched the number on the seats. She took us to the front row where we sat with the managers of the ballet companies AND the alcadesa de Iquique herself.

There are videos below of Bolivian and Argentinian (tango!) dancers.

Ballet Bolivia:

Gauchos from Cordoba, Argentina:

The Chilean dancers doing a traditional cueca:

Tango from Buenas Aires:

This last clip was filmed sideways, but I had to include it. This little boy danced for two hours until he got tired and started to pull on his ears. He fell asleep in his mother's arms for the last half an hour or so. He wins the prize of what I'd most like to take home with me to remember Chile:

La Serena to Antofagasta

2009-02-14T06:36:00.000-08:00

Lonely Planet says there's not much to see as you travel through the desert between La Serena and Antofagasta, suggesting that a night bus is a good idea. The guidebook can be helpful but is so wrong on this account. The entire trip was fascinating as the vastness of the Atacama Desert, the driest place in the world, unrolled around us.

We spent the first night of our trip in La Serena, where we have visited twice before, a lovely town about seven hours north of Vina del Mar. The next day we climbed out of the city and watched the ocean fog lace the top of the hills. El Parque National Bosque de Fray Jorge is located south of La Serena and is the only rainforest on Earth where it never rains. The dense camanchaca provides enough moisture for unique trees and plants to grow. Fog is a common companion to the coast of northern Chile, modulating the heat and creating moderate temperatures along the edge of this desert.

Outside of La Serana, the hills are speckled with cactus which look like cousins to the Suroro in Arizona. They shrank as our bus went inland and away from the fog, until only mesquite was left.

Even these became more sparse and disappeared.

Memorials like this are seen every few miles.

Soon the desert was "empty." Sand stretched beneath mountains molded through geological ages. Volcanic ridges rippled at their feet.

Mining in the north of Chile, especially copper mines, is what makes the Chilean economy churn. Copper prices have dropped dramatically over the last year, but there still is profit in it. We passed several operations, the only human interruptions in hours of moonscapes, and then finally arrived late in Antofagasta. The city is huge, stretching for several kilometers along the coast. Antofagasta was founded in 1869 by Bolivia to serve as its main outlet for its mining industry. Chile seized it a decade or so later, and it's still referred to as "captive province" by Bolivians. According to Wikipedia, the city receives only 4 millimeters of rain a year on average, and for forty years it never rained at all.

It was close to midnight, but the bus station and the streets were thick with crowds, car alarms, diesel fumes and barkers selling you-name-it. We dragged our suitcase through the tumult and found a room at a hotel near the station with a collection of perfume bottles behind the clerk's counter.

The next morning we just had time for breakfast and a little CNN Espanol before our bus left for Iquique. Antofagasta has tourist sections, but we wanted to keep going north. There is a Japanese garden, and rock arch off shore called El Portada de Antogasta, a pretty Plaza de Armas, but most of the city seemed industrial gray and tired. I was glad to be on my way.

Chiloe: The Strange and the Beautiful

2009-01-30T16:04:00.000-08:00

El Oso, Puñihuil

A beautiful woman emerges from the sea. Fishermen who catch sight of la Pincoyo as she dances along the rocks are snared by her long hair, but she also saves Chilotes from drowning if their boat capsizes. El Picoy, her husband, summons her from the rocky shoreline to dance in a sexual frenzy for him. If she turns toward the ocean, the sea will offer up its abundance to the inhabitants for Isla de Chiloe, but there will be sarcity if she turns toward land.

El Trauce, a tiny and hideously deformed man, lives in the woods. He attacks young women and disflowers them. When they leave his clutches and return to their village, they are always pregnant with his child.Detail from a house in Ancud

El Invunche is created from a baby boy who is given to the brujos, the male witches of the island, or he might be stolen from home. He is raised naked in the darkness of a cave and is given human meat to feed upon and the milk from cats to drink. As he grows,the witches transform him into a monster, piercing one of his legs to his backbone. When he is allowed to leave the cave, he searches for people by smell. When the "clean" ones see him, they are bond to him forever by their fears. Those that can look upon him and not show fear become the brujos. When an invunche dies, the witches indulge on his flesh because of its curative powers.

Isla de Chiloe has a unique mythological and cultural heritage, distinct from the rest of Chile. It's myths incorporate both those of its indigenous people: the Chonos, the islands first human inhabitants, then the Huilliche, a subgroup of the Mapuche, and also from stories that the Spanish brought.

We crossed the Canal Chacao via a short ferry ride where seals rode along the wake of the boat, and went to Ancud, an atmospheric fishing port on the north end of the island. I wanted to disappear there, spend a rainy winter snuggled in a warm wool sweaters, listening to cuecas and seeing what spell the magic of the island might cast on my writing.

Chiloe, at least the parts most tourists see, is a modern place, twenty-first century in many respects except for slow Internet connections and very attuned to the needs of travelers. Plans are underway for tourists to take in more of the traditional life of Chiloe by housing them with island families.

View from our hostel in Ancud

In an earlier posting I wondered why areas of Chile seem colder than in similar latitudes in the northern hemisphere, especially the farther south one travels. It turns out that there is a frigid current off the coast that affects the continent with more precipitation that even the Pacific Northwest. Chiloe is near the 45th parallel (mid-Oregon), but we felt as though we could have been in Alaska on our first evening there.

In the winter it rains up to two to three weeks without stopping, accompanied by strong icy-cold winds. Our hostel was on top of a hill overlooking the city and the sea. Twice in four days, the wind howled for hours, followed by a heavy downpour. It felt like a shortened version of a winter rain storm in northern California, but this was January and the height of summer. The following pictures were taken on the same day, the brooding gray morning and the afternoon of dazzling sunlight.

Ancud had the feeling of a frontier. After all, we were on the edge of Patagonia. Many of the buildings have rough-hewned wood exteriors. The mercado central looked fairly new,though it was also made of wood and captured the towns essence. Here, as in the other port towns, there was plenty of fresh seafood to buy, along with the beautiful handicrafts. Women sat in their stalls, knitting or crocheting when they weren't dealing with customers. Their yarn is hand dyed using tree bark, roots and grasses.

We spoke to a caballero minding his wife's store who told us that the conquest of Chiloe was less bloody than that of most of the Americas. Many of the settlers were farmers from Galicia, folk of small stature and their ways and the native population blended together fairly harmoniously. Many of the native traditions have not been lost as they have in other parts of the world.

Harbor in Ancud

In the morning from my hostel I could see fishing boats off the coast. The harbor in Ancud is full of boats in the water or in dry dock for repair. There were a few drunks sleeping along stone walls. An old woman (was she really old?) giggled like a school girl as she shared a bottle of what looked like whiskey with the two much younger men snuggling next to her. Seagulls cried like the links squeaking on a chain and the saltwater in the air could almost be tasted.

Gypsy Camp

There are two tours that most tourists take. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Jesuits and then Franciscans built over three hundred chuches on the island made of native wood. About 80 remain and are now UNESCO World Heritage Sights.

Interior of cathedral in Castro

We chose to visit the penguins in Puñihuil, an hour or so from Ancud on the seaward coast and just north of the Chiloe National Park, where one of the few rain forests in a temperate climate exists. The day was wet and blustery, but as soon as our little boat set out in the channel it stopped raining. Four or five boats from various enterprises on the island line up on the beach. As you can tell from the picture, raingear is available.

An English interpreter was provided for us, a young man from Haiti named Michael who, as our boat was launched, wanted to know how Barack Obama had ever been elected. He said that Haitian never believed that the United States would elect a black man.

Two types of penguins are found in these small islands: the Humboldt and Magellanic. They have their marches just as do their larger cousins in Antactica. The males mate for life, and if a mate dies he will not eat until he finds a new partner. The females have a reputations for fooling around and aren't nearly as devoted.

Red-legged Cormorants share the islands with the penguins.

Here is a video taken from our boat of a group of penguins diving into the water:

We met a young woman named Maria Jose, her mother and nephew at our hostel.

It turns out they live close to us in the Quinta Region. Maria Jose took us to Castro, the capital of Chiloe, a pleasant city that looked very livable. Of course, I'm writing from the perspective of summer when the sky was blue and the breeze off the ocean was cool but not freezing. It was here at the market we found the central room filled with thousands and thousands of tejidas. El Dorado!

> Castro is well-known for the palafitos, houses built on stilts to accomodate the tide.

This strange building (front and back view) took us by surprise. We think it was a museum. Perhaps it was closed for repairs?

What Chile has lacked in cuisine for us, it has more than made up with music. It seeps in every aspect of life here. These performers were in front of the bus station. They're singing a cuecua, traditional Chilean music. The pitch of the woman's voice is a standard motif.

We said goodbye to Maria Jose's family and came back by ourselves to Ancud. We met up again with Shelly, the Canadian chef, and Dee, a friend of hers from England. One our way to find dinner, we came across this concert in the Plaza de Armas. These young people were a part of a summer music camp.

Afterwards, we found a non-greasy version of a chorellano to eat, shared another bottle of red wine, and talked until at least 11:00. We said goodbye at the Plaza de Armas. Bill and I started on our way up the hill to our bed as hundreds of lolos (teenagers) passed us by; their night was just beginning.

Puerto Varas and Puerto Montt

2009-01-28T16:09:00.000-08:00

We swore off Chilean pastry in Puerto Varas. We'd had the good experience of finding a decent cake in Valdivia, but this was rare. We've had delicious meals at the homes of friends, but restaurant cuisine in general (except for the places my husband calls "working man cafes" that serve up darn good pollo asado and papas fritas), and pastries and sweets in particular, have left us underwhelmed. They are not very sweet, don't have much flavor and are made with an incredible amount of doughy dough. But since we had success with the Valdivian bakery and hoped that the German pastry influence had found it's way down to Puerto Varas, we thought we'd give it a try. We went into a coffee house with a good solid German name and ordered a slice of pie de lemon. Two inches of dough and a sliver of lemon flavor later, we made our resolution.

The picture above is of Lago Llanguihue (pronounced yawn-KEE-way), a huge lake that puts the size of Clear Lake (the lake near our house in . . . duh . . . Lake County, California) to shame. Behind it is Volcan Orsono. If we'd had more time (and if it hadn't started to rain), we would have explored the small towns around the lake or taken one of the all day cruises. The town has a little over 30,000 full time residence but in January and February all of Chile siphons down to it. I would think that the town would be incredibly peaceful and slow-paced the rest of the year.

Puerto Varas is pleasant and pretty. The views are incredible with not only Volcan Orson to see in the distance, but two others volcanos as well: Calbuco and Tronador. The shrine below is just below the Catholic church, very typical of the ones that are all over Chile.

My favorite part, though, was being at the Hostel Compass del Sur, a friendly, very clean old house where we met Shelly, from Vancouver, Canada, a chef who had tried a gig in Buenas Aires and was now traveling until it was time for her next job as a private chef in Hawaii. My husband, who has done a great deal of cheffing, had a lot to talk to her about. We all met in the kitchen, naturally. We'd gone to Puerto Montt for the day. Bill cooked up the salmon filet we'd bought there and we shared our white wine with her.

Later, we shared her red wine as the three of us had a card game with an Anglo-Indian cancer researcher with whom I'd watched the ending to Van Helsing earlier in the day. He talked about how drug companies didn't want to cure diseases because where is the profit in that? Instead, he said, their interest is in maintaining patients for life. The next day he was off on the Navimag to backpack around the Torres del Paines National Park.

Puerto Montt, a bus ride away, is the gateway to Patagonia. We looked into taking the Navimag to Puerto Natales for the experience and perhaps seeing a glacier or two, but it would have cost as much as a trip to the U.S. and back. Someday we may be fool enough to take the thirty hour bus trip to Punta Arena, the largest, and according to Chile, the most southern city in the world. Check out the Youtube videos about the Navimag, if you're interested. For us, getting to Torres del Paines was cost prohibited and our backpacking days are behind us, but if you ever get to go, lucky you!

What I saw of Puerto Montt didn't excite me, but there might be a wonderful city that lies behind the bus route and the port. It is the fastest growing city in Chile and until recently it's economy was churning. The feria at Angelmo along the port is a definite must if you love handicrafts. We saw beautiful carved wood panels for doors for 10,000 pesos, a little less than twenty dollars at today's exchange rate. Don't buy anything in Puerto Varas (one shop did have beautiful knitted and crocheted clothing for children, so if you just have to drop a lot of money, that's where I'd suggest.)

The sweaters,shawls and scarves that you find at Angelmo are often handmade by the women running the shops. I became addicted at looking and touching them, though I ended up not buying any of these things either in Puerto Montt or in Castro, (Isla de Chiloe) where we found the El Dorado of tejidos. I was just too befuddled by the choices.

After our visit to Chiloe (next blog), we came back to Puerto Varas for our last night traveling and stayed at a bed and breakfast near the bus station. We encountered another Chilean mystery. Notice where the handles. The bottom one starts the flow of water, and the top one adjusts it.

Now look at the shower head (and in particular to the wires on top). The contraption is a type of on demand hot water heater and you have to turn it to make it work. Only it didn't. Bill's hot water only lasted a minute. I decided to pass and not risk either a cold shower or electrocution.

Hitchhiking to Rio Nuevo

2009-01-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

This is our dear friend Pamela leaving Vina del Mar last year for what she thought would be a job as a nanny in Santiago. First she went home to the Lake Region in southern Chile to spend a month or so with her family, but now she's decided to stay, attend preuniversario and then marticulate to university or technical school in 2010.

Pamela and me in my front yard

From Valdivia, Bill and I took a bus to La Union. The bus was full, every seat taken and many people were standing in the aisle. We were entertained by a couple of little girls singing songs and squeezing back and forth from their abuelita who sat in the back seat, through older sisters listening to MP3 players, to where their mama and papa stood, holding on to their packages and the backs of seats.

Outside the window, the trees grew even more densely here than they did on our way to Valdivia, bearing witness to the stories we've heard so many times of the mammoth rains that occur in the Region de Lagos during most of the year.

Pamela and her cousin Karen cooking lunch for us!

La Union is in a valley, reminiscent of the lumbermill towns my family passed through when I was a child on vacations to the Pacific Northwest. Pamela met us at the bus station, and we were off in a taxi to la casa de su abuelita where she spends the weekdays, saving the weekends for her mother's place in Rio Nuevo.

Pamela's cousins Karen, Carolina, Gabriela, her Tio Harry, her grandmother (abuelita)Elcira, and two of her brothers, Cesar and Felipe, were all there to greet us. Many besos (kisses) later, I was offerred the use of their computer to check on my mom in California.

Cesar sat down with my husband, apologizing for his ingles, which was far better than our espanol, wanting to find out what Bill thought about Obama. He explained that he was very concerned about Obama's position on abortion. The family is Pentacostal and very worried that abortion is legal in the U.S. Bill said that Obama supported a woman's right to choose what to do with her own body and then added that, personally, he felt making criminals out of these women was not a good idea. Cesar, in a very softspoken and careful manner, asked wasn't God the same God everywhere? Then he said that since we were guests in his country he would not argue with us and we should stop discussing the matter and enjoy the almuerza.

