I'm in the Stanford Center having just picked up my group photo and returned all my borrowed items, so I figured I would take advantage of the free internet one last time to write a final Santiago/travels in Latin America blog entry. So here's a few brief anecdotes that made me think about the world, my time in it, the prospects of returning home, etc...
- After handing in my final paper to Profe Micco about televison's role in contemporary Chilean politics (12 pages in Castellano, thank you very much) he took a few of us crazy American students out for some expensive Dutch Beer. And I thought to myself: how nice it is to make connections, to have ideas in a new part of the world, to not have internet in your host family's house so you can spend all day writing a paper sans distractions and actually feel good about it in the end and you wrote all in spanish, to challenge yourself by sitting down and thinking in a different language.
- While trying to find a card to give to my host family, I stumbled into a book store on Avenida Providencia and discovered there was a free concert inside. The placed was filled with young, hip , and cute chileans bobbing their heads to the sounds of two guys (one on drums with a full bushy chilean-jewfro hair the other on guitar in glasses, both wearing black ties and chuck taylors por supuesto) making the kind of electric, indie, alternative, folk rock that makes you feel instantly nostalgic and wistful and appreciative all at once. So of course I was hit with a wave a melancholy at the thought of leaving Santiago, a city bursting with undiscovered bookstores and possibilities.
- At the metro this morning, I looked into the mirrored wall of the station and accidently made eye contact with the reflection of a middle aged woman in the subway car next to mine. She smiled, tapped her friend on the shoulder, and they both waved. I waved back a we all giggled thinking about how silly it is that we can only connect with the people in opposite metro cars and even then only through their mirrored reflection, so busy moving around the planet at high speeds we forget to look around and see who' s right near us.
So those are some thoughts. I would share more, but before I leave Santiago I have museums to see, restaurants to eat at, hills to climb up.... Turista Suprema for life, baby. For those of you who have been following along (which by now, is probably just Eddie and Rachel) I hoped you thoroughly enjoyed the ride. I sure did. I'll keep posting to this blog with more stories and writing and less "this is what I'm doing now" so keep checking it out if that's something that interests you. But here ends this portion of blogging, but I hope el viaje nunca está terminado. ¿Cachai?
Que se vaya bien, besitos, vaya con dios, suerte, todo mi amor, y más,
Daniel Hiiiiiiirsch (por la ultima vez)
Friday, December 14, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Villa Grimaldi
Preface: Things are going well with me… finishing up exams and papers (writing one about the role of television in Chilean politics...muy interesante) and trying to enjoy my last little bits of Santiago before I head back to the States. But before I leave, I want to make sure I share with you something really valuable that happened to me-- I took a tour of Villa Grimaldi, a former detention and torture camp during the Pinochet regime. I’ve decided not to post it outright in my blog because something about talking about torture alongside a discussion of how much fun I had at the beach last weekend and a goofy picture of me wearing a funny hat I bought in Buenos Aires felt slightly inappropriate. Also, I thought it best to spare any squeamish readers casually perusing the blog, because it’s pretty heavy stuff. But I highly encourage you all to follow the link below. It’s an account of by far the most important thing I’ve done in my travels and I think it’s a worthwhile read for everyone.
(Also, editorial note: some of the numbers I mention might be slightly off due to a bad memory for numbers. Quoted text is also from memory and translated from Spanish. However, all anecdotes are true.)
Please Read This
Faces of los disaparecidos
(Also, editorial note: some of the numbers I mention might be slightly off due to a bad memory for numbers. Quoted text is also from memory and translated from Spanish. However, all anecdotes are true.)
Please Read This
Faces of los disaparecidos
Friday, December 7, 2007
I leave Sunday, December 16th, and I’m faced with the difficult task of summing up about two weeks sans blog entries as well as trying to get the most out of the two weeks I have left. So here are a few key moments from the last two weeks neglecting to mention a whole lot, in non-chronological order just to be slightly edgy:
--“¡Vamos, vamos chilenos, esta noche podemos ayudaaaaar…..!” kept running through my head as a made my way up the winding alleys and stairways of the hills of Valparaiso, stopping every minute to take another photo of the Chile’s main port city with its hills littered with colorful houses, incre
dibly vibrant graffiti and street murals, and huge cargo boats heading off into the distant, blue Pacific. “Let’s go Chileans, this night we can help,” is the one of the theme songs of Chile’s annual Teletón, in which every channel broadcasts a 27 hour telethon to raise money for physical therapy for children with physical disabilities. It’s full of enthusiastic television personalities, over the top musical numbers, ridiculous comedy acts, sexy dancing girls, and a whole lot of Chilean pride. When I looked out over singular Valparaiso from the top of Cerro Alegre, humming the Teletón jingle in my head, I too could feel the goofy exuberance of Chilean nationalism.
-- “Do I smell chocolate?” I asked Eva as I swirled my glass of deep purple Malbec and took one hearty sniff. “Yeah, there’s some of that,” she responded looking doubtful of my future as an enologist. Meanw
hile, our Italian-Argentine guide babbled on about los sabores viejos y maduros as he flipped his curly black pony-tail beside a huge oak barrel in the show room of his family’s traditional bodega. We were baked from the sun, and hopped up on riding bikes through tunnels of trees beside expansive vineyards, the Andes glittering in the distance. We might as well have been in Tuscany as we gorged ourselves on salami and bread earlier that day sitting in the shade giggling and flushed from the hearty Malbec of Mendoza, Argentina.
-- In the center of the former prison yard of the former prison that is now an cultural center with muraled walls and scattered barb wire sculptures on one of Valparaiso’s tall hills I entered the circus tent. Rueda is a performance piece with three actors that prominently features a tire swing. And it was awesome. Without words the actors communicate everything through their bodies, toes, fingers, hips. Swinging through the air, the lights of Valparaiso glittering around us, I too felt high on acrobatics and prisons cum art refuge.
