Another Door Opens

Last Friday, I had my last class with The Language Company. Next Friday, I will be on a plane leaving Santiago after an incredible year. Which means that this is it. It's finished. I'm done.

La Moneda in Santiago

The past couple of weeks have been full of good byes, and I've seen my fair share of friends come and go in their final farewell to the city. So.... what now? I've built a life here and formed friendships that have defined my time here in the best way possible. I've fallen in love with maracuyá, strengthened my hatred of traffic and instant coffee, and lived a life that will be hard to forget. And now it's time to leave it behind me. But a simple ciao seems to leave too much unspoken.

Over the past few months, I've realized that I'm not done yet. I don't even feel close. There are still deserts to be wandered, volcanoes to climb, and rivers to follow. There are people and parts of this country that are still unknown to me, and I don't think I am able to leave Chile behind without at least doing what I can to discover them. This country is more than this city, and I still need time to figure out what exactly that means.

So I've decided to stay.

The port in Valparaiso

A couple of weeks ago, I accepted a position as a volunteer English teacher in the public school system. The government created a program called English Opens Doors to try to bring native English speakers into public school classrooms. The program will find me a job, place me with a host family, and provide me a small stipend every month for living expenses (about $100 USD) throughout the next school year. I wish I could provide more details about where I will be, what my school is like, who my students are, etc., but I won't know until I return to Santiago in April. I was able to give my preferences: south, small town, rural, or central. But other than that, this is little more than shot in the dark. Right now, that's exactly what I'm looking for.

El campo in Alhué

I want to go somewhere quiet, hidden, and tucked away. I want to see the country without the city lights to blind me. I want to see my students Monday through Friday and greet them when they enter sleepy-eyed into my class in the morning. I want to be Mr. Rogers again, or better yet "Meester Jow," and see my kids enough to notice when someone gets a haircut. When I run into a student at a grocery store, plaza, or in the street, I want to watch them struggle with the reality that I exist outside of school. This year has given me so much to be grateful for, but a large part of that student-teacher connection is missing that I had in Galesburg. In my heart, I know my place is in a classroom with kids that I can connect to, invest in, and teach. This is my way to find my way back.

Teaching is not an easy job, and teaching in a Chilean public school will only make things more complicated. Unfortunately, the largest dividing factor in the country is class, and the extreme capitalist culture creates a society split into black and white with very little grey to bring them together. Naturally, my students will be on the poorer side of the spectrum, and that means underfunded school districts, low expectations, an average of 40 students per class, and a handful of student protests that shut down the school entirely for months on end. On top of it all, I won't earn an actual salary. This will be a challenge, and I don't pretend otherwise. But I know what I'm doing and why I'm choosing to do it. This is my chance to make a difference in a country I've come to love.

 Bring it on, Chile. I'm here to stay.

A river in Cajón de Maipo

A Trip to Chiloe

I press into my feet a little bit deeper, remembering how it feels to have sand between my toes. The air that rolls inland from the grey-blue ocean tastes like salt and a recent rain. Soft mosses and driftwood are scattered across the coast, and as the tide pulls in, seawater rushes into caves worn into the steep cliffside. I close my eyes and I listen to the world around me. There are no cars, no people, no chaos. Only the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, birds crying in the distance, and the soft steps of the stray dog who wandered here with me.

The Chiloé coast

The city lights seem a world away, and although the sun is still covered by a blanket of heavy grey clouds, the horizon is a lot more clear when it's not hidden behind a heavy veil of pollution. This is world does not at all resemble the random shifting and shuffling of strangers in subway cars and office buildings. Nothing reminds me of the paved pathways and wide sidewalks of the city. But here I am, in Chile, forgetting the Chile I thought I knew and finding something much, much more vast.

For the past nine months, Chile and Santiago have largely become synonymous in my head. With few exceptions, this country ended for me at the city borders, and almost everything I've learned about what it means to live here as been confined to the capital. Granted, I have learned a lot. But as I stand here on this deserted shore, I realize how little of this country I actually know.

I had wanted to come to Chiloé for a while, and as soon as I arrived, people had told me stories about the superstitions, the myths, and the mysteries of the island. When people spoke about Chiloé, it was like they were telling a ghost story: bent over, voice low, and eyes locked onto yours like they were daring you to not believe them. Obviously seeing is believing, and after buying the plane tickets, I started to do some research to get ready for my trip down south.

La Pincoya and her less
attractive sister in the back

This island is steeped in a folklore and mythology that still beats strong in the heart of chilote culture. the island even has a creation story: CaiCai-Vilu, the snake god of the sea, tried to flood the world, and TenTen-Vilu, the snake god of the land, defended his territory and saved Chiloé from being submerged by the water, although effectively cutting it off from the mainland. I read stories written by sailors across generations who swear to have seen the ghost ship, El Caleuche, in the midst of a storm moments before their ship was lost. Many today swear to hear mysterious fog horns on rainy nights or catch a quick glimpse of a mast, a sail, or a hull anchored just off the shore. In the island's capital, Castro, there is a statue of La Pincoya, the beautiful daughter of the god of the sea, dancing naked on the sand. The legend goes that when she is looking out towards the sea, there will be a good harvest for fishing that season. If not, the people need to tend their crops and hope that it is enough to last them until the fish return.

But as much as the sea defines them, so do the forests that cover the island. Each of the shops, churches, and homes are all built from wood, and when a building is destroyed by a flood, fire, storm, or any disaster, the community rallies around those affected to rebuild. Here, like several Latin American community, the concept of minga is very alive. Friends, family, and neighbors will come together to help a member of the community with the understanding that one day, the favor will be reciprocated. There is a sense of community and togetherness among each town that is fundamentally different than the isolation and individuality of Santiago. Maybe the best example of this communal bond is when a family on the island decides to move.


In Chiloé when a family decides to move, they don't just bring their children, dog, furniture, bags, etc. Instead, the entire house comes with them: walls, roof, and all. Because the houses are made of a light wood, the neighbors are able to mount the house on a platform that is then pulled by donkeys or oxen to its new location, wherever that might be. Two-story wooden homes are wheeled across towns and guided over rivers, pulled by ropes that are tied to a strange assembly of men and animals. At the end of the day, the family who moved thanks those who helped them by making curanto, a seafood and shellfish medley that is cooked in a pit.

Curanto in all of its glory

When I found out about this, I obviously wanted to see the entire process in person and maybe even try my hand at pulling houses across town. But since nobody felt the need to move houses that weekend, I settled for the next best thing: I ordered curanto in a marketplace. Note to reader: I hate seafood, and when the steaming vat of shells and fish flesh came out, I almost lost my appetite. However, the chorizo and chapalele (potato bread) were delicious, and the mussels were tolerable with a heavy dose of lime juice. I absolutely loathed the oysters, and nothing I tried made them any better. Gross. Then, just to top off the experience, I tried a bit of razor clam covered in parmesan cheese and the smallest bit of eel stew. Food is an important part of a culture, especially one as unique as Chiloé. Even if it means facing my deepest, darkest, and slimiest fears, I wanted to experience it to the very last slurp.

I had never been to a place like Chiloé, and for a very good reason: there is no place like it in the world. As a country, Chile is already cut off from the rest of the world by deserts to the north, mountains to the east, and the ocean to the west. As an island, Chiloé is even more isolated. It has been able to create, develop, and preserve an identity that has existed for thousands of years, largely unaffected by the world across the water.

And as my time in Santiago creeps closer to its end, I remember the question that brought me to Chile in the first place.

What else is out there? 

The crew on the hunt for adventure

A Letter of Love from a Place of Hurt

At 9:30, I booted up my laptop with a morning bottle of merlot (it's Saturday after all) and a sleeve of crackers for breakfast. I have a new Monday morning class that I wasn't ready for, so I opened the textbook and briefly skimmed our next chapter. "Safety and Security." The next ten pages were full of ready-made vocabulary, article blurbs, and activity ideas. Planning should have been easy, no more than twenty minutes. That was far from the truth.

