Notes from the English Department

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.

La musica de los perros

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

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.

Susana

 

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

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 Best Treasure

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

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

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

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

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

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.