"He's leaving,
On that midnight train to Georgia,
And he's goin' back
To a simpler place and time."
--Gladys Knight
I am returning for five days to Georgia to be in the wedding of one of my best friends, but by bus and plane as opposed to a train. It has been five months since I left, and I can't even imagine how strange it is going to be to see trees and grass everywhere, and to have everyone speak English. The week will undoubtedly exhaust me, and I already have two weekends of travel behind me from which I've yet to fully recuperate (or even partially recuperate, for that matter.)
I was sitting at lunch with my host mom and host sister-in-law the other day about to leave for the weekend to Antofagasta. Claudia, the sister-in-law, told me that she had been talking with Carlos, my eldest host brother, the other day and that he had said with a sigh that he wished for one week that he could be me because I am always traveling. In Antofagasta, I got to talking with some of the other volunteers stationed there and it began to become aparent that Ryan and I are by far the most traveled individuals in our region, and maybe out of the whole 8 month group. We have been to every noteworthy area in Región II, some places multiple times, and seldom a weekend passes that we are actually in Calama. Part of this is out of necessity, no doubt, but it does occur to me that I have been nursing an inherent wanderlust that infected me the moment I left the States for the first time.
The weekend before the Antofagasta trip we had returned to Iquique for the weekend (it was Ryan's fourth time and my third) where we stayed in the same amazing hostel and had probably the best time yet, at least on my part. The weekend was marked by our meeting of two dutch girls, Anne and Eli, and their 19 year old Viennese companion named Georg. We became quick friends and spent the weekend with them (among others, including your usual assortment of Aussies, Brits, and Chileans from the south.) However, to recount the entire experience would be impossible, or at the very least would fill up a blog by itself and still be lacking. Thus, I will not try to recount everything, but simply proffer an anecdotal summary.
Minutes after meeting the three, we dove into a deep religious discussion where I found myself explaining Christianity only to have that night end somewhere around six in the morning packed in a stranger's truck with four other people (9 total, including the girl who works at the hostel who knows us by name now) driving home from a dance club. The next night was sheer madness. Ryan and I returned from having our minds blown by Inception (best movie of the year, at the very least) and took a nap. Anne storms in around seven that evening, already drunk, and forced us out of bed screaming, "Is this a *expletive* joke?" We proceeded to spend the rest of the very, very long night pulling her from traffic, picking her off of supermarket floors, and explaining to a bouncer at the club, in Spanish, that she hadn't fallen in front of the door, she had just stooped down to pet a dog. The next morning she was bright and chipper as though nothing had happened.
I was understandably exhausted upon our return to Calama, but proceeded to have an excellent week teaching. Very soon I hope to post about my new semester, as it has been a far-and-away improvement from the previous four months. That next weekend, in Antofagasta, the program was hosting a public speaking competition for octavo students (eighth grade) and as such, there was a convergence of volunteers on the port city. I teach in a pure high school and was not part of the competition, sadly, but I left that morning after class to meet everyone for the weekend. Vanessa had come up from Tatal and we spent the weekend with Matt, Lorna, and one of the new five-monthers, Emmy, who is teaching in Tocopilla (a small, ugly fishing/mining village a north of Antofa.) We also met up with our Mexican friend Monjiuth, as well as Camilu (who, if you'll recall, I first met in Tatal.) Saturday, we gringos went about an hour north to the small, tranquil fishing village of Mejillones where we hung out on the beach and ate a most incredible seafood feast. That night, Emmy continued on north to Tocopilla and we returned to Antofagasta to attend a birthday asado with Camilu.