-- To celebrate the first night of Hanukah I helped my host mother decorate their synthetic Christmas tree and ate fresh peaches, and reveled in the utter weirdness of celebrating Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere. Gloria hummed to herself while stringing up gold ribbons on the branches, and told me she would probably come back tomorrow and decide she didn’t like the way it looked and change everything. While placing a bushel of golden rubber grapes, I explained to her what us crazy Jews do for eight crazy nights, she made approving faces and responded with lots of “¡que divertido!” and “oh, interesante.”
--Tipsy on red wine and a sweet, highly alcoholic Brazilian drink that I can’t remember the name of eventhough the waiter told me three times, I looked around the room with jungle wallpaper and swirling colors at my Stanford cohorts laughing and chewing on savory meat that waiters serve them from big metal skewers. Thanking Helen and Peter Bing once again as I stuffed a tender cut into my gaping mouth and felt the oncoming thin gasp of queasiness.
-- A man in a green shirt raised his arms to a bronze statue of Jesus as my friend Shira and I passed on our way to Salvador Allende’s grave in the sprawling Cementario Nacional. We were slightly lost in this city of the dead with its wide avenues lined with trees shading the marble mansions of the affluent and dead, and pointing towards smaller side streets in their shadows. Even in death Santiago is a city divided by class, the poor resting eternally in project like stacked graves, their remains piled high in crumbling towering walls of cement boxes. In the hot afternoon sun, we walked to the outskirts of this necropolis to find a massive granite wall inscribed with the names of over four thousand people, los disaparecidos, those who went missing during the years of Pinochet. We made our exit as a stray cat crossed in front of us looking for refuge from the mid-day spring sun.
-- I sat in my professor’s office, Sergio Micco the former vice president of the Chile’s Christian Democrat party, as he madly searched for a book for me about television’s role in Chilean politics and muttered Chilean curses and laughed to himself. Meanwhile, I observed one shelf displaying tiny tin figures of twentieth century world leaders, Russian stacking dolls painted with the faces of Putin all the way down to Lenin, and The Little Black Book of Communism and The Little Black Book of Capitalism at opposite ends of the shelf.
-- I sipped a hearty mug of Escudo, Chile’s cheap national beer, and nibbled on my fried seafood empanadas and looked out at the Pacific Ocean, the faint sound of surf mixing with the soft bossa nova playing from within the restaurant. In the small town of Horcon, worn down boats and hippie craft stands line the shore and you have the faint feeling that you too could buy a little ocean side shack, sell macramé bracelets, and disappear forever.
As I come to the end of my time here, I feel all sorts of regrets…I wish I had tried harder to make Chilean friends, I wish my Spanish had improved just a little bit more, I wish I had spent less time at the Stanford center and with Stanford students, etc… But then when I collect these moments in my head, I can’t really feel that regretful and in weird ways I’ve learned all sorts of things.
I hope you all are well, and most likely I’ll see some of you soon.
Suerte.
Daniel Hiiiiiiiirsch
--“¡Vamos, vamos chilenos, esta noche podemos ayudaaaaar…..!” kept running through my head as a made my way up the winding alleys and stairways of the hills of Valparaiso, stopping every minute to take another photo of the Chile’s main port city with its hills littered with colorful houses, incre
dibly vibrant graffiti and street murals, and huge cargo boats heading off into the distant, blue Pacific. “Let’s go Chileans, this night we can help,” is the one of the theme songs of Chile’s annual Teletón, in which every channel broadcasts a 27 hour telethon to raise money for physical therapy for children with physical disabilities. It’s full of enthusiastic television personalities, over the top musical numbers, ridiculous comedy acts, sexy dancing girls, and a whole lot of Chilean pride. When I looked out over singular Valparaiso from the top of Cerro Alegre, humming the Teletón jingle in my head, I too could feel the goofy exuberance of Chilean nationalism.-- “Do I smell chocolate?” I asked Eva as I swirled my glass of deep purple Malbec and took one hearty sniff. “Yeah, there’s some of that,” she responded looking doubtful of my future as an enologist. Meanw
hile, our Italian-Argentine guide babbled on about los sabores viejos y maduros as he flipped his curly black pony-tail beside a huge oak barrel in the show room of his family’s traditional bodega. We were baked from the sun, and hopped up on riding bikes through tunnels of trees beside expansive vineyards, the Andes glittering in the distance. We might as well have been in Tuscany as we gorged ourselves on salami and bread earlier that day sitting in the shade giggling and flushed from the hearty Malbec of Mendoza, Argentina.-- In the center of the former prison yard of the former prison that is now an cultural center with muraled walls and scattered barb wire sculptures on one of Valparaiso’s tall hills I entered the circus tent. Rueda is a performance piece with three actors that prominently features a tire swing. And it was awesome. Without words the actors communicate everything through their bodies, toes, fingers, hips. Swinging through the air, the lights of Valparaiso glittering around us, I too felt high on acrobatics and prisons cum art refuge.
-- To celebrate the first night of Hanukah I helped my host mother decorate their synthetic Christmas tree and ate fresh peaches, and reveled in the utter weirdness of celebrating Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere. Gloria hummed to herself while stringing up gold ribbons on the branches, and told me she would probably come back tomorrow and decide she didn’t like the way it looked and change everything. While placing a bushel of golden rubber grapes, I explained to her what us crazy Jews do for eight crazy nights, she made approving faces and responded with lots of “¡que divertido!” and “oh, interesante.”
--Tipsy on red wine and a sweet, highly alcoholic Brazilian drink that I can’t remember the name of eventhough the waiter told me three times, I looked around the room with jungle wallpaper and swirling colors at my Stanford cohorts laughing and chewing on savory meat that waiters serve them from big metal skewers. Thanking Helen and Peter Bing once again as I stuffed a tender cut into my gaping mouth and felt the oncoming thin gasp of queasiness.
