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.
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. 
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.