When I opened my browser, the first thing I saw was an article on the orchestrated attack on Paris that killed eighty people. Next to that article was another about the suicide bombing in Beirut that killed forty just the day before. If there was ever a time to teach a unit on "safety and security," this seemed to be it. The world is reeling, and sometimes the only thing I know how to do as a teacher is close the textbook and talk about what's right in front of us.

For the past three hours, I've thrown myself into the headlines that have held the world captive since I've moved to Chile. I've relived the moments when each tragedy struck: the mass shooting in Garissa University that claimed the lives of 147 students and the 7.8 earthquake in Nepal, which is too close to India for comfort. With each memory that is too recent to seem so faded, the death toll keeps rising. As the list grows and the pain deepens, another part of my heart seems to leave Santiago.

I know that it's an unfair sentence to say, and I know that I can't pack up my bags and move to where ever people are hurt, killed, or in need. But being so distant from the world that I know has made me realize how distant I am from the rest of it.

I couldn't be there when a young girl was thrown across a classroom while sitting in her desk, or when a woman was pulled out of her car, arrested, and died in her jail cell only days later. A twelve-year-old boy was shot while holding a pellet gun because he was a "threat." Right now, students of color at Mizzou are being told that they will be killed if they try to go to class. The entirety of the United States is in the middle of a nation-wide dialogue centered around how much black lives matter, and I can only watch from the sidelines.

Even when tragedy and pain touched the ones I love, I was halfway around the world. Two Galesburg students were killed in a car accident in August, and although we had never met, they were still part of my community.  Students, coworkers, and close friends were mourning the loss of lives taken too soon. One of my freshmen, now a sophomore, spoke at the ceremony in honor of the girls who passed. But I couldn't be there for any of them. At least, not in the way that I wanted to be. As much as Skype and Facebook can do, they can't take the place of a hug, a smile in a hallway, or a hand held.

In those moments when I felt like the world should have stopped spinning, my life continued just as it did before, removed and unaffected by the pain that seems to be everywhere else but here. When people talk about living abroad, they keep the conversation limited to the experiences they had and the stories they made on the way. We forget to include the stories we leave behind that continue with or without us. But that doesn't mean they disappear, and days like today make being far away hard to handle.

I can't go to Paris, Beirut, Garissa, and all of the other places that are hurting, including my own country, my own town. So I sit here, like countless others, unable to fix the world. To heal it. To help it. After all, there is no cure for tragedy.

But I promise to do what I can from where I am. For now, while I'm here, I promise to love the people within my reach fiercely and unapologetically. I promise that I will pour my heart into my friends, family, and students and let the ripples spread outward, however far that might be. And when a day happens, like today, when I can do nothing but look on, then that's what I will do.

I will watch. I will see. I will remember. I will not compare, prioritize, or rank the tragedies that appear in the news or pop up in my newsfeed. Suffering is many things, but it is not a contest; validating one should not negate another.

I may be far away, but to those who are afraid, alone, and in pain, you are not forgotten. Wherever you are, whoever you are, my heart goes out to you today.

You see, the brooks and the flowers and the birds come together, but people do not; great mountains and rivers, forests and meadows, cities and villages lie in between, they have their set places and cannot be moved, and humans cannot fly. But one human heart goes out to another, undeterred by what lies between. Thus does my heart go out to you, and though my eyes have not seen you yet, it loves you and thinks it is sitting beside you. And you say: "Tell me a story." And it replies: "Yes, dear Mili, just listen."

-Wilhelm Grimm, Dear Mili 

A Week in the Life of Joe: Part 2

Thursday
9:30- The sun is already high in the sky, and Spring seems to have finally warmed the air for good. Class with Rodrigo and Andrea was cancelled, so I go for a run through the park that stretches along Vespucio Sur. At home, I take a longer shower with Spotify on blast, clean my bedroom, fetch my clothes off the clotheslines, and organize my life.

1:00-3:45 The printer at the office keeps jamming, and after the fifth time reaching into the machine to take out scrunched up pieces of paper, I'm about ready to douse it in gasoline and watch it burn in Hell as it pays for its sins. Overreaction? Barely. For three hours, I struggle in an uphill battle, and I end up walking away with 60% of my materials and the battle scars to prove it.

4:45-5:45 Clemente and Matias are are ridiculous, theatric, and avid Michael Jackson fans. Sometimes, I have to put class on hold as they break out in a random fit of singing or a dance they both know all the steps to. They also happen to be the smartest kids in their respective classes, so English comes pretty easily. Clemente is sick again with one of his chronic headaches, so it's just me and Matias.

5:45-6:15 As I walk to my next class, I pass through hordes of high schoolers and university students finding their way to the various buses. Most of the kids, especially in this section of the city, are pale-skinned and light-haired. I work my way past young couples making out at the bus stop and teenagers lounging in small patches of grass eating pizza and smoking week. Here, the mountains are up close and personal, so I take the walk slowly, trying my best to soak in their immensity.

6:15-6:45 Cami is a six-year-old and a roll of the dice. When we first started together, she refused to be with me without her brother or mother there to cling to. Slowly, one gummy bear at a time, I got her to feel more comfortable with me, but we are still continuing our weekly routine of appeasement. Cami chooses from the six activities that I bring, Cami gets continual treats as shameless bribery, and mostly, Cami and I color endless pages of princesses. Even then, sometimes we don't make it the entire thirty minutes without her deciding she's done. Today was a great day, and we play Halloween charades. The highlight: Cami decided that the best way to act out "skeleton" was to dance like a ballerina. Not sure what connection she made, but she was slightly offended I didn't guess it right away.

6:45-7:15 Ignacio is an eight-year-old and a powder keg of energy. Our first class was spent bonding as we belted the chorus of "Counting Stars" by Onerepublic because neither of us knew the verses. He has a knack for English, especially for his age, and our class takes place with no translation required. Sometimes, I forget how young he is. He really comes across as a small, little buddy more than an English student, and I like the short amount of time we spend together.

8:15-9:00 I toss my last bowl of stir fry into the microwave and wait for my dinner to heat up. The dress clothes come off, the slippers go on, and the water for tea starts to boil.

9:00-10:00 About three or four months ago, José and I started having class together. Originally when he expressed interest, I said I would do it for free, but he and Angie both insisted we take the classes out of my rent. Without it, I'm not sure how affordable living here for the entire year would have been.

Needless to say, our class is a lot of fun. We are starting at square one, but he's been making some great progress. Today, we're learning about prepositions of place, which involves a card game with the Simpsons. Next week, a scavenger hunt.

10:00-11:00 I ask José questions in Spanish that I know must annoy him. He tells me about the three different periods that are used in Spanish, the difference between sin embargo and aunque, and why he can say me comí una manzana without it translating to "I ate an apple for myself" or "I ate myself an apple." Language learning is a process, and as my roommate, he has unwilling accepted the role of my personal Spanish sounding board.

11:00-12:15 Fannetta calls for our Skype date and catches me up on all things Galesburg. But at this time of night, my eyes are drooping, my responses are slow, and my brain is already asleep even though my eyes are open. Love has no time limit, but consciousness does.

Friday
8:15- Yet again, my morning class is cancelled, but I set my alarm anyway. Today, I have a morning appointment at the extranjería in Plaza de Armas to continue the never-ending visa process.

José works close by, so we go downtown together. It's nice to have someone to small talk with as the people shuffle in and out of the metro. He connects to the green line with me even though it adds a little more walking time to his morning. As we walk our way up the steps, he turns and makes a profound observation: "Old women on the metro are like ewoks. They're tiny, take up a lot of space, and shuffle into people, bumping their way into the train until they fit." Just to prove his point, he makes a shrill ewok call, and he does a wobbly dance. The resemblance is uncanny.

