Dancing Samosas

The foods that I can't wait to eat when I get back to the U.S.:

1) Burritos: Black beans, rice, cheese, pico de gallo, sour cream on the side...qué rico...

2) Vegetarian Samosas: I'm actually kind of perplexed to why I am craving this because although I like samosas, they are not my favorite type of Indian food. But all of a sudden, today on the bus ride to Coinco, this immense craving for Indian food came over me, and all day, this mini-movie in my mind - in which samosas were dancing and taunting me to eat them - was playing on repeat. Over and over again. It was super cruel. 

3) Pizza: They have pizza here, but it's just not the same. Although me, Elaine, Tessa, Cass, and Katerina went to a pretty legit pizza restaurant called "Tiramisu" a few weeks ago, and the pizza was hella good. 

The foods that I know I will get sick of in Chile:

1) Empanadas: Ok, first of all, the most popular type of empanada - el pino - is the most random conglomeration and congregation of flavors ever. It's ground beef with onions (ok, it starts off not that random), but then they add in exactly one olive (not pitted of course), and a hard-boiled egg. It's ok, but the ground beef is so grounded that sometimes it just tastes like beef liquid. I'll eat it if it's handed to me, but I'm not going out of my way to order one. Hell na. 

2) Manjar: Manjar is a caramel-type spread, but less sticky, and it's hella good. With that being said, because I've had manjar so fucking much while I've been here, I know that I will start to get sick of it really soon. Although I did just buy a chocolate with manjar filling candy bar today, so it might take me a while to get sick of it.

3) Bread: Listen, I am the queen of bread. I love bread a lot. In fact, I love it so much, that when (ok, let's be real, IF) I get rich, I'm buying myself a whole island and calling it Panlandia. With that being said, Chileans have it so damn much. Even more, they eat white bread MUCH MORE than they eat pan integral, or whole wheat bread. And listen, I'm not ashamed to say that because of my hippie upbringing, I fucking love whole wheat bread. My soul cries with joy during the times that I've been able to eat some variation of wheat/grain bread. Unfortunately, those times have been few and far between.

So that's my kvetching session. I'll end this post though with a fun fact: Chileans love sushi. They fucking love it. It's the most random thing ever, but they go fucking loco for it. 

And thus ends my food post. And fuck, those samosas are still doing their stupid dance routine....

Más Fotos de Mis Viajes

Más o Menos Peligrosa

Strikes happen at La Universidad de Chile, that's a known fact. There's usually at least a couple of weeks in total (bastante veces more) of them. But, being the naive gringa that I am, I thought that the first one wouldn't happen until at least about a month or two after school starts.

Reality: Day 9 (Thur, 3/19): The first strike occurs. Oh great. 

It wasn't a big strike, so I was kind of confused about what was going on. "Maybe it's just a carrete [party]," I naively thought. I mean, after all, people were holding beer bottles. I continue walking down the street that runs parallel to the university. Soon, I hear a beer bottle whiz by me and crash onto the ground. Oh, so that's what they're using them for. Not for drinking, but rather for throwing. Ok, let's be real, they're for drinking THEN throwing (those Chileans like their beer...they're not going to waste a good Escudo or Cristal). Immediately afterwards, I see students hurl what appears to be a couple of mini-bombs over the high fence surrounding La Chile, and across the street (although I didn't see anything blow up so I have no idea what it was...maybe tear gas, I don't know). FUCK. "Who are they throwing them at?" I wondered. I look across the street, and there are a bunch of pacos (policemen) in what appeared to be quasi-combat uniform, with masks over their face, and guns at their sides. I couldn't believe this was happening already. Farther down the street appeared to be absent of students and policemen, so I made a "backpack run" (arms straight, legs extended, backpack flopping up and down) for it. Speaking of backpack runs and their derivatives, a few days ago, I saw a short, skinny, and adorable old Chilean man do the "one-armed run" (sin backpack, but carrying a stack of books) across campus, which is a classic I haven't seen in a while. It's good to know that that form of running i still utilized and has not gone extinct yet. Anyway, I seemed to be the only one running frantically for my life. Of course, all the other Chilenos behind me were fucking tranquilos, just walking calmly, as if this was just a typical Thursday and nothing was going on. So of course I end up looking like the scared and wimpy gringa. I wouldn't be surprised if they were all laughing at me. In fact, they probably still are.  