Matt, Ryan, and I retired early from the party because we were exhausted, bidding farewell to Vanessa and Camilu and heading back to his apartment. The next day, one of Ryan's teachers in Calama who has family and an apartment in Antofa invited us over for lunch. We spent the day with Walterio, as he is called, and his son. He drove us around to show us the sites, and we stopped at this amazing seaside restaurant where he bought us empanadas de mariscos which are filled with all sorts of delicious sea creatures such as octopus, abalones, and limpets. He even took us to the bus station so we could refund our tickets as he was dead set on us riding back to Calama with him in his SUV. It was a most excellent weekend, all in all, but I returned that night to Calama completely worn out with the task of packing for my return trip to the States still ahead of me. However, si Dios quiere, I will spend the next week in my homeland and return again to the desert for another three months. My friends here don't think I'll come back...vamos a ver.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Memory of a Thunderstorm
"I get my best ideas in a thunderstorm. I have the power and majesty of nature on my side."
--Ralph Steadman
It rained in Antofagasta this week, and all along the desert coast of the Norte Grande. The city was thrown into a state of havoc, as it is neither accustomed nor prepared to handle any amount of rain. My fellow volunteers had their classes canceled as all the schools were shut down for fear of mudslides and flooding. Lorna, my British friend, told me her classroom took water and ruined her "useful words" posters. Ximena, my host mom, explained to me after that almost none of the houses in this region have roofs that are sealed, those that even have roofs and not simply tin sheets laid over each other or, worse yet, simple tarps. She spoke of how during the one time that it rained in Calama long enough to produce a noticeable effect, our kitchen had leaked. She then proceeded to show me the still extant damage to the molding near the ceiling. The news the day after explained how hundreds of people had to sleep in the schools because the insides of their houses had been soaked. Two days later, they are still cleaning up the damage.
However, it did not even become cloudy in Calama that day. I fell asleep in the silence that night imaging what it would be like to hear the soft drumming of raindrops on the window. I dreamt of storms.
I remember sitting on the second story balcony of a corner pub in Brisbane as a storm slowly rolled in from the distance; the deep guttural growl of thunder preceding as the bright afternoon sky turned a surreal gray. I could smell the water in the air before it came; rain that began softly, growing with the thunder claps into a rush that obscured the world outside. The rhythm of the rain drops pattering on the roof, crashing against the pavement of the street and the soft hiss that seems a sort of silence itself enveloped me. The storm didn’t last long, and it dissipated as quickly as the sun sinks into the ocean on a summer’s evening
--Ralph Steadman
It rained in Antofagasta this week, and all along the desert coast of the Norte Grande. The city was thrown into a state of havoc, as it is neither accustomed nor prepared to handle any amount of rain. My fellow volunteers had their classes canceled as all the schools were shut down for fear of mudslides and flooding. Lorna, my British friend, told me her classroom took water and ruined her "useful words" posters. Ximena, my host mom, explained to me after that almost none of the houses in this region have roofs that are sealed, those that even have roofs and not simply tin sheets laid over each other or, worse yet, simple tarps. She spoke of how during the one time that it rained in Calama long enough to produce a noticeable effect, our kitchen had leaked. She then proceeded to show me the still extant damage to the molding near the ceiling. The news the day after explained how hundreds of people had to sleep in the schools because the insides of their houses had been soaked. Two days later, they are still cleaning up the damage.
However, it did not even become cloudy in Calama that day. I fell asleep in the silence that night imaging what it would be like to hear the soft drumming of raindrops on the window. I dreamt of storms.
Brisbane, post-storm.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Puns
From Facebook comes an epic exchange of Calama themed puns between myself and my British friend Lorna:
After that, she conceded victory to me. However, I felt that the last entry was such a stretch that I call it a tie.
Lorna: How was your BBQ?
Me: It was a true to form Calama experience. Two drunk crazy people accosted us and at least fourteen dogs joined the party. Good food though, cooked to perfection (if I do say so myself...and I do), and good people. In other words, it was Calamazing.
Lorna: Not a total Calamity then?
Me: Of course not, I'm no Calamateur.
Lorna: And the newbies are Calamiable?
Me: Oh yes, quite. I'd say we've Calamassed a good group here.
Lorna: Are you going to Calamalgamate again soon?
Me: Perhaps over drinks. The new girls are fans of Calamaretto.
