The Social Network

No, I'm not going to review the movie about Mark Zuckerburg, or critique the new Twitter, or complain about how FourSquare is an invasion of privacy. Before we went crazy for social networking applications, we had real friends, we had phone numbers and address books, and we heard about news face-to-face (or through the grapevine, a saying that will mean nothing to the teenagers I used to teach). Living in a foreign country, I admit I log on to Facebook several times a day to keep up with friends across the globe and to make plans with ones down the street, but the ones I really love and who I miss most in my life I make an effort to talk to now and then on Skype or Google Voice (okay, they're still internet-based, but they're at least a little more personal like the old-fashioned telephone).

If I were to map out all my social connections (I've done it), it would look like a confusing, spider-webby mess. Here in Chile alone I have friends I've made through work, capoeira, those I've been introduced to by mutual friends from the US, those I've met through friends here, and those who I met the previous time I came here. But compared to my social network at home, this messy spider web has just a few spindly branches, mostly which cluster around fellow gringos. When you live in a foreign country, you tend to hang out with other people like yourself. Despite my wishes to get to know Chilean culture and to be welcomed with open arms into a group of local friends, it's just a lot easier to make friends with people who share a language and a culture. And when you're far from home, you tend to cling to the familiar.

The problem with this tendency is that just because you share a language and a culture with someone doesn't mean you share a personality, or goals, or a sense of humor, or interests, or...well, you get the idea. You push yourself into a group of people whom you may never have been friends with in a different context, say, at home in the US. The situation is what bonds you, and sometimes, that's just not enough to sustain a true friendship. Inevitably, conflicts arise. I'm a pretty easy-going person, but even I have occasional spats with my gringo friends here in Chile. We patch it up, either because we want to or because we have to in order to maintain our compatriotic friendship. When you're in that spat, the lack of big, bushy branches in your social network web that you had back home make severing any ties extra difficult. In case the analogy doesn't click, basically when you have tons of friends because you've been living in a place for years, it's easy to let go of people who make you mad, but when you don't have tons of friends because you've only been living somewhere a short time and it's difficult because of linguistic and cultural barriers to meet people, it's a lot more difficult to cut people out of your life.

And when times are tough, who do you turn to for support? Family and friends. When I was living in Baltimore there was a night when I felt bad and had to get out of my apartment at 2 am. I had 4 friends who I knew I could call and would give me a place to crash for the night (only one woke up at the sound of her phone ringing). It was comforting to know that I had people to count on when I needed help, at any hour of the night. Here in Chile, although I know I could call my family and friends on Skype at any time of night, I don't really have anywhere to go if I needed to get away. And when you fight with your friends, who are also your roommates, who are also your co-workers, you realize how interconnected and small your social circle is. Breaking bonds with these people means ostracism at work, at home, and in your social life. If you need to get away for a while, you can't go stay at your parents' house for the weekend. You can't skip town to cool off because you can't afford to travel and you don't have anywhere to go. It makes it all the more essential to maintain those friendships, yet because they're based on circumstances and not true shared interests, maintaining them can be extra difficult.

So while I love my friends here, and we are all on good terms, having fought with them in the past made me realize that being in a foreign county can be volatile. Your highs are extra high because you're traveling, which makes everything more exciting. A hot dog in Chile somehow tastes so much better than in the US, a beer is more refreshing, overcoming challenges is more rewarding. But when you have lows, they are extra low because you don't have the bushy, comforting branches of your network of family and friends to rely on for support. When small setbacks happen, they can seem gargantuan hurdles because you have to face them alone. So even though my Facebook says I have 605 friends, there are days when I feel like I'm starting from zero. On those days, I remember how we talked to each other before the internet took over our social lives, and I pick up the headset, type in a phone number, and call someone I know will answer the phone. Even though my friends and family are far away, I know I can count on them because we're connected by more than just the stamp on our passports.

Don't walk in my toilet?