-- A man in a green shirt raised his arms to a bronze statue of Jesus as my friend Shira and I passed on our way to Salvador Allende’s grave in the sprawling Cementario Nacional. We were slightly lost in this city of the dead with its wide avenues lined with trees shading the marble mansions of the affluent and dead, and pointing towards smaller side streets in their shadows. Even in death Santiago is a city divided by class, the poor resting eternally in project like stacked graves, their remains piled high in crumbling towering walls of cement boxes. In the hot afternoon sun, we walked to the outskirts of this necropolis to find a massive granite wall inscribed with the names of over four thousand people, los disaparecidos, those who went missing during the years of Pinochet. We made our exit as a stray cat crossed in front of us looking for refuge from the mid-day spring sun.
-- I sat in my professor’s office, Sergio Micco the former vice president of the Chile’s Christian Democrat party, as he madly searched for a book for me about television’s role in Chilean politics and muttered Chilean curses and laughed to himself. Meanwhile, I observed one shelf displaying tiny tin figures of twentieth century world leaders, Russian stacking dolls painted with the faces of Putin all the way down to Lenin, and The Little Black Book of Communism and The Little Black Book of Capitalism at opposite ends of the shelf.
-- I sipped a hearty mug of Escudo, Chile’s cheap national beer, and nibbled on my fried seafood empanadas and looked out at the Pacific Ocean, the faint sound of surf mixing with the soft bossa nova playing from within the restaurant. In the small town of Horcon, worn down boats and hippie craft stands line the shore and you have the faint feeling that you too could buy a little ocean side shack, sell macramé bracelets, and disappear forever.
As I come to the end of my time here, I feel all sorts of regrets…I wish I had tried harder to make Chilean friends, I wish my Spanish had improved just a little bit more, I wish I had spent less time at the Stanford center and with Stanford students, etc… But then when I collect these moments in my head, I can’t really feel that regretful and in weird ways I’ve learned all sorts of things.
I hope you all are well, and most likely I’ll see some of you soon.
Suerte.
Daniel Hiiiiiiiirsch
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Dar Gracias
Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I hope this blog entry finds you well, pleasantly stuffed and enjoying the company of family. Although I miss you all and wish I could be there enjoying the day, I have a lot to be thankful for down here in Chile. So while I should be working on homework before heading off for the weekend, I thought I’d share some fun things I’m thankful for:
Some Puerto Montt Fun Moments You might have missed:
- The elation of climbing along the cloud-shrouded, snowy side of Volcano Orsono to come out the other end with the sun in our faces and a incredible vista of Lago de Todos los Santos and the towering glaciers around its edges its most edmerald colored waters.
- Peulla and the petting zoo/animal Safari. Simply ridiculous.
- On the tourist boatride across Lake Llanquihue, I ran into an Irish guy I met while staying in Bellavista my first two days in Santiago. He was crossing over from Bariloche, Argentina. Verdadamente, un mundo chico. We went out for drinks later that night and said farewell and cheerio once again as he faded off into the night like so many other acquaintances I’ve met along the way.
- Before departing for the airport, Helen and Peter Bing financed a lunch in the small, quaint-as-hell town of Frutillar. Around the mid 19th century the Chilean government was having too much trouble putting down indigenous Mapuche resistence, so they imported a bunch of German farmers. Those eficient immigrants got to work and settled the southern lake district with gusto, cutesy archectecture, waterwheels, tourist black smith shops, chocolate, pristine landscaping, and a yearly classical music festival. Walking by the waterfront passing the Black Forrest style bungalos, I couldn’t help humming Edel Weis…you look so happy to see me.
Thursday, I got an email from my Irish friend telling me he was in Santiago once again and that we should go out for drinks. We did. It was fun. We are currently facebook friends, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it too his lovely rolling green hill nation sometime soon.
Friday marked the month count down until I leave Santiago on December 16th. I celebrated it by going out for lunch with a friend to a neighborhood I’d never been before (Barrio Brasil home of University students and palm lined streets where the only thing for sale is used car parts) and feeling slightly depressed that I’m going to leave with a lot of neighborhoods like this unexplored. I decided before I leave I’m going to spend a day riding to the final stops of the metro lines, getting out, looking around, and feeling like I know Santiago a little bit better.
That night I went with some friends to a place called El Tunel. It’s a discoteque that used to be a subterranean strip club. It’s bad news… but a lot of fun.
Saturday, I forced myself out of bed with the strange memories of a strange night floating around my head to do something productive, or atleast worthwhile. I walked around the city and discovered a lovely new park and then went to El Museo de Artes Visuales in Barrio Lastarria, where I saw the exhibit of Chilean sculpture Pancha Núñez. She makes these huge mixed media sculptures with bright colors and whimsical source material. Worth a google image search. That night friends and I went to go see a play by Chilean university students about the war in Iraq. It was the first time in awhile I’d even thought about the war. How strange to see a Chilean take on a great American travesty. It certainly wasn’t pretty.
I feel the weight of the count down until I leave. I feel glad to be heading into the Andes to Mendoza tonight (Argentina’s wine country) with my friend Eva Dehlinger (as in Dehlinger winery in Sonoma county, Dehlinger) and then to Valparaiso the seaside city of central Chile next weekend. But I wish I had more weekends like this past one to enjoy the simple life of a Santiaguiño, late lunches with the family, strolls through the parks, free musuems on Sundays, hopping discoteques and with a free piscola upon entrance, and plenty of reasons to avoid doing homework.
Happy Turkey Day!