After lunch, we took a walk with Pamela, two of her cousins, and Felipe to a park where in the heat of the afternoon a river seemed to beg to be waded in. However, even this isn't encouraged as it's contaminated with wastes from the mills and local dairies. We then walked to the plaza de armas. Earlier in the day, we saw a funeral procession in a little town where the bus had made a short stop. A good fifty or sixty people dressed in black had been slowing walking behind the hearse down a street that had been closed off. Here, at the plaza, another funeral procession had just ended. Over a hundred people stood in front of the Catholic church waiting for the coffin to be taken inside.

Pamela realzed it was getting late and we needed to catch a bus for Rio Nuevo. We'd left our bags at her grandmother's. On our way back, Felipe saw the pastor of their church at a tienda. He wanted to introduce the pastor to us, so younger brother trumped older sister. We waited for fifteen minutes. We finally shook hands and kissed the pastor and his wife, spoke of our enjoyment of Chile while Felipe took their groceries to the car. The pastor's wife warned us to watch our pockets and be careful. La Union looked so peaceful to us, a tidy town, slow paced, that we were surprised when she mentioned the drive-by shootings.

By the time we got to the bus station, the one we needed had left. The last one for the day was about to leave but would only take us part way. We got on and rode as far as we could. We were still twenty or so kilometers from Rio Neuvo. Thumbs out, it only took the third vehicle to get a ride. We climbed in the back of a huge van and sat on the floor and the wheelwells. The van stopped again and a family with five kids, a mom and a grandmother who had to have been at least 80 climbed aboard. The driver stopped once again for the cattle being driven back home by two huasos (An aside: my husband's favorite Chilean expression is "huasos con plata," cowboys with money.)

The van got to where it was going. We were left standing in the middle of grassy fields shimmering in the early evening light. Bucolic and beautiful, but we still had a long way to go. A young boy on a horse rode by and an occasional car ignored our imploring thumbs. After half an hour, we decided we had to walk the final six kilometers with our thirty pound suitcase (even with wheels, hard going on asphalt). But we didn't go far. A special bus that had been chartered for the funeral in La Union came chugging up and stopped. It took us to Pamela's road. Another kilometer and a half up a dirt lane, and we were home.

Pamela in Rio Nuevo

We were disappointed that we wouldn't meet Pamela's mom, but she was in Santiago visiting her eldest son. For dinner, Pamela fixed us huevos del campo (scrambled eggs) which she served along with the cheese her mom makes. Pamela knows very little English. We wonder how much Spanish we have learned, but when we're with her we carry on conversations all day long, only reaching impasses every so often when we just have to laugh and change the subject. That night we slept well and woke to the mooing of the cows in the backyard and the greeting of the rooster next door.

For breakfast we were served fresh warm bread, and milk for our Nescafe that came straight from the neighbor's cow to Pamela's woodstove (where it was brought to a boil) to table. We spent the day walking along the rocky shore of Lago Ranco where I slowly made my way; the other two were very patient with my bad eyes and lack of depth perception-- walking where rocks are concerned turns me into a turtle. I followed Bill and Pamela for two or three miles as we passed through the beachfronts of the homes of the ricos who might only spend a week or so in Rio Nuevo for summer vacations.

A spring along the shore of Lake Ranco

Every so often, we'd find shade and sit to take in the view.

Valdivia

2009-01-26T18:34:00.001-08:00

I love Valdivia. It reminds me of Arcata, California with its university feel and clapboard houses. But it also feels like Seattle, though it's not right on the sea. The commercial and university areas are divided by the sapphire blue band of the Rio Valdivia. Streets are wide. The town is clean. The Plaza de Armas is expansive with many benches beneath shade trees.

A young mime entertained the entire plaza by putting on a performance that could rival Charlie Chaplin's, stopping cars as he "tried" to pick up his hat only to have it skip away from him, humorously escorting old ladies across the street, giving deadpan looks at people ignoring him, and taking hats off of the heads of the most distinguished gentlemen.

My husband, once upon a time a redhead and still sensitive to the sun, needed a good hat. This store has been in the same place since the 1930s and walking in was like stepping back in time. I loved the wood walls and the elegant cases. Bill found just the right Panama-style sombrero.

You can also take a sunset cruise and look for black-necked swans. Bring a jacket, though, because you'll need it coming back.

Southern Chile was settled by immigrants from all over Germany. Many Prussian families came in the 1890s because their sons were being forced to serve in the army. The architecture, street signs, breweries and bakeries reflect the German influence. Overall, we haven't been impressed with Chilean bake goods, but we went to one pasteleria/chocolateria whose name I didn't write down. Darn . . . it's in the downtown section which only covers about eight blocks by eight blocks . . . a trip to olfactory heaven. We bought an amaretto cake that was light and melt-in-the-mouth good.

My favorite places, though, were the three-story mercado central where we found beautiful earrings and bags and the large outdoor market across the street where all sorts of fresh sea food (some still alive) could be found. Salmon, salmon, salmon, salmon. Cooked with a little butter and lemon . . .ah! We were not to buy any off a truck as salmon robberies are increasing. Much of the commercial salmon in Chile has been farmed raised as numbers seem to be declining just as the Pacific salmon in the north have decreased. There has recently been a "great escape;" thousands of fish broke loose from their pens.

Lobos del Mar, sea lions, line up on pilars behind where the fish are cleaned. We met the guy at the bottom of this posting who let Bill know how satisfied he was. (Now, get that camera out of my face.)

Heading South

2009-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

Just so you won't miss it (next to the bus station in Temuco, Chile)

There are certain mysteries about Chile that as guests to the country my husband and I have decided we'll probably never solve. Why does a country rich in vineyards and wonderful inexpensive wine have raisins that cost an arm and a leg? Into which black hole does the mail disappear? Why do you need to talk to the pharmacist to buy Rolaids?

And then there's the Tur Bus food mystery.

The United States could learn a lot about public transportation from Chile. You can journey from one end of the country to the other and know that buses will generally be clean, comfortable and on time. Most people can afford to travel on them. (Though using the bathroom while in transit is an adventure in itself. It's best to bring tissues with you just in case). When traveling distances we usually take Tur Bus and are generally pleased. However, there's the food issue.

The first time we went to La Serena, about seven hours to the north of Vina del Mar, everyone was served lunch: a dry sandwich, some cookies, and a coke. Not delightful, but at least it filled us up. On the way back, we found two women in the seats we had reserved. They were elderly, and we told them not to worry and sat in theirs. Come lunch time, everyone on the right hand side of the bus were handed bags with food, including the women. We kept waiting and watched the ladies eat ours . . . evidently the left hand side wasn't in favor that day. On a recent trip to La Serena, the bus stopped at a new lunch facility built by Tur Bus. We had a decent hot dog on the way up and then coming home an even better empanada at a food stand across the street. So there should be something similar in place for a much longer trip, right?

There must be some sort of Chilean bus traveling meme that we just haven't connected to where the food supply is concern. Vina to Valdivia is a 12 hour trip. There was two five minute stops and then a ten minute one in Temuco where I had just enough time to grab some crackers. We got to Valdivia after 10 at night and were starving.

Enough of that. Here's the good part, the scenery:

Everything was very dry leaving Santiago. The area around the city is more or less desert and without the snowmelt from the Andes, it would be hard for a city of over six million to exist. Chile is a first world country,yet scenes like this one of the horse and cart picking up a supply of gravel are common. This picture was taken not far from subways, fast cars, high fashion and skyscrapes.

But in a little while, the campo became verdant. We'd arrived in the core wine growing region of the country, passing kilometer after kilometer of vineyards. Our home in California is in the upper region of the wine country; at this point I felt I could have been traveling down the Napa Valley to San Francisco. The green leaves were a welcome sight.

Then the grapes made way for other crops and across the valley the distinct cone of volcanos came into view. I was finally in the south! Every ten or twenty minutes or so a new one appeared. They looked cloned, so similar in shape they were, all snow capped with funnel-like peeks, defying gravity and flirting with the angle of repose.

There are approximately 620 volcanos in Chile, more than in any other country. And with volcanos come earthquakes, the two biggest in the last century occurring in our neck of the woods (Valparaiso 1906, 8.2) and in Valdivia(1960, 9.0). The one in Valdivia was the biggest earthquake in recorded history, causing a tidal wave that flooded the town and several fishing villages along the southern coast. Last May, the town of Chaiten was virtually rubbed out. The ash combined with heavy rains and buried the community.photo credit: Carlos Guiterrez

In so many ways Chile is a mirror of the Pacific coast from northern Mexico to Alaska, except winters are colder than in the same latitudes in the north. Less land mass may affect the climate, especially as the continent dwindles into Patagonia down to Cape Horn. As we rode down Ruta 5 (the same number as the main artery between Southern California and Washington), there were changes that refected this.

We entered what could have been Oregon, the landscape no longer a flat plain, but greener with rolling hills. Pine trees grew tall, and for the first time in Chile I saw houses made entirely of wood. Small farms extended on either side of the road. We crossed rivers. Clouds were in the sky; their shadows made the land seem cooler. After leaving Temuco, on the last leg to Valdivia, geese flew overhead while ponds turned gold with the setting sun.

Santiago, January 2009

2009-01-25T06:10:00.000-08:00

Detail of mural, Concha y Toro Barrio, Santiago Chile

Santiago in the summer is hot; unlike Los Angeles which has a similar latitude, there is less smog than in winter . . . I chalk this up to how things are just different in South America like dealing cards right to left and putting guacamole on hot dogs because . . . well, I'm not sure why. Chilenos don't understand why we gringos find completos unappetizing. Complete Mural

There's also the chorrellano, a meal of saugage, beef and chicken covered with greasy French fries and an egg sunnyside up that people love here. Just looking at it makes your arteries want to close up.

The Completo

I'm more used to Santiago in winter when everyone is bundled up with scarfs over their mouths, babies are thoroughly wrapped in blankets, and hostels and restaurants are quite cold as there is little central heating. In summer, the pace is just as fast, but a veneer of sweat stays with you until the evening. After a long subway ride or being in a stuffy bus, I look forward to the helados aguas, fruit popcicles that are incredibly rich in flavor, the best I've ever had; so much better than soda to quench a thirst. I was surprised to find that manzana (apple) flavored ones are sold along with ones you might expect: moro (berry), naranja (orange), pina (pineapple), fruitilla (strawberry) and, on lucky days, frambuesa (raspberry).

Evenings are wonderful, and there are plenty of sidewalk cafes (albiet the majority with smokers) to sit and linger in. The murals above were taken in one of our favorites places, the small barrio of Concha y Toro, near Barrio Brasil, where the neo-colonial architecture has been preserved. We had orange cake and coffee on a terrace overlooking the Plaza Libertad de Prensas. Lovers, including two young women, kissed on the benches that surrounded the fountain below, while the little daughter of the owners of the tienda circled the plaza on what might have been her Christmas bike.

We spent two days in Santiago before heading to the Lake District and Isla de Chiloe. As we travel, like the good consumers we are, we dream of an export business and are drawn into stores and artesan workshops. There are two ferias we know of in Santiago: one more centrally located across from Cerro Santa Lucia, which, generally is more inexpensive than El Pueblito San Dominico, larger and more upscale, in the Los Condes area. It is here that those large buses pull up filled with tourists with plenty of cameras and VISA cards. If you don't have time to explore more of the country, handicrafts are represented here from all over the country. But if you do have a chance for more travel, buying things from the areas they are actually made is usually less expensive.

Two girls in the shade, El Pueblito San Dominico.

When we vacation, our main occupation is walking aimlessly around the towns we visit, enjoying the architechture, getting a feel for neighborhoods and the people. This is one of our favorite streets in Santiago, a little crooked one we found in Barrio Brasil that we think would be fun to live on.

I Am This/Esa Soy

2009-01-22T14:31:00.000-08:00

I Am This
by Susana Montanares M.

I am a body without a soul,
a hungry corpse of desire,
a caress converted into torture.

I am an autumn leaf,
the trampled cry of nakedness born alive.
I am pain and forgetfulness staring together,
rage and hate joined into a fist.

I am the one you carry into the world
and cannot restore.
I am the sons of men
eagerly deceiving the wind.

You swear to protect me.
You swear to love me
but you kill the birth of my soul.

I am a frustrated dream,
annihilated desire.
I am a butterfly
undertaking its flight
and devoured by a flower.

I am this.
I am nothing,
a thing that opened its eyes to the world
but was assasintaed before it could see.

Yo Soy

Soy un cuerpo sin alma

un despojo hambriento de deseo.

una caricia convertida en tortura

soy una hoja en otoño

que pisoteada llora la desnudez de aquel que la vio nacer.

Soy la pena y el olvido

unidos en una mirada.

Soy la rabia y el odio contenidos en un puño.

Soy aquel que trajiste al mundo

y no pudiste devolver.

Soy los hijos de los hombres

engañados en el vientre.

Juraste protegerme,

juraste amarme,

pero mataste mi alma al nacer.

Soy un sueño frustrado,

un deseo anhelado.

Soy una mariposa que emprende el vuelo

y es devorada por una flor.

Eso soy...

No soy nada.

Algo que abrio los ojos y quiso ver el mundo,

pero fué asesinado antes de verlo.

La musica de los perros

2009-01-22T07:47:00.000-08:00

My house, the second in a row of brick casitas, sits above a small canyon on the edge of a barrio called Los Romeros, a neighborhood of sandy streets that wind through a eucalyptus forest with working and middle class homes. The eucalyptus remind me so much of California, but the homes here are virtually all gated, a trend I loath in the United States. Almost every home has at least one dog who spends its life outdoors. Some never leave the enclosure, others jaunt around the streets. Most are friendly, though it's wise not to try to prove this.

There are many street dogs without owners who feed on trash and handouts, for the most part the tougher guys and gals on the prowl. It's not unusual to see one limping from an encounter with a car. Some are sick. It's estimated that there are 70,000 dogs in Valparaiso alone; where I live they number in the thousands as well.

Of course, there are exceptions. Many Chilenos have little pampered dogs like this one who get to go to the veterinaria peluqueria and sleep in the house on any bed bebe wants.

I previously wrote about the situation of dogs here and stated that they needed to be sterilized. How wonderful it was to find out yesterday that this has started in Valparaiso. Six free permanent clinics and three mobile ones have opened in the city with the goal to substantially reduce the dog population.

Dog sounds fill up the nights. From across the canyon, from our side and on our own street, we fall asleep (or not) to a cacophony of shrills and barks, high-pitched yipping, and the machine gunning of the most persistent perros. It goes on for hours until the rooster begins to crow. I'm reading a book now called Metidas de Pata, which explains blunders native English speakers make in Chile while also discussing the culture. A case in point: I recently told some people it was nice to eat them instead of meet them . . . and I really thought I knew what I was saying. I guess an appropriate metida de pata since I write of flesh eating aliens. Mabel Abad C., the author of the book, states that it mystifies foreigners why the dogs aren't brought inside at night and friends tell me they barely notice the "musica," as it's been with them all of their lives.

Security is the issue, a constant concern; crime is up. Our neighbor's car was broken into earlier this month, and almost everyone I've gotten to know here has a story of a wallet or a purse stolen. Insurance for replacement help for important papers is highly popular to have. Gringo friends were actually attacked by boys with a broken bottle in Valparaiso.