After this 100 yard dash that I completed, I was still trying to decide if I still wanted to go to class (instead of going home), for 2 reasons:

1) The strike appeared to be a pretty small strike, and only happening on one end of the campus, and my class was on the other end.

2) It was my photography class, which I hadn't checked out yet, and I was DESPERATE to see how it was. 

So, I go to the other end of campus. and ask the security guard (there are various security guards at different points on the border of campus), "What's happening?"

"What do you mean what's happening?"

"Is there a strike?"

"Not that I know of...why, did you see anything?" [Fuck, you're the security guard, it's your job to know this kind of shit].

"Well there are people throwing beer bottles and maybe mini-bombs across the street to the policemen."

"People are throwing stuff?" [No, I'm making up a really cute and funny story to tell you because you looked really bored]. 

"Yes."

"And there's policemen here?" [No, sir, just unicorns].

"YES."

"Interesting." [More like life-threatening, weón]

"Yes. Errr, are these strikes usually pretty dangerous?"

"Más o menos." [What the fuck do you mean más o menos?!?"]

"Más o menos" [More or less] was basically the security guard's way of expressing his chillness concerning the strikes, like "Oh, sometimes it can be dangerous, I guess. You know, whatever." Fuck, dude, people are throwing unidentified types of weapons to policemen who seemed ready to fight back if agitated enough, how the fuck can it be "Más o menos dangerous?!?"

So I go to class, and it wasn't even the kind of photography class that I wanted to take because it turned out to be a really intense journalism class where you take pictures and write a shitload of articles, which would be hard enough in English. Hell no if I'm going to try to do that in Spanish. I'm all about going outside my comfort zone, but I also know my limits. So I half-risked my life to look at a class that I now don't even want to take. Luckily, the same teacher teaches a basic photography class, so I'm going to check it out next week, of course hoping I don't have to encounter a strike again. If that's the case, I'm not bothering to go to class, and I'm sending my ass back home.

Days in school so far: 9. Strike count: 1. This is going to be a long semester. 

Quieres Más?? Obviopo

If you want to see A BUNCH more pictures from my travels, go to:

www.flickr.com/photos/jennypennyjcl

Because even procrastinating on Facebook gets old sometimes. Stroke my ego and visit my page. Thanks.

Patagonia Pictures (Part II)

Patagonia Pictures (Part I)

A Few Pictures So Far (Isla Negra and Algorrobo, Chile)

We got to see penguins!!

                     I love taking pictures of the landscape, especially when it involves clouds

We got to visit one of Pablo Neruda's 3 houses in Chile. This one was in Isla Negra. On the fence outside his house, many people wrote romantic notes to their significant others. This one is of them. It basically says, "Eduardo - Your love appeared in 2008, and I was finally able to know true happiness. I love you. Your Veronica." My heart is literally melting as I type this right now - qué romántico, no? :)

View from Pablo Neruda's bedroom. I'm sure he was a genius poet, but this amazing view sure as hell didn't hurt. 