Some Puerto Montt Fun Moments You might have missed:
- The elation of climbing along the cloud-shrouded, snowy side of Volcano Orsono to come out the other end with the sun in our faces and a incredible vista of Lago de Todos los Santos and the towering glaciers around its edges its most edmerald colored waters.
- Peulla and the petting zoo/animal Safari. Simply ridiculous.
- On the tourist boatride across Lake Llanquihue, I ran into an Irish guy I met while staying in Bellavista my first two days in Santiago. He was crossing over from Bariloche, Argentina. Verdadamente, un mundo chico. We went out for drinks later that night and said farewell and cheerio once again as he faded off into the night like so many other acquaintances I’ve met along the way.
- Before departing for the airport, Helen and Peter Bing financed a lunch in the small, quaint-as-hell town of Frutillar. Around the mid 19th century the Chilean government was having too much trouble putting down indigenous Mapuche resistence, so they imported a bunch of German farmers. Those eficient immigrants got to work and settled the southern lake district with gusto, cutesy archectecture, waterwheels, tourist black smith shops, chocolate, pristine landscaping, and a yearly classical music festival. Walking by the waterfront passing the Black Forrest style bungalos, I couldn’t help humming Edel Weis…you look so happy to see me.
Thursday, I got an email from my Irish friend telling me he was in Santiago once again and that we should go out for drinks. We did. It was fun. We are currently facebook friends, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it too his lovely rolling green hill nation sometime soon.
Friday marked the month count down until I leave Santiago on December 16th. I celebrated it by going out for lunch with a friend to a neighborhood I’d never been before (Barrio Brasil home of University students and palm lined streets where the only thing for sale is used car parts) and feeling slightly depressed that I’m going to leave with a lot of neighborhoods like this unexplored. I decided before I leave I’m going to spend a day riding to the final stops of the metro lines, getting out, looking around, and feeling like I know Santiago a little bit better.
That night I went with some friends to a place called El Tunel. It’s a discoteque that used to be a subterranean strip club. It’s bad news… but a lot of fun.
Saturday, I forced myself out of bed with the strange memories of a strange night floating around my head to do something productive, or atleast worthwhile. I walked around the city and discovered a lovely new park and then went to El Museo de Artes Visuales in Barrio Lastarria, where I saw the exhibit of Chilean sculpture Pancha Núñez. She makes these huge mixed media sculptures with bright colors and whimsical source material. Worth a google image search. That night friends and I went to go see a play by Chilean university students about the war in Iraq. It was the first time in awhile I’d even thought about the war. How strange to see a Chilean take on a great American travesty. It certainly wasn’t pretty.
I feel the weight of the count down until I leave. I feel glad to be heading into the Andes to Mendoza tonight (Argentina’s wine country) with my friend Eva Dehlinger (as in Dehlinger winery in Sonoma county, Dehlinger) and then to Valparaiso the seaside city of central Chile next weekend. But I wish I had more weekends like this past one to enjoy the simple life of a Santiaguiño, late lunches with the family, strolls through the parks, free musuems on Sundays, hopping discoteques and with a free piscola upon entrance, and plenty of reasons to avoid doing homework.
Happy Turkey Day!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
we now interrupt this program for a brief announcement...¡TERREMOTO!
So, for those of you who don't know there was a 7.7 earthquake in northern Chile this morning. I didn't even feel it a little bit in Santiago. I would have, had I been sand boarding in San Pedro de Atacama, but I was reading in my bed in Providencia. As far as I know, few people were seriously hurt. I'll watch the news and keep you posted.... Also if a Chilean movie called The Vida Me Mata (Life Kills Me), you should see it. Superbien. It's movie week in Chile so I'm heading to a Film Fair down town.
All the best,
Danny
All the best,
Danny
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Land O' Lakes at the End of the Earth
Chile has this complex in which it thinks of itself as the end of the world. The Andes seem to seperate it from the rest of South America and the expansive Pacific ocean from the rest of the world. Restuarants and brands of wine are named Finis de Terrae. This is a country that includes Antartica in its daily weather report. Looking out at Lake Llanquihue from the snowy side of Volcano Orsono as the late southern hemisphere sun poked through the chilly gray clouds as if some mad, inspired polytheistic diety wanted to create a great work of golden abstract expressionism on the water’s surface that stretched out into forever, I too could begin to feel like I had reached the outer edges of the earth.
This was the Bing Trip. The Bings of course are fabulously wealthy Stanford donors, that finance cultural events for Stanford study abroad programs (They financed our trip to the opera). They want to teach us kids how to be cultured. Traveling on the Bing budget, means traveling well. It means taking planes and private buses (and fancy catamerans) everywhere and staying at the Hotel Gran Pacifico, one of the nicest hotels in the industrial port town of Puerto Montt, with its pristine glass elevator overlooking the bleak city scape by the cloudy, cargo-ship-dotted bay. It also means being part of a huge pack of ridiculous American kids, partying in hotel rooms, taking copious amounts of digital photos, and being the loudest people in any given location. But because almost everything is paid for, it also means giving yourself permission to have fun and be one of those ridiculous American college students, even though it slightly diminishes your sense of moral superiority or synical edge, er something… but hey, you’re only twenty and in Southern Chile with generous benefactors once in your life…Live it up, son, live it up.