A couple of days ago a young couple were pushing their baby in a stroller, and Miel, the little bitch, went after it. We called her, hoping the people didn't think she belonged to us. "Don't bite the baby," we told her. Miel's name means honey. Once she's tried to nip you a couple of times, she becomes your friend and is sweet like her name.

Miel, chica mala

She and Pisco (whose real name, I think, is Timoteo) and Picha take their responsibilities very seriously and our street fills up at all hours as their barking announce the visitors. We appreciate their vigilence, though when the kids came to break into the car it was lo mismo como cada noche and no one went out to investigate.

New Years in Valparaiso

2009-01-20T17:16:00.000-08:00

Valparaiso's firework display for New Years is world renowned. Every year there are several displays that run up the coast for thirty or forty kilometers from Valparaiso to Concon, the community we live in. Instead of staying home, we joined our friends Norm, Charlene and Susana to view the fireworks on the rooftop of the Shuttleworth's apartment on Cerro Placeres.

This is the Esmeralda, lit up for the night. Fifteen naval cadets are chosen each year to train on her as they sail around the world. The ship is a replica of the one on which Los Heroes fought and died in the Battle of Iquique against Peru during the War of the Pacific (against both Peru and Bolivia) in 1879.

Resentments still exist as Chile, with the aid of Great Britian, after having lost the battle won the war, and annexed a huge swath of coastline that belonged to the other two countries, taking away Bolivia's access to a seaport. At that time, nitrate was being exported from huge guano deposits in this area. Chile got the coast and the revenue from the nitrate. Chile has offered Bolivia rail access to use its ports, but Bolivia has declined. I have a norteamericana friend who moved to Bolivia with her husband about the same time we came here. I asked if they would ever consider Chile. She said no, her husband's family would never forgive them.

On the roof we had plenty of champagne (as demonstrated above by Susana) which unfortunately mixed with the sewage smells wafting off the ventilation system. If we were to be here next year, Susana tells us the place to be is in the streets where people dance all night long. Still, I enjoy smaller settings and was satisfied with the view we had of the whole bay and coastline, the feast we shared, and the way we finished our evening with quiet conversation on their balcony listening to the sounds of the city below. Norm and Charlene will be returning to Canada in two weeks; both Bill and I will miss sharing our adventures and misadventures as extranjeros here. We've made friends for life.

Charlene and me

Susana, Bill and I walked down Cerro Placeres, through the dusty plaza and the streets blowing our New Years horns, which elicited a spicy comment to my husband from an elderly senora sitting on her front steps . . . much of Chilean humor has a sexual base. We past parties set on other rooftops lit with fairy lights and vibrating with loud music. The ever present dogs wandered by as though they had their own fiestas to find. We came down to where scores of people waited on the cement strip to catch buses to the north.

It was four in the morning and thousands of cars were streaming by, along with bus after bus full to capacity. We sat on the curb, amazed at the number of people . . . a million or two? . . . who had to have been in the city. We finally squished onto a 602 which spent at least another hour going the distance it usually takes 10 minutes to cover, the conductor slamming on the brakes now and again as traffic ground to a stop. We finally got seats. A boy of perhaps 11 or 12, who had no ears, just nubs of earlobs, sat shotgun. I assumed he was the son of the conductor from his gentle glances as he checked on the boy, who finally used his jacket as a pillow and fell asleep.

We arrived in Concon with most of the bus still full; the man next to Susana sleeping so soundly she worried he would miss his stop. But he didn't wake up even when she shook him. We hopped off at our stop and walked down our street, reaching our house just as the night sky was bleaching the morning haze to gray.

We woke up around ten, took a walk, and found these revelers at the end of our street. Even the dog was sleeping it off.

Mirror by Susana Montanares Muñoz

2009-01-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

I look at you. You are there looking at me,
but I won't let your eyes penetrate.

I listen to you, but your words won't capture me.
When we are far away, I feel the air cut me inside.

Your distant laughter feels like a sprinkle of rain in spring,
a smooth arrangement of music.

Your young scent mixes with jasmine
and lifts me through fresh clouds.

But today your words are like the echo of rainbows
reflecting a host of vulgar songs.

What distance doesn't steal becomes habit.
Our love has become a mirror's reflection.

It is not the same.
My heart beats with the knowledge of your heart.

I know I can live with past memories,
but can you look at that reflection

and continue believing I love you?
Instead I am the bubble of your spell,

the sigh that follows you until the mirror breaks
and we appear not as we were, but as we will be.

Espejo.

Te veo, estás ahí mirandome,

pero tus ojos no logran penetrarme.

Te escucho, pero tus palabras

no logran alacanzarme

Cuando estás lejos,

siento como el aire me corta por dentro.

Tus risas lejanas se parecen

a la llovizna en primavera

suave composición musical.

Tu aroma infantil mezclado con jasmines

me eleva hacia la frescura de las nubes.

Pero tus palabras que parecían

ser el eco de la aurora

hoy parecen ser la canción de la muchedumbre

vulgares y comunes.

Lo que no logró la distancia

lo logró la costumbre.

Nuestro amor se convirtió en el reflejo de un espejo

es igual, pero no es lo mismo.

Sé que mi corazón sólo late al saber

que el tuyo late.

Sé que aún puedo vivir de un recuerdo

de una memoria pasada

¿Pero, podrás mirar aquel reflejo

y seguir creyendo que me amas?

En cambio, yo en la burbuja de tu encanto

seguire suspirando por tí,

hasta que se rompa el espejo

que nos muestra lo que fuímos y no lo que será.

This and other poems by Susana can be found at: http://www.sussiemontanares.blogspot.com . A computer glitch is preventing me from creating a link. Please cut and paste into your web browser.

Susana

2008-12-28T17:47:00.000-08:00

This is our dear friend Susana. A summer goal is to translate her poems. As I wrote about in my last posting, there are challenges living in a different country but to leave wonderful people like her will be very difficult if we decide to go home. Susana is one of our hijas, along with another young woman named Pamela, whose family we hope to be staying with in another week or two down in the south in La Union. Susana bring trickster energy to us, amazes us in how she's learned English by watching TV, and also the way she can remember new words when we've only mentioned them once or twice. She loves history, wants to teach, and is a writer by nature. So . . . soon, I'll get to the poems and share them here.

Trials

2008-12-23T04:42:00.001-08:00

I love this photo my husband took of a sea cave along the beach in Quintero. It reminds me of an archetypal portal, a door leading from one reality to another. The sea can easily become a symbol of the life beyond, by which I don't mean beyond the grave . . . but beyond the day-to-day life, the special world we all go to when we are forced to grow in spirit, imagination, or even in the depths of love in the midst of crankiness or fear or stress.

Bill and I assume we'll go back home next summer (winter here . . . it gets so confusing sometimes to know how to reference the seasons.) I can have a job back in the Middletown Unified School District, not as a reading specialist, but more than likely a classroom elementary teacher. If we stay longer in Chile, I'm cutting the cord for good to employment in the U.S. The companies who run the Chilian pension system take an extraordinary amount of management fees, something we had no idea of when we first got here. Bottom line: retirement. We do fine with the day to day, but what about twenty years down the line?

There have been times I've wanted to run back home. Spanish is not coming fast or easy, though at the final talk by Miss Avril, St. Margaret's director, I understood practically every thing she said. But context is everything. I find that there are times things come out of my mouth I didn't know I knew, but then ten minutes later I can't ask for directions to the bathroom.

Dealing with anything that has to do with paperwork here feels crazy, though I suppose someone dealing with visas and bank accounts in the United States might feel the same. My visa here processed fairly quickly, but I'm sure it was because I had St. Margaret's behind me. One woman who works there told me her mother had to go 57 times to the Departmento de Extranjeros. Without the help of a friend, I'd given up getting my I.D. card processed. I was told to go to a wrong office of the International Police. When I got to the right one, my papers were filled out incorrectly. There was a long wait at the civil office to find out I had to go back to the police, more taxi rides, finding everyone at lunch at the police station (Vero banged on windows until someone came out to help us), and then back to the civil office just in time before the doors locked (at 2:00). My husband is having difficulty getting his visa processed because he took my last name. Right now, a copy of our marriage license is somewhere in limbo in northern California ready for it to be "legalized" by the Chilian Embasy in San Francisco.

Without Saint Margaret's help, I wouldn't have a bank account either. I'm not a permanent resident, so no bank would give me an account. I WANT TO GIVE YOU MY MONEY, I would say. They're weren't impressed. I was carrying nine thousand Chilian pesos home with me in my purse for two or three months, the equivalent of 2,000 dollars.

Getting Internet hook up at our new house was a similar spike in stress. The technician came out, couldn't find our place, wrote the wrong address down. We went back to the mall where we signed up but they wouldn't believe the address was different because . . . well, there it was on the official paperwork. We got through this with our duena's (landlady's) aid, but the address on our bill is still the neighbor's house, though somehow it gets put in the right mailbox.

Dogs on the street are everywhere. Many times I've had delightful encounters with them, but they're not always friendly. On Magdelena Paz, our passaje, there are three dogs that have adopted the street. We all feed them, and they're healthy and happy. Miel (Honey), who reminds me of a jackel, is aggressive. I was wary at first and let her know I had rocks for the first several times I walked down the street, but I'm her buddy now. However, she's nipped more than one friend trying to get to our house. The other two dogs: a big goofy guy we call Pisco because we don't know what his real name is and a hairy short legged combination we call Picha, are very friendly. Some gave Picha her own dog house, so she's like the queen of the street.

The two dogs below belonged to 18 Norte in Vina, where we first lived. At first, we called them Scruffy and Fluffy. After Scruffy bit me (gave me a bruise, didn't break the skin. I had a cola bottle and bopped him on the head), with a lot of yappy support from Fluffy, I thought of them as Big Fucker and Little Shit.

What bothers me the most about the dogs, though, is that so many of them limp from being hit by cars, and some are just plain sick. That said, most of them seem well fed, but with a little birth control . . . pick up the bitches, sterilize them, and put them back on the streets if need be . . . there wouldn't be so many of these strays.

Some communities have trash bins, but here in Concon trash is put in large baskets that are about three feet off the ground. Garbage day is a bonanza for the dogs; walking to where I get a ride to work, the street is strewn with what has been left after dogs have pulled it out and had breakfast, eating whatever they can. It is always picked up when the garbage men come; maybe there are more jobs this way? More men needed to clean up? I don't know.

Last week we had a 6.3 earthquake. No damage, but the area, as in all of Chile, is prone to have much bigger quakes. My husband, who has built three houses, looks at the construction, of even new places, and shakes his head. Not much bracing to help with the stress of shaking. A series of condos have been built in the sand dunes between Concon and Vina. I look at them and think of the condos we passed as we drove along the Gulf Coast as year before Hurricane Katrina.

Being from California, we're earthquake aware. There's more than likely a major earthquake in our future, whether we stay or go. In California, Santa Rosa, the largest city near our house, was flattened by the 1906 earthquake, but chances are I'll be in rural Lake County, where being safe isn't guaranteed, but there's a lot less to fall down. Anyway, it's something I think of.

And then there are the pulgas, the fleas. They should be the Chilian national insect. We and everyone we know have been plagued with them.

But . . .
As we ponder our future, wonderful things happen. A few minutes after finding the sea cave, we found this tide pool. As we sat there, putting our shoes back on, a woman came up with a basket and a parasol. She sat down and uncovered the exsquisite handmade chocolates. She explained the ingredients and prices for each. We were over a mile away from town, and off the main path, and yet here she was. The chocolates were chose were some of the best candy we've had here. Our hearts break open, and we want to stay.

The Spirit of Giving: Music is Magic

2008-12-11T09:57:00.000-08:00

Every year the girls at St. Margaret's puts on an end of the year show called The Spirit of Giving. This year's theme was Music is Magic. The girls above are in Miss Bertha's segundo basico class dancing to Walk Like an Egyptian. Or I should say were in her class, as today was the last day of school. The show was an extravaganza, as I know you can tell. And yes, they are singing They snap their teeth on your cigarette.

Each class had a spotlight song and dance while the rest of the classes danced and sang in the chorus. We only had limited memory on our camera, or we'd have recorded the whole show.

Next class is Miss Alejandra's primero basicos doing the Charleston:

Miss Sonia's primero basicos are next dancing to Love Me Do. I think this was my husband's favorite.

The soloist in this next video is a girl named Emilia who is in Miss Sonia's primero basico class. Emilia is seven and will give her first concert tomorrow night. The dancers in the lovely dresses come from Miss Graciela's cuatro basico classes. These girls will be in the middle school next year.

Bravo!

Crossing the Andes and Going to Mendoza

2008-12-10T16:10:00.001-08:00

Bill and I went to Mendoza, Argentina this last weekend. Mendoza is the center of the wine region of Argentina, a town of around 100,000 people. Coming into it, I thought of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The whole area on the other side of the Andes as we came from Chile reminded me of the southwest.

Mendoza was very warm, a bit humid, but absolutely lovely with tree lined streets, good food (yes the steaks ARE good, but be sure to say you don't want it well done if you prefer it that way), and it's famous for being a shopper's paradise. The stores were stocked with yerba mate cups which resemble honey pots with silver straws that strain the herbs as you drink the tea. Beautiful reasonably priced leather goods are everywhere, as well as artisan stands in several areas around the main part of town. Women used fans as they walked along the streets at night, and everyone seemed well dressed. I had a bit of a fashion melt down in my denim shorts, golf shirt, anklets and tennis shoes, but I got over it.

At dinner, we were approached by several people for money, something I'm slowly getting used to. We've been approached for the same thing in Santiago, but not quite so often. There are times when they just stand there after you say no. More often, though, they put cards . . . small calendars, saints, etc. on your table and then come around to collect money, no hassle if you don't want to buy anything. We got two Gemini cards from one young girl who wasn't older than ten or eleven.

Going over the Andes was incredible . . . you need to do this. They're similar to the Sierras as they were formed by the coastal plate lifting up the contenintal plate. One passes fairly quickly through the foothills and the mountains rise very fast. No trees though except in some of the valleys. Plenty of waterfalls. We were able to sit in the front of the double decker bus on the way to Argentina and had a huge window to look out of. The bus driver was crazy, passing on curves. My husband has posted a video of what it was like on his blog. Click on Travels beneath Good Links, then go to the Transportation in Chile posting. Scroll down to the third video. (If you want to know what it's like to ride the micro (public transit buses), check out the second video.

On our way back, just before we got to customs (eat your cheese before trying to enter either country) and not ten minutes after passing Mt. Aconcagua, the highest mountain in the western hemisphere, I saw a glimpse of a condor. I thought at first it was a hang glider, and then realized what it had to be. The split second made me realize how huge these birds are. He flew so that people on the other side of the bus got a better look.

Now for the unpleasant news. Right outside of Santiago, five boys (don't know their age as I didn't see them) threw rocks at the bus. One of them hit the window across the aisle from us. Fortunately the woman sitting there saw them and ducked. Glass (safety glass) sprayed everywhere. I felt a small piece whiz by my face (I ducked as well and covered my eyes). No one was hurt, thank goodness, but it was scary. Evidently this section of the road has had problems like this . . . but so does Los Angeles, unfortunately.

Anyway, I'll let the pictures do the talking now:

Note what side of the road we're on.

In the Andes!

On the Argentina side, descending.

Mt. Aconcagua in the background

Finally, Mendoza.