10:00-11:00 Normally, the extranjería is about a 10-minute trip if you make a reservation, but this time, I get redirected to three different people who tell me I need papers that are different than the ones I brought. Finally, I get my things in order and wait in the common room surrounded by other foreigners jumping through the hoops to stay in this country legally. After seven months, you would think I would have had a visa, and bank account, and a rewards system set up at my grocery store with my fancy, super-authentic cuenta rut. But alas, now I just want my visa before I need to leave the country.

11:35-12:30 I'm a few minutes late to the advanced Spanish class at the office, but I take the time to pour myself a cup of coffee before heading in. Today's topic is the preterito indefinidio versus imperfecto, which we have done before and will probably do again. Three months ago, the idea of attending the advanced class terrified me, and rightly so. Now, it seems so normal, natural, and a lot of fun. Ximena, the teacher, is clearly in love with language, and if the world saw grammar the way that she did, we would all be multilingual.

12:30-1:30 Sometimes, time in the office lapses into an hour of casual social conversation. I print my papers, check some emails, and mainly get wrapped up into a conversation about folklore and fairytales, the eight Harry Potter story to be released, and Sherlock. It's Friday. Laziness is encouraged.

1:30-2:00 My private classes were delayed an hour today, so I have time to visit my old elementary/ intermediate Spanish class before leaving for the day. For a while, I wanted to linger in the intermediate level because I loved Natalia, the teacher, so much. Her Colombian accent was so clean and clear, she was a great teacher, and she laughed at my jokes. Needless to say, we get along great.

2:30-3:30 Juan Carlos is the father of a friend of my roommates, and we started class about a month ago. All this man wants to do is spend his life traveling and learning languages. His English is fantastic, but he comes to class with a long list of questions about the nuances of words, pronunciation, expressions, and the like. Honestly, he is the one who plans the classes, and all I can do is answer the best that I can. The hour often passes without me looking at my watch once.

4:00-5:00 Christie is the girlfriend of Juan Carlos' son, and she also lives about five minutes away. I can honestly say that her class is one of my favorites, and I actively look forward to it. Every class, she has coffee and lunch waiting for me, and as much as I hate to inconvenience her, I can't say "no" to cake, coffee, and a sandwich. One week, I stopped by her apartment, and she had a throbbing headache. She felt so sick that she started to cry from the effort of just talking to me. Before I left, she ran into the kitchen and came out with a sandwich wrapped in plastic. "I made this for you just because I knew you would be hungry."

If anyone could restore faith in humanity, it's her.

5:00-5:45 I make my way down Bilbao towards my next class. This micro is the most consistent when it comes to having singers, rappers, and/or clowns (which I hate). But today seems quite, so I take out my book to pass the time.

6:00-7:00 Borja isn't home yet, so I start class with his older brother, Lucas. Even though I have class on Friday evening, I couldn't imagine giving it up and not seeing these boys. Lucas is incredibly intelligent, very functional in English, and has a whiteboard in his room. We spend the hour talking about the horror movies we've seen and what very real, authentic fears they portray. Are we actually scared of Jaws or is it the latent, more primordial fear of exposure to the unknown?

7:00-7:30 Borja is five, and for the first month, all we would do is play with his light sabers and eat cookies. Now, our classes have a target, ranging from counting to colors or emotions. But today, after a few minutes of coloring Halloween monsters, he lapses into showing me videos of The Amazing World of Gumball on his mom's phone. I work some English in like "who is that?" and "where's Gumball?" But for the most part, he's in rambling-Spanish mode.

It's strange to see Maya now since I met her seven months ago as a small puppy. Back then, she would stand in the boys' doorway and bark at me, not sure why the rest of the family wasn't alarmed by this strange man in their house. Today, she pushes her butt into my lap and nibbles at my arm hair as I scratch her ears. We have a mostly loving relationship.

8:30- I get home and take a nap. Yes, 9:00 is a dangerous time for some shut eye, but my bed is calling, and I can't leave it lonely. I wake up in time to read the group messages and see that people are either scattered around or staying in tonight. Forget paying taxes and wearing fancy clothes: spending a Friday night in is the truest sign of adulthood. I can't muster enough desire to be the change I want to see in the world, so I roll back over, turn on American Horror Story, and fall back asleep.

Reflection
I tried my best to not do anything out of the ordinary to make my life seem more glamorous or active than it is, and since I went to sleep at 9:00 last night, I would say that I was pretty fair. But this was not a typical week:

• I rarely have this many cancellations in a week. Sometimes I have none, and others, I may have one or two. But then again, in July and September, I barely had any kids classes for weeks on end.  
• I usually can't recycle so many lessons, but it's Halloween. I have the luxury of reading tarot cards with all the kids who can handle the future tense. I can play bingo with any child, and I can carry the monster notecards with me and make up an activity to go with them.
• I don't normally go to the extranjería on Fridays, bars on Wednesdays, or stay in on the weekends.
• It usually never rains, especially at this time of year. Nothing about these few months has been normal, from the floods in the North, volcano in the South, the fires on the coast, and the earthquake only a month ago. But then again, after many conversations and stories, I've come to the conclusion that nothing here is ever normal.

My life in Santiago is not consistent. This week was not a standard, cookie-cutter representation of my experience here, but neither were any of the ones before it. Classes cancel, new students come along, people get sick (including me), the weather changes, and a million of factors are always in flux. Through all of the changes, I've found that flexibility is a part of my life as expected as grocery shopping or riding the metro.

It's a small thing, but that's what this post is all about: the small things. This is what day-to-day living looks like, and it is the core of my experience. One by one, these details that I didn't think were worth writing about add up to be a behemoth of a blog post longer than any deep thought, reflection, and/or revelation.

Here it is: my life laid out before you. Naked, stripped of the glamour and grandeur, and in my eyes, still incredibly beautiful. In an hour, I'm going to an Irish festival downtown with some friends. We're going to buy some delicious dark beer and maybe river dance a little bit. It might be exceptional, it might be boring, and who knows? Maybe we won't end up going at all. That's life here in all its random, unexpected, unplanned, inconsistent, chaotic wonder.

I'll let you know how it goes.

A Week in the Life of Joe: Part 1

When I started this blog, I began with pretty loft ambitions. I left the States with this idea of a grand journey where I would truly find out something out about myself, my life, and where I was meant to be. I said things like "adventure of a lifetime" with a confidence and certainty that didn't allow for the possibility of living, y'know, just a normal life. After seven months, I'll I can say was... Whoops.

 Don't get me wrong: this is a journey of a lifetime, an adventure, an unforgettable memory, etc. But it's also my everyday, and mainly, it's the small, mundane details that make up my life here. I have my students, my friends, my small adventures on the weekends, and not much more. I wouldn't write posts because, quite frankly, there wasn't much that I saw as worthy of sharing with the world beyond my own.

Over the past several weeks, I have received a few messages from people who have asked me about my life here on a day-by-day basis. Mostly, they are old friends from college, but more recently, they have been people who are interested in the CIEE Professional program. They were asking for a play-by-play of what life looks like here, and oftentimes I've found myself short on words. I live here non-stop, twenty-four hours a day. Once the words start, they aren't exactly easy to stop.

I spent the last week writing down notes about what happened every day, every hour. I wanted to capture what my life was normally like apart from the adventures and travels. Five days a week, I go to work in a job that I love, and this is what my life actually looks like.

Monday
8:00- I slowly drift into consciousness. The sun slips into my room through a crack in my curtains, and the birds flutter from tree to tree, singing right outside my window. This is my only day of the week with no alarm, and although I wake up "early," it's a natural, peaceful process. I reach over and find my tablet charing on the floor next to my bed. I scroll through Facebook not because I'm interested but because I simply don't want to get up. Not quite yet.