We checked into the Hotel GP on Thursday afternoon and had the afternoon free of paid programing to explore the city of Puerto Montt. Puerto Montt is the industrial hub of the Lake District
, it sits on the north shore of the bay that wraps around Chiloe the large, remote island that makes up Chile’s southern Pacific coast. It’s a place that for most of the year is bleak and rainy, with only the bright colors of small, painted fishing boats and over abundant yellow flowered shrubs to liven up the place. When we checked in there was a huge barge heading south into the distance. With a three of my friends I went exploring. We walked along the waterfront until we came to the neighborhood of Angelmo wear people were selling all sorts of crafts to the passing tourists and huge slabs of raw salmon to the locals. We ate lunch in a little seafood restaurant in red building on stilts overlooked the water and housed other little seafood restaurant. I had Curanto a local speciality of steamed shellfish and potatoes and sausage and more. Needless to say it was delicious. Walking back, a man offered us a boat ride to the small island of Tenglo for 300 pesos (60 cents). We hopped on his boat and he took us across to the little green island and made vague plans to meet up later. We walked up the hill and found ourselves
in a shrubby cow pasture, and down the other side to come to a rocky gray beach. Walking along the beach to get back to the other side, we passed a tiny community of shacks made of thin wood and painted aluminum. A group of small girls called out to us, imploring us to adopt a litter puppies of a stray dog birthed on their front lawn. They passed their puppies over the fence and we made conversation while holding the small bodies of new, furry, and tragic lives. We passed them back over the fence and regrettfully declined. The girls made sad faces as we walked away to wait in vain for a boat that would not come, and scurried around to find a new one and pay more so we could get back to our hotel and eat a buffet dinner and party like college students at the end of the earth.
This was the Bing Trip. The Bings of course are fabulously wealthy Stanford donors, that finance cultural events for Stanford study abroad programs (They financed our trip to the opera). They want to teach us kids how to be cultured. Traveling on the Bing budget, means traveling well. It means taking planes and private buses (and fancy catamerans) everywhere and staying at the Hotel Gran Pacifico, one of the nicest hotels in the industrial port town of Puerto Montt, with its pristine glass elevator overlooking the bleak city scape by the cloudy, cargo-ship-dotted bay. It also means being part of a huge pack of ridiculous American kids, partying in hotel rooms, taking copious amounts of digital photos, and being the loudest people in any given location. But because almost everything is paid for, it also means giving yourself permission to have fun and be one of those ridiculous American college students, even though it slightly diminishes your sense of moral superiority or synical edge, er something… but hey, you’re only twenty and in Southern Chile with generous benefactors once in your life…Live it up, son, live it up.
We checked into the Hotel GP on Thursday afternoon and had the afternoon free of paid programing to explore the city of Puerto Montt. Puerto Montt is the industrial hub of the Lake District
, it sits on the north shore of the bay that wraps around Chiloe the large, remote island that makes up Chile’s southern Pacific coast. It’s a place that for most of the year is bleak and rainy, with only the bright colors of small, painted fishing boats and over abundant yellow flowered shrubs to liven up the place. When we checked in there was a huge barge heading south into the distance. With a three of my friends I went exploring. We walked along the waterfront until we came to the neighborhood of Angelmo wear people were selling all sorts of crafts to the passing tourists and huge slabs of raw salmon to the locals. We ate lunch in a little seafood restaurant in red building on stilts overlooked the water and housed other little seafood restaurant. I had Curanto a local speciality of steamed shellfish and potatoes and sausage and more. Needless to say it was delicious. Walking back, a man offered us a boat ride to the small island of Tenglo for 300 pesos (60 cents). We hopped on his boat and he took us across to the little green island and made vague plans to meet up later. We walked up the hill and found ourselves
in a shrubby cow pasture, and down the other side to come to a rocky gray beach. Walking along the beach to get back to the other side, we passed a tiny community of shacks made of thin wood and painted aluminum. A group of small girls called out to us, imploring us to adopt a litter puppies of a stray dog birthed on their front lawn. They passed their puppies over the fence and we made conversation while holding the small bodies of new, furry, and tragic lives. We passed them back over the fence and regrettfully declined. The girls made sad faces as we walked away to wait in vain for a boat that would not come, and scurried around to find a new one and pay more so we could get back to our hotel and eat a buffet dinner and party like college students at the end of the earth.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Buenos Aires, unedited
Walking home last night down Calle Manuel Montt in Providencia, Santiago stomach full of Chilean Mexican food and the Queen of the Night aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute stuck in my head, I felt the giddy satisfaction you can only feel after one, long, full day preceded by one, long, crazy Argentinian weekend. I also wondered how I would fit it all into a long over due blog entry. So here goes: (Note to the faint of heart, I have made a few stylistic choices that defy gramatical conventions, also I have no English spell check on this computer)
After waking up early to finish a midterm on Friday morning I got on a subway to Santiago Airport, and then before I knew it I was heading through Argentine customs (which is way more lax than Chilean customs), and then I was in a cab heading towards el Obelisco de Buenos Aires, its long monothic self rising over the lit up and hustling city, Cristina Kirchner (or Senora K for marketing purposes) the country’s new president stared down at me from a massive billboard with heavy eye makeup and robust lips as if to say “Bienvenidos a Buenos Aires, Sé que te falta, y que debemos hacer,” and then I checked in to the 06 Central hostel in a renovated old town house right in the middle of Microcentro, then walked up Avenida Corrientes all billboards for dancing girls and high budget comedies and pizza parlors and tourists and hustlers and two twin Charlie Chaplin impersonators, Times Square of South America, and then I saw STREET TANGO, Calle Florida, and then I befriended a group of 40 Argentine orthodontia students staying in my youth hostel for a conference, they belted out Spanish tunes and played guitar, we went to a bariloche (Buenos Aires’s famed dance clubs) danced to heavy techno beats and 80s pop and Beyonce and Regaton, lots of unecessary strobe lights, too tired to stand at 4 in the morning I decided to leave while the party was still going on, my hot orthodonists friends looked shocked to see me go but this was only my first night (from my bed I heard them stumble in at 8:30 that morning), walked home avoiding the cracked up streets and muggers as best I could with Senora K’s comforting, sexy gaze keeping me safe, sleep.
