The Return of Jesus and His Company

Yesterday, at my internship (I help teach English to La Chile students, and it´s conveniently located conveniently on the street Compañia de Jesus, where I've already had a string of bad luck), one of my students randomly asked me what the phrase "hard-on" meant.

I couldn´t back down. I had no choice, and proceeded to explain it to them. As weird as it would seem to explain this to students in general, it was even weirder in my broken Spanish. ("Cuando...un hombre... está excitado....sexualmente...").

They couldn´t stop repeating it throughout the whole class.

I really don´t think Jesus likes me all that much.

Fanny Pack Attack (Part II)

Today, on the way to my Gender and Law class on the Metro, I saw what appeared to be a young, hip Chilean wear a fanny pack. It was leathery and very worn-down: not in the sense of "I got this at a thrift store to be hip," but rather, in the "I eat and breathe fanny packs, and thus, have worn this fanny pack every single day, every single hour of the day, every single minute of the day, every single second of the day, for the past 6 years" kind of deal. He was wearing it on his side, and definitely thinking he was hot shit.

Now that I've really noticed this fanny pack phenomenon, I can't help but see it EVERYWHERE. Can't. Escape. The. Fanny. Packs. Must. Resist.

That is all. 

Fanny Pack Attack

                                                       The fanny pack legacy lives on.

Fanny packs. Before arriving here, I had only connected this fashion atrocity with my mom (who was infamous for her collection of bright fanny packs, and would wear one almost every day), people from the 80s/90s, people STUCK in the 80s/90s, nerds, and hipsters trying to be ironic. Yet apparently, the fan base goes way beyond that. "How would you ever know this, Jenn?" you may ask. Because I've spotted some Chileans wearing them too. In fact, they fucking love them. They might even love them more than pastel de choclo, alfajores, completos, piscolas, choripan, and empanadas combined. I remember at the beginning of my study abroad experience, when I was in Viña with Cass and her neighbors, we noticed that one of her neighbors had one and immediately started making fun of him. Without hesitation, one of the other neighbors and the fashion offender not only started defending this fashion choice, they also started expressing their love and support for such accessory. "¡Pero es muy util!" (But it's really useful!) they exclaimed to us. I thought that this fanny-pack spotting in Chile was maybe just an isolated incident, and that I would never see such a thing again.

Then, a couple of days ago, I was carreteando with Katerina, Tessa, Diego, and his friends Gabriel and Pablo, when of course, none other than Gabriel and Pablo were sporting their own fanny-packs as well! And surprise surprise, the principal justification was the same ("¡Pero es muy util!"). 

Fanny packs look kind of dumb, but I have to admit, it's a fucking lata (drag) going to a club trying to stuff my cell, Bip! card (for the bus/metro), ID, money, and keys all into my pockets, and still make sure that none of them fall out. I probably look dumber trying to dance whilst simultaneously repeatedly pushing all of my shit back into the depths of my pockets, than a Chilean wearing a fanny pack. Fanny packs probably are util. Maybe these Chileans are on to something....  

Musical Chairs, Opposite Shotgun, and the Micro Game

I really should be making my pinhole camera for my photography class tomorrow, but I would much rather talk about myself (who doesn't enjoy cheating on their "good person" diet and indulging in some narcissism from time to time, really?), so here goes another entry.

So I've realized that public transportation in Santiago all boils down to a matter of childhood games, and here's how it goes:

1) The Metro: The Metro, although amazing in terms of the amount of trains running and the efficiency of the trains (although I have to admit, despite being here for 2 1/2 months, I'm still in that BART mentality where if I see a train leaving, I mildly freak the fuck out and get ready to run my ass off to try to make it, only to then realize I here I DON'T have to wait another horrid 16 minutes until the next one comes), is a hot mess in terms of how many people are stuck riding the train together. During the rush hour, which is 8-10 am (which luckily, being the lazy bum that I am, I'm never out the door that early) and 5-7 PM, everyone on the Metro is usually so squished and packed in together so tight like sardines that let's just say that because of this, I've already accidentally gone to second base with about half the people in Santiago. To add to the shenanigans, because there are so many people on the Metro, there is so much body heat floating around that everyone is sweating like crazy on the train. It's basically like the Nelly "Hot in Herre" video, but WAY LESS sexy. Even when it's not rush hour, things are still hectic, and people are as antsy as hell to get seats on board (the amount of seats there are are VERY VERY limited, so you usually end up standing up and holding on to a pole, or to the nearest person by you for that matter). Seats are to Santiaguinos (Santiago residents) as food is to seagulls. Every time there are a bunch of seats open, I can't help but hear in my head, "Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!" coupled with the image of a mob of people walk-running towards an open seat. Despite the polite reminder from the driver every time you board, "Permite bajar antes de subir" (Let the people on the train get off before you board the train), people are busy pushing and shoving their way through. Thus, the Metro essentially becomes a vicious game of musical chairs. But this time, the loser is not out, but rather, just confined to the mushpot. Only to find out that they are not the only ones in the center of the circle, but rather, there are about a billion other people, and the mushpot is not big enough to hold us all in. Which always makes the 9 metro stops you have until you get to Estación La Católica a Christmas present come early every time. 

2) Taxis: Taxis usually become a common method of transportation around 11 and after, since the Metro has closed by then (which honestly doesn't make sense to me because calling it a night at 3 AM for Chileans is frowned upon as being fome [boring, lame, etc]), and also because us gringos are all too dumb and flojos (lazy) to figure out the bus schedule in parts of town other than our own. Not to mention that it's probably way more safe to take a taxi back than to walk home 5 blocks from where the closest bus stop is to your house at night. So we usually end up taking a taxi to get back home during the weekends. And because the easiest, cheapest, and most efficient way to take a taxi back home is to flag one down on a busy street corner (You can call a type of taxi called a Radio Taxi to come pick you up, but it takes harto tiempo [way too much time] to wait for one, plus the starting rate is more expensive). And although sketch situations with taxi drivers are rare, it still can be kind of a risk because you are just flagging down some random taxi driver that you don't know what their deal is. Because of this potentially sketch endeavor, my friends and I play this unspoken, silent, and tacit game (none of us will probably ever admit to participating in it) of "Opposite Shotgun." Usually back at home, the most desirable seat is the front seat. Well, here, it's the exact opposite: the 3 back seats are the gold nuggets because they are the farthest away from the taxi driver, and thus, the best option of escaping if for some strange reason something shady goes down. It sounds dumb and paranoid, but you've got to be on your toes. I love watching this unofficial game play out because when the taxi pulls up, immediately everyone races to the back, and the person that was too slow for the 3 back seats has this subtly disappointed look on their face that they try their very best to hide. And then after pretending like everything is chill, they begrudgingly hop their way into the front seat. Although, I have to admit, in terms of realistic safety-wise, I can't tell which seat is the best option. This is because while the back seats are furthest from the driver, the front seat actually has a seat belt (the back seats' seat belts are always buried under the seats, and it would take only a renowned archaeologist to dig those babies out). Maybe I'm playing this game wrong. Hmmm.

3) Las Micros: With the buses, you are pretty much always standing, and more often than on the Metro, pretty much always squished no matter what. So the only game you really participate in is Your Life Sucks Major Balls Right Now Because You Have To Deal With Riding The Micro. This game is only available in Santiago and is recommended for people ages 18 and up, sorry kids. Sometimes you won't even be able to get on a micro because the bus driver will simply drive right by the bus stop without hesitation or guilt either because: a) the bus is so full of people that there is literally no more room left on the bus or b) the driver just doesn't feel like stopping at the bus stop. Bastard. 

So that's the general overview of my experiences with public transportation in Santiago. Whoever said life was a game was not kidding. I just wish it involved more sitting, and less sweating. 

The Dark Side

So...today I crossed over onto the dark side. No, I didn't give away the secret hideabouts of James and Lily Potter. I didn't decide to join forces with Dark Vader. I didn't even start watching Brody Jenner's new reality show, "Bromance" (although I have to admit, I am quite tempted). No, this is far worse than that. 