8:30- The holiest of rituals: breakfast. Most people in Chile barely take the time to taste their marraqueta and mermalada before swallowing it down on the way out the door. But me? I cherish my breakfast time, slowly savoring each minute I dedicate to starting my day. Oatmeal and brown sugar with sliced red apple. Bread toasted on the stove with mora mermalada and gouda cheese, washed down with a hot cup of instant coffee.

9:30- My roommate gave me a book about all of the national parks and trails in Chile, so I spend a fine amount of time daydreaming about the places I want to go. Working my way through the Spanish has become a lot easier, but I take a few minutes to jot down unfamiliar words on the notecards on my bedside table.

10:30- I push the rug off to the side of my bed and spread out my yoga mat. Without a gym membership, this is the best way that I've found to stay in shape. I enjoy how comprehensive yoga is and how aware it makes me of my body. I light a stick of incense, breathe in the scent of sandalwood, and get started.

11:30- The walk to my office is one that I have taken too many times to count. It becomes mechanic, and as I go, I play a game I like to call "think in Spanish." It starts by naming as many objects as I can that I see around me. Level 2 is word analysis: I create a chain of related words. Arbol might become rama ardilla nuez bosque salvaje etc. And finally, I think of the longest, most convoluted sentence that I can, and I try to translate it into Spanish. One day, this might be as automatic as my walk, but until then, at least I have my game.

12:00- My favorite computer at the office is open, so I take it. I struggle to pull my head out of the weekend, but it takes me a while to get started. Two cups of not-instant coffee do what they do best, and I get focused. Mostly, all I have to do is update my lesson plans from last Thursday and Friday. Months ago, I spent my Mondays planning, prepping, and printing through Wednesday. Those days have longed past.

3:30-5:00 After a quick trip to fill my bip card for the week, I jump on the C01 and start heading to Lo Barnachea for the only classes I have today. The bus takes an especially long time, so I linger at the bus stop, shamelessly staring at the people around me as they shamelessly stare back. It's an hour-and-a-half ride. Sometimes, people watching is the best that you can do.

5:00-6:00 The nanny opens the door, ushering me forward with one hand while cradling the new-born baby girl in the other. My student, Clara, is a sweet girl under all the sass. She makes fun of me, I make fun of her, and we get along fine. Obviously, this month is dedicated to Halloween, so we do her favorite activity: coloring. She shows me how she can draw all of my pictures better than I can, and we slowly work our way through spelling the new Halloween vocabulary. Her school teaches her German, not English, so this hour is all she has of English for the week. She struggles, and progress has been slow. But she has the exposure, and I try my best to make it fun while giving her a foundation.

6:00-7:00 Domingo comes late to class, which is far from unusual. When we started our class together, the hour dragged on in a haze of crying, yelling, and fighting. "I hate you" was the only coherent English sentence I heard for the first few weeks with him. Maybe months. But we've come along way since then, and a few weeks ago, he actually told me he didn't hate me. And today, he told me I was actually "awesome." Did we do a lot of English today? No, he had an allergic reaction that spread from his arms to his chest and back. But he fought his way through one of my activities and then we brainstormed Halloween recipes as we waited for his step-dad to take him to the clinica.

7:00-8:45 The rain starts to pour as I make my ten-minute walk to the bus stop. I pray that a stranger will pick me up and take me down the hill in their car, but the same luck that brought the weather drove all the good samaritans away. I'm soaked to the bone. When I get on the micro at last, a woman turns around in her seat and makes a face that says "sucks, huh?" I smile back. Yeah, it does.

8:45-9:15 There is a Lider around the corner from my house, so I drag my wet and sopping body through the sliding doors. Food is essential, and as it stands, I have none of it at home. At this point, my weekly shopping trips are so routinized that I could probably work my way though the aisles with my eyes closed. The one choice I have to make is what I want to eat for dinner this week. I am soaking wet and want to be dry, home, and in bed, so I settle on hot dogs and stir fry. Quick, easy, and hot. Perfect.

9:15-10:00 After seven months, my roommates have finally brought home salsa americana to find out if it is in fact American. I've never seen it before in my life, and it is beyond a shadow of a doubt a strange, pickled Chilean invention. It's a type of relish with carrots, onions, and some other things tossed in that I can't quite make out. That does not stop me from slathering it on top of my two completos that I made for dinner. A guy's gotta eat.

10:00- Just in time for one episode of American Horror Story: Asylum. Mondays are typically my t.v. day, but since October started, I've been binge watching everything Netflix has to offer in terms of Halloween. Nothing like a bit of holiday spirit while living abroad.

Tuesday
6:15- The snooze button is a god and a devil.

7:15- It's a crisp and cool morning, and yesterday's rain washed away the ever-present cloud of pollution. The Andes mountains stand in a breath-taking clarity, reminding me exactly how incredible it is to live in this country.

8:00- I walk into my student's office and say "hi" to his receptionist. We kiss on the cheek, and she walks off to get me a coffee from the machine. It's a morning ritual I've come to love and appreciate. This class is for two starter-level adult learners, but Andrea has been out of the office for four weeks. They tell me it is stress, which is especially sad because all she wants to do in life is create murals, teach private yoga classes, and live like a bonafide hippie. The fact that corporate life has brought her down is depressing.

Rodrigo, on the other hand, seems to thrive in his life. He sees selling insurance as offering protection to families, including his own. He has kids he's proud of, a wife he loves, and a heritage he can't stop talking about. This man is German to the bone, minus all the parts of him that are Chilean. For the last ten minutes of class, he tells me all about the city of Valdivia in the South. The German immigrants who settled there generations ago have brought the best of their culture, architecture, and beer to Chile.

9:00-11:45 The office is about a fifteen-minute walk from my first class. It's a big city, but I make this walk four times a week at exactly the same time. Several of the faces that I pass look pretty familiar. At the office, I do the usual: plan, prep, print, and cut small pieces of paper. It's all part of the exhilarating life of a teacher outside of class.

11:45- I read Mockingjay in Spanish as I walk home from the office. This is the first book that I have read in Spanish that I have actually gotten lost in the story. Sure, there are passages that I have to look over again, but I don't feel like I'm translating. Simply reading.

At home, I make myself an egg sandwich for lunch with a touch of garlic and merkén. I would have added avocado, but as delicious as they are, I am way too lazy to go through the process of cutting up a vegetable right now.

1:45- After a quick trip on a micro and the metro, I'm sitting in my students' offices waiting. Why are they late? They're never late. My student walks in and furrows her eyebrows. "Nobody told you?" Class is cancelled today and Thursday. I put away my worksheets and activities reviewing the present perfect and walk out.

3:00- I find myself a park nearby my next class. With an hour to spare, I find my usual place on a bench next to the playground. I'm not sure how I would respond to a strange, foreign man with markers and crayons hanging out while my kids are on the swings, but the nannies don't seem to mind. I open Mockingjay and get lost for a while.

3:45- Pedro is a fun, sweet six-year-old with a lot of energy. Our main problem is starting and ending class, which typically involves a lot of him jumping on my back, climbing up my shoulders, and (after I take him down) clinging to my legs as I try to leave the room. The last thing this child needs is candy, but alas, it is Halloween season. Who am I to say "no"?

4:45- At a ripe ten years of age, Max is much calmer, and for the past two weeks, he's come to class wrapped in a blanket. Maybe he's too relaxed? Today, we are reading tarot cards that we made last class (to teach symbols and the future tense). It quickly devolved into a contest of who can make the other's future the most bleak.