And then I woke up. Cafe y medialunas (delicious, delicious croissants that go like hotcakes in BA for less than a dollar), then off to see the Pink House (their White House) and the Plaza de Mayo, Municipal Catedral of Buenos Aires, impressive, grand, old, crumbly, and I walked down Avenida de Mayo lined with blossoming trees and old historic cafes where old men in hats sip espresso and read Borges, and after failing to catch one of the three thousand city buses, so I walked in the enthusiastic spring sun of Argentina y a breeze from a river nearby to meet up with Maggie (a friend of a friend who’s now a friend) studying in Buenos Aires for the year, I also bought sunglasses for 15 pesos, she showed me around the quaint yet simultaneously upscale neighborhood, more historic cafes, and then we stumbled upon an antique car show, and then ventured into the Recoleta cemetary, a labyrinth of family mausoleums guarded by stray cats with shifty eyes, peering into any given one you could see stacks of coffins and ladders leading to dark tunnels underground, Eva Peron’s tomb and the body of a girl burried before death so her family made the mausoleum door glass so they could see if she wanted to get out…and then we went to the Recoleta fair saw crafts and hand made jewelry and and little boxes made from orange rhine, and then we saw children chanting “azul, azul, azul!” to the face of a blank canvas, and then I learned the fine art of sipping mate in the park (don’t fiddle with the bombilla, the metal straw the filters the tea leaves), and listened to some guy play guitar, also I met one of Maggie’s friends, Michelle, and the it was off to the MALBA (Museo de Arte de America Latina Buenos Aires) where I saw some freaky video art involving an Elephant and saw the best of the continent’s art from the last century and mostly just felt cool riding the glass elevator in the hip modern building, and then time for more café and medialunas to recharge, then a late dinner with Maggie and friends at this hip paradilla, or barbeque, the pride of Argentina, with a nice bottle of Malbec, sensational, we wisked away to San Telmo on the other side of the city to Maggie’s Brazillian/Peruvian friend’s super nice house, sipped beer and listend to an Incubus album with a Columbian, an El Salavadorian, a Swiss, a Dane, and a Texan, and talked about the things lost in translation, then after a slightly enebriated cab ride passing by the Pink house all lit up, I found myself in bed once more, another late night, savoring the smoky taste of Buenos Aires’s air, or maybe it was the after taste of steak.
AND THEN up again, it was Sunday in Buenos Aires and had to head to the San Telmo street fair, I passed mad funky sweet sick street art plastered on the sides of 300 year old buildings, took photos, and San Telmo was throbbing with pedestrians mulling around booths of crafts and antiques, old lady jewelry, flatted antique bottles, paintings of people dancing tango, ships in bottles, different types of mate cups y bombillas, I bought a hat and felt vaguely ridiculous, but also like a champion, saw more STREET TANGO, felt like a tourist, and headed for lunch at a random café where I had a burger and watched two old ladies sit in the sun and smoke endless cigarettes, gossipping about the neighbors, scolwing at people as they passed, and then headed to La Boca, yet another funky neighbor of Buenos Aires, Fodors: working class, colorful buildings, Boca Juniors futbol team, etc… but got lost along the way, stumbling around shady streets with unknown names, found a happening park with yet another street fair, cheaper crafts and stuff for locals, boys playing futbol and men sipping mate, dog walkers with fistfulls of leashes, finally found La Boca stadium, but grabbed a bus back to the hostel, some rest after a long walk, probably more café y medialunas, met up with Maggie and Michelle at Teatro Sarmiento to see a play (Buenos Aires has more theaters than any other city in the world I’m told), Fetiche (Fetish):6 actresss representing aspects of the same woman, a champion female body builder, Sex! Vagina! Jesus! Lip-Syncing! Transvetite strip tease! The Vagina Monologues on steriods! Pedro Almodovar on crack! wandered around the neighborhood Palermo, shishy boutiques, upscale restaurants, old streets, found a Meditaranean place Maggie had heard of, and had savory and tender lamb tagine and good wine once again.
AND THEN, suddenly, it was my last day in Buenos Aires, hurry, hurry, down to Puerto Madero, fake island of a port city, unfinished skyscappers and angular, modern, lobbies of multinacional hang tight with the strange canal and historic dikes of Buenos, and on the other side of a small concrete wall the city transforms into an ecological reserve expanding out into the distance, off the island back into the city, more towering Beux Arts buildings, Calle Florida, tried to eat lunch at a Kosher café, but a little Hasid popped his head from behind the door and in a language I couldn’t dicipher tried to tell me what was what, til finally he said in English “Come back next week,” wished I were a better Jew, got on Buenos Aires metro, called Subte, and went off towards the Palermo/Recoleta border, hopped into a old theater now bookstore, and stared up at the chandelier while holding a coffee table book of Argentine art, and touched the old lightboard backstage while sipping an espresso in the bookstore café, walked down Calle Florida, headed into Parque de Tres Febreros, sat for a minute and wondered what it all meant, then wandered into the botanical gardens, saw more stray cats with shifty eyes walking around like they owned the place, because in truth they did, sat on a bench and wondered what it all meant again looking out over the shady paths and naked marble ladies, met Maggie for a coffee and a piece of cake on the otherside of town at café Petit Paris with a view of Plaza San Martin, watched people pass by on their way to home from work and the sun disappear behind the big, pink tower, got our picture taken by stangers and with strangers, said hasta luego on the street corner after sharing Argentina’s national, novelty dessert treat the alfajor, walked back towards Calle Florida, felt the vague feeling of sadness to leave this place, Calle Florida was bumping even on a Monday night, bought a mate cup and bombilla for a friend, saw yet another performance of STREET TANGO, and a block later more STREET TANGO, decided that at some point in my life I will become a tango star and learn all the right moves in pinstripe pants and suspenders, walked to the Plaza de Congreso wearing my new hat, saw the massive edifice