After that, she conceded victory to me. However, I felt that the last entry was such a stretch that I call it a tie.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Calama: The Series
"Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures."
--Ralph Waldo Emerson
Recently, my narrative side got the itch to return to fiction. Writing about everyday life and the events that occur during travel and such is interesting, and good for informing my adoring public of my movements, but it lacks a certain sensational aspect that I happen to enjoy. Thus, last week, I began a series of stories on a separate blog in the still of early magazine serials. Titled simply, Calama: The Series, I have decided to spin a yarn of crime fiction that incorporates the harsh truthes of Calama into a sensationalized narrative. I hope you will check it out and find it enjoyable. I'm certainly having fun writng it. My goal is to have one to two episodes appear a week.
So stay tuned to Calama: The Series to experience the drama of a dirty city full of dirty people and dirty deeds (the official tagline.)
Monday, August 9, 2010
These Days
New Gringos in Calama, por fin.
"These days I seem to think about how all the changes came about my ways..."
--Nico
Vacation ended, as it must, after a very short two weeks and I was once again back in Calama, acclimatizing as best as I could. This meant congestion, nosebleeds, and ashy skin. Despite having spent fourth months in the desert already, it was a full two weeks before I was at stasis levels. I arrived on Saturday night from Santiago, had a day to decompress, and Monday I was back in the fray at Luis Cruz Martinez (my school.) This semester I was only teaching the Primeros (Freshmen) and Segundos (Sophomores) and after a week of observing their classes and introducing myself, I could already tell that things were going to be better than they had been with the Terceros (Juniors) and Quartos (Seniors.) The younger kids, by and large, are more interested in learning and already have a more proficient grasp on the language. This is due to a few factors, not least of which being that they are part of the first generation in Chile to have benefited from mandatory English schooling beginning during 5th grade level. The classes are better, but I have more of them and have to spend considerably more time at the school, getting there early everyday. My second week back, one of the the three teachers I work with, Nelida, fell ill and from Tuesday on I took over her Segundo classes. I volunteered to do this not realizing I would have to come up with a lesson on the fly for 80 minutes and 45 kids each class. Everything worked out and I became further convinced that I could easily be a regular English teacher in Chile, not that it's something I care to do.
Other things were different as well. After a few days back in Calama, I finally met the one host brother I had yet to see because of his being at university in Valparaíso. Pancho, as he is called (the nickname for Fransisco), is nineteen years old and an engineering student. While he was here he and my host-dad (whom he calls tio, or uncle) fixed the solar water heater and now it is not necessary to light the calefont every time we want hot water. We shared the bunk bed in "my" room during his stay, but he pretty much kept to himself; playing Wii or basketball, not much else. He looks very much like Carlos, whom he favors in temperament, but all three brothers are extremely different.
 |
| Our Star Trek-esque interface for the solar water heater. |
For the past four months there have only been four volunteers in Calama, and Ryan and I were the only ones who saw each other. Every once and a while we would see Mary (like when we went to Antofagasta) but we had started to believe Hannah had never really existed and we had just made her up. However, the past two weeks since the ending of winter vacations have seen an influx of new gringo blood into this dusty city. Almost all females, and numbering close to 10 people, the new volunteers belong to the 5 and 4 month programs and will be sharing our mise--er, uh, I mean, experiences until we all head out at the end of November. Ryan and I decided, since we hadn't met everyone yet, to organize and asado in Parque Loa (the one pretty part) and invited everyone. He and I mastered the grilling portion, and the event went quite well except for the cadre of dogs that surrounded our picnic table and the two extremely drunk, crazy people that accosted us at various times throughout the day. Mary came too, as well as Hannah, proving that she is indeed alive. Now we all have new playmates that speak English, so the next four months ought to be vastly improved.
As I write this, I am a few days over halfway through my time here, and its hard to imagine being here for the next half. However, to quote the under-appreciated masterpiece of Crusader cinema, Kingdom of Heaven, "God wills it!"