My future (as told by Max): I will be very poor, which is not a stretch of the imagination. Luckily, I also happen to be pretty intelligent. But Max saved his best trick for last: I end up meeting a man and marrying him. That's a bad thing because he's a man.

His future (as told by me): He will have a beautiful daughter with a great mind and ambition. She will move to New York City and fall in love with a criminal. He will go to jail, and because they are married she must stay in the city, which means she will never return to Chile and see him.

You decide who wins.

6:30-8:00 Ale is a twenty-four-year-old designer who wants to learn English to keep up with her coworkers. At first, an hour and a half of one-on-one teaching intimidated me, but it has been one of my easiest classes. She is a great student who enjoys bookwork, writes fake e-mails for me to correct, and sometimes actually does the homework I assign. We spend the first hour simply talking about the Chilean president, Transantiago, friends, weekend plans, etc. For the last half an hour, we do the Reading section of the IELTS test and compare answers. Honestly, she probably had an easier time of it than I did.

8:00-8:45 The ride into the city from the hills is one of my favorites. The city stretches out across the valley, and Costanera center reaches out from the sprawling masses of buildings, highways, and city lights. It's the tallest building in South America, and from way up here, it looks impressive.

8:45-10:30 Life at home is pretty standard: Angie brings home a plant, and we walk around the house and yard trying to find out where it should go. José doesn't like it, so he votes that it goes in the garbage. Angie doesn't play along, and we settle for putting it by the front door for now.

Wednesday
6:20- The question of the morning: shower or sleep? Unsurprisingly, sleep wins.

8:00-9:00 Esteban is a businessman with an impressive title that I have never truly committed to memory. We used to go to his office, but when we realized how much we both liked the café next door, there was no looking back. He orders me a coffee: An americano for the americano. Jajajajaja.

The hour passes in a random strain of conversation, and today, it revolves around his sister in Denmark. I always bring materials for class, but he typically does his best to avoid anything resembling classwork. I sip my coffee and oblige.

9:15-11:45 Standard office work. Ale, the woman who cleans the office, and I chit chat for a bit as she cleans the dishes and I make a fresh pot of coffee. She pulls out a huge chunk of maracuyá pie and offers me a slice. I muster up the willpower to resist for the moment, but an hour later, I find myself at the refrigerator. It's gone, and I add it to the long list of lost opportunities.

12:00-2:45 Going home is a luxury I have taken advantage of more and more as the months go by. I put a load of laundry into the washing machine, make myself a decent lunch, and take a long, long shower. Being home, no matter how long, is a great thing to do when your work is spread out over thirteen hours of the day.

3:15-4:00 Nico is a kindergartner with a sweet side and a sweeter tooth. Our class always seems to go by too quickly, but he often lingers to stay for his brother's class. His little sister, who isn't yet talking, also joins us for a while. Mostly, that means that she stares at me with her giant blue eyes and I'll occasionally make a funny face at her. Over the months, Nico and I have learned body parts, emotions, the alphabet, the days of the week, and other essentials. Today, we play Halloween bingo and practice our monster vocabulary. Like I said: the essentials.

4:00-4:45 Santi is not a stranger to resisting class. I've had to fetch him out of the pantry, turn off his computer, and carry him down the stairs over my shoulder. About 85% of the time, once I get him to class, the battle is won. We play our games, do our activities, and go our separate ways happy. He is a sweet kid, but all he wants to do is play football. Given the chance, so would I. He's a competitive kid, and so I try to use that to hook him in. Sometimes I even let him win.

4:45-5:45 My students have recently moved houses, so I take a last-minute glance at the directions I jotted down to the new address. Two micro rides later, the streets and houses start to look familiar. As it turns out, these students moved about fifteen-minutes away from some of my other students. It's a small world after all.

5:45-6:45 Tomás is about eleven years old and one of the sweetest kids I've met. He is soft spoken, timid, and kind, and one of my proudest moments was when he called me "ugly" while we were practicing physical descriptions. If he's comfortable enough to make fun of me, I'm doing something right. He has a great memory and is fantastic with vocabulary. Our hurdle is  connecting the dots and forming sentences, even the most basic ones. Recently, we've been lingering on "How are you? How was your day? What did you do?"

6:45- Pedro is in seventh grade, and he is a fun kid to have in class. I take out the tarot cards we made the class before, and we get to work. English is not his favorite subject, especially when compared to Catolica and Colo Colo, and sometimes I feel like I'm a human English-Spanish dictionary more than a teacher. But he's smart, and he's been making some good progress.

My future (as told by Pedro): I fall in love with the most beautiful and perfect woman in a dream that I have. Then, the next day, I meet her in real life in a Starbucks. Plot twist: she takes out a knife and kills me.

Pedro's future (as told by me): He will get the house he has always imagined, but after a few years, it burns down in a fire. Likewise, he also has his dream car, but shortly after, he gets in a fatal accident. I told him that at least all of his dreams come true before they come crashing down. He doesn't seem too thrilled.

8:50- I meet up with friends at Barbazul, about a ten-minute bus ride from my house. We get there with three minutes left of happy hour and get a round of mojitos. People start to trickle in, and someone orders a plate of gourmet fries. Then, as the night progresses, we order an entire bottle of pisco to split between five of us. The drinks are strong, the laughter is deep, and the week is half-way finished. This is probably the best way to celebrate.

12:45- I collapse into my bed, tired and slightly buzzed. My bedtime passed almost two hours ago, and the exhaustion sinks into my bones and pulls me into a deep sleep.

Finding My Way Forward

So what are you doing after January?

My own inability to answer makes the question inevitable, alluring, and addictive. When I see a gringo, it's my go-to conversation starter, and the responses are as various as the possibilities. Some people are taking the summer to travel around the continent, and others are staying put and getting ready for another year in the city. A good number are moving on to find a job in another part of the world, and more than most still have no idea and glare at me for asking. I only ask because I am trying to take bits and pieces of their answers and mold them into one of my own.

For most foreigners living in the city, we are all trying to strike that balance between leaving Chile too early and leaving too late. It's a fine line, and I've seen plenty of people falling on the wrong side of both. There is no right answer or formula to follow for the best-case scenario. All we have to go on is a gut feeling, a sense of what we know is right for us, and an ojalá cast out into the universe.

A few years ago, I made a commitment to myself that I would never leave a place without finding out what makes it beautiful. A lot of people who moved here got lost in the haze of the city, and they never made it to the point of calling Santiago their home. I remember the confusion, the doubt, and the regret I felt in my first months here. But I have seen the light shining through the cherry blossom trees and tasted the subtle complexities of carménere. I revel in the asados and the ungodly amount of mayonnaise slathered on "salads." At long last, I am starting to piece together the broken Spanish that surrounds me, and when I tell a joke, (some) people laugh. I am comfortable here, and without a doubt, this is my home.

In spite of that, I truly believe that the best time to leave a place is at the peak of my experience. Living abroad is like any relationship that won't last forever: there is a point when it turns bitter. Before I leave, I want to have seen Chile at its best and its worst, fallen in love, and smile when I remember what we shared together. I never want to feel as if there is nothing left to learn about a place or that there is no space left for me to grow. I would rather leave a place while I am still fully enthralled than wait for the magic to end.

Thankfully, Chile still has its mysteries, and we have a lot to discover about ourselves and each other. Sitting on my desk, there is a small pile of travel guides, highlighted and dog-earred to mark the places I have yet to see. Last week, I stumbled through the cueca as my partner laughed and nudged me through the steps, knowing one day, I will wave my pañuelo like a professional. I thought one year in Santiago would be enough to scratch Chile off my list. But if anything, I have realized how vast and profound this country and culture really is.