Charm School

Update: My family still thinks I'm a disgusting slob. Here is some more evidence:

~Exhibit A: My host dad made me dinner tonight - it consisted of the leftover pasta we had today for lunch. He literally gave me a huge heaping serving that was so enormous it almost spilled out over the plate and onto the table. Kind of like a muffin top, but way less disgusting. Now granted, I had just gone on a run about an hour before, so I was hungry. I continue to just kill that dish like it was nobody's business, and my host dad is just staring at me wide-eyed and in disbelief. "Well that was easy," he said in Spanish. "Jaja, yes, I guess I passed the test!" I joked, and then proceeded to laugh at my own lame jake. He didn't laugh. (Usual standard procedure after a lame Jenn joke). He usually offers me "postre" (meaning "dessert," but usually in my house, the postre is fruit), after I finish my dinner, so after a short silence, I asked, "Uhhhh, is there any postre?" (Shit man, I was still hungry...I gotta survive somehow). He said, 

"No, I don't think so." 

"Uhhhh, any more pasta, possibly?

"You ate the rest." 

"Oh." 

And then we started talking more about this subject, with me repeating my lame joke that I've busted out a few times here in this house, "Yo como como un hombre." ("I eat like a man.") And in response, he was just kinda like, "But you're kind of slender." But in a connotation of "how the fuck are you not obese with the amount of food you eat every day" kind of way. You know the drill.

I'm just gonna keep it real - I don't know how they survive off of the amount they eat. I mean, they aren't starving themselves, but shit, I need more than some palta (avocado) and pancito (bread) for my third meal of the day. And it's weird because most Chilean families are the opposite (although I talked to my friend Elaine and she said her family was similar too). Luckily they know I eat like a teenage boy and are accordingly adjusting, but it still cracks me up to think how amused they are with how much I eat compared to them. And yes, I am still the only one that goes back for seconds. It's embarrassing, but necessary, and you know what, I'm not apologizing for it. That chicken was good, and I want some fucking more, por favor. And it's not just the humans in my family that have noticed my appetite. Rufo, the dog, comes up to me to try to steal my food - I kid you not - every time I sit down and eat a meal, because he knows that I'm his best shot at getting something (More On Plate + Eating Slower Than The Rest = Rufo's Ideal Meal. It's really quite simple math. Even for me, the Token Humanities Major that can't even do simple multiplication anymore). And then my host dad yells out, "Pesote!" which means "troublemaker." And then Rufo retreats. And then proceeds to try to jump up and steal my food again. And then my host dad yells out "Pesote!" again. And Rufo retreats. And rinse, lather, and repeat. In not so related but kind of related news, he's still humping people. That's actually how he greets all of the friends that I've had over so far. In fact, he tried humping my friend Diego today at the lunch table.  I think Rufo actually thinks he's being polite or something. Who the fuck knows , all I know is it's about time for a Bob Barker-worthy intervention. I mean, he's not overseeing Plinko, or the spinning of the wheel, or even the game with the yodeling figure that climbs up the cardboard mountain, anymore, he's got to have some free time on his hands. 

~Exhibit B: So I make my bed every day. We've established this. When in Chile, do as the Chileans do (exception: calories consumed per day - see above). But I swear, some days, I think they re-make my bed because I'm so bad at it. Hey, when you haven't practiced in like 21 years to make beds, you're going to be a little rusty. What can I say, my hippie family was a little laissez-faire on a few aspects of child-rearing. Don't even get me started on my table manners. In related news, what do you use a fork for? Just kidding, I know what it's used for - to brush your hair. That's right, I just busted out a Little Mermaid reference like whoa. Bam. But anyway, back to my life on the mainland, I think I do a pretty good job of making the bed - in fact, I would go as far to say that I'm proud - yes, proud - of the job I've done. But there are some days when I notice a pillow in a different place, or the crinkles are a little bit more smoothed out than I remember. So, one of my major goals (besides that whole part about being fluent in Spanish, exposing myself to a different culture, blah blah blah) is getting to the point where I am able to make my bed so well (ok, let's be real, so satisfactory), that my Chilean family won't have to do it again. Wish me luck, comrades.  

What can I say, I'm a hot mess. That's really all there is to it. Next up: charm school. I'm calling it right now. 