of Argentina’s Congress, met up with a few Stanford kids for Peruvian food, met international friends of friends, made plans to visit a girl named Sonya in Sophia, Bulgaria, had delicious Peruvian food and Stella Artois, found out the Stanford kids had the same flight as me (6am to Santiago) and were taking a latenight city bus to airport, sounded like a plan, back to hostel walking along Avenida de Mayo still chock full of café goers at midnight on Monday, wished I could join them, got my stuff at the hostel and met up again with Stanford kids at a bar, had a beer and hopped on the 86 at 2:30, two hours winding through the multitudenous barrios of Buenos Aires, the bus full old ladies, night crawlers, couples making out, and people starting the nightshift, stopping all over the place, finally at EZE airport and boarded our flight as the sun peaked , slept only to wake up to the sun reflecting off the snow capped Andes east of Santiago, home again, bus to the Metro, bus to my house, eat some kiwi my host mother had cut, said hello, and took a nap, that afternoon distinguished Bolivian author came to talk to all us Stanford kids, Edmundo Paz Soldán, talked about the new generation of Latin America, breaking out of the stereotypes of magical realism, check him out http://sololiteratura.com/edm/edmprincipal.htm , then got changes in tie and slacks, and off to the opera, at the opulent, historic Teatro Municipal de Santiago, the overture started of The Magic Flute and the stars of the set twinkled, pretty amazing opera, albeit a little tiring after a while, had a great hot dog at intermission outside the theater, crammed onto a metro, and had Mexican food with Stanford kids in our ties and nice clothes, and walked back to my house down Avenida Manuel Montt with a loose tie and untucked shirt, thinking that to be young enough not to care about getting suficient sleep and old enough to walk into a foreign city alone and unafraid is the best thing there is, to have the resources to see whole new parts of the world is unsurpassable, and that some one should figure out how to bottle the sensation I had while walking down Manuel Montt last night.
So there it is, all down, in a wild, rambling retelling. This weekend I’m heading south to Puerto Montt, Chile with a Stanford field trip. I yet again, I have reason to be thankful and take pause at the ridiculous state of my life. I hope you all are well.
After waking up early to finish a midterm on Friday morning I got on a subway to Santiago Airport, and then before I knew it I was heading through Argentine customs (which is way more lax than Chilean customs), and then I was in a cab heading towards el Obelisco de Buenos Aires, its long monothic self rising over the lit up and hustling city, Cristina Kirchner (or Senora K for marketing purposes) the country’s new president stared down at me from a massive billboard with heavy eye makeup and robust lips as if to say “Bienvenidos a Buenos Aires, Sé que te falta, y que debemos hacer,” and then I checked in to the 06 Central hostel in a renovated old town house right in the middle of Microcentro, then walked up Avenida Corrientes all billboards for dancing girls and high budget comedies and pizza parlors and tourists and hustlers and two twin Charlie Chaplin impersonators, Times Square of South America, and then I saw STREET TANGO, Calle Florida, and then I befriended a group of 40 Argentine orthodontia students staying in my youth hostel for a conference, they belted out Spanish tunes and played guitar, we went to a bariloche (Buenos Aires’s famed dance clubs) danced to heavy techno beats and 80s pop and Beyonce and Regaton, lots of unecessary strobe lights, too tired to stand at 4 in the morning I decided to leave while the party was still going on, my hot orthodonists friends looked shocked to see me go but this was only my first night (from my bed I heard them stumble in at 8:30 that morning), walked home avoiding the cracked up streets and muggers as best I could with Senora K’s comforting, sexy gaze keeping me safe, sleep.
And then I woke up. Cafe y medialunas (delicious, delicious croissants that go like hotcakes in BA for less than a dollar), then off to see the Pink House (their White House) and the Plaza de Mayo, Municipal Catedral of Buenos Aires, impressive, grand, old, crumbly, and I walked down Avenida de Mayo lined with blossoming trees and old historic cafes where old men in hats sip espresso and read Borges, and after failing to catch one of the three thousand city buses, so I walked in the enthusiastic spring sun of Argentina y a breeze from a river nearby to meet up with Maggie (a friend of a friend who’s now a friend) studying in Buenos Aires for the year, I also bought sunglasses for 15 pesos, she showed me around the quaint yet simultaneously upscale neighborhood, more historic cafes, and then we stumbled upon an antique car show, and then ventured into the Recoleta cemetary, a labyrinth of family mausoleums guarded by stray cats with shifty eyes, peering into any given one you could see stacks of coffins and ladders leading to dark tunnels underground, Eva Peron’s tomb and the body of a girl burried before death so her family made the mausoleum door glass so they could see if she wanted to get out…and then we went to the Recoleta fair saw crafts and hand made jewelry and and little boxes made from orange rhine, and then we saw children chanting “azul, azul, azul!” to the face of a blank canvas, and then I learned the fine art of sipping mate in the park (don’t fiddle with the bombilla, the metal straw the filters the tea leaves), and listened to some guy play guitar, also I met one of Maggie’s friends, Michelle, and the it was off to the MALBA (Museo de Arte de America Latina Buenos Aires) where I saw some freaky video art involving an Elephant and saw the best of the continent’s art from the last century and mostly just felt cool riding the glass elevator in the hip modern building, and then time for more café and medialunas to recharge, then a late dinner with Maggie and friends at this hip paradilla, or barbeque, the pride of Argentina, with a nice bottle of Malbec, sensational, we wisked away to San Telmo on the other side of the city to Maggie’s Brazillian/Peruvian friend’s super nice house, sipped beer and listend to an Incubus album with a Columbian, an El Salavadorian, a Swiss, a Dane, and a Texan, and talked about the things lost in translation, then after a slightly enebriated cab ride passing by the Pink house all lit up, I found myself in bed once more, another late night, savoring the smoky taste of Buenos Aires’s air, or maybe it was the after taste of steak.