I'm not done with Chile, and once I am, there is still so much left of South America. I can't tell you first hand how Pisco form Peru compares to the Pisco here in Chile, although I'm sure my bias will get in the way. I have yet to get lost in the swarming crowds of Rio during Carnival, and of course, life here would be incomplete without waking up to the smell of roasting Colombian coffee in the morning. That only covers part of South America.

The more I travel, the more the world seems to expand. How beautiful is a beach-side thunderstorm in the Dominican Republic? How do the Himalayas and Pyrenees mountains compare to the Andes? What about the rolling green hills of Ireland? Are they as green and gorgeous as Google images makes them look? If I ever want to stop and settle down, I will have to finally find an answer to every traveler's question: when have I seen enough of the world?

I have no doubt that day will come. I know that one day, I want to find myself back in the States. I want to work in a public school and have "Mr. Rogers: English" above the door. I want to have students their freshmen year of high school and then cheer them on as they walk across the stage at graduation. I absolutely see the value of choosing a place that I can see myself in for five years, fifty, and forever. There is something extraordinary about belonging to community and being there long enough to watch it evolve. There is stability, continuity, and an unbreakable attachment to a home that is meant to be permanent.

But I am still fascinated with the life that allows me to look at a map and ask myself where I want to go next. Maybe one more year will be enough. Maybe in three years, I'll go back to the States, realize that I'm not ready, and go back out again. Maybe I'll find someone who stops me in my tracks and I'll never go home. All I know is that I don't know.

In this moment and at this place, I'm not ready to stop. No one can say where this path is leading me, least of all me. But I will follow it one step at a time, finding my direction as best as I can on the way. Right now, that next step is forward. So forward I go.

Spring in Santiago

A jar of freshly squeezed pineapple juice sits on the table, and around us, the sweet smell of hookah mixes with the springtime air. The sun pours in through the windows, bathing the room in a soft yellow. I’m having a bad Spanish day, so I have to focus on José as he tells me his story. He’s wearing a worn-out gray t-shirt, sweatpants, and his puppy dog pantuflas. I’m not sure what time it is, but it must be early afternoon. Thankfully, there’s no rush to be anywhere other than right here, right now.

The change was gradual: the sun started rising earlier, the trees went into bloom, and the birds picked up their song where they left off in the fall. But at long last, it is spring.

Naturally, I decided I was done with winter weeks ago. When I saw the first flowers of the season, I started walking through the streets of Santiago as if I was Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. I began congratulating people on surviving the winter, and I refused to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, which meant too many brisk walks to work, hunched over as strangers judged my obviously foreign ways. My spring began by a sheer force of will, and finally, the world seems to have come around to see it my way.

Naturally, my friends thought I was crazy. My roommates told me to go put on “real” pants, and my coworkers dutifully pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall. September 23rd is the Spring Equinox and the official end of winter. No sooner, and no later. I found myself struggling to explain the extent to which I needed this new season to start, with or without the support of reality.

The magic of spring cannot be contained in inked boxes on a calendar. Spring begins with each inhale I take into my lungs just for the simple pleasure of breathing. Spring grows in the deepening hues of pinks and purples that stain the soft skin of the magnolias. And it ends with each petal that falls from the cherry blossom trees on my morning run. Another breath, another flower, another falling. This season is an endless series of beginnings, endings, and the lives that fill in those spaces.

For me, spring isn’t just about the world changing: it is also about changing the way that I see the world. Winter passed by in a blur of grey and monotony. I found my routine, and I walked it every day for months on end. But with spring, I am reminded that my time here is short. Each day, each moment, is a separate experience that begins and ends, and it’s up to me to live it fully. ‘Tis the season for going to the restaurants I always walked by but didn’t have the money or the time to go into. Now is my chance to discover new parks and lounge in the sun with a mote de huesillo in hand. I have paved a path, but this is my last opportunity to break away and find out everything that is waiting in the periphery. Sometimes, that deviation means an impromptu weekend trip out of the city, and at others, it simply means walking down a street I’ve never taken before.

One of the most beautiful tragedies of seasons is the fact that they end. I cannot hold onto spring any more than I can hold onto sunshine. But I can stretch out my hand and feel it as it passes by. In December, I will still say goodbye to Santiago. I don’t have a day picked out or a plan in mind, but some part of me is telling me that it is time to move on to something new. So for the months to come, I will cherish the feeling of shorts on my body and sun on my skin. Spring is a breaking open and bursting out. It is a brown budding green: a life that is starting to be lived again.

My time here is slipping  through my fingers day by day. I have three months, and all I can do now is reach out, make contact, and eventually, let go.

Halfway There

This morning, I spent my morning looking out over the Pacific Ocean. Seagulls flew over graffitied alleyways, and dogs lay out in the streets, resting in a warm sun after a long winter. Blonde-haired foreigners stood at street corners, double checking their maps and Lonely Planets as they tried to wrap their heads around the winding streets of Valparaiso.

Cargo ships bore the weight of rusted red crates in the dock, and the typical port-city buildings lined themselves along the coast, painting the landscape in a montage of pastel blues, reds, greens, yellows, and pinks. The mountains looked small in the distance, reminding me that I was out of the city and that soon, I would have to go back.

This weekend, CIEE hosted us in Valparaiso, paying for our bus tickets, hostels, and meals. We spent four hours in a teaching workshop, debriefing, comparing, and contrasting our experiences. Then, we were treated to some of the best seafood I've ever had. Granted, I don't like seafood, but even I couldn't say "no" to ceviche and a citrus salmon over risotto. The other option was octopus ravioli... I had no problem turning that down pronto.

The night passed over glasses of pisco sour, red wine, and espresso. The people at my table table spent the three hours of gourmet dining speaking fluent and fluid Spanglish, switching between the two languages from course to course, sentence to sentence.

The entire weekend was designed with the intention to bring us together again, and a reunion was much needed. I hadn't seen anyone from CIEE since Copa America in early July. The teachers from Duoc had all just returned from a month of winter vacation, and most of them had flown north to explore the Atacama desert and Peru. I had worked through July with the Language Company, and it was a breath of fresh air to escape from the streets of Santiago, even if it was only for a weekend.

We were celebrating in style, and it was definitely a night worthy of celebrating: we are officially half way done with our program in Chile.

I have four months left in Santiago, and although December is still far off in the future, I can feel it getting closer. If I've learned anything from physics class and first-hand experience with gravity, it's that going down a hill is a lot faster than going up it. The time that I have left here will fly by, and if I don't take time to stop and look around, I'm worried the next time I really see the city is from the O'Higgins runway.

So this is my chance to take a breath, close my eyes, and fully appreciate everything that has brought me to where I am today, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Undoubtedly, there is a good amount of each.

I've had days where I've hated the city. I've closed my door and my window, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and watched Netflix until I fell asleep. I have tasted the pollution in the air as I walked through the city streets. I've fallen asleep watching my breath freeze in the winter night air. I have made morning showers increasingly more optional, not willing to leave the warmth of my bed and struggle with the calefont yet again. I've learned to sleep standing up on public transportation, and the look of eyes glazed over with pure exhaustion looks a lot more familiar when it's staring back at me from the mirror.

On rainy mornings, I've jumped over puddles as I rushed to my class only to be splashed by a cab I could never afford. My shoes are worn thin, and the water finds its way through the soles and into my socks. In the winter, there is a cold that sinks through clothes and into skin, lingering in a place that can't get warm.

On top of that, there is a small, lingering recognition that I could always eat a little bit more after every meal, and I have grown to accept it. I open my cupboards hoping to find a snack that I know isn't going to be there, and I drink tea just for the sensation of having something more. I live my life paycheck to paycheck, and I created a budget so that I could watch as my money dwindles away day by day, week by week, and peso by peso. Then payday comes, and it is glorious. Everyone warned me that in South America, teachers break even...maybe. They were right.

 As I stand here, looking out over the ocean, I wonder if I should have made a different decision. I wonder what my life would have been like in another country, city, or job.