Old Man In Jogging Shorts 2: The Return of the Male Hot Pants

You know how in one of my older posts, I talked about how no matter which country you go to, you will always see at least one old man with objectionably short jogging shorts, circa 1982?? Well, my dad is "that one old man." I'm going to use all of my technological might to upload the infamous picture to this blog. For the sake of fashion intervention, let's call it Exhibit A. It is of him a few weeks ago (as opposed to actually in 1982...he really has no good excuses for wearing these hideous shorts) in the Galapagos Islands. In related news, dad, I love you muchísimo. But let's keep it real, you need some new clothes.

Mom, I don't care how many times he's refused, you're taking him shopping. Or, we will just have to put him in a strait jacket and call Tim Gunn. I don't care what you do, I want results, and I want them now. 

Sequels are always worse than the originals. This one is no different. 

The Wrath of Jesus (And His Company)

So the first week of classes have officially commenced for me, and damn, has it been a long week. So long, that I feel like all of my creative juices have been zapped out of me, and thus, I fear that this blog entry won't be as up to par as my other blog entries. Well, I can't turn back now, so here it goes.

So anyway, classes started this week, which sucked. Reality didn't just bite me in the ass, it kicked me in the stomach, it punched me in the face, and it stabbed me in the back. To name a few. My last final at Berkeley was on December 19, so up until March 9, I wasn't in "real school" at all. It was basically like another summer vacation, which was great, but now I'm lazy as fuck and have the attention span of a Berkeley squirrel on crack. Yeah, that bad. And you thought paying attention in class normally was bad - try doing it in a language you're only half-fluent in. I can't even daydream anymore! You can say I'm a dreamer (cue "Imagine" right now). I like to indulge in the occasional mental vacation called "mind wandering." I like ruminating, philosophizing, analyzing, and all the annoying synonyms that come along with it. So if somehow I'm staring at you in a moderately creepy way, 97% of the time, this is the reason. 2% of the time, I'm psychoanalyzing you. 1% of the time, you probably just shouldn't ask. In classes here, it's just not a good idea to do that. In English, I can multi-task up the wazoo. I can daydream, watch TV, and listen to someone talk, and still have a good grasp of what that person was saying. Here, just merely writing notes down immediately shuts out what that person (i.e. the professor) is saying. And if I daydream (which unfortunately has happened more often than not here), it's so hard to jump back into what is going on in the lecture. If I concentrate really hard, I feel like I can get the general idea of what someone is saying after they have been talking awhile, but it's hard for me to translate exactly what they are saying as they are saying it. It's like filling in the puzzle pieces much later than everyone else, and still not getting the whole entire picture. I know that as the semester progresses, it will get a lot better, but right now, it can definitely get pretty draining at times.

Another thing that's hard about taking classes in Spanish is that....now here comes a shocker, so prepare for it....you have to talk in Spanish! And I really didn't become that self-conscious of my gringa accent until this week. I don't know why, but this major self-consciousness just didn't hit until school started. In my 3-week intensive language program, I was surrounded by fellow Americans, so it didn't really matter how I sounded. But here, I open my mouth, and immediately, I get the scarlet letter G - GRINGA. And what sucks is that in most of my classes, the teachers usually want you to introduce yourself and say why this class interests you. Something that I usually look forward to (Because you kind of get a little preview of what your classmates' personalities are like...and, to keep it real, I get to indulge in a little narcissism and talk about myself) has become a nightmare for me. So one class, I decided to make light of my obviously horrible accent and say, "Soy estudiante de intercambio....obviamente" (I'm an exchange student...obviously), and everyone in my class laughed (I swear with me, not at me....errr I think), so I decided to repeat the one lame (albeit successful) joke that I had, in hopes that it would work in every class (hey, I never claimed to be original or creative). Unfortunately, I think that class was a fluke, and every time after that one successful run (3 more times in total...I really should know when to give up), it has been a complete bomb. Either only one or two people politely laugh, or, as noticed today, people laugh AT me instead of with me. 