I bought a Starbuck's today.

I couldn't help it. All this talk about food commonly found in the U.S. just put me in a gringa consumption state of mind. I don't even like Starbuck's all that much. My quasi-hippie upbringing (hummus, carrots, and whole wheat bread were only a fraction of said child-rearing) implanted in my mind that I should do my best to support local businesses. Oh yes, my parents were "those people." So instead of going to the 5 Starbuck's that were in our hometown, we frequented my dad's regular coffee hangout place, "The Plantation" (which, I am aware of, is an unfortunately sensitive subject-esque name). We sacrificed generic deliciousness for that thing called "ethics." Not to say that I was perfect and totally abided by this philosophy (in fact, I probably got a B- at best in this endeavor). To be honest, our family excelled in staying away from the coffee monopoly, but not so much in other chains. Let's just say that we liked "Gold Medal Ribbon" ice cream way too much to stay away from Baskin-Robbins. Nonetheless, my family encouraged me and my sister to do what we could to support smaller businesses. 

Of course, that came with a price (both figuratively and literally). For example, at The Plantation, the coffee beans were almost always burned, the service mediocre at best: One of the owners,and a family friend as well, Young, would take constant cigarette breaks, so half the time, there would be no one inside to ring you up and make you your coffee. The times he was there, he would take FOREVER to make the coffee because he was such an OCD perfectionist that everything had to be measured out just exactly right. You would think such motivation toward perfection would make the product better, but I am almost convinced that it made it worse. Being at The Plantation also meant forced interactions with my dad's weird friends, which was a bag of fun and a half. Also, the food here didn't always sit completely well with my stomach. Let's just say the warmth I felt in my heart for supporting small business owners did nothing to quell the occasional stomachache I got from going here. So basically, moral of the story that my parents slickly pushed down my throat: Starbucks = evil, The Plantation = shitty (coffee) but good (ethics). 

Fast forward to today: Mon, April 6, 2009, Metro Pedro de Valdivia, Santiago, Chile. It was a hot day. I woke up early to get to the EAP Study Center so I could turn in my internship application form on time. Afterwards I had to do a bunch of random errands downtown, including the impossible errand of getting "cartón piedra blanca" (black cardboard paper) so I could properly make a pinhole camera, which all of the librerias were supposed to have, but, of course, did not. I just got out of my 3rd libreria ("Lo siento, no lo tenemos"), when I saw IT. A building with the logo of a lady with wack hair. Shining ever so brightly on the corner. I wasn't even craving coffee. I don't even like it all that much. But I went in because: a) I was tired as hell and b) It was something that reminded me of home.

How pathetic is that, right? That this omnipresent, hegemonic, monopolistic, [insert other obnoxiously big word that makes me sound like a hypocritically outraged liberal] corporation was something that warmed my heart and made me want to tap my shoes three times and say, "There's no place like home?" 

My higher brain functioning shut down. I barely spent a second thinking about it before I noticed my feet moving rapidly towards the Starbuck's door. I opened up the door, Demetri Martin "underestimating the power within me to open doors" style, and without even a breath, I blurted out in Spanish, "I would like a tall mocha frappucino, please." I coughed up my money, and within 3 minutes, I had the manifestation of sweet, chocolatey capitalism in my hands. 

I'm not going to lie, it was amazing. Oh, don't get me wrong, the frappucino wasn't all that great. In fact, I almost choked on a small piece of chocolate that was not completely blended into the drink (karma sucks). But it was amazing because somehow, someway, somewhere, it comforted me. It reminded me of California, and all of the memories I've had in that sweet little state. 

So you know what, I hopped over onto "the dark side" for un ratito (a little bit). To ease my conscience by engaging in a little cognitive dissonance (can you tell I'm a psychology freak?), I noticed there were very few people in Starbuck's (3 at best), so I told myself that maybe Starbuck's was a "small, struggling business" here and that I was supporting just that in Chile. I know, it's complete bullshit, but at least I won't feel as bad when I go to sleep at night. 

Salud a Starbuck's. For being the temporary solution to  capricious, quasi-homesick moments.