• What if I had worked with Duoc and had my own classroom?
• What if I had three to five classes instead of twenty (and counting)?
• How would I see Santiago if I lived closer to Centro instead of in Las Condes?
• What would my time here be like if I was in Valparaiso or Viña del Mar?

When I came to this country, it was fall. The nights were warm, the city was new, and the future was exciting. Then the third month started, and the the honeymoon phase ended. It was winter: cold, polluted, and rainy. I'm not blaming the weather for my feelings, but if five years in Illinois taught me anything, it's that winter comes with a lot of emotions that tend to melt away in the spring.

The city is cramped, frustrating, polluted, rushed, and pretty free of anything resembling nature. As a recent graduate/ young teacher, my existence is defined by pinching pennies and making things work when they probably shouldn't. Living here is not always easy, and I would be lying if I said that I have fallen in love with Santiago.

But I have loved what Santiago has enabled me to do. I owe Santiago for the things that I have done, the people that I have met, and the person I have become while being here. In my early days, I wrote my set of Santiagoals, and I've always kept them in mind. So far, I'm proud to say they are all well on their way to being finished.

Goal 1: Drink Wine. I know the process of making red wine, and I can easily walk through the steps of a wine tasting and sound reasonably intelligent and elitist. I officially decided that Cabernet Sauvignon is my favorite, and I can easily give my reasons. Not that I should have to seeing that it's the obvious choice.

Goal 2: See Chile. No, I haven't had the chance to travel much (at all) in Chile. But plans are in the works for the Atacama, Patagonia, and the coast. All I need are some savings, sunshine, and summer.

Goal 3: See South America. I've already been to Argentina and rejoiced in the milanesa and matte. The Mendozbros (a very selective group of only the best of friends) went to Mendoza and dined on rare steaks only to wash it all down with bottles of malbec. We biked to three vineyards and had a lunch of meat, cheese, and olives in a cellar surrounded by some of the best wine in the world. In December, I'm going to Peru with my Pops, and I'm hoping to find my way to Buenos Aires soon.

Goal 4: Speak Spanish. Living in Chile implies meeting people who only speak Spanish. Four months ago, we would have introduced ourselves, parted ways, and thought, "God, that conversation was long. I bet he understood nothing I said." Now, not only can we talk, but they are also gracious enough to laugh at my jokes. I have three days left on Duolingo until I finish it, and I'm working my way through my first Spanish book- no translation required. My accent is strong, and my grammar is questionable. But I function, and I do it convincingly.

Goal 5: Be a Better Teacher. I'm teaching over twenty hours a week with kids and adults from starter to advanced English levels. I might color snowmen one class and talk about restructuring the jailing system in Chile the next. I'm so flexible that I would put Gabby Douglas to shame. Not only that, but I am at a point where I don't work on the weekends. I steal more resources than ever before and make them work for me. Teaching in cafes, on coffee tables, or on bedroom floors is now second nature, and I feel like I am truly designing these lessons with each student in mind. I had never taught English as a second language, and now, I have a Google Drive full of materials and strategies that I am creating, revising, and making better.

The other day, I spent the day downtown with two friends. It had rained the day before, and for the first time, I saw the Andes from Plaza de Armas, the heart of the city. We had pastel de choclo for lunch before stopping by a marketplace for some street-side piercings. Then we sat on a hill looking over the city streets and drinking a warm, white wine that repulsed me. The wine wasn't my choice. Later, we found ourselves on a bench eating maracuyá ice-cream from my favorite parlor and watching old men play checkers. That day, I loved Santiago. I loved that this was my ordinary and that I had a long time left to live in it.

Today, I woke up by the sea in Valparaiso. I had four cups of coffee at breakfast and enjoyed an italiano for lunch with a friend. I caught the bus at 2:00 and was at my front door by 4:30. I am surrounded by people that I am head over heels for, places very literally featured on NatGeo, and opportunities that can open up my world, if only I'm willing to take them.

If people happily live their entire lives here, I can absolutely do the same for a year. I don't believe that this is where I will stay or what I will do, but right now, this is where I am. I'm living my life moment by moment, and so far, I'm proud of the moments that I have created. Now it's time to make some more.

The Fourth of July: A Copa American Holiday

Nobody spoke. The silence wrapped around the room like a blanket, holding us all in a perfect paralysis. My heart beat strong and quick in my chest, and the sound of rushing blood filled my ears. Somewhere off in the distance, the announcer was rambling off in a thick chilean accent, but then, even he stopped talking. Just for a second, the silence was complete. It was Chile's kick, and Alexis Sanchez stepped up to the ball. The whole world watched.

Goal! The city erupted.

Thousands of people flooded out of apartments and bars and into the streets,  chanting in choruses of Chi Chi Chi Le Le Le. A steady current of red, white, and blue swept through the streets. Flags waved over the sprawling mass of bodies. Children sat on their parents' shoulders for a better view, and street dogs zig-zagged between the ever-shifting labyrinth of legs. The sky exploded in bright bursts of color over Plaza Italia. We had done it. We had won the Copa America. And I was here to see it.

I would be lying if I said that I knew anything about soccer before coming to Chile. Before I left the States, a friend tried to teach me the fundamentals by letting me watch him play Fifa. But alas, if soccer in real life hadn't gotten to me yet, there was no chance for a video game. Three months ago, I wasn't even close to being the guy sitting on the edge of his seat, wanting, hoping, praying against all odds for a ball to roll inside of a net. It takes a certain person to chant, scream, and yell in a bar, and honestly, that typically isn't me. Well, at least not when it comes to sports. 

I am what may be called a "band wagon fan." I'm the guy that goes with the flow, and I try my best to thrive in peer pressure. Ask me what time the game is, and I'll tell you that and what stadium it's in. Test me with some players' names, and I'll toss in their numbers for good measure. But make no mistake: everything I have is from late-night Google searches. I am not a "fan" in the truest sense of the word because, quite simply, I've been interested in the Chilean soccer team for  a grand total of a month. But in my defense, I didn't just jump on the bandwagon: I greased the figurative wheels, painted figurative signs, and baked figurative cookies for everyone else who was on it with me.

I really and truly enjoy things that are "things." When Lays had their flavor competition last year, I bought all three bags and had a side-by-side comparison. The Cheesy Garlic Bread chips were my favorite, but I would call the Chicken and Waffles a close second. When Pottermore was released, I stayed up for about a day and a half to make sure that I was one of the first people to experience the Beta test. But after I got my wand and I was sorted into a house, I stopped using the site. My style is pretty simple: short bursts of intense interest. 

In Chile, the Copa America was everything I needed: one month, intense, and beyond popular. So, as I am prone to do, I got invested. For the past two weeks, all of my kids classes were designed around the Copa America. With the younger kids, we designed jerseys and learned the action verbs for soccer. With the older kids, we made tournament brackets, compared players, and talked about "If's" and "Then's." And every single one of my kids played fútbol.

El Campeonato de los Completos

But my newly born fanaticism didn't stop there. A local restaurant had 12 completos that represented each of the 12 countries in the tournament. As of Saturday, the last day of the tournament, I have tried all of them. As far as completos are concerned, Chile and Argentina kept it classic and did it well, but I loved the unconventional pineapple and barbecue sauce on Jamaica.

Yet, despite my devotion, I never thought that Chile would actually go all the way. It was enough that Copa America was this year. It was more than enough that Chile was hosting. It is beyond belief that Chile took the cup home, especially against Argentina. Before this, Chile had never won a tournament, and the last time they made it to the finals was over twenty years ago. Every statistic was against this year being any different.

While some people have waited four years, ten years, or their entire lives for Chile's first title, I just happened to be here at the right time. The stars aligned, and by a stroke of pure luck, I found myself in the middle of Chilean history. I promise, it is no less than that.