So, moving on from my failed attempts at stand-up comedy. We have a 2-week shopping period at La Universidad de Chile (also known as La Chile or La U), which is great because I am all about the shop and drop. The only thing problem is that we didn't even get to pick classes until literally a week before school, which is super intense. And you thought signing up for classes at Berkeley was stressful - and that's at least 4 months in advance. Here in Chile, we literally just got back from vacations to organize our classes, and bam! We get dropped into the craziness of the university. What was even worse too was that the online schedule wasn't fully updated until literally 2 days before classes started. So half the list of the potential classes weren't even there, so you can plan your classes more effectively. The Chileans' response to our worries? "Tranquilo," (which basically means, "Don't worry/Be calm/Chill the fuck out"), which I swear is their favorite word to use, especially for us stereotypical, stressed out Americans. I wouldn't even be surprised if they just fucked up the online schedule just to see us norteamericanos sweat a little. 

Even more crazy/amusing, even with the addition of classes to the online schedule, it was still a hot mess. Why, you might ask? Because there were bastante classes that didn't have a room number, a time, the days of the week when it met, just to name a few. You literally could make a drinking game out of it. Room TBD? Take a shot. Professor not listed? Take another shot. Days and times not on there? Take another fucking shot, you fool. So usually, what I would have to do is go down to the "Secretaria de Estudios" and ask where/when/who/why/when/where/when/where/where???/where????/where????? my classes were. So you literally just have to go down to that specific faculty (La Chile has different faculties spread out over Santiago) and just hope that whatever limited information that it said on the online schedule was right.  Also (luckily, this has only happened once to me -I'm one of the fortunate few), sometimes, your classes just get straight up cancelled...forever....and they fail to tell you about it. On Tuesday, I was at the Public Institutions faculty to look at a class on Gender and Sexuality, and when I got there, the secretary told me, "Oh yeah, no one signed up for it, so we cancelled it." I couldn't help but wonder, how fucking hard is it to type in the letters C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D into the online schedule? In retrospect, I should have been able to spot the ominous warning signs when I saw them. Exhibit A: The street that this class was supposed to be on was called, I kid you not, Jesus's Company Street. 1413 Compañia de Jesus, to be exact. Smack dab in the middle. I couldn't decide - if this class was still available - whether taking it would have been either rewardingly and comedically ironic, or if it would have just made me plain nervous. I mean, symbolically, Jesus and his followers would be watching me. And as oscillatingly Atheist/Agnostic as I am, I still might have felt a little uncomfortable. Then again, it would have been really fun to talk about "abominable" things such as equality and comprehensive sex education in front of Jesus and his company. Oh well, I guess I will never know. 

Another problem I encountered was that they have two facultades that are called "Facultad de Arte." One is at Campus Macul, the main humanities campus, and the other one was somewhere in the Centro that I didn't bother checking. The reason why I didn't check was a) The class I wanted to check out was a psych class, and all of the other psych classes were at Macul and b) I was too fucking lazy to check to see where exactly the other Facultad de Arte was. So, on the day that I had this class, I go down to Macul and ask the Secretaria of Estudios where this class is, and of course, she tells me:

"Oh, it's at the other Facultad de Arte." 

And then I ask her, "Oh, where is that?"

"Near the Santa Ana metro station."

"Which street is it on?"

"Compañia de Jesus."

Of course it is. 

Jesus: 2. Jenn: 0. Jesus and his company are kicking my ass right now. I really should have known. I haven't found any other classes that look interesting that are on Jesus and His Divine and Holy Fucking Company Street, and you know what, I think it's better that way anyway. 