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Time to Santia-Go
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Fourteen: I am well aware that the title of this post is incredibly cheesy, but I do not apologize for it. After a whirlwind tour of part of Perú, Chile, and Argentina, the Yanquis found themselves in the (then) rainy capital of Chile about to part ways for a while. BT and Chris were to fly north, eventually reaching Lima again so as to fly back to the States, and I was to hop on a twenty two hour bus ride back to the wilds of the Norte Grande.
It was cool and rainy the majority of our last day together, and as such we didn't go to the top of Cerro San Cristobal as I had planned, since we wouldn't have been able to see anything. I did have the opportunity to show BT and Chris around Bellavista, the bohemian-esque neighborhood at the base of the hill, and we all enjoyed a last lunch together at the one "Irish" pub in Patio Bellavista creatively named Dublin. The rest of the day unfortunately passed quickly, and rather uneventfully, and by six o'clock that evening there was a cab waiting outside the hostel to bear Chris and Brandon away from me. I gave them a cheat sheet of Spanish phrases to help them on their way back across the border into Perú, and then we bid our goodbyes. The trip had been too short, but packed, and we all three were sad to see it coming to an end. I was particularly sad because they were going back to the States with Taco Bell, real coffee, and English whereas I was going right back to Calama with its rocks, dust, and dogs.
After seeing the others off, I sat around the hostel chatting with Mike and Nick, learning that they were former marines who had been touring Brazil and Argentina for about six weeks before (neither of them speaking Spanish or Portuguese.) I did some catching up on the internet, and finally around 2200 set out in the light drizzle to take the metro to the bus station.
I slept the majority of the ride back up, and the only notable occurrence was somebody stealing my snack box while I was dozing. By 2100 on the night of my fifteenth day, I was back home, exhausted, and set to teach in two days. I met up with Ryan and we swapped stories and commiserated on our next four months in Chile's ugliest city. I later learned that Chris and BT made it back to the States without problems.
Thus did the journey of the Yanquis in Latin America quickly pass into legend.
Day Fourteen: I am well aware that the title of this post is incredibly cheesy, but I do not apologize for it. After a whirlwind tour of part of Perú, Chile, and Argentina, the Yanquis found themselves in the (then) rainy capital of Chile about to part ways for a while. BT and Chris were to fly north, eventually reaching Lima again so as to fly back to the States, and I was to hop on a twenty two hour bus ride back to the wilds of the Norte Grande.
It was cool and rainy the majority of our last day together, and as such we didn't go to the top of Cerro San Cristobal as I had planned, since we wouldn't have been able to see anything. I did have the opportunity to show BT and Chris around Bellavista, the bohemian-esque neighborhood at the base of the hill, and we all enjoyed a last lunch together at the one "Irish" pub in Patio Bellavista creatively named Dublin. The rest of the day unfortunately passed quickly, and rather uneventfully, and by six o'clock that evening there was a cab waiting outside the hostel to bear Chris and Brandon away from me. I gave them a cheat sheet of Spanish phrases to help them on their way back across the border into Perú, and then we bid our goodbyes. The trip had been too short, but packed, and we all three were sad to see it coming to an end. I was particularly sad because they were going back to the States with Taco Bell, real coffee, and English whereas I was going right back to Calama with its rocks, dust, and dogs.
After seeing the others off, I sat around the hostel chatting with Mike and Nick, learning that they were former marines who had been touring Brazil and Argentina for about six weeks before (neither of them speaking Spanish or Portuguese.) I did some catching up on the internet, and finally around 2200 set out in the light drizzle to take the metro to the bus station.
I slept the majority of the ride back up, and the only notable occurrence was somebody stealing my snack box while I was dozing. By 2100 on the night of my fifteenth day, I was back home, exhausted, and set to teach in two days. I met up with Ryan and we swapped stories and commiserated on our next four months in Chile's ugliest city. I later learned that Chris and BT made it back to the States without problems.