The single most challenging experience I’ve had in Chile thus far has been dating a Chilean. For two months I was obsessed with a guy from my capoeira class: broad shoulders, perfect muscles, tan, good facial structure, able to do flips, kicks, an somersaults in midair. He invited me to a samba class but then never called me, so I figured he must not like me that much. The next time he invited me I didn’t answer the phone, I just sent him a message saying I was busy. The third time I finally went, but because I couldn’t understand him over the phone I didn’t realize until I arrived that he hadn’t invited me to samba but to a capoeira event.

In any case, we finally started seeing each other outside of class, and I was giddy every time I had the opportunity to go out with him. I bored my roommates by retelling every detail of every date and everything he said to me after each class. Finally, he invited me to Valparaiso for the weekend for another (what else?) capoeira event. He finally kissed me when we were dancing, and the first thing I wanted to do was text my roommate and tell her. I finally had my confirmation that he did like me and all these excursions were in fact dates after all. Dating is confusing enough when you share a language and a culture, but when you don’t, you never have any idea what’s going on.

Back in Santiago things were a little awkward in class but I kept my distance and played it cool, and we continued to see each other. As I got to know him I learned he’s 28, teaches tennis and capoeira for a living, and lives with his parents (shocking, I know, but suspend judgment because that’s normal here).

I finally invited him over to my place and he started hanging around more than is customary here I suppose, because my roommates pulled me aside one night and told me that he was taking advantage of the situation in order to get away from his parents’ house. This never would have occurred to me since in the US hanging out a lot at your new girl’s house isn’t really weird (and no one has the need to escape their parent’s house at 28). In any event, I promised them I wouldn’t bring him around as much.

We continued dating, but my infatuation faded to interest. He could be a bit condescending at times, not because he meant to be, but probably because he’d never dated a gringa before and I don’t think he realized how much I understand. I am a very proud person and I don’t take kindly to condescension, so I always responded with some sarcastic comment. I could tell at that point that the relationship wasn’t going to work out.

Nonetheless, I kept seeing the guy because my friends are all in serious relationships and I didn’t want to be stuck at home alone on a Saturday night or playing the 3rd, 5th, or 7th wheel at all the social outings. If we were just dating and it was nothing serious, I could tolerate his ignorance in exchange for some company, I told myself.

But one night, I’m hanging out with him at my place and I hear a knock on my door. I decide to ignore it since I figure it’s just my roommates complaining about having a stranger in the house again and I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. But a couple minutes later I hear another knock. I decide I better go see what’s the matter, and I find my roommate puttering in the kitchen with a mop and some Lysol.

“Did you use the bathroom?” he asked me.

“No, why?”

“Was it your friend?” (he refuses to acknowledge that we are actually dating)

“I don’t know, maybe. Why?”

“There’s piss all over the floor,” he tells me.

….

“What???”

He takes me to the bathroom and shows me some wet spots on the floor next to the toilet.

“A little more respect,” he growls at me. “That’s all.” He didn’t speak to me for a couple days after that.


Poll: you’ve just started dating a guy in a foreign country. Every interaction you have is in your second language and therefore requires twice the effort and causes you to over-analyze twice as much as you would in your own country. He pees on your floor and doesn’t clean it up. What do you do?

What did I do? Speechless, returned to my room, told him I was tired and had to go to bed, and never brought it up. How do you bring that up? I’m not even sure my English is good enough for that conversation, much less my Spanish.

And so my interest faded to confusion, disapproval, and desperation. Was this infraction of basic hygiene rules enough of a reason for me to stop seeing him? Could I tell him “Look, you peed on my floor, and now we can’t see each other”? Or have the softer yet insincere “It’s not you, it’s me” talk? Was I ready to face the awkwardness that would be capoeira class afterwards?

Apparently not. For some reason I kept seeing the guy. I took a week off when I went on vacation to Colombia, figuring that when I came back maybe things would be clearer or I would have more guts. Of course, when I returned to Chile it was all exactly the same. My solution was to not allow him in the house (I made him wait outside on the sidewalk while I ran upstairs to pick up a coat and some extra cash one night) but to keep seeing him if I had nothing else to do because it was easier than confronting the situation.