Assemblies at St. Margaret's

2008-11-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

Almost every week at St. Margaret's, the different schools have assemblies in which girls present performances. Here is a sample from last Wednesday's. The first video is of two segundo basico classes performing the Cirque du Soliel's Alegria for the infant school. This performance has had a lot of demand. They first performed it for junior school, then for the high school, and, finally, for the littlest girls. These girls choreographed it themselves. You'll get a glimpse of the jugglers and the chorus, the girl on roller skates and the one on stilts. Clowns threw confetti at the audience. The main ballerina has been dancing for less than a year.

They're learning gymnastics at school and the corridors and play areas have been full of cartwheels and flips. There have been a lot of casts for broken bones and splints on fingers lately, but it doesn't seem to be a big deal. There is a concrete stage and a concrete play area. Girls run across the stage, land on their hands and then do a back flip landing on the play area. My heart is in my throat as I watch, but their doing this seems to be an accepted part of the school culture.

The next group of girls, the little Charlie Chaplins, are kindergartners from the Infant School. I've mentioned the "History of Hollywood" show that the Infant School put on in an earlier blog. I think these are the same girls who were Charlie Chaplin in that assembly. Too cute to only perform once.

And . . . Miss Carmen, one of our wonderful Junior School librarians, was the director of this performace: The Pied Piper of Hameln (the German spelling), presented just as the news that rats have recently invaded the town hit the news. The performers were from Miss Graciela's cuatro basico class and Miss Sonia's primero basicos were the children and the rats.

Election Watch: Chileno Style

2008-11-08T18:39:00.000-08:00

This is our neighbor Boni on the evening of the election. He and Sandra invited us to their house to watch CNN as we don't have a TV. He taped the sign to his forehead, and it was still there when we left two hours later. Chileans were ecstatic over the election; at school the next day I was given many hugs and kisses. Everyone was smiling, and many of the teachers had stayed up for most of the night to watch Obama's speech.

This newspaper is a left-wing periodical. The headline says Defiance to Racism.

Chile's presidential election is in approximately a year and a half. Michelle Bachelet, Chile's current president, is a moderate socialist who believes in free market policies. Her father, a general, served under Allende in a food distribution program. Her parents and she were tortured under Pinochet, her father died from cardiac arrest while he was held prisoner. Bachelet's popularity is very low at this time. There have been scandals in missing funds in both education and a government sponsored sports program. People I've met, both wealthy and the not-so-wealthy, feel the government is too lax in handing out stiffer sentences for criminals. I've heard nostalgia for the "good old days of Pinochet," and that Pinochet "saved Chile" has been told to me more than once . . . even by a young woman whose grandfather was killed by his thugs. Our mouths drop open when we hear this type of thing. People are very careful in saying much about this era, as family members were killed and injustice done to both sides. The distrust is still here.

We've talked to people whose family farms that had been in the family for generations were taken away under Allende and "destroyed because no one knew how to take care of them." We've been told that people here were beginning to starve and that Chile was on the brink of civil war when Pinochet's coup occurred. We say in response that stability isn't worth tyranny, that both sides of the government, the left and the right, should work together to make Chile a better place instead of spending energy blocking each other's attempts to improve situations. (Of course that can be said of a certain country to the north).

Hopes are so impossibly high on Obama, but perhaps with his election, and because problems are so serious, the United States could be a real leader in having each side of the government thinking first about the country and partisanship last. Perhaps the joy expressed about Obama's election here, and in other nations, will create an opening for acceptance by the rich and powerful to allow for justice and for equality to become more pervasive. Maybe there's a young Obama in Chile, a Mapuche boy, or a girl from the slums of Santiago, who will one day help the nation step out of its past wounds and begin a new era for the nation.

Elvis Found Singing in a Small Club in Chile

2008-11-02T14:33:00.000-08:00

My husband and I went back to El Gato en La Ventana last night. To our surprise, Elvis walked in, began to perform, and had the whole place on its feet.

There were a couple of other performances. Here's one song of a group, though I'm sorry to say I don't know what they're called. At one point, the mother of one of the members came up to the stage and sang a couple of songs.

Finally, this is Rosemary, one of the music teachers from St. Margaret's, and her daughter Blanca at our home.

The Best Treasure

2008-10-19T16:35:00.001-07:00

The picture above was taken in Coquimbo, Chile, where the local legend says that Sir Francis Drake and his men hid out between attacking Spanish ships for their gold. Many of the locals say their descendents of his men, who are seen as pirates, or cursarios, of which they take great pride. There are many pirate murals in town. One section, where the pubs are, is called Bario Ingles.

I wrote the following story for an annual celebration at St. Margaret's called The Gareth Pugh Event. Mr. Pugh was a wonderful music teacher, and this event consists of third and fourth graders from several schools getting together, singing and making music around a theme to remember him by. Ximena Achondo, music teacher par excellence, and a good friend, has coordinated it during the past several years. She asked me to write a pirate story for this year's event.

Here it is:

The Best Treasure

A girl named Estrella walked along a lonely beach full of magical jewels. She kicked the sparkling sand and she threw diamonds into the nighttime sky to light her way. Though she had riches, she was very lonely and dreamt of friendship and love.

Far away in Kingston, Jamaica, a boy named John was dreaming too. He was a poor boy though. His only possession was a treasure map his father had given him. One day as he fished for his dinner, he saw a reflection of a girl in the water that made him think of the lost jewels his father had told him about. He was so enchanted that he didn’t see that pirates were close. They captured him and took him away on their ship.

The pirates were led by mean Cap'n Tom. John, and another boy named Alfred who was also kidnapped, scrubbed the decks, and sewed the rips in the sails all day long. The pirates bragged about their riches and their evil ways. John taught Alfred songs of his home in Jamaica, and they sang them to keep their minds off of their empty stomachs, for they were only given food the pirates didn’t want.

The pirates spoke of an island of lost treasure. Cap'n Tom promised he would never rest until he and his men found it. Late one night, John heard him say, “Argghh, if I only had the map that Fearless Pete took from me that night in Bermuda. I would have that treasure.”

Jack’s father was named Pete. Did he have the same map that Cap'n Tom wanted? Thinking they were alone, he showed the map to Alfred, but Captin’ Tom’s first mate was watching. He snatched it away and hurried to the Cap'n’s room. Five minutes later, Cap'n Pete yelled for the ship to change directions. The men sang as they changed the sails.

Estrella saw the ship coming, but her joy turned to fear when she saw the skull and cross bones of the pirates’ flag. She ran and hid in the trees. Cap'n Pete and his evil crew shouted for joy when they saw the beach filled with the magical jewels. They sang and loaded them in their treasure chests and didn’t see the two boys run away.

Estrella followed John and Alfred. She called to them with a song her mother taught her about a far away land called Jamaica. When John saw her face, he knew she was the girl he saw in the beautiful blue water that surrounded his home. Estrella knew that she finally had friends. She led them to a magic treasure chest hidden in the forest. It was from this chest that found the diamonds to throw into the sky. Whatever was taken from it would always be replaced.

The pirates left, forgetting the two boys now that they had found the treasure of Cap'n Tom’s dreams. John and Estrella, with their friend Alfred, buried the treasure and built a boat and sailed back to Jamaica, fishing for their food, and having diamonds to light their way. They knew they could always return for diamonds and gold, but that their true treasure was love and friendship.

The Special World

2008-10-18T11:08:00.000-07:00

As we stayed up late, and I'm a bit rummy, today I'm including videos taken in Santiago and Valparaiso last summer. The first is of a group playing Mira Ninita on the Paseo Ahumada in Santiago. On the weekends, there used to be sidewalk vendors and entertainment. This isn't happening anymore, as far as we know, which I think is too bad. Travel books said to watch your wallet, so maybe that's why the city stopped it??? Don't know. Go to the feria in front of Cerro Santa Lucia for some of the same deals on sweaters and crafts.

You can hear the same band in the background here:

This is a scene of Chile's third place victory in the World Cup. They won against Argentina, so I guess the victory was especially sweet. Watch for the dog.

Finally, a very short and dark clip from El Gato en la Ventana, a folklorico club in Valporaiso. This was taken summer 07, as well. We were there early this morning. I love how this section of the city churns through the early morning, mostly with young people. The music is LOUD but beautifully done; if you like the first video of the street performers, you'd would love this place. People around us knew all the songs and sang with the performers. It's a place full of joy and, at times, dancing. Last night, an elderly man, a definite extrovert, got up and sang opera in between sets. His friend (his son?) fell asleep at the table next to ours. We left about 3 a.m., found the buses lined up to take people home. Ours was full, complete with twenty people standing up and holding on. Back to home and bed by 4:30.

Meeting a Mentor

2008-10-16T14:33:00.001-07:00

This is Maria Jose, better known as Miss Cote at St. Margaret's. Getting to know her in my first few weeks was a true blessing, as on our drives to school she clued me in to things like how to get photocopies done, shared her stories about getting lost in the giant school (more than once when I've gone up one too many set of stairs and found myself in the "out of bounds" area, I've thanked her in my mind for her story of doing the same thing), spoke of her own feelings of being overwhelmed with so many new faces and names. She also drove Bill and I around so that we found our first place here in Concon. I appreciate Cote's devotion to recycling, her cheerfulness, her love of teaching English, and envy her ability with languages (she speaks French, as well as English and Spanish).

When we moved to the place Cote helped us find, I thought I was in paradise for the first six weeks. The weather was still warm, and though we were in one room, we felt it was grand because the Pacific was just outside our window. We had a bed, dining table, and small kitchen, though I hesitate to use that word for it. We've discovered that a tiny stove, refrigerator and sink is called an American Kitchen, for some reason. The sink was so low, Bill had to do dishes on his knees. He's 5'8" and says that there are times in Chile he feels tall. The bathroom technically counted for a second room, I guess, though it was matchbox size. I loved writing looking out at the waves and watching the surfers at the beach. We'd sit on the roof and drink piscolas, made from pisco,a type of brandy made from grapes and cola,on Friday afternoons. Sunsets were . . . hmm . . . sitting here trying not to think of a cliche to describe them . . . so I won't. I'll just show a picture:

I'm grateful for having lived there because teaching in a new place, being the only non-Spanish speaking person on campus, wanting to prove I was worth the risk the school took hiring me . . . what can I say? It was stressful. I'd open our gate, walk down the steps and around the corner of our dueno's vacation house, step onto their patio which led to our place, and the sea would be there. The sound of the waves and the expanse of water was just what I needed to keep myself together.

Then winter came. The roof leaked. We'd have periodic floods underneath the door, the toilet started acting up. We'd often get rained on when we were using it, too. We were buffeted by wind and it got cold, despite the propane heater we bought. We kept the shades down because it kept the place warmer, so there wasn't much light.

Thanks to Rosemary, one of the inspectors at the school (an inspector is the assistant to the head teacher and someone who acts like a vice principal and takes care of a lot of the discipline issues), we found our new casita.

We were tempted to move to Valparaiso. We found a cool tri-level condo we almost took. The trip to work for me would be long, an hour on the bus each way during rush hour, but we thought having the chance to live surrounded by great atmosphere, living in a real city for the first time ever, might be worth it. Rosemary was dead set against it and started an Internet search for houses for rent. Valpo has a reputation of being un poco peligroso. The cerro that the condo was on could be viewed two ways: seedy or having a whole lot of character.

We were told by neighbors things would be fine as long as we weren't out late at night, but while we were walking around before the real estate lady came to let us view the place, a man spotted us from a hundred feet away; he could see we were norteamericanos from that distance. He was un poco boracho and started talking to us in English. "My f . . . name is Nixon Jimmy, and if you don't f. . . believe it, here's my identity card. My mother named me after your f . . . presidents because she wanted me to be strong. I used to live in f . . . New Jersey. Welcome to f . . . Chile." We told the lady we'd take the apartment, but the bus ride back to Concon seemed even longer and we both woke up the next morning with some anxiety.

We got up early, walked here (to Calle Magdelena Paz . . . I love the name of my street), saw it, fell in love, and called Rosemary to thank her. Had it not been for the bus ride and my having to come home latish on some nights from work, we still may have taken the apartment. New Canadian friends, Norm and Charlene, have found an apartment in Valpo in an area which they describe as "interesting;" a part of me still wanted to do the more Bohemian thing when I read their email last night.

Norm, Bill, me and Charlene

But, here I'm close to work, we still have a view of the sea, a beautiful garden area, nice neighbors. The main drawback is the cacophony of dogs that bark for hours from across the little canyon below us, but I think in time it'll just be background noise as I get used to it. Here's the garden:

Getting back to St. Margarets, it also took me some time to learn the British system, mixed with the requirements of the Chilean Department of Education. Grades are called "notes," they fall from 1 through 7, 7 being the highest grade, except no one is ever given a 1. The Infant School has playgroups for three-year olds, pre-kinder and kindergarten classes. Today the kindergarten girls did a tribute to Hollywood for an assembly for Teachers' Day. Six or seven of them were dressed as Charlie Chaplin, complete with canes and mustaches. They handed out caramel corn to the teachers before they did their dance. Some of the other girls did dances to Pretty Woman (which I thought was an interesting choice), Flashdance, and Footloose. The junior school is made up of grades 1-4, the middle school grades 5-8, and the senior school contains grades 9-12. Seniors are all the girls in senior school. First senior is equivalent to ninth grade, second senior is tenth, etc. Grades 1-8 are also called basicos, and the senior grades are also called medeos. The girls have 15 subjects with music, p.e., and religion teachers. Every day the schedule is different. I had to look at my time table (which is what they call the "schedule") every day for two months to figure out where I was going. There are playing fields for hockey below the school. Other British schools have their playing fields about ten miles north of Concon. And there are houses the students and teachers belong to, just like in Harry Potter. Ours are York, Lancaster, Stuart and Windsor. I haven't been officially told what house I'm in yet. During school week when there were competitions, I hung out with the Windsors.

Our hockey fields looking out to the ocean:

Mira Ninita

2008-10-12T17:51:00.000-07:00

I ended my blog yesterday with versus of the song Mira Ninita (again, can't do the tilda because I'm on an English keyboard). We researched it today. The song was written in 1972 by a Chilian rock band, the Los Javais. Here is a link to youtube to hear them sing the song. Please copy and paste in your browser because I can't seem to get the link to work correctly: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K8cC-D8L02I Also, here are a couple short videos taken in Valparaiso:

Life in Chile

2008-10-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's been months since I last blogged. In that time, I've worked at St. Margaret's, written the second half of STARVED, HUNGRY's sequel, found out that Hungry won't be reprinted as I was finishing it, made good friends, gone through various stages of culture shock, moved three times . . . excuses, excuses. It does feel good to be back here! I have two months left of school, then summer vacation comes.

The picture above was taken by my husband at the Mercado Central in Valparaiso, a large city about ten miles south of here. I haven't begun to think metric, I'm afraid. Valpo has a bit of an edge, is famous for the theft of purses and cameras, but it's a city Americans and Europeans love for its windy cobblestone streets, vistas of the sea, and architecture from the 18th century, the era when many British(and Germans) lived there. I know many of their descendents, including women in their 70s andd 80s who speak the Queen's English. They built the first acensors, elevators/trollies that carry people up the steep hillsides. There are also the Scottish Steps, named for the Scots who didn't want to spend their pesos for a ride.