Other than a few perverse forms of divine intervention, class shopping has pretty much been smooth sailing. There have been a few classes that I have sat in on that sound interesting. One of them is Gender and Law, which is offered at the Facultad de Derecho (School of Law) at La Chile. It's co-taught by these two strong women, and we will be talking about basically everything: The Day After Pill (the Supreme Court of Chile recently ruled down distribution of this pill in pharmacies), abortion, differences in pay at work, the struggle for same sex couples' rights (marriage, adoption, etc), and much more. It's basically a Pandora's Box of intellectual wonderfulness. I'm also thinking about taking a class called Anthropology of Gender, which touches on similar themes as well, but still a fairly distinct class. The first day was a little weird though because we read and discussed some weird myth/made up story about women having scorpions in their vaginas (When I first heard the teacher pair the words "scorpion" and "vagina" together into the same sentence, I just thought my Spanish comprehension was extra shitty that day), but I think it will actually be an interesting class. This class is co-taught too, and the teachers are super nice. But I still have other classes to check out, so we will see. 

So that's been my week so far. I'm looking forward to Aconcagua Valley tomorrow, and a few carretes this weekend. Alright, today I've thought and spoken extensively in Spanish, and I've written extensively in English. Now I am truly exhausted. Good night, everyone.

Tradeoffs

Like I said before, my new host family so far has been absolutely welcoming and fabulous. With that being said, there are a few things I have to acostumbrarme to. So here are a few things that I'm still trying to get used to at my new house:

1) The gate in the front yard is really hard to close. I don't even know how to describe it, but you have to make sure this nail-like structure is matched up with the hole perfectly, and then shut it both strongly and quickly. Everytime I think I have it down, the next time, I can't do it.

2) Sometimes, the lever you use to flush the toilet is stuck, so I have to go open the tank at the top and flush it manually.

3) They prefer powdered milk, which means you need to mix it with water in order to get the final product. I have yet to figure out the right ratio of powdered milk to water, and it usually turns out looking clumpy and gross. I guess it's better than the other type of milk that Chileans drink, which is milk you don't have to refrigerate until opening. I've had it a couple of times here and it's fine, but the concept of not refrigerating milk right away always seemed a little sketch to me.

4) My family appears to eat less than I do, which feels like a rarity in Chile (usually, it's the opposite problem). In fact, they don't really eat dinner, but rather something called "Once" (pronounced "On-say," it literally means "11" in Spanish). When they first told me that, my Spanish was so shitty that I thought they were just telling me that the time they eat dinner was 11. "Ok, that's kinda late," I thought. "But I'll deal." The real deal turned out to be that Once is surprisingly enough, not at once, but just another word for tea time, or something of the sort. So you have tea, a little bit of pancito (bread), ham, maybe some avocado, and you're good for the night. You can imagine my surprise the first night I was there that at 6 PM my host dad declared Once and served me some food and tea. With regards to lunch, because they don't eat as much, I end up looking like a gordita, chowing down everything and serving myself seconds, while they're satisfechos with some soup and salad. When I'm like, "Pass the chorizo, porfa," I can tell they're incredulous/mildly disgusted at how much their new norteamericana eats. They tell me to help myself to whatever I want, but I know that they're secretly judging. Also, they always finish their food before I do, and they're unfortunately left waiting for me to finish. I have 2 theories about this: 1) They put more food on my plate (they already know how much I chow down) AND 2) I talk more (surprise surprise), which vastly, and unfortunately for them, decreases my average bites per minute. They've quickly caught on that I eat like a 15-year-old boy (or at least in their eyes), so they make it a point to always tell me that I can heat up the leftovers after I eat Once. So basically, I'm like the Cookie Monster of the house. Except I don't just steal their cookies, I steal all of their food. 