Thus did the journey of the Yanquis in Latin America quickly pass into legend.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: You Shall Not Pass
Day Thirteen: We had to be up before the sun on Thursday, the 21st to catch a flight from BA to Mendoza. The plan was to fly to Mendoza, and then take a bus through the Andes and into Santiago so that Brandon and Chris would not have to pay the 131 dollar reciprocity fee levied at the Santiago International Airport. Also, it was cheaper to fly to Mendoza and then bus as opposed to flying straight into Santiago. Thus, early that morning, we landed at the tiny airport outside Mendoza and were immediately greeted by the majestic, snow-capped Andes looking more spectacular than I'd ever seen. Vanessa accuses me of putting too much "Jesus stuff" in my posts, but I must say that if ever there were a natural reflection of the glory of God on earth, it is the peaks surrounding Aconcagua (highest mountain in the southern hemisphere) in the winter.
We took an extremely inexpensive taxi straight from the airport to the bus station where I preceded to seek passage to Chile. It turned out there was a bus leaving that afternoon at 13:30, which would theoretically put us in Santiago by 20:00 or so that night. Thus we bought tickets and sat down in the cafe over the station for a hearty, but rather uninspiring lunch. The bus was on time and we boarded with no problems. I was immediately struck by how much more leg room there was than on a Chilean or Peruvian bus (Argentinians I suppose are taller on average.) We then began the wonderfully scenic drive past the famed vineyards that surround Mendoza (now dead in winter) and into the mountain pass. We were all awed by the beauty of the scenery in the snow gilded mountains and I absolutely must recommend taking the trip by bus (or car) at least once in life. We had the rather dubious distinction of getting to see that stretch twice.
The problems arose when we reached the Argentine side of the entrance into the pass. It was closed, and the bus attendant informed us over the speaker that we would attempt to wait it out. An hour later, without ceremony, we turned around and drove back into Mendoza. Eventually the attendant came through and explained that we had to go into the office at the station and exchange our tickets for a bus leaving tomorrow, and pray that the pass would be open. It was then that I learned from one of the other passengers that the pass had been closed for three days, and this was her second failed attempt. We made it back to the station and Brandon brought to my attention two other Americans on the bus who had asked, as we arrived at the station mind you,
"What's up? Is this immigration?"
It turned out the two young men, Mike and Nick, spoke no Spanish and we had to fill them in on the situation. Taking them under my wing, I arranged for the tickets to be changed. There was a kid waiting by the bus hawking a hostel, and we decided to just go with him as he had a van to take us to the hostel and it seemed cheap enough. Thus the five of us ended up at some random place in Mendoza, the name of which I forget, to unexpectedly stay the night. The hostel was owned by a man named Ariel, who spoke self-taught English and was helpful enough, even if his house (which is what the place was) was not exactly the nicest of stays. He offered us free Malbec wine (the famed vintage of Mendoza) from his brother's vineyard--all we could drink--but we weren't there for wine (though later that night we could here another group of young Americans defiantly taking advantage of the offer.) He did suggest an amazing restaurant that was much like the parrillada buffet we had encountered in BA and, despite our set back, at least had one last incredible meal in Argentina.
Day Fourteen: We repeated the arrive-at-bus-station/board bus/travel-into-the-mountains routine we had tried the day before. However, this time we left at 10:30 because I had been told that if the pass were to be open, our best shot was morning. We arrived at the checkpoint and there was a long line of traffic backed up, which I took for a good sign. That morning, Brandon and I had prayed together that God would let us through, though I honestly would not have minded being stuck in Argentina for longer. I personally did not desire to return to Chile, but as Chris and BT had flights they needed to catch, it was best that we make it through. The wait at the checkpoint was long, but we did make it through. Then we stopped again for another hour. Then we drove for an hour. Then we stopped a second time somewhere else for another hour. By the time we made it to the actual border crossing, at the very top of the pass, it was already16:00 and we were at the end of a line of three day's worth of backed-up traffic trying to get through immigration. There was thick snow everywhere, and we could feasily see why the pass had been closed.