We were in Valpo a few weeks ago, walking to a flea market. A crowd of people were walking across the street a block or so ahead of us. We heard a woman scream and then disappear. When we got to where she was, we saw that there was a huge hole in which her toddler had fallen in down to the sewer. She had jumped in after him. Baby had been pulled out and looked okay. People were getting a ladder to the woman. Times like this we realize that we are in a different world. I walk home from St. Margaret's. The first street I take is full of houses that would make the most upper middle class neighborhood proud in the United States, but on occasion, there will be horses grazing.

We find almost everyone wonderful and kind, although we're warned quite a bit that crime is on the rise here. We've never been in a place where we haven't felt safe, however. Public transportation is great. We find we can live easily (most days) without needing a car. The only days when it hasn't been easy has been when there have been big rains. The rain here is phenomenal when it comes. Not much drainage, so the streets fill up fast. The metro in Santiago, sardine-like during rush hour, is still a showcase. Very clean, nice art in some of the stations, and on time!

We have a bigger social life than we've ever had. We lived in the country, in a rural county where the sidewalks roll up by six or seven o'clock in the evening. One thing that we love because it's so different is that dinner parties don't start until 9:00 or 9:30 at night. We've been out until three or four in the morning. I'm a night owl when I don't have to work, so I really enjoy it. I have to admit, we often try to rest before hand (and we eat a little extra because we're still used to having dinner at 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening).

We love hearing about the customs here. Three weeks ago, there was the national holidays for the 18th of September. Barbecues were everywhere, little girls in floral dresses danced with boys in bolero outfits. There's a richness I don't sense back home. We had one of the music teachers from St. Margaret over yesterday for lunch, along with her daughter. She told us about songs from the south of Chile, sang a song that has haunted me since I heard it on our first visit here, a lullaby, as it turns out, called "Mira, Ninita," or "Look, Little Girl." With fear and trembling, I'll translate:

"Look, little girl, I'm going to take you
to see the brilliant moon on the sea,
Look toward the sky and
and forget this languid fear,
that is your permanent emotion.

Ay . . .this permantent emotion
for the daughter of a man
with crystal eyes
and stolen paper of the skin."

Miss Alicia

2008-03-02T10:21:00.001-08:00

When I started to write Hungry and Alicia let me know she wanted to be in the novel, I didn’t want to give her that name as it’s so close to mine. She insisted that was her name, though, so I thought, “Okay.” As I wrote, I pronounced the name the English way, A-lee-sha. I have a new identity now at St. Margaret’s. You guessed it. I am now A- lee-see-a because the “th” sound is difficult for many native Spanish speakers to say. Actually, I’m “Miss Alicia.” Or I’m “Miss Ali,” because that seems to be the other nickname that I’ve been given.

There are about a hundred teachers at the school. I’ve put about a dozen or so names with faces so far. There are three teachers from England (I think, I’ve got a solid grounding on who two of them are), and the rest are from Chile. Though the school is a “British school,” all meetings are conducted in Spanish except for the ones conducted in the English department. I’m sometimes getting the “gist” of things, but it is only a rough approximation. We had an in-service about bullying today, and because the main ideas were projected with an LCD player I was at least able to follow along with my electronic dictionary. What I’m excited about is that at times I’m finally catching whole phrases (not often, but at least it’s a beginning) and I’m getting the object pronouns in the right places. Sort of.

I’m also learning a lot of new jargon for the British structure. Forms are used instead of grades, or the word is used interchangeably. Once the girls pass eighth grade, they have IB levels. I’m teaching 3rd level A2, the highest group of what would be juniors in high school for us. Infant school is kindergarten. The juniors are grades one through four. The middles are grades five through eight.

Some things seem to be universal. As I mentioned, the talk today was about bullying, which the teachers perceive as a problem. The girls seem to have the same issues as the kids did at the two schools I’ve taught at in California: neglect, emotional issues, tardiness, not being respectful. Avril, the wonderful headmistress of the school, says she insists the girls stand up when a teacher enters the classroom—something I might get used to J.

I’ll teach the English IB curriculum. The idea is to connect social and cultural issues to a text that is explored slowly and in depth. The girls will do most of the research. There will be a lot of writing, creative work, debates, etc. I will only grade a few papers per report card period! I’m sure I’ll look most of them over though and ask for revisions when it’s appropriate. I’ve decided to start with The Crucible. I want them to begin by researching how women in Europe were persecuted as witches. If I remember my history correctly at this point, there were a few men who were executed in Salem as well, but I want to discuss how the values and beliefs influenced what happened. I hope another group will be interested in exploring what happened during the McCarthy era. I wish I could show Good Night and Good Luck, but finding a copy seems a bit overwhelming at this point. Then we’ll launch into the play. I read the introduction to Act 1 last night and wondered when I read the play. I assume college. The vocabulary is intensive, but these girls supposedly like to be challenged.

The other books we’ll read are The Handmaid’s Tale, To Kill a Mockingbird and I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings. With the last of these, I hope to have the girls explore issues about the Mapuche, the indigenous people of Chile who mainly live in the southern part of the country. There are other groups, but the Mapuche fought back against the Incas (their empire stopped at the Mapuche borders), the Spanish, and are still fighting against assimilation and to take back control of land they believe still belongs to them.

The rest of my time I’ll spend doing “literacy” with the juniors. I wish, wish, wish that I brought more teaching material with me. I decided to go for survival stuff like a few more clothes, and thought I’d bring the extra things back with me next time I go to the U.S., as I wasn’t sure what my school day was going to consist of. Tomorrow I’ll meet with the head teacher of junior school and know more specifically what they would like from me. Their reading program in English seem to consist of copies of books a la the Wright Group and Rigby back in the whole language days. I’m told all most all of the girls don’t have problems decoding. I think doing Lindamood LIPS (without mouth pictures?) to help pronunciation will happen. I keep thinking of the Houghton Mifflin frontloading materials I copied over that have sentence frames for different levels of English language learners . . . they’ll be here in time.

I need to find out if there are more books. I’d love to do some novel reading and exploration with the third and fourth graders. I don’t think they’re there. The school is very beautiful and new and not paid for all the way, and from what I’m picking up, there isn’t money to buy this sort of thing.

One of the biggest challenges for me is that I’m used to coming into work at least a half hour early. More often, though, I work until four, four thirty, and sometimes later, getting things prepped. I’ll be taking the bus with the students and other teachers, which is fabulous, but the bus will arrive just in time for school to begin. There are few computers, so if I want to do research I’m not sure how this will work, as I don’t have Internet at home right now. The Internet place around the block has its challenges, as there’s the Spanish keyboard. I don’t know how to do the @ sign for writing in email addresses. Often there is fairly slow download time, and then the web pages disappear and I have to get back on. The teachers have left this week right at two o’clock, the end of the workday until students arrive next Tuesday.

Another change: the school provides a lunch! Salad bar, main course, dessert . . . but 2:00 is considered lunch hour. I probably will be able to eat with the juniors (at noon . . . closer to our 11:10 lunch at Minnie Cannon) or the middles (1:00 ish) four days a week. BUT Thursdays, I don’t get it until two! There has been a snack period this week about 10:15 where the NesCafe, tea, and some cookies come out. I’ve brought cereal bars and fruit to keep me going, but I’m starving when I get home.

I think I may have made a faux pas on my first day. There were some supplies being passed out to the junior teachers, and I asked if I could have some. I was told yes, so I picked up a box of pencils. It turned out I could only have one. I have one dry erase pen, and a red, blue, and green marker, and some tape, correcting fluid. I really need to find chart paper somewhere as I use a lot of it. At Minnie Cannon, I taught so many different levels, I didn’t have board space, so I often prepared what I needed the day before (or a few days before if I was lucky) and didn’t have to spend time writing stuff on my board or the ones in the classrooms I worked in.

Now for the wonderful part! Chileans (woman to woman, often woman to man and visa versa) greet and say goodbye with a cheek-to-cheek “kiss.” You touch cheeks and make a kissing sound. It’s lovely. I hope when my Puritan work ethic kicks in and I’m feeling stressed for not having the space I usually need to think about my day and look over my lessons, I’ll remember that starting one’s day like this is probably much healthier. My teaching will get done anyway.

On the second day of work, we got on these great cushy buses and toured Valparaiso, a town that Chileanos think of as their San Francisco (I had compared Concon to Santa Barbara before I knew better. It’s more like Sausalito. The weather has been cool, foggy and misty like summer around the SF bay.) Valpo is hilly like San Francisco and has a historical, yet Bohemian air. If you read Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende, the book started here. We went to an “ascensor,” first walking through a very long tunnel and then riding up an elevator to an observatory platform where we could see the whole city and far out into the ocean. The set up also allows for the local people who live on the hill a way to get up and down with more ease.

We went to a monument to Bernardo O’Higgens, who is roughly equivalent to George Washington, and is a father, if not THE father, of Chile. He led the revolution against Spain. We then went to what might have been the home of the British Lord Cochran who helped in the fight. We walked through the oldest part of the town where many of the buildings are being torn down for infrastructure and lack of resources to preserve them. Natural gas is coming to Chile.

The next stop was at a monument for los heroes, the men who went down in a ship in a fight against Peru (1850ish? Can’t remember exactly.) Vente-uno de Mayo is a national holiday (and my birthday!) that honors their loss of life. Chile lost the battle, but won the war, by the way, thanks to the British.

Finally, we were treated to a lovely lunch at the restaurante Bernardo O’Higgens, starting with our choice of soft drinks or alcohol, either a pisco sour, the national drink, or a vai’in— which I probably am spelling wrong. I went with the vai’in, a vanilla flavored liquor. I had to. I never had a drink on teacher time before! All I can say is, “Yum.”
So, to sum things up, estoy nerviosa. But I always am at the beginning of a school year, and somehow I survive. At home, by the mid of October I felt I had my life back. April is the new October for me, and I hope I feel more settled and secure by then.

La Magia Esta En Tu Alma

2008-02-21T12:51:00.001-08:00

I love the murals in Santiago. The city is covered with the same kind of tagging as any urban place in America, but the level of creativity seems to be higher here. Amid what looks like gang graffiti there are message like this. Respect is to love. The magic is in your soul. I like the vampirish like creatures looking on, as though the forces of darkness were taking heed of the message. There are occasional messages on walls proclaiming: Capitalismo es muerte. Other pictures that are intricate and fanciful lace the streets. In the Bellas Artes area, near San Cristobal, the highest part of the city, and where one of Neruda's three homes is located, the mural art is taken to the highest levels, street after street, in a neighborhood full of houses where color and whimsy cry out.

Bill and I went to the immigration office today. The nicest people work there. I was told that St. Margaret's is the "most prestigious school in Chile." Yikes! Definitely not like the Title One schools I've always taught at. We panicked when the forms and procedures were explained to even get a work permit under a tourist visa. Send my teaching credentials to the consulate in San Francisco just to get a stamp and from where they have to be mailed back to Chile?) But then I finally connected with the Sra. Avril Cooper, the director of the school, who said,"Relax, relax. Our people are working on it." Okay, sounded like good advice to us. So I'm sitting in a courytard writing now at La Casa Roja instead of dealing with bureaucracy. Que beuno! (I need to find how to transform my keyboard in a Spanish one but that's a learning curve I just can't take on right now.)

We went to lunch yesterday and today at two sidewalk cafes. A cute little dog, kind of a cocker spaniel/dachshund cross showed up at our feet yesterday. Small and sad. We thought she was a puppy until we noticed she'd recently had babies. We named her "Cute Little F . . ." Amazingly, there she was again today, at least two miles away. She had to have crossed the freeway, going up the steps and across the bridge along with people traffic. She came immediately to our table, lay down, and fell asleep again. We chose not to think of it as a sign, as we're weak where in the cute little doggy area of life. And we need to get Wiley down here. He'd probably be p.o.ed to see a strange dog in what he'd rightfully think of as his place. After today, I'm not sure how much blogging I'll do. after today My job starts Monday (trying not to panic-- I left a lot of my standby teaching material at home because of weight limitations on the airplane). Our house in Vina is cute, but not the place we want to stay forever. We don't want to connect Internet up, only for the two months we'll be there. I may spend a lot of time on the weekend at the Internet place around the corner, but I could also be correcting papers. Oh yeah, i've got another novel to finish.

One last thing! Great news. Nicole, the publicity person at HarperCollins told me that a review posted by Emily Robbins, a thirteen year old reviewers from Readers Views, was picked up by Reuters and usatoday.com. I can't stop smiling!

Night is Falling in Santiago

2008-02-19T17:13:00.000-08:00

I chose this picture, though it has nothing to do with Santiago. It does have a lot to do with being willing to venture to unfamiliar places both without and within. Thank you, Mother Eve, for taking the first bite to a realized life.

We have been in Chile for just over a day. I'm sitting in an upstairs lobby of La Caja Roja, a hostel full of mostly young people from all over the world. Loud music is blasting from downstairs. Voices of guests eating their dinners on the patio blend in, along with clinking plates and laughter. Here, it doesn't feel I'm half a world away from winter, where the bells of my school ring, and my commute is driving up a mountain road. The Germanic orderliness that the United States possesses isn't found in Chile.

Bill and I stayed at this hostel for two of the weeks we spent here in July, so coming back felt like coming home in many ways. Out on the streets of the city, though, walking among the blankets spread full of bolsas and zapatos for sell, the crazy traffic, having a poor mother sing a song for some pesos to feed her baby, the reality that I have made a commitment to a strange new life is impossible to ignore.

Ice cream is a real highlight. It's simply wonderful, very similar to gelato. Most of the pastries, on the other hand, are heavy and unappealing-- which is a good thing because I have a weakness for them. I'd rather spend my dessert calories on the helados.

Took a trip to Vina del Mar today to rent a house that we found out about back home. Outside of Santiago, it becomes desert-like, similar to the few un-watered parts of southern California that remain. We passed chapparal and chemise, vineyards in the Casablanca Valley, slums on Valparaiso's hills.

Chile is a poor country with an expanding "middle class," however you might define it, and the wealthy whose homes could be anywhere in tonier areas of the states. Our new house is where a purse being snatched won't be out of the question, but that's probably the worst of worries. I wish my work clothes had deeper pockets to hide my i.d. and what little money I'll carry. I'll travel by bus or taxi to St. Margaret's, which has a gate models on Buckingham Palace, teaching girls who go home to fine houses, mas rica que mi casa.

I've stepped out of the "garden," of what I have always known, into a world where more knowledge and experience will be gained.

I need to work on my book, but so much nicer right now to put my thoughts here.

Tags: chile, hungry, la casa roja, teaching in foreign countries, vina del mar

Threshold Guardians

2008-02-09T22:21:00.000-08:00

According to the Hero's Cycle, heroes need to pass through obstacles that guardians place before them in order to prove the heroes' worthiness to enter into the special world where the story will unfold. Guardians can be other characters, circumstances, or objects (locked windows). I feel that Bill and I are passing through our share of these guardians. To be cliched (as I am using Joseph Campbell's ideas here), we're "following our bliss" in our preparations to move to Chile. Daily we're coming up against a variety of guardians, but somehow a mixture of sheer willpower and serendipity are helping to dissolve them.
Some of these have been:

Reducing a household to four suitcases and a dufflebag full of bedding.
Luckily, we're not horders and have less to get rid of than most people. We're leaving some things: photos, some books, a few of my winter clothes as we'll be living in late summer in just a few days. It feels wonderful to let go. There are no family things on my side and only a few on Bill's, so this has been a blessing.