5) I have to make my bed every morning here. Back in the States, I never made my bed. I know, I'm a slob, and you know what, I embrace it. It just always seemed counter-intuitive to me. You make your bed look nice just to mess it up a few hours later...why do that to yourself? You're wasting precious minutes of the day, when you could be, for example, I don't know, being socially anti-social and going on Facebook. At my last host family's house, my host mom made my bed every day. I would plead with her and insist not to make my bed for me, that I felt bad because I would always remove the blankets at night anyways (it was the middle of summer and I would schvitz like no other) and that it was ok for me to not have my bed made. And she would shoot down my arguments and say that she is my mother here ("¡Ya mi niña!") and that she enjoys taking care of me, thus, she is going to make my bed every day. Oy vey. Here, in my new house, the day after my first night here, my host dad pops into my room and says, "Te recomiendo hacer tu cama," which is a super nice and polite way of basically saying, "Hey slob, clean that shit up and make your room look less disgusting, barbaric, and savage-like by por favor, making your bed. Shit, you're a sloppy mess." So, even though I would rather not, obviously, it's their house and I'm going to respect their way of doing things (because that's how I roll) and make the bed. So I begrudgingly and sleepily do it every morning after I wake up. I have to admit though, it does make my bedroom look 8000 times nicer.

On the other hand, besides the fact that they're a legit family, their shower is off the hook. At my last host family's house, the showerhead was fucking bipolar, and would change temperatures every 20 seconds. Literally. Every 20 seconds.  Or, if I was lucky, it would stay at a nice temperature for a minute or two, and then just change all of a sudden again. I wish I was kidding, but I'm not. In my 6 weeks there, I could never figure out how to get that shower temperature just right. So half of the times, I would usually end up taking super quick showers that would just go over the basics (conditioner, body wash, out!). Shaving became out of the question for a while. My hair would get greasy because I didn't shampoo it enough. Hey, it was a survival instinct. If you had scalding or freezing water running down your back, you'd understand. Finally, after the first month of unsuccessfully attempting to maneuver the shower, I asked my host mom to help me, and she basically said it was "muy facil" and left it at that. And when I would ask her how many turns of the hot side and how many turns of the cold side she would recommend to me, she would just be very vague about it and say whatever suited my mood. Grrr. So I just dealt with it still for the last 2 weeks because I didn't want to appear like an ungrateful gringa and I didn't have the heart to tell her that the shower was fucking loco. But here, the shower experience is straightforward and easy, which immediately translates to AMAZING. 

So I can't close the gate properly. I have to deal with toilet water occasionally. My milk has yet to be clump-less. I present myself as a 15-year-old boy. And I have to make my bed every morning. That all becomes worth it for the legit family, the location, the wi-fi, and the "just right" showers. It's all about the tradeoffs. Hey, I can deal with that.

Quién Es Mi Otro Hermano?

I love my new host family. They're really nice and adorable and welcoming, and I hope that the rest of the semester stays the same way it has been. There has been one semi-embarrassing moment that has happened already though (I mean, c'mon, what is the life of Jennifer Lerner without a dash - ok, more than a dash - of awkwardness?). So there are 3 kids in the household: Valeria, Felipe, and Maximiliano, all who around my age. I met Valeria and Felipe in the first few days here, but had yet to meet Maximiliano. So Elaine and Katerina are over at my house yesterday, and we were talking in the kitchen, when all of a sudden I hear the door knock. So I open the door, and there's a guy standing there. Felipe had just come home, so I assume it must be a friend of his. I say hi to him give him the obligatory kiss on the cheek (how Chileans greet each other, which by the way, is so much more fun of a greeting than in the States), and he's off. I go to my bedroom to get something really quickly, and when I come back, Elaine asks me, "Is that one of your host brothers?" 

I reply, "I don't know." 

Elaine says, "What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Well, I haven't met one of them yet."

"Do you know what his name is?"

"It's Maximiliano."

"Yeah, that was him - he introduced himself as Maximiliano."

Chucha.

I think to myself, "Great, now he's going to think I'm weird because I didn't recognize him as one of my host brothers." Elaine and Katerina immediately start laughing at me, and I can't help but laugh too, because of course I would pull something like this. After the "Look At Another Ditzy Thing Jenn Has Pulled" laughfest (A long time ago, I just started embracing my ditziness and awkwardness, because, really, it's the only thing you can do - I'd even go as far to say it's quite endearing), Elaine says to me, "Jenn, you should go over and introduce yourself." I decide that's a good idea, so I proceed to go to the backyard where the small house is (where Maximiliano and Felipe live), and I knock on Maximiliano's door. He opens the door, and I introduce myself. The conversation goes as follows (translated in English for your viewing pleasure):

Me: Hey, I just wanted to officially introduce myself. My name is Jenn.