We got out of the bus at one point and took pictures in the snow, but for the most part it was a four hour waiting game trying to get in and through immigration and customs. If you'll recall, getting into Argentina had been a breeze, and we hadn't even needed to pass customs. Chile, on the other hand, is so mired in bureaucracy that of course there were three lines to stand in along with multiple baggage checks. The real bummer was that, once we finally passed the border, we still had another three and a half hours to Santiago. It was near 22:00 by the time we made the main bus station and debused. Mike and Nick had no plans, so they tagged along with us to our hostel, where we had made reservations the night before.
I led the group onto the Santiago metro and down into the Providencia district, which is one of the nicer areas (a step up at least from Barrio Brazil, where I had stayed when first arriving in Chile) and is right next to the famed Cerro San Cristobal. We found the hostel no problem, and were very pleased to discovered that it was new, extremely clean, and staffed by excellently helpful individuals. None of us had eaten the entire day, save for a few chips and cookies, and as such the first thing we did was set out to find something open. Our options were slim at 23:00, and we settled on Telepizza. Now, I had seen Telepizzas all over the place since first arriving (we have two in Calama) but I had at that time not yet tried them. We each got a person pizza combo, complete with pie, fries, and bebida, and settled down to sample Chile's attempt at delivery. After the first bite I realized I had finally found something in Chile that tasted like it should, and it felt like a small triumph. The pizza did not disappoint in the slightest, and BT even exclaimed that it was the best pizza he had ever eaten. Granted, he was delirious with hunger at the time.
We took an extremely inexpensive taxi straight from the airport to the bus station where I preceded to seek passage to Chile. It turned out there was a bus leaving that afternoon at 13:30, which would theoretically put us in Santiago by 20:00 or so that night. Thus we bought tickets and sat down in the cafe over the station for a hearty, but rather uninspiring lunch. The bus was on time and we boarded with no problems. I was immediately struck by how much more leg room there was than on a Chilean or Peruvian bus (Argentinians I suppose are taller on average.) We then began the wonderfully scenic drive past the famed vineyards that surround Mendoza (now dead in winter) and into the mountain pass. We were all awed by the beauty of the scenery in the snow gilded mountains and I absolutely must recommend taking the trip by bus (or car) at least once in life. We had the rather dubious distinction of getting to see that stretch twice.
The problems arose when we reached the Argentine side of the entrance into the pass. It was closed, and the bus attendant informed us over the speaker that we would attempt to wait it out. An hour later, without ceremony, we turned around and drove back into Mendoza. Eventually the attendant came through and explained that we had to go into the office at the station and exchange our tickets for a bus leaving tomorrow, and pray that the pass would be open. It was then that I learned from one of the other passengers that the pass had been closed for three days, and this was her second failed attempt. We made it back to the station and Brandon brought to my attention two other Americans on the bus who had asked, as we arrived at the station mind you,
"What's up? Is this immigration?"
It turned out the two young men, Mike and Nick, spoke no Spanish and we had to fill them in on the situation. Taking them under my wing, I arranged for the tickets to be changed. There was a kid waiting by the bus hawking a hostel, and we decided to just go with him as he had a van to take us to the hostel and it seemed cheap enough. Thus the five of us ended up at some random place in Mendoza, the name of which I forget, to unexpectedly stay the night. The hostel was owned by a man named Ariel, who spoke self-taught English and was helpful enough, even if his house (which is what the place was) was not exactly the nicest of stays. He offered us free Malbec wine (the famed vintage of Mendoza) from his brother's vineyard--all we could drink--but we weren't there for wine (though later that night we could here another group of young Americans defiantly taking advantage of the offer.) He did suggest an amazing restaurant that was much like the parrillada buffet we had encountered in BA and, despite our set back, at least had one last incredible meal in Argentina.