Dogs
The hardest part has been deciding what to do with our dogs. We can't take them now because we don't really know if this is going to work. Will we stay in Chile a few months or the rest of our lives?

We were going to have Lily, our 90 percent Ausie and 10 percent mystery dog, be our Chile dog at first. Then, we decided not to bring any of them. Then all of them. Then . . . We found a wonderful organization called We Care Animal Rescue in St. Helena, California. Through them, Lily found a home with a wonderful couple in the Sacramento area. As traumatic as it was for us to say good bye, Lily was won over by a chicken sandwich. She hopped in her new mom's car and off she went. She's happy. Got her teeth cleaned. Playing lots of fetch and going on oodles of walks.

Lily was a thirty pound whirlwind that kept Dazie wound up and puppy-like for six years. There was an amazing transformation from the very first day. Dazie came into her own and wasn't as fidgety, not even wiggling when I tried to brush her. So . . . we said, "Let's keep Wiley and her!" Friends tried her out on a sleepover to see how she'd do until we figured out how to do this, but on a walk in the hills above Upper Lake she got away.

I was taking Wiley to Petaluma for a potential foster mom to meet him when another guardian came my way. My wallet was stolen before I got there, so I had to return home to cancel things out. I got the message about Dazie. I left Wiley with some food because I hadn't fed him that morning (he gets car sick)and drove the hour to Upper Lake. We spent hours looking for her. She'd run off the road up a hill that was full of chemise, coyotes who'd come out at night, and that led into a wilderness area. I called and called her name at the spot she disappeared. She didn't answer. She could have been anywhere in rugged terrain. Bill was stuck in an elevator during this time (did someone say Mercury Retrograde?) and when he got home, he brought Wiley who only had to bark once for Dazie to answer. She was at the same spot I had yelled for her, but dog-to-dog communication won her over. Bill and Kenn then had to climb the mountain, though, and Kenn had to use all his forest service training to get through the brush. She wouldn't budge when he found her. She weighs 60 pounds and he dragged her through about ten feet of the chemise with her pissing and . . . you get the picture. Once she saw Wiley, she got up and trotted down the mountain with him.

We contacted We Care again for Dazie because we decided the move would be too much for her. The next day heard from a wonderful woman in Yountville (Napa Valley). We took Dazie to her house yesterday. She now lives on a 48 acre vineyard in a 5,000 square foot house full of comfy pillows and gourmet food cooked just for her. She'll eat plenty of fruits, vegetable, New York steak cut just right, and gourmet doggy biscuits. She'll also be taken out to a restaurant that gives the diners plates for their dogs, and back at home has a bidet for her very own to be able to drink fresh flowing water. I'd have felt guilty NOT to let her live there. I've always thought that our dogs had it nice. It's been boot camp for them in comparison! Though she did break our hearts. The two nights she was with us, she climbed into a suitcase to sleep.

What is wonderful is that both of the new families will let us know how Dazie and Lily are doing. We even have an invitation to stay in Dazie's paradise when we're in northern California. And through Dazie's little adventure, the people who were going to take her are now taking Wiley until we can figure out things. He is now the official Chile dog in residence.

However, contacting airline customer service to figure this out has turned out to be the most formidable of the guards at the "gate". I ended up screaming I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEONE HUMAN! When we got the humans, it was still difficult. We're still not sure what to do.

Car
No one wanted a Corolla with a stick shift even though we were offering under blue book. What about gas economy????? We were amazed. We dropped the price to way under blue book, and a woman from Willits called us. She was thrilled that our car even had old fashioned roll up windows. We've sold it at the last minute.

House in Cobb
The first people to look at our house are making an offer. HOWEVER, whether their offer is something we'll accept is another matter. We're free here, though, because through a conversation at the Mountain High Coffee Shop, serendipity allowed us to find a renter we can trust if the house hasn't sold by the time the listing runs out.

Home in Chile
Another conversation, at the Cafe Vasquez in Lakeport this time, has given us a fully furnished house to rent (with washer and dryer) in Vina Del Mar, twenty minutes by bus from where I'll work at St. Margaret's.

Work Visa
Last hurdle. By the time we got the documents we need, it was too late to process the visa up here. It will take the FBI four months to process my "rap sheet." Ah, let's see . . . there was a ticket on my way to church a few years ago for going a few miles over the speed limit. That must be what is holding things up. So, we're hoping we can process what we need to do once we're in Santiago. I only have a few days before I begin work, but not being anxious about this is a good lesson for me. If it doesn't happen, our journey may take off on a different path as happens in many good stories.

HUNGRY
Sales have been "quiet" according to my editor. Which means if things remain the same, the book I'm halfway through writing won't be wanted. I worry about the effect of being in Chile will have on my writing career. A friend suggested I blog on my webpage as Deborah in Chile, which I think is brilliant . . . the country's name allowing for a lot of puns with eating. I just hope I have time to do this. Anyway, I just have to believe that bliss and prayer and as much attention as I can put into promoting the book from down south will work.

I haved managed to sneak in a couple school visits through all of this: Lu Sutton School in Novato, where I saw again how much kids connect with the book. Also, another presentation on the Mendocino Coast at Horicon School in Annapolis, and the Four-Eyed Frog Book Store in Gualala. Grandmother Pig's Butt, my alter ego, is still training recruits for the great invasion of Earth, complete with an alien make over of a very brave volunteer. I hope she can somehow keep the training going in Chile.

You're It!

2007-12-02T20:39:00.000-08:00

You're It!

I’ve been tagged by Janet Riehl:
http://riehlife.com/

I’m tagging:
Norman Benson, forensic expert and author
http://timberbeastheartwood.blogspot.com/
Kim Baccellia , author
htt p://kbaccellia.livejournal.com/

Kris Bordessa, author

http://greatsolutions.blogspot.com

1. How long have you been blogging?
I wrote my first blog post six months ago. I’m not focusing just on children’s literature, or teaching, or particular themes or issues. In a way, I guess I feel it’s more of an online diary. I’ve written about my book HUNGRY and trying to promote it, but my blog also covered my trip to Chile, reflections on lost family members, and whatever seems to be on my mind at the time I feel I like writing an entry. In the future, I hope to do a separate blog of meditations that I’ve written on the Major Arcana keys using a Christian interpretation of the Qabala. When I transferred computers, this was the one file that I lost. I’ve hadn’t had the time or the willingness to type over the meditations, but I figure they'll be a time I’ll just work on this project for a few weeks. I have an idea to do a painting or drawing for each meditation, but I rather doubt I’ll be this productive.

2. What inspired you to start a blog and who are your mentors?
Basically getting word out about my book inspired me. After creating my website, I found I enjoy working on web related things. I am very grateful to Janet Riehl’s wonderful listening ear, her explanations, and encouragement that allowed me to get started. I’m thinking especially of a walk we took last spring when I barely knew what a blog was. Another mentor is Norm Benson who showed me blogspot about the same time.

3. Are you trying to make money online, or just doing it for fun?
The hope is that my writing, Hungry, specifically, will be of enough interest for people to read my blog. I’ve never thought of money making online. I just hope that my book will sell enough copies that HarperCollins will want me to write another one, and if the blog helps with that, terrific!

4. What 3 things do you struggle with online?
I don’t know if I can separate this into three separate things. I get overwhelmed. Wonderful sites like Book Lust and Jacketflap have SO much information. I was recently sent an article about podcast that I haven’t read because I'm not in a place for a learning curve. It’s hard to take time to make connections. When I sit at my computer, I want to spend most of the time writing. I also don't want to spend my life on the computer.

5. What 3 things do you love about being online?
Email. I don’t really like using the phone, but I do love getting emails! Also, I appreciate how much easier the Internet has made the work of being a writer become. I used to feel isolated as a writer living in a small community. I feel the worldwide community now provides a sense of connectedness that, even ten years ago, I couldn’t imagine. Making friends with people I haven't met has been important, as well as having the ability to express my creativity and to get feedback about it worldwide.

Call to Adventure

2007-11-10T08:28:00.001-08:00

This is our phone, the one we use the most because we can actually hear people on it. We use our push button phone only when we need to. Bill found this in a shed at his mother's house about thirty years ago. Who knows how long it had been in there?

A friend's daughter wanted to call her dad one day and after she picked up the receiver she just stared at it, not knowing what to do. I realized that it's probably the equivalent to the pictures I saw of hand crank phones when I was a kid. I wish we could take this beauty with us!

I've been offered a job at St. Margaret's British School for Girls in Concon, Chile. A part of my day will be spent teaching high school English! Because the academic year in Chile starts in March, I'm hoping to leave my current job by mid-January and be in Chile sometime in early February.

Bill is working very hard to make our house look like a million dollars (we wish) to be ready for possible buyers. I'm trying to find a qualified teacher to finish out my contract year. We need homes for two of our dogs. We're bringing Lily, our oldest and most adaptable as our Chili dog. Our hearts are breaking over the other two. Dazie, though, will be happier in another home without the other two dogs bothering her. For some reason she offers a type of alure to both Willy and Lily. They never leave her alone! Willy is everyone's boyfriend. He's affectionate and goofy and totally loving (a quality Lily doesn't always possess).

We could be there a year, but we could also be there the rest of our lives (with trips home, of course.) We'll be living by the sea in a climate similar to Santa Barbara's. Vina Del Mar, a tourist destination, is only a few miles south and offers plenty of shopping opportunities if we need them and great food. Valparaiso is half an hour farther south and is a wonderfully atmospheric bohemian sort of place.

I have a dream of an ex-pat community of friends in Concon! We hope to receive many visitors over the years.

Life in Tentacles

2007-10-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

The moment finally came! Signing a copy of HUNGRY at Cobb Mountain's very own coffee shop and bookstore, The Bookkeeper. Bill made pistachio Home Worlder cookies, with five tentacles rather than six, but who's counting! Pipecleaner tentacles were made with googly eyes. There were green alien Italian sodas to drink and a t-shirt giveaway.

My good friend and writing partner, Mary, helped in my presentation as Commander Pggsbtk, (otherwise known as Deborah's grandmother Pig's Butt). Mary and I did a "spit and greet," and she ably assisted applying Pggsbtk's beauty secret to transform Tom, one of the Bookkeeper's visitor's, into an alien. There were wonderful screams of pain from the bathroom as the beauty secret did its job. Norm, Mary's husband, made a certificate for the kids that said they were officially part of the invasion force and were not to be eaten.

Since then Mary helped me at an assembly at school in which a sixth grader named Tristan outdid Tom with his screams from the back of the stage. He was very brave as he went out on his mission to terrorize Earthlings with his new alien face. One of the pleasures of all of this is being a teacher and a writer. The kids at school have been genuinely excited for me.

I signed books at Funtopia last weekend as a fund raiser for Minnie Cannon's sixth grade science camp. Over 200 dollars was raised!

My family, community, friends, collegues, and church (even Episcopalians can appreciate hungry aliens) have been so supportive. All I can say is a humble thank you to everyone who have made the last two weeks so memorable.

Book Day

2007-10-13T15:27:00.000-07:00

I wish I could include my second graders in this picture, but I'm not sure if their parents would want their picture on the internet.

By the way, that's Serjio's arm, and Starfall, the best reading site on the Internet on the monitor behind me. Everybody at school, every teacher, aide, and student signed the banner.

As a celebration, two teachers at my school decorated my room after I left late on October 1st. They ended up calling my husband to get me out of there.

On the morning of the 2nd, I wasn't really thinking about HUNGRY as much as I was feeling overwhelmed by teaching: the needs the kids have and the expectations put on schools. I'm working with a very bright 4th grade reading group who are below grade level for a variety of causes: reading disabilities, second languages, difficulty focusing, and, for a few, home issues.

I love this group. They're good thinkers and sweet kids, but they need me to go slow. They need repetition and lots and lots of practice on skills. I'm a believer in using data to inform instruction, and I'm not against standards. I just want the expectations to be reasonable. When I was in fourth grade, I didn't have to write a summary on bonsai (a release writing prompt for the 4th grade state writing test). My parents wouldn't have known bonsia from bubble gum. Thinking back on the type of 4th grader I was, I wonder if I could have easily describe the art of growing bonsai. I'm sure my lack of background knowledge would have reflected in my writing performance.

I'm not saying, don't teach kids how to write! But what this group needs more than anything else is to get a good solid understanding of SENTENCE construction, which we work on daily. I want them to write decent paragraphs by the end of 4th grade (which they are still shaky about the details-- like not starting each sentence on a new line), and if all of them succeed I'll be doing the happy teacher dance. But I'm concerned for March when they have to take the test, that as far as they'll come as writers may not be far enough.

So, October 2nd, I got to school feeling heavy and worried and grumpy. Gail Marshall said she needed something from my room and hung around as I dawdled getting my lunch into the refrigerator in the teachers' room and then spent more time running off work for later in the day. On the way across the quad to my room, we talked about how as a teacher one can work 24/7, and it's still wouldn't be enough to do everything. We talked about how it was only October and that we were already tired.

I unlocked my door and was met with a banner, flowers, balloons, and silly string. Oh, there was chocolate. Lots of it. Gail had come with me to see my reaction. I'm still smiling as I write this, almost two weeks later. The surprise went straight to my heart and burst open the dark crystal of frustration that had gotten lodged there. Thank you, Gail. (And Brandy, her partner in chocolate.)

Dog Days (A Belated Remembrance)

2007-08-25T21:51:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write this entry earlier in the month, but I've finally got started on STARVED and didn't want anything to get in the way. Writing seems to be coming FINALLY, and the story that's emerging feels right.

I wrote five pages in less than forty minutes yesterday, so this encourages me that the rest of the story will be accessible once school starts. My goal is to have fifty pages done by the end of Labor Day weekend. My husband's going to Burning Man, so it's just me and the dogs and whatever lesson plans I need to do. I'm picturing long days and nights at the computer. We'll see . . . I really want STARVED to be done by early 2008.

The Dog Days, though . . .(I've tried for fifteen minutes to get spaces for paragraphs above and below here, so this blog is just going to be IMPERFECT!)

I thought the Dog Days were from August 3rd to August 11th, but I just Googled them and it said they start July 3rd. No matter. Sirius, the Dog Star, rises with the sun at dawn, ushering in the hottest days of the year.

This period has a personal connection. In 1978, my father died on August 3rd. I used to go into a depression at the end of July, coming back out just in time for school to start up again. After years went by, I finally saw the relationship between the depression and his death and had an aha! The dark period of the year that grew with the heat hasn't been as dark since.

I wrote the poem below just about this time, and when I was done, I realized healing had finally happened. I included it now for my dad, Les Eason, who would be 101 on August 30th.

Stars Falling in August

Daddy, the stars fell when you died, skidding across

the night like chips pealed from chrome,

carried by burnished wind across the sky.
The creosote was drunk in the dry desert air.

And though I wasn’t there,

I’ve imagined how you flew from your soul,
leaving your daughters like thistles blown over the chaparral,
our breath thin as the stems of the palo verde

that grew stunted in the yard.