Now, instead of boring my roommates with details of our dates I harassed them for their advice on what the hell I was supposed to do. They had little sympathy for me, naturally, and told me to dump the guy for once. Instead, I invited him to happy hour with my whole group of gringo friends and another Chilean guy friend who had a big crush on me. Bad idea possibly conceived because of a few too many Kuntsmans.

When I introduced Capoeira Man the Other Guy, CM asked him what he did for a living. OG told him he was a psychologist, and CM replied “Oh, me too”. So in addition to being a condescending floor-pisser, he’s a liar. Fantastic.

Clearly undaunted, I saw him one more time when I invited him to a barbecue with the same group of friends. (Other Guy hasn’t spoken to me since now that he knows I’m not interested, and thus I lose all my single male Chilean friends). Afterwards, my friends tell me they couldn’t understand a word the guy said and that I’m essentially dating a Chilean redneck. And this whole time I thought I couldn’t understand him because my Spanish was bad even though I don’t have this problem with anyone else.

I like to think that this was the final straw not because of my personal issues with all things redneck (having grown up in rural Frederick County, Maryland), but because there were really a lot of straws beneath it. My confusion, disapproval, and desperation plummeted to pity and disdain. I couldn’t bear to look at the guy anymore. Hanging out at my apartment the last time, I felt a dire urge to get rid of him. I knew that I could no longer accept his dates out of boredom. I would rather sit at home alone watching old episodes of Glee, or be the 21st wheel every Saturday night for the rest of my time in Chile than have to listen to him tell me I was getting better at dancing or ask him to repeat what he said one more time when I didn’t really give a damn in the first place.

Since then I have seen him in class, and I avoid the mouth kiss by turning to the side for the socially-acceptable and platonic cheek kiss. When he calls I don’t answer, and when he texts I tell him I’m busy. I think he will get the hint. Maybe I’m cruel, but I think my instincts are struggling in this intercultural context. I like to think my attraction to someone doesn’t rise and fall like a roller coaster when I know what I’m dealing with. But I suppose that’s part of the adventure of having a Latin lover: like a box of chocolates, you might get an Antonio Banderas, but then again, you might get the Bumblebee Man.

2010: Something to celebrate

When I came to Chile three years ago I had the distinct impression that Chileans were not like their proud neighbors to the east, Argentina and Brazil. With no World Cup trophies, no post-card quality women or beaches, and no traditions of tango, Chileans seemed to view themselves as the nerdy cousins of these South American giants. Admittedly, I had to agree. If you look at a map of South America, Chile is like the crust on the bread that is the rest of the continent. It clings on to a rocky shore, a narrow strip about to crumble into the ocean. The most common question I was asked wasn't the usual "Do you have a boyfriend?" that I heard in other parts of Latin America, but rather "Why did you come to Chile?". I was never able to formulate an adequate response.

After doing some research I learned that it wasn't just coincidence that everyone I met wondered why foreigners came to Chile. I read about the country's national identity crisis; possibly due to its history of violent conquest and dictatorship, its geographic isolation, or its cultural austerity, Chileans have gained a reputation (which they seem to have internalized whether it's true or not) of being small, quiet, hard-working, and very humble.

On my second journey here, I feel I have discovered an answer to the question that seemed to plague so many Chileans. This country is magnificent- blessed with mountains, beaches, glaciers, deserts, salt flats, rivers, volcanoes, and lakes. It's safe, modern, and easy to live in. The economy is good, which is really the main reason why I came. And although it isn't exactly Sweden, its social programs put it ahead of the US in caring for its citizens. And now I can add to the list the amazing people I have met here.

The best thing of all, though, is that it seems like Chileans themselves are starting to realize how great their country is. After a natural disaster, the culture of a country can change dramatically, people get swept up in a wave of patriotism (think post 9/11). After the earthquake in February that killed over 500 people and displaced millions, Chileans worked together to rebuild destroyed homes and feed their compatriots. Although I wasn't in the country to witness this, I have been here to witness its aftermath.

Since the nationalistic cultural shift, several other events have given Chileans the opportunity to wave their flag with pride: the historic World Cup victory over Honduras and the national team's advancement to the second round, the tragedy (and the glory) of the accident that trapped 33 miners in Copiapo, and soon dieciocho (September 18), the day Chile will celebrate its bicentennial.