Maximiliano: [nods]

Me: I'm your new host sister! {Except I didn't know how to say "host sister," so I just said "hermana aqui," which means "sister here," which sounds pretty awkward}. I totally didn't realize you were Maximiliano when I first met you!

Maximiliano: [nods]

Me: I just thought you were one of Felipe's friends, and then one of my friend's asked me if you were my host brother, and I said that maybe, since I hadn't met him yet. And then she asked me what the other brother's name was, and I told her it was Maximiliano, and she said that, yep, that the name of the person that just walked through the kitchen was indeed Maximiliano! I felt so dumb, but hey, it happens a lot to me! Jajajaja!

Maximiliano: [laughs politely] Jajaja.

Me: Well anyways, it was great to meet you...again! Jajaja. Ciao! [I give him a kiss on the cheek, which he begrudgingly accepts]

I return to my room where Elaine and Katerina are chilling, and I say to them, "Great, now he thinks I'm weirder than I was before."

And that pretty much sums up our interaction so far. Let's hope that the first impression doesn't become a lasting impression. Qué verguenza.

Ojos Abiertos

So the dog (Rufo) at my new host family's house is out of control. Why, you might ask? A short lecture para Ustedes:

One of my friends Katerina came over a couple of days ago, and Rufo immediately went after her. Much more aggressively than the shenanigans that occurred on my move-in day, unfortunately for Katerina. Chaos ensued, and a lot of scrambling was needed around the kitchen and my bedroom to ameliorate the situation. Also, today at lunch, Rufo had a hard-on, in plain view, in front of all of the family. Yes, I know it's inappropriate to be talking about a dog's boner, but it was just a ridiculously amusing moment because everyone at the table saw it at the same time and immediately started laughing nonstop. It was out of control.

Not only is Rufo an occasional sexual aggressor, he also sometimes partakes in trying to steal food. If he wasn't so pudgy, I would think he's starving to death because he's constantly going after food. He loves human food. Especially chocolate (and Tessa, you thought you were a chocoholic). Two days ago, my host mom was eating chocolate, and Rufo immediately attempted to steal that shit. And today, I brought home some chocolate to share with my host family, and right before we were about to start watching "Made of Honor," he starts running like a mad man after the chocolate. Unfortunately, chocolate is only the tip of the iceberg. When I was eating my dinner tonight, he started running and attempted to robar my arroz con pollo. 

In better news, Rufo hasn't tried to hump me again since the first day - I'll take food stealing over sexual aggression any day.

Moral of the story: Rufo is adorable as fuck, you just have to be on guard. Ojos abiertos, chicos. 

Las Uvas Son Ricas

Another thing I like about Chile? The grapes here taste SO MUCH better. My family actually grows grapes in their backyard, and they are so fucking good. It's amazing what not putting fertilizer and herbicides in a plant will do to it. ¡Mmmmmm qué rico! 

Bienvenido a la Casa Nueva

The pet dog at my new house, like the gentleman that he was, greeted me by stealing and trying to eat one of my sandals,  and an hour later, humping me a few times. Which I wasn't fully aware of...I thought he was just grabbing hold of my right leg to try to attack me. I'm so naive. Of course, this wasn't the first time that I was unaware of dogs' sexual intentions - in Viña, I saw one dog chasing another dog and I said "Awwww, how cute, they're playing tag!" And then Cassie had to point out to me that this was not playground play, but rather, the dog that was doing the chasing was basically trying to rape the other dog. 

So, pop quiz: Who mistakes rape for an innocent game of tag? Answer: I do.

Well, you learn something new every day.