The house filled up with uncles. My boyfriend and I slept

on a cot out back. As we made love, the stars

became silver nighthawks, fish tails swimming

through the blinding air.

I was numb like the space between stars

that are too stable, refusing to stray from the safety

of their paths. I didn’t feel the meteors
of broken glass falling to earth in silent breaths.

Daddy, thousands of stars have tumbled since then,
streaking through the heat of a hundred nights.

Each second they have been in the sky,

these variegated strands of burning air.
have burned open the portion in me that closed
more than twenty years ago.

Now nights stay sober
save for the drink of starlight and the odor
of yarrow and summer grass.

but the sky will never be shorn
Of star flakes nor the earth of burning sand.

The stars fell when you died.
You were carried by the wind luminous across the sky.

My sister, Gwyn, died three years ago on August 9th. The picture above must have been taken not too long before I was born. She was seven and a half years older than I was. I idolized her and could never understand why she didn't want me hanging out with her and her girlfriends when she was twelve or thirteen. Gwyn was cool in high school, turning into a blond beauty (is that blonde beauty?), had boyfriends, did dangerous things like ride motorcycles and go to parties, things that I wouldn't have dreamt of doing when my turn came as a teenager. She was the rebel, and so I didn't need to be. She was also a real hippie. I told some of the fifth and sixth graders that I had a sister who was a hippie a couple of years ago, and I couldn't believe how fascinated they were. They asked questions right up to recess. Gwyn gave birth to my two nieces: Angela and Nicolette. Had a volatile marriage. Injuries. Back surgury. Diabetes. Hepitites which was probably from a blood transfusion when her youngest daughter was born. She died at 55.

I remember by sister defending me, holding me during our parents' frequent fights, grabbing my best friend, Rhonda, and I by the scruffs of our necks when we were five and marching us to apologize for terrorizing a three year old girl with our rubber knives while pretending to be pirates. By the time I was 12, she no longer lived at home. In many ways we were strangers, but in the last few years we finally bonded like real sisters. I couldn't cry when she died. Perhaps it was because of the pain she had been in. It may have been because I knew what was happening for a year after reading Internet posting of woman after woman who found out about hepatites years after giving birth. Strangely, I wrote HUNGRY during the year she died, a funny novel in a time I wasn't laughing much. This poem came in a rush one day a couple of months before she left us:

Heaven

Madonna is all dolled up. Her glittery eyes

look down at the baby resting in her henna hands.

The Queen of Heaven’s ready for Mardi Gras.

The graveyard stones slant below
her sparkling gaze, too quiet for a party,

too white, too gray.

In the other picture, four dancing girls

do what they can to divert barbarian hoards,

spears full tilt as they rush in for attack.

The girls dream of feet free on desert sand,

far from the soft red carpet of the harem’s floor,
far from the bad manners of these sweaty men.

In the morning, I look through my scratched lens
and sit with Andrew as he drinks chocolate milk.
Must I meditate on death with this child at my desk?
On the decal of the shuffle skeleton on the car I passed?
The white rose so quietly growing on the vine?

My sister drowns in a hospital room.

In her morphine dreams,
divas dance on the walls.

From chairs by her bed, little black boys
speak to her of heaven. I pray her rose unfurling.

Her petals.
Her wings ribbed with glittery adornments.

I think of deserts carpeted with red flowers,

the mosaic spots on butterflies,

girls with bare feet spinning,

All things transforming
and unfolding. I write HEAVEN in my book

and underline it twice.

The Dog Days have passed, but I finally have stopped my business to acknowledge both Daddy and Gwyn's passing. This entry I write for them, but mostly for me.

Fort in Coquimbo

2007-07-28T19:38:00.001-07:00

We had great empanadas here!

I want to end my Chile journal with a view of the rocks in Coquimbo. Not far from here was the Escuela de Juan Pablo Segunda and the homes of its students.

People keep asking me about Chile. The strangest question was: Do Chileans sleep in beds? Duh.

Chile is TEMPERATE with little humidity, which as Californians we really appreciate. The country is striving toward modernity and is a first world nation in many aspects. In Santiago, we were told there's an effort to create medical facilities that equal Johns Hopkins. (Will everyone be able to use them? No. Does everyone get to go to Johns Hopkins in the United States?)

We just explored the north on this trip, as it was winter. As I'm sure you know, Chile extends far to the south where the terrain and climate match that of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. Easter Island and Robinson Caruso Island far out into the Pacific also belongs to Chile. The Argentinians may disagree, but Chile claims the most southern city in the world, Punta Arenas. The country even has authority over a wedge of Antarctica!

Once again, I'll refer to what my husband says about the country: Chile is experiencing it's springtime as a nation. There are challenges, and I'm sure if we take the plunge and move we'll have many of our own. I'd like to thank my friend Debbie Southworth for writing, "You may be giving up things, but think of what you'll be gaining!"

Please come to visit when we're official residents of the southern hemisphere and discover for Chile for yourself.

Coquimbo

2007-07-28T19:25:00.001-07:00

Here is a view from the harbor in Coquimbo, looking across the bay to La Serena. If you squint, you can see the condos on the far shore. A lot of condos in Chile are in Soviet style, but a few, like those in Vina Del Mar, have more architectural flare.

So, this is where the pirate children live, the corsarios. Coquimbo has a Valpo feel, more frenetic than La Serena, a little more edge. Near the harbor, there's a section of town called El Barrio Ingles (sorry for no accent) where we were told great music was to be had.

La Serena

2007-07-28T19:09:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things I heard in Chile was a question asked by a young woman from England who had just arrived at La Casa Roja: "Are dogs sacred here?"

Though I chuckled when I heard this, I thought later, "Well, yes." They're everywhere. This guy in front of a pharmacy, for example. All of the ones I encountered were well fed and not aggressive, though I sure didn't try to pet any.

One day, coming back from lunch in the downtown area of La Serena, five big dogs followed me back to Maria's Casa. The walk was at least a mile. "Hmmm," I thought. "I have some friends." Of course, they were following the chicken scent on my hands. I'd cross a street, and they'd follow in their pack. I was quietly panicking, but when I turned down the street the hostel was on, several very small dogs came out barking from different doorways. The big dogs ran away.

La Serena is well named. It is the second oldest city in Chile, but also one of the most modern. After the bustle of Santiago and Valparaiso, we appreciated the slower pace. We fell in love with the area.

It was heavenly to fall asleep without the sound of traffic and car alarms. Quiet, except for our last night there. There was a soccer game in the stadium behind the hostel and a continual cheer lasted for about four hours.

Maria's Casa, La Serena

2007-07-28T12:24:00.001-07:00

After the Yo Yo, Marie's Casa (and that's what the sign said, not La Casa de Maria as the cab drivers would know it) was marvelous. Clean. Fresh. BUT COLD. This is where the really cold weather hit and nights were nippy! The computer was outside so fingers were freezing as they were typing! Plus, I caught a cold that I passed on to Bill the following week.

The picture above is of Pancho who is a shoemaker. He has a shop at the hostel. There's Bill, too. Pancho is fixing Bill's belt. Just as the Lonely Planet Guide Book says, Maria clucks and sweetly frets over all of her guests. Andres picks you up at the bus station if you let the hostel know you're coming, but its only two blocks away. Olga, the housekeeper, and I really bonded, as I did with Nichole, a German engineer and a frequent guest, who works on water issues in the region. It was very hard to say good bye because we were made to feel like we were home.

The Yo Yo and Valparaiso

2007-07-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

Our Room at the Yo Yo
We do live it up, don't we?

Believe it or not, I have fond memories despite the bad bed and the mildew. Bill thinks he got flea bites. VERY nice people, though. Lisa from Scotland, a Spanish teacher, spending her summer break working at the hostel and in Valparaiso. There was Hoss and Jamie, two American teachers, becoming sweethearts; and Roberto, the man on the midnight to dawn shift, polite and helpful, offering tea and calls to taxi cabs in the early morning hours after we'd gone to the folkloric club. We didn't want to go to sleep in case we might miss the 6 a.m. bus to La Serena.

We went back to Valparaiso and the club just before we left. After a taxi hurled us through the streets at 4 a.m. to find the bus station was closed, where else would we go to share a couch and have a blanket put over us?

Valparaiso is a small city just south of its more refined cousin, Vina Del Mar. I loved it: bohemian, artistic, a bit seedy in spots, hills to climb like in San Francisco, breathtaking views, glorious architecture, music, and murals. The helado (ice cream) in Chile are delicious everywhere, and are much like gelato, but the portions seemed to be extra big in Valpo.

See what I mean about the view?

A photographer's dream. Everywhere you look, scenes perfect for pictures.

We climbed to the top of the town, back down for lunch, then up another steep hill to Neruda's house. There are ascensores, funiculars to help with the hills. We just never came across one. Probably a good thing considering the helados.

Many street vendors, more great alpaca sweaters and hats. Families shopping on downtown every night until nine o'clock. We were warned that Valparaiso was dangerous. If we had gone down certain streets at night, it probably would have been. Well, I wouldn't walk through the Tenderloin at 2 a.m either.

On the nights we went to the club, young people were still on the street when it let out, no doubt wondering who these old farts were. Both times we came back to the Yo Yo, a charming young French woman was cooking (so sorry I haven't retained her name!). The first morning she was baking a tart; the second morning she had potatoes in a pot for gnocchi.

If you go to Valporaiso, please go to El Gato en la Ventana. It's on Simmons, up the hill just a way from the main streets, on the left. It doesn't open until ten. Music starts between midnight and twelve thirty. If you order a cuba libre, you won't get a lime. Instead your glass will be filled a third of the way with rum. Good thing, too, because it was cold until the dancing started. If you don't smoke, well . . . I kept telling myself that one night of inhaling probably wouldn't kill me. There was such joy in the room. Live for the moment!

The audience joined in traditional songs and danced euphorically as the night went on. The music is mostly acoustic and loud. The musicians are incredibly talented. Definitely, a night to remember.

Teaching Interviews in Chile

2007-07-28T08:04:00.000-07:00

A year ago I sent out around thirty applications to various teaching positions in southern California to try to find work closer to where my mother lives. I heard back from two, one in Thermal, and the other, an administrative position in Indio. I think both places reached 127 degrees the summer of 2006.

I'm far from fluent in Spanish, and I've been teaching a long time. Perhaps this is why I didn't get responses, but schools in Chile wanted me, and every school I visited welcomed my teaching skills with open arms.

Before I left, I researched several places and set up entrevistas. The first interview was at private school, Santiago College, which invited me back to teach a lesson in phonemic awareness to third graders. I also visited a fourth grade class and talked about California and my novel HUNGRY. I was given the Chilean hello upon my second visit, touching cheek to cheek with both the director, Sra. Farba, and the curriculum specialist whose name was Susanne, if I remember correctly. They were amazed that in California we teach EVERYthing: art, music, p.e., on and on and on . . .

I followed this interview with another at the Universidad de San Sebastien, within walking distance from our hostel. On his trip to Chile earlier in the year, Bill had talked to Sra. Pichilaf, a professor there, and found out about the commitment the country has made to teaching English. American English, at that. I don't have a master's degree, but I do have over twenty years of teaching at Title One schools and two credentials. I was offered a job to teach writing, English, and reading pedagogy to university students enrolled in the education department. San Sebastien was the first of many brand new schools Bill and I saw. The students who go to it are from the public school system, and many are the first generation in their families to have an opportunity to get a degree.

We then visited with Mr. Donald Bergman, the director of Nido de Aguilas, the American International School in Santiago, considered to be one of the most prestigious in the country. The atmosphere of the office made me feel I was back home. Half of the students are Chileans, the rest are children of diplomats and foreign business people. As an international school, representatives come to various hiring fairs in the United States. There is one in San Francisco in the spring. It's important to know that to receive a higher salary, you should be hired at one of these fairs. If I chose to work at Nido, I'd go to the San Francisco fair and make the job official this way.

I work with a Chileana, my good friend, Veronica McGee. She suggested we go to Lincoln International School, as she worked there in the 1970s. We mentioned her name to the director, Mr. Seaquist, and a big grin spread across his face. Veronica had been his teacher! Mr. Seaquist offered Bill and I both positions, starting whenever we could move to Santiago. Lincoln is a small school, which I liked a lot. Students are taught in English through the 6th grade (maybe the 8th? can't remember), and then they are taught in Spanish. I found this to be a common practice, as students need to pass the national exams to be able to graduate.

St. Margaret's British School for Girls is in Concon, a couple hours north of Santiago near the city of Vina Del Mar. (I apologize for writing "n".) I felt like I had walked into a spa. The school is bright and shiny and new. Every classroom has a view of the ocean. In emails to friends, I compared the view to that of Fort Ross on the northern California coast. The director, Sra. Avril Cooper, was warm and was thrilled when she found out I was Anglican. The student population consists of all girls, from kindergarten to 12th grade. The school is committed to the International Baccalaureate Program and sends its teachers to England to be trained.

The last school I went to was a complete surprise. Seven hours north of Santiago are the sister cities of La Serena and Coquimbo, which I plan to write more about. In Coquimbo, however, Bill was walking around in a stunning area that looked like Joshua Tree by the sea: beautiful boulders rolling down to crashing waves. In the U.S., this place would have been gobbled up by millionaires long ago, but it's one of the poorest places in Chile. Here, he found a brand new school which looked very much like St. Margaret's with the same panoramic view of the Pacific. He thought it was a private school. I went back with him the next day, and the welcome we got, two Americans just wandering in, was one of the most amazing experiences of our lives.

The school's name is Juan Pablo Segundo, but even though it's named for a pope, it's a public school. The Chilean government has spent three million dollars on new schools for the area. I brought my resume along, just in case. We told Verela, the English teacher at Juan Pablo, that we were visiting Chile and were considering moving to the country. She told us I could start work immediately if I wanted to!

Many of the children at the school are descendants of English pirates, the corsarios, who with Francis Drake used Coquimbo as a port to raid Spanish Galleons. There were many children with fair skin and freckles. Juan Pablo Segundo is two years old, and this is the first time the children had even gone to school. The first thing they had to learn was how to use a bathroom, as they used the Joshua Tree like rocks around their homes before. The teachers are highly dedicated. They say that the kids can be challenging at times, but that they are sweet. They and their families are incredibly happy to have the gift of education finally given to them.

We were invited to come back for a tea, a celebration for the three students with the highest grade in each class. While we waited, the president of the school, a charming 7th grade girl welcomed us in her very best English, while other students huddled around with pretend microphones as though she were interviewing us for television. The tea was delicious, along with sandwiches and cake, and we were told to go to the Education Department in town and drop off another resume. We did this the next day, and I'm proud to say our Spanish was good enough to get us pass the security guard and to communicate with a secretary about why we were there.

So many opportunities boggled us. We're still sorting things out. Coquimbo has its charms, and it's cheaper than Santiago. In La Serena, we found lunches for $1.60, where comparable lunches in Santiago were around $3-$5 dollars. I love being near the ocean, and Coquimbo/La Serana offer this option. Santiago, though, offers more varied opportunities, closer to the airport for trips back home, and living in a city would be so different from our life in rural northern California. We go back and forth and back again, able to imagine an array of permutations for our future.

Then . . .