Shortly after Chile had won, I asked the bartender about a drink. Everyone in the bar was on their feet, standing on couches, waving banners, taking pictures, and hugging their friends and family. A woman in an Argentinian jersey was in the back crying, but I couldn't muster enough sadness to feel anything but ecstatic. The bartender, smiling cheek to cheek, told me to follow him. We walked to the tap, he took out five glasses, and he filled them one by one. Then he looked up at me and asked, "Where are you sitting?"

Plaza Italia after the win

On the way towards the city center, armored police cars lined the streets, and the carabineros were standing by with rifles in hand. But tonight was a celebration, not a riot. Soon, young people with stars and stripes painted on their faces were standing side by side with the police and taking pictures. Teenagers had climbed the horse statue in the middle of Plaza Italia and were shouting down at the thousands of people below them. The entire city had become a party. It was pure, unadulterated chaos in the best way possible.

That night, I decided to walk home. It took me about two and a half hours, and on the way, I had conversations with three different groups of very proud Chileans. They were too excited (and drunk) to care much about my sloppy Spanish and gringo accent. My clothes were red, white, and blue; nobody cared much about the color of my skin. For the first time since coming here, I didn't just feel like a spectator or a foreigner. I felt like a part of the country.

 The best part about being on a band wagon is that I'm never alone. Copa America gave me the chance to small talk with absolutely anyone in the city. Weekend plans revolved around game times, and there was at least one guaranteed asado. Each and every time I yelled at the t.v. or sighed at a missed shot, my voice was drowned out by a room full of other shouts or sighs. We were all hoping for the same thing: to see Chile with the cup. And finally, we got our chance. 

 I'm sure the founding fathers intended the Fourth of July to be patriotic and as obnoxiously American as possible. They can rest assured that last night, I felt more American than I had ever felt before. My American was just of a more southern variety than usual.

This year, I missed out on the burgers and cherry pie. I didn't set off fireworks in my driveway or eat watermelon by the pool. Nothing about this Fourth was the same as it would be at home. But if given the chance, I wouldn't change a thing.

There is a lot to be proud of in Chile, both as a country and a culture, and yesterday, I saw that pride in all its glory. I painted my face, shouted in the plaza, and celebrated alongside thousands of other people lucky enough to share this moment in time.

I am not Chilean, but while I'm here, I want to get as close as possible. This is my chance, and I have every intention of taking it. Call me a "bandwagon fan," and I'll agree whole heartedly. So far, it's been working out.

Waving the new red, white, and blue!

The Luxury of Homemaking

Two days ago, I was skyping Ms. Fannetta Jones, and even though she was pixelated and cast in the artificial lighting of a computer screen, she was just as beautiful as ever (I'm looking at you, boo). And as expected of any conversation that spans continents, we were set on catching each other up.

I listened as she told me about her brunch at Cracker Barrel, a waitress named Sugar, and some authentic, down-home Southern hospitality in Memphis. The school year had ended, and our kids had graduated. She told me about the new teacher hires at Galesburg High School, and we traded stories about the people we loved, the past we knew, and the future we could only guess at. For that half an hour, I felt connected back to a home that seems to be just slightly beyond the horizon. Then, in due course, she turned the focus on me. "So, what about you? What's new in Santiago?"

I sat there silently, waiting for an interesting story, a person that I had met, or anything at all to come to mind. All I could manage was a slight shrug of the shoulders and a blank stare. I had nothing to say, so I settled for, "Y'know, the usual."

"Well, how do you feel about feeling 'usual' in a foreign country?" This girl doesn't waste time beating around the bush, and as someone who knows me inside and out, she had a point.

I had travelled across the world looking for adventure. I had moved to a foreign city to be surrounded by a foreign language, foreign foods, and a foreign culture. But at some point over the past three months, all that had been "foreign" has become all too ordinary. All too usual.

My walk to work in the morning

The Copa America has just started, and the entire country is prepping for a month of asados and fútbol fervor. It's June, and the seasons are definitely changing: I've started wearing a hoodie around the house in the morning, and we now use the space heater to warm the hallway with the bedrooms. Mondays slowly blur into Fridays, and weekends pass by in a montage of cafes, museums, and parks. I became slightly disappointed in my lack of newness, because after all, didn't I move here for a change of pace? For the stories? For something new?

Then I remembered a crucial fact that made everything okay, and I haven't given it much thought since: I'm not traveling through Chile. I'm living here.

As much as I love traveling, it is inherently exhausting. To travel successfully is a constant act of discovery, of making sure that each hour is spent exploring and experiencing all that a place has to offer. Without a doubt, travel makes great fodder for Facetime conversations, and I hope to get back out on the road some point soon. But I'm sure any traveler could easily attest to the sense of relief when, after spending a long time on the road, she unlocks the door to her own house and stretches out in a bed that is all hers. There is nothing like falling asleep to the shape and smell of a familiar pillow or waking up and recognizing the way the morning light hits the walls of the bedroom.

In this city, I am not a traveler. Santiago is my home. It is the place that I come back to after a long weekend away. This is where I fall asleep at night and wake up in the morning.

When I think of what it means to be home, I think of making a cup of early grey and burying myself in the blankets. Home is where I can waste hours listening to TED Talks and Button Poetry way too late into the night. It is the place where I can sit outside and read a book in the sun. After a long day of work, I can come home, take off my tie, and kick off my shoes. In this place, I reserve the right to be boring.

Coloring pictures at a children's museum

After being here for just more than two months, I love being able to jump on and off the micros without having to double check Google Maps. I like the fact that I have had to get a haircut, and I was able to explain what I wanted in Spanish. And needless to say, I am absolutely ecstatic about the fact that I now have lesson plans that I can recycle as new classes fill up my schedule. There is something comforting about a day-to-day routine, an expected series of steps and procedures that I have done, am doing, and will continue to do for the immediate future.

I also appreciate the fact that now that I have a "normal," I can change it. If I want to meet new people, I live in a city of millions. If I get tired of coming home to yet another bowl of pasta and late-night viewing of Downton Abbey, I can choose from an array of events throughout the city Monday through Friday. If I want to learn the cueca or salsa, there are classes in the city's center. Lining the walls of the metros are advertisements for talks, concerts, expositions, and guided meditations.

Since settling into my new normal, I have decided to go to an intercambio (language exchange) every Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on which fits my schedule best that week. I am saving 10% of my salary and setting it aside for traveling, and I have plans to hike in Cajon de Maipo this weekend. Living in a large city has given me the agency to strike a balance between excitement and boredom, and I think that's a healthy place to be.

There are some weeks (and weekends) when I barely leave my house. There are some nights when I go to bed at 10:00 because, quite simply, I can. Constant traveling is pretty unsustainable, and there are only so many consecutive nights that I can stay up until 6:30 in the morning, which is pretty standard here in Chile. I promise, I will go to a microbrewery or a jazz night when the chance presents itself, but I think that there is value in being in a place long enough to be bored in it. Once in a while, I deserve to revel in that boredom.

Lunch at the rose garden

Today, I left my house only once to go to a park 15 minutes away. I bought some crackers and brie at a store on the way, and a friend brought along a bag of purple grapes. We sat down in a rose garden and had a picnic, sitting in a patch of sun and green grass with the Andes looming overhead. Children were laughing on a playground nearby, and couples were making out on the benches. A dog ran up to us and sat at my feet, and three minutes later, ran away to go chase a pigeon. It was Sunday, and nobody was in a rush to be anywhere other than where they were.



It was a normal day just like any other. I didn't have to fly a plane or take a train to get here. After the sun started to set, I walked home. I can only speak for myself, but if this is my usual weekend, I don't think I'm going to rush off anytime soon.

A day in Parque Quinta Normal