In the three years since I'd been away, Chile changed a lot. Although I still get asked why I came here, the question no longer implies that Chile isn't worth visiting. Chileans are more open to me, and I am more open to them (after all, 3 years have changed me, too). This year seems to be a turning point for Chile; a new president, a natural disaster, a record-breaking sports victory, a national drama, and a 200th birthday. Like the world-class wine its sun-soaked valleys produce, Chile just gets better with age. Feliz cumpleaños!

Transantiago vignette

When I first arrived in Chile in 2007, they had just initiated a new transit system in Santiago, the Transantiago bus/metro system. To me, it was efficient and logical, but to the Santiaguinos who were used to frequent, empty, cheap buses (which contributed to the terrible smog) it was an infuriating change. My first trip to Chile was marked by regular protests and strikes of the bus system. Things have calmed down in the past three years, however, and now most people, though still dissatisfied with Transantiago, have come to accept it as part of life in the city.

I am a privileged gringa because I get to spend an average of three hours a day on the metros and micros of Transantiago. Although I teach English for a living, I consider myself more of an anthropologist by vocation, and I can assure you there are few situations better suited for anthropological study than public transportation. I can classify almost any Santiaguino into one of two categories: metro riders and micro riders. Metro riders value efficiency and speed and they prefer not to talk to strangers. When you ride the metro, no one looks at each other, everyone stares at the ground in front of them in silence. You can be packed in at rush hour, your body pressed up against five other people, and yet you still have to find a way not to make eye contact with anyone. Metro riders wear black.

Micro riders, on the other hand, would rather have a nice view and save a few cents than get to their destination quickly; they are generally friendlier and will always give up their seats for an old lady or pregnant woman. Someone is always striking up a conversation with me, teenage boys sit in the back of the bus and play reggaeton on their cell phones, and the drivers usually say hello to the passengers as they board. There's always a vendor or musician who hops on board to peddle chocolate, flashlights, pens, books, or play some Chilean folk music. Certainly it's more fascinating than the metro.

Generally speaking, I consider myself a micro person because I save money on the transfer, I enjoy the view, and I like the entertainment. But yesterday I had the worst public transportation experience of my life, and it made me realize why so many people are still so bitter about Transantiago.

I was leaving work in the south of the city and the bus was running 15 minutes late. There was a line of people at the stop waiting with me, and when the bus finally came it was already packed, forcing us to cram in as close as possible. When I made it past the turnstile I noticed a rank smell and realized someone had vomited on the floor. There was a big spot covered in ripped up newspaper that had already been trodden on, over which no one wanted to stand (naturally), so the already crowded bus had even less room. So we're standing here, running late, packed in, trying not to step in vomit but not being able to avoid the smell, which just makes you want to throw up yourself.

Bad enough, no? Well I finally found a spot where I could hold on to a pole and not have to step in the mess on my way out the door, when this homeless man boards the bus from the back without paying. The guy looks like he was just discharged from the hospital; his arm is in a cast, his face is bruised and bleeding, he's got blood on his shirt and hands, and he smells like he hasn't showered since the era of Pinochet. He's about two feet taller than me, and he's got his natty hair wrapped up in one of those Palestinian bandanas, and he's wearing combat boots. He was a pretty intimidating figure, and naturally, he comes to stand right next to me. The old lady standing nearby holds her nose and scoots to a different corner of the bus to avoid smelling him. So there I am, trapped between the homeless man who looks like he just got into a brawl and the puddle of vomit covered in shoddy newspaper, running late for my next class all because the micro ride was free. I think after all, I might become a metro person.

Who needs measuring spoons?

Somehow, before today I had not managed to solidify my reputation as a great chef. The most labor-intensive foods my roommates witnessed me making were tuna sandwiches and scrambled eggs. But today was cold and rainy, and I had no plans, so I decided to go on another culinary adventure. I'd been craving hummus, and the day called for squash soup, so I decided to try to make both.