Day Fourteen: We repeated the arrive-at-bus-station/board bus/travel-into-the-mountains routine we had tried the day before. However, this time we left at 10:30 because I had been told that if the pass were to be open, our best shot was morning. We arrived at the checkpoint and there was a long line of traffic backed up, which I took for a good sign. That morning, Brandon and I had prayed together that God would let us through, though I honestly would not have minded being stuck in Argentina for longer. I personally did not desire to return to Chile, but as Chris and BT had flights they needed to catch, it was best that we make it through. The wait at the checkpoint was long, but we did make it through. Then we stopped again for another hour. Then we drove for an hour. Then we stopped a second time somewhere else for another hour. By the time we made it to the actual border crossing, at the very top of the pass, it was already16:00 and we were at the end of a line of three day's worth of backed-up traffic trying to get through immigration. There was thick snow everywhere, and we could feasily see why the pass had been closed.
We got out of the bus at one point and took pictures in the snow, but for the most part it was a four hour waiting game trying to get in and through immigration and customs. If you'll recall, getting into Argentina had been a breeze, and we hadn't even needed to pass customs. Chile, on the other hand, is so mired in bureaucracy that of course there were three lines to stand in along with multiple baggage checks. The real bummer was that, once we finally passed the border, we still had another three and a half hours to Santiago. It was near 22:00 by the time we made the main bus station and debused. Mike and Nick had no plans, so they tagged along with us to our hostel, where we had made reservations the night before.
I led the group onto the Santiago metro and down into the Providencia district, which is one of the nicer areas (a step up at least from Barrio Brazil, where I had stayed when first arriving in Chile) and is right next to the famed Cerro San Cristobal. We found the hostel no problem, and were very pleased to discovered that it was new, extremely clean, and staffed by excellently helpful individuals. None of us had eaten the entire day, save for a few chips and cookies, and as such the first thing we did was set out to find something open. Our options were slim at 23:00, and we settled on Telepizza. Now, I had seen Telepizzas all over the place since first arriving (we have two in Calama) but I had at that time not yet tried them. We each got a person pizza combo, complete with pie, fries, and bebida, and settled down to sample Chile's attempt at delivery. After the first bite I realized I had finally found something in Chile that tasted like it should, and it felt like a small triumph. The pizza did not disappoint in the slightest, and BT even exclaimed that it was the best pizza he had ever eaten. Granted, he was delirious with hunger at the time.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Yanquis in Latin America: Buenos Aires pt. 2
I am looking back now, at the end of two weeks of travel and recounting the events that transpired...
Day Twelve: I was determined upon awaking to actually find Vanessa that day, since our planned meeting in Plaza de Mayo the day before had been a failure. She told me that she and her friend would be in Recoleta Cemetery, around noon, and I found that we could walk there from the hostel. Thus, after rousing BT and Chris, we set forth under beautiful, clear, sunny skies. The weather that day was the polar opposite of the previous, and I could not have hoped for better.
After our brisk walk, we arrived at the cemetery and were immediately wowed by its grandeur. For a place filled with dead people, it was quite splendid. Recoleta Cemetery is filled with the bones (maybe) of many famous Argentinians, not least of which being Eva Peron. Her tomb, however, was quite underwhelming considering her enduring popularity. The place was huge, and we were once again late, and I had all but given up on the idea of finding Vanessa a second time when suddenly, as we were eavesdropping on a tour group, I heard my name called out. I turned to find Vanessa waving. She was with her friend Lauren along with Sarah, Marie, Greg, and Jeff. I wondered in that moment if so many volunteer English teachers from Chile had ever gathered together in that place, or any such place filled with so many corpses.