On our last day, Bill and I were making last minute shopping choices (and, boy, do I wish I brought home more sweaters, scarfs, and shawls to give as presents). We were standing next to a stall with mugs with Allende and Pinochet's faces on them. Mugs on mugs, I guess. The vendor was putting her finger to her throat, indicating what Pinochet did to Allende, and Bill made a comment about how, perhaps, Pinochet's portrait should be on a chamber pot. He started talking to a gentleman standing nearby who laughed heartily at the joke.

Mr. Mattus is an epidemiologist who works at the World Bank in New York. His wife is the Chilean ambassador to Peru. He found out that I taught, took my name, and gave it to a friend who is a professor at the Preuniversitario de Chile, a feeder school to the Universidad de Chile. Yesterday I received an email and was offered a position to teach IMMEDIATELY!

Ahhhhhh!!!!! We have to sell the house in a depressed housing market. We have three dogs. I have to focus on writing, and school will start again here in California before I know it. But I think Chile is calling us, and in a year, we may be there.

The Christian and the Barbarian Do Santiago

2007-07-27T22:15:00.000-07:00

Here is my husband Bill, self proclaimed barbarian, playing guitar upstairs at La Casa Roja. Notice the high ceilings. The hostel was once a mansion, and Simon, the owner, has worked hard to restore the building and to provide all sorts of services for its guests, including ski trips to the Andes.

I was amazed at all the young people from England, Ireland, Australia, and Germany who are traveling around the world. It seems to be a rite of passage to finish school, or take a break during college, and to get a ticket that allows them to stop where they like, as long as they keep going in the same direction. There were VERY few Americans and Canadians, and the ones we met were generally a bit older, often teachers visiting Chile during "summer" break. I loved hearing different languages spoken as I'd walk through the halls. Snowboarders from Spain next door to our room drunkenly sang in Catalan a couple of nights. Very rowdy, but nice young men, all the same.

Most of these young people were visiting many of the countries in South America. A young woman from Israel volunteered at an animal sanctuary in Bolivia. On Bill's trip in February, he met a Danish woman who had worked at the same place whose responsibility was to walk a puma on a leash through the rain forest. Traveling from hostel to hostel, friendships are made; people meet up with each other quite frequently. Going to Bolivia seems to be must do, as well as Peru. I heard wonderful things about countries like Colombia, where I'd be hesitant to visit. A young woman from Australia said it was her favorite country and "only heard gunfire one night in my hammock."

According to the Lonely Planet Guidebook, Santiago is one of the safest big cities in South America. In certain areas, "starving students" might ask you to buy a poem that they have "written." Be aware. Take pictures, but don't be flashy as a tourist, and chances are there won't be any hassles.

The city rises on a plain up to the foothills of the Andes; the higher in elevation, the more wealthy the neighborhood. The Barrio Brasil, where we stayed, is near Santiago Central, and long ago was where the wealthy lived. Over time, it fell into decline, but now it's experiencing a revival, kind of a South of Market thing that has happened in San Francisco. I grew to love it because of the atmosphere of the neo-colonial buildings, the energy of the university students who seemed to be everywhere, the wonderful park where children played late at night, and the coffee we found in cafes.

Bill and I probably walked at least five miles a day. We'd head from La Casa Roja to Central where the Palacio De Moneda, the presidential palace, is. The financial sector and shopping areas are found here, too. I felt I was in Europe as I walked along the streets. By the way, street vendors sell wonderful sweaters, shawls, and scarves made from soft non-scratchy alpaca, as well as jewelry, often made from lapis lazuli.

We strolled down the Ahumada, a pedestrian thoroughfare full of stores, street vendors, musicians, and acrobats to the Plaza De Armas. The first day we were there, there was a gay pride celebration with a drag queen singing. Another time, there was traditional music and dancing, and the last visit we listened to the band of the Carboneros, the Chilean police.

We walked through the Mercado Central. The first building was a fish market, with restaurants. Acres of fish of all sorts. The second building had acres of fruits and vegetables. Cutting through Bellavista, we ended up at Cerro San Cristobal, the highest point in the city. This is a view of Santiago from an funicular that takes people almost to the top.

Can you see the smog? The first day I was there, I could taste it. It reminded me of growing up in southern California, but winter is the time of the year when smog gets worse. I joked that it was a southern hemisphere phenomenon where things were opposite from California. Actually, the Andes are so nearby that the cold air doesn't rise, but gets compacted in the basin. Smog settles in. Unless it rains, that is. Right before we left, a cold front came through, leaving snow in Lo Barnechea, the highest part of the city. Our last day was glorious: crisp air, bright blue skies, and I felt I could reach my arm out to touch the Andes.

(Here's a shot from the fruit market. Bill bought a kilo of kiwi for about 250 pesos, about 50 cents.)

We climbed to the top of San Cristobal. I went into the chapel and said a centering prayer while Bill waited for me. Good thing because we then rode down the mountain in a sky bucket, a long steep ride with a magnificent view which I enjoyed as I clasped my seat with an iron grip.

Then we "landed" in Provedencia and took the subway back to Barrio Brasil. Over a million people a day ride the subway in Santiago. It's a great way to travel during off-peek hours, though I practiced breathing calmly during rush hour when we were squished. BUT that brings me to one of the things I loved the most. People were unfailingly polite. I loved hearing the gently sound of "permiso" as people squeezed through others as they got off.

Graffiti was everywhere. I started to look on the it as art, but one of the biggest pleasures was turning a corner and finding wonderful murals like this. The Bellavista area, in particular, abounded with houses that were true works of art.

Bill frequently mentions that Chile is in its springtime. Chile has the highest standard of living in South America; though poverty is a still an issue, the country has recovered from it's dark era of repression and is going at full throttle to take its place as a modern democratic country.

Arrival in Chile . . . Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!

2007-07-27T09:56:00.000-07:00

In America, airports screen for terrorists, but when we arrived in Chile, our luggage had to be x-rayed in case we were smuggling in cheese. So, on top of my list for moving there is the lack of fear and threat. I don't believe that Chile is anyone's enemy right now, though I heard that Bolivia is still upset about losing their coastline during the guano wars in the 1800s.

I've been home for three days, reveling in the green of summer, the order and luxury of the United States. Ah, warm water in sinks and plenty of toilet paper. But spending a month in South America was heavenly, and it is increasingly looking as though we're destined to be there.

I could forget about the war for awhile, be touched by the kindness of the people we met, wooed by the romance of the neo-colonial architecture, and overwhelmed with options offered to me as a teacher.

I'd hoped to blog, but computers were busy in hostels, always with someone else waiting for their turn. Dealing with a Spanish keyboard and needing to write fast made me decide to wait until I came home. Speaking of writing, as in fiction projects, I didn't do that either. I brought an Alphasmart with me, a small lightweight word processor, but I found that it didn't cut and paste. I can barely write a sentence before I'm rewriting. The three or four times I sat down to work, things didn't flow.

Hostels in winter evenings are cold. Few people in Chile have heat beyond kerosene. There's no natural gas in the country, and South America has been experiencing the coldest winter in 90 years. Also, good light was hard to find in the evenings, and my eyes need it.

Excuses, excuses.

The day before I left, I worked with my writing partner Mary Benson on the plot for STARVED. I told her I'd be happy if I brought back 30 pages. Well . . . my subconscious usually solves manuscript challenges if I leave things alone for awhile; perhaps letting go of the pressure to write the second novel that I need to write was a good thing.

I did read A LOT, something I often don't find time for. Five novels, which were like candy: The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass by Phillip Pullman which pulled at my heart and kept me thinking, the first Sally Lockhart mystery also by Pullman, Ann Rice's Jesus the Christ, and Pharaoh by Karen Essex, wonderful to read on frigid days in July. Snowmen on the July pages of calendars might be something I never get used to.

The picture above was one of my favorite places in Santiago, a historic square near our hostel, La Casa Roja. La Casa Roja run by an ex-pat Aussie named Simon, has the reputation of being the best one in Chile, and comes with a Dalmation named Dado who has his own couch.

I freaked when I got there, though, mostly due to travel fatigue. So many people were smoking, the area around the hostel didn't look safe (although I saw hundreds of university students and women walking alone), and I realized that I wasn't going to be warm for a month. Needless to say, I got over it, and by the time I left Bario Brasil felt like home.

Hero's Journey

2007-06-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

Today I was determined to get a new entry written and then work on subplots for STARVED. Here it is, though, past 10:30, and I'm just settling down to work. I had to contact a representative from an educational publishing company to get copyright info on a math problem that I found on the web for HUNGRY. I got a letter from him last year, but there was some technicality to look into. So . . . behind schedule!

Much of my energy this week has been spent packing for our trip to Chile (leaving soon!) and working with a district committee to hammer out our English Learner program (dealing with boring stuff like forms, so all the schools in the district are on the same page).

Back to plotting: as a writer, plot is the hardest thing for me to deal with. I do outline after outline, but what seems to be logical often doesn't work when I'm actually trying to write. My good friend and mentor Bruce McAllister (a great writing coach: http://www.mcallistercoaching.com/) suggested I get the book Myth and the Movies, by Stuart Voytilla and study how the hero's journey, the archetypal "template" that all good stories follow, is applied to various film genres: science fiction, thriller, romance, romantic comedy, history, etc. The process works just as well for all stories: movies, novels, short stories.

I find that I don't enjoy a lot of movies anymore because I know what's going to happen: toward the end of the movie, the protagonist gets his or her reward which signals that the biggest hurdle is on its way. I was a little reluctant to use the process when I first read the book. Now, though, looking at it again after a year, I see what a powerful tool it is.

I've drafted the main plot of STARVED (at least I've done a first run of it) on a circle chart using the elements as described in Myth and the Movies: starting in the ordinary world, encountering a mentor, refusing the call to adventure, accepting it, crossing the threshold to a special world, facing tasks, symbolically dying through an ordeal, coming back into the ordinary world with a reward, being resurrected on the road back to the ordinary world, and returning with an elixer. There is also a character arc that correlates with plot points. Having this structure really did make the story I want to write easier to conceive.

I want to do the same process with the two subplots for STARVED later today. All three circles (or more if I have time to do character archs) will go with me to Chile. I work best when I give myself deadlines, so I've promised myself that I'll have a strong beginning for the book before I return.

Since I write about the hero journey today, the peace dove is for the young men and women in Iraq. I hate this war and don't believe in it, but my heart goes out to those who are in the middle of it. I just heard that one of my former students is headed for the army. I know that there are many kids I used to teach over there. I wish them safety, a swift return home, and peace for everyone in that tattered country.

Horrors

2007-06-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

Earlier this year while deciding which DVD to rent at the video store here on Cobb Mountain, I watched a family out of the corner of my eye while they were making their decision.

Dad and Mom, a boy about ten, and a younger boy who was probably five or six, wandered in and out of the rows. I think what caught my attention was the affection the parents had for their boys. To my surprise, the movie they decided to watch (family consensus) was SAW 2.

The day before I'd taught a writing lesson to first graders. The objective was to write using sensory details. The classroom teacher suggested that the students write about a dream they'd had. One child volunteered that Chucky was in his dream, and then one child after another talked about Chucky showing up in theirs. Chucky's one busy boogeyman. I asked the class how many of them had watched a movie with Chucky in it.

All but one or two kids raised their hands; even the sweetest little girls who usually wrote about rainbows and ponies were enthusiastically waving, wanting to share their favorite scenes.
I don't have children, but I have a feeling I'd be "old fashioned" about what I'd let my six year old watch.

At the video store, this was on my mind as I watched the family happily leave with SAW 2 tucked under the eldest son's arm. I rarely speak my mind in public, but maybe because the lesson was had just happened, I made a comment to the owner of the store about the purchase.

A man standing behind me overheard and asked, "How old is old enough for kids to watch horror?"

Taken off guard, I said, "I don't know. Twelve?" (If I had had my wits about me, I'd probably have said an older age.)

He stepped forward and pointed his finger at me, "You're saying my 11 year old isn't old enough to watch Saw 2?"

I told him my story about the first graders, and he then asked me,"But weren't they giggling?"

At this point I was almost in tears, but I managed to sputter, "Yes, they were . . ."

In a louder voice, the man asked, "And so what's wrong with it?"

I tried to say that I felt kids are growing up too fast, that I wanted them to be innocent for as long as possible, that I hated for kids to become inured to violence, having graphic violence implanted in their brains from the time they're born, and how hard it has been at times to get certain students to write something that doesn't come canned out of a movie script with heads blowing off right and left. I wanted to tell him about my worries about our society becoming desensitised to violence. I wanted to site studies about how video games have been linked to acts of violence among young men, and the anger and dread I felt when I read about how players get more points in Grand Theft Auto from shooting prostitutes after raping them.

I was flustered and couldn't talk. I managed to pay for my movie and got out of there. Then driving home, I thought about HUNGRY. Okay, here I was upset about SAW 2 and Chucky inhabiting the dreams of first graders. . . and what had I written? Deborah and her family eat people, for goodness sakes! Does the humor justify the violence in the book?

When I was writing the novel, I didn't take the Jones family dietary habits seriously because of the humor, and I didn't think anyone else would either. Willy, Deborah's best friend, and his parents are into horror movies, but when I was thinking classic horror, like Dracula and The Birds, (a movie I wasn't allowed to see when I was six or seven.) Deborah struggles with her family and culture's idea of what makes a good meal, so will kids see the importance of this?

I hope so. I hope the novel will put what is gratuitous in context and will give the little Estefanies and Gabriels a point of reference as they grow older, that they'll understand Deborah's delimma, and not just get off on the feeding she does.

Did the parents of the boys I saw in the video store talk to their kids about what they were watching after Saw 2 was over? I hope so. I hope parents will take to their kids about HUNGRY, as well.

In Front of the Refrigerator

2007-06-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

I've been craving chocolate. Grumpiness level moderately high. Fell asleep yesterday at four p.m. and slept (almost) through until six this morning. Sure signs summer vacation is sorely needed.

Bill's hammering, putting stained glass panels above our sink. He's been painting our house white and laying paving stones and redoing the deck. Working on the house in case we decide to move. We're off to Chile later this month to see if I fall in love with the country as much as he did when he went earlier this year. I haven't put away my winter clothes. The temperature in Santiago was down to freezing last night.

If we decided to live in Chile, it won't be for at least another year, though the changes we're doing (I'm using the royal "we" here, as Bill's the craftsman) will make it hard to give up this place. I found the countdown clock for my novel HUNGRY on my HarperCollins' page this afternoon, and I only have a millions things to do before October!

I'm a fretter by nature. Will kids really like the book? Will some parents be concerned their children are reading about a girl who might have her best friend for a snack? As charming as I think Deborah is, will others feel the same way?

At my church (come on by: http://stjohnslakeportparish.googlepages.com) or at meetings in the diocese, people ask me what the book's about, and I say, "Flesh eating aliens;" no one has crossed themselves or pulled out a crucifix. So far everyone has laughed. I always add: HUNGRY is about a girl who has to struggle with the values of her home and culture and the difficulty of doing the right thing.

I'm glad we're going away. Working on preparation for the publication in Internet cafes in South America probably is the best thing that could happen to me! Plus, I'll be in a new atmosphere to start seriously writing a new book.

Alethea Eason

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