AND THEN up again, it was Sunday in Buenos Aires and had to head to the San Telmo street fair, I passed mad funky sweet sick street art plastered on the sides of 300 year old buildings, took photos, and San Telmo was throbbing with pedestrians mulling around booths of crafts and antiques, old lady jewelry, flatted antique bottles, paintings of people dancing tango, ships in bottles, different types of mate cups y bombillas, I bought a hat and felt vaguely ridiculous, but also like a champion, saw more STREET TANGO, felt like a tourist, and headed for lunch at a random café where I had a burger and watched two old ladies sit in the sun and smoke endless cigarettes, gossipping about the neighbors, scolwing at people as they passed, and then headed to La Boca, yet another funky neighbor of Buenos Aires, Fodors: working class, colorful buildings, Boca Juniors futbol team, etc… but got lost along the way, stumbling around shady streets with unknown names, found a happening park with yet another street fair, cheaper crafts and stuff for locals, boys playing futbol and men sipping mate, dog walkers with fistfulls of leashes, finally found La Boca stadium, but grabbed a bus back to the hostel, some rest after a long walk, probably more café y medialunas, met up with Maggie and Michelle at Teatro Sarmiento to see a play (Buenos Aires has more theaters than any other city in the world I’m told), Fetiche (Fetish):6 actresss representing aspects of the same woman, a champion female body builder, Sex! Vagina! Jesus! Lip-Syncing! Transvetite strip tease! The Vagina Monologues on steriods! Pedro Almodovar on crack! wandered around the neighborhood Palermo, shishy boutiques, upscale restaurants, old streets, found a Meditaranean place Maggie had heard of, and had savory and tender lamb tagine and good wine once again.
AND THEN, suddenly, it was my last day in Buenos Aires, hurry, hurry, down to Puerto Madero, fake island of a port city, unfinished skyscappers and angular, modern, lobbies of multinacional hang tight with the strange canal and historic dikes of Buenos, and on the other side of a small concrete wall the city transforms into an ecological reserve expanding out into the distance, off the island back into the city, more towering Beux Arts buildings, Calle Florida, tried to eat lunch at a Kosher café, but a little Hasid popped his head from behind the door and in a language I couldn’t dicipher tried to tell me what was what, til finally he said in English “Come back next week,” wished I were a better Jew, got on Buenos Aires metro, called Subte, and went off towards the Palermo/Recoleta border, hopped into a old theater now bookstore, and stared up at the chandelier while holding a coffee table book of Argentine art, and touched the old lightboard backstage while sipping an espresso in the bookstore café, walked down Calle Florida, headed into Parque de Tres Febreros, sat for a minute and wondered what it all meant, then wandered into the botanical gardens, saw more stray cats with shifty eyes walking around like they owned the place, because in truth they did, sat on a bench and wondered what it all meant again looking out over the shady paths and naked marble ladies, met Maggie for a coffee and a piece of cake on the otherside of town at café Petit Paris with a view of Plaza San Martin, watched people pass by on their way to home from work and the sun disappear behind the big, pink tower, got our picture taken by stangers and with strangers, said hasta luego on the street corner after sharing Argentina’s national, novelty dessert treat the alfajor, walked back towards Calle Florida, felt the vague feeling of sadness to leave this place, Calle Florida was bumping even on a Monday night, bought a mate cup and bombilla for a friend, saw yet another performance of STREET TANGO, and a block later more STREET TANGO, decided that at some point in my life I will become a tango star and learn all the right moves in pinstripe pants and suspenders, walked to the Plaza de Congreso wearing my new hat, saw the massive edifice of Argentina’s Congress, met up with a few Stanford kids for Peruvian food, met international friends of friends, made plans to visit a girl named Sonya in Sophia, Bulgaria, had delicious Peruvian food and Stella Artois, found out the Stanford kids had the same flight as me (6am to Santiago) and were taking a latenight city bus to airport, sounded like a plan, back to hostel walking along Avenida de Mayo still chock full of café goers at midnight on Monday, wished I could join them, got my stuff at the hostel and met up again with Stanford kids at a bar, had a beer and hopped on the 86 at 2:30, two hours winding through the multitudenous barrios of Buenos Aires, the bus full old ladies, night crawlers, couples making out, and people starting the nightshift, stopping all over the place, finally at EZE airport and boarded our flight as the sun peaked , slept only to wake up to the sun reflecting off the snow capped Andes east of Santiago, home again, bus to the Metro, bus to my house, eat some kiwi my host mother had cut, said hello, and took a nap, that afternoon distinguished Bolivian author came to talk to all us Stanford kids, Edmundo Paz Soldán, talked about the new generation of Latin America, breaking out of the stereotypes of magical realism, check him out http://sololiteratura.com/edm/edmprincipal.htm , then got changes in tie and slacks, and off to the opera, at the opulent, historic Teatro Municipal de Santiago, the overture started of The Magic Flute and the stars of the set twinkled, pretty amazing opera, albeit a little tiring after a while, had a great hot dog at intermission outside the theater, crammed onto a metro, and had Mexican food with Stanford kids in our ties and nice clothes, and walked back to my house down Avenida Manuel Montt with a loose tie and untucked shirt, thinking that to be young enough not to care about getting suficient sleep and old enough to walk into a foreign city alone and unafraid is the best thing there is, to have the resources to see whole new parts of the world is unsurpassable, and that some one should figure out how to bottle the sensation I had while walking down Manuel Montt last night.
So there it is, all down, in a wild, rambling retelling. This weekend I’m heading south to Puerto Montt, Chile with a Stanford field trip. I yet again, I have reason to be thankful and take pause at the ridiculous state of my life. I hope you all are well.
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