By the time we found Vanessa and Lauren, it was time to eat (especially given the fact that we had not eaten breakfast.) However, Sarah and the others still wanted to explore the cemetery. Thus it was agreed we would meet back up at the hostel later that night. Lauren, who is currently a student in BA and well acquainted with the city, led us out past the expensive touristy restaurants around the cemetery and to a nice, typical Argentine cafe sporting a cheap set menu. Brandon pretty much fell asleep at lunch and we decided we didn't want his dead weight around, and so stuck him in a cab and sent him off. The rest of us (me, Chris, Vanessa, and Lauren) went back to the park near the cemetery to meet up with Lauren's Argentine friend who would then accompany us to the Bella Arte museum (a famous art museum.) However, by the time the friend showed up, the plan had changed and we went off to a museum of photo journalism. The Argentine girl, whose name escapes me, didn't speak English but, oddly enough, was fluent in Norwegian. The museum was interesting, and free, but after about an hour there Chris and I decided we'd seen enough photos and bid the girls farewell to head back to the hostel where Vanessa said she would meet us later.
--Ah yes, Mr. Craft. Look at this photo. It's very cultural.
--Indeed.
Chris and I decided to walk back, enjoying further the excellent weather as the sun slowly set on Buenos Aires. We found Brandon still asleep in his bed and decided to join him in the exercise. I was later awakened by the hosteler telling me my amiga had arrived. It was Vanessa, who was flushed from the walk having accidentally passed the hostel and gone about a half mile out of the way before realizing the mistake. In her defense, there was no real sign on the hostel, just some graffiti that spelled the name "Old Friends." Sarah was supposed to meet us there, according to the plans she had made with Vanessa, but she never showed. Thus, Lauren came by to join us (she had been in some sort of singing practice for school) and we ended up ordering out for Argentine pizza and empandas. I know I have mentioned the fact already, but it bears repeating: empanadas in Argentina are much better than in Chile. However, the pizza was about the same (though, later that week I would finally try Chile's Telepizza, and I found it satisfying and very much on par with delivery in the states. More on that later.)
Day Twelve: I was determined upon awaking to actually find Vanessa that day, since our planned meeting in Plaza de Mayo the day before had been a failure. She told me that she and her friend would be in Recoleta Cemetery, around noon, and I found that we could walk there from the hostel. Thus, after rousing BT and Chris, we set forth under beautiful, clear, sunny skies. The weather that day was the polar opposite of the previous, and I could not have hoped for better.
After our brisk walk, we arrived at the cemetery and were immediately wowed by its grandeur. For a place filled with dead people, it was quite splendid. Recoleta Cemetery is filled with the bones (maybe) of many famous Argentinians, not least of which being Eva Peron. Her tomb, however, was quite underwhelming considering her enduring popularity. The place was huge, and we were once again late, and I had all but given up on the idea of finding Vanessa a second time when suddenly, as we were eavesdropping on a tour group, I heard my name called out. I turned to find Vanessa waving. She was with her friend Lauren along with Sarah, Marie, Greg, and Jeff. I wondered in that moment if so many volunteer English teachers from Chile had ever gathered together in that place, or any such place filled with so many corpses.
By the time we found Vanessa and Lauren, it was time to eat (especially given the fact that we had not eaten breakfast.) However, Sarah and the others still wanted to explore the cemetery. Thus it was agreed we would meet back up at the hostel later that night. Lauren, who is currently a student in BA and well acquainted with the city, led us out past the expensive touristy restaurants around the cemetery and to a nice, typical Argentine cafe sporting a cheap set menu. Brandon pretty much fell asleep at lunch and we decided we didn't want his dead weight around, and so stuck him in a cab and sent him off. The rest of us (me, Chris, Vanessa, and Lauren) went back to the park near the cemetery to meet up with Lauren's Argentine friend who would then accompany us to the Bella Arte museum (a famous art museum.) However, by the time the friend showed up, the plan had changed and we went off to a museum of photo journalism. The Argentine girl, whose name escapes me, didn't speak English but, oddly enough, was fluent in Norwegian. The museum was interesting, and free, but after about an hour there Chris and I decided we'd seen enough photos and bid the girls farewell to head back to the hostel where Vanessa said she would meet us later.
--Ah yes, Mr. Craft. Look at this photo. It's very cultural.--Indeed.
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