Cooking in a foreign country is complicated. The metric system messes up all your measurements; the ingredients are hard to find (if you can figure out how to say them in the local language) and expensive; and in my case, the gas oven has no temperature setting, so you have to eyeball the size of the flame ("yea, that looks about 450 degrees"). Thanks to Jumbo (Chilean Wal-Mart), I found tahini, garbanzos, nutmeg, ginger, and squash and was able to make some tasty hummus and a big pot of soup. The squash was super hard to cut, and that process alone took about an hour. But once I had it boiling with carrot, onion, apple, garlic, and spices, it was snap to blend it up and enjoy.

I was so inspired by the success of my soup that I decided to try roasting the seeds, and since I had a ton of leftover squash I made pumpkin bread. I added Old Bay to the seeds since everyone has loved it (we add to potato chips religiously). I think I should start an Old Bay importing business to cater to the heavy demand I am creating down here.

Today I spent four and a half hours in the kitchen cooking and cleaning, but it was worth every minute to eat some delicious food and share a piece of culture with my roommates. After hours of cooking, the kitchen was the only warm place in the apartment, so my roommates and I huddled together sampling all the delicious food I'd made. It was an important bonding moment for me. Although they've lived with gringas for years, they had never eaten anything I made today. I don't even mind that I bought all the ingredients and spent my whole day working, because to me that's the best part of being in another country: when you share a part of your culture with someone, and they dig it.

Pumpkin seeds and soup

Hummus

Pumpkin bread from scratch

Bonding with a roommate, Rodrigo ("abuelo")

Publicity!

Check out my featured interview about living in Santiago on Latin World.com

http://www.latinworld.com/2010/whats-santiago-like-for-foreigners.htm

A la Anthony Bourdain

It's early Friday afternoon and my roommates are still sleeping after a night of pisco and local wine, so I've decided to go on a mission to the Mercado de Providencia to buy some fish to grill on this lovely national holiday. Thanks to some saint, it's a perfect day to venture downtown; the streets are clear of the usual business crowds and the annoyingly slow Chilean pedestrians who meander left and right, stopping to window shop or buy a chocolate bar from the newsstand. Today the streets are empty except for a few Chilean families riding bikes or sipping coffee at a sidewalk cafe. And despite being mid-winter, the sun blazes down so warm that I would be more comfortable in a tee-shirt and sneakers than the wool sweater and boots I put on this morning.

Reineta

When I get to the market the vendors are still setting up. I successfully negotiate the purchase of a whole reineta ("Southern Rays Bream" according to the internet), skinned and de-boned, for about five dollars. A couple of big, juicy lemons cost me 30 cents, and then I head to the

empanada stand where you can get the best turnovers in Santiago filled with cheese, ham, mushroom, seasoned beef, or seafood. On a more frivolous day I would opt for the unexpectedly delicious shrimp and cheese combo, but today I stick with the basic cheese. The soft, buttery crust is filled with the warm, gooey cheese that doesn't seem to have any particular name but it's soooooo good.

As you can see, food occupies a lot of my thoughts and activities in Chile. There are so many local specialties and I feel obligated to try them all while I am here. To begin with, Providencia (my neighborhood) has bakeries on every corner like you have Starbucks at home. I pass probably 10 Castaños on my way to work in the morning, and who could resist stopping in for a muffin, medialuna, empanada, or some delicious pastry filled with manjar (a rich, milky caramel)?

Then there are the famous sopaipillas, little flat discs of fried squash dough that you can top with mustard, ketchup, or aji (spicy pepper sauce), for just 20 cents apiece.

A pastry filled with manjar

Chileans themselves prefer completos, giant hot dogs "Italian style"- topped with tomato, mayo, and smashed avocado (the name comes from the red, white, and green colors). Of course, you can get anything "italiano", hamburgers, sausage, or my favorite, lomito- shaved pork loin served on a toasted buttery roll.

A completo italiano

Another favorite among Chileans is ice cream. A friend told me that Chileans eat more ice cream than anyone else in the world, and though I find that statistic hard to prove, the evidence makes it hard to disbelieve. Every day I see Chileans bundled up in coats, gloves, hats, and scarves licking on ice cream cones as they walk down the street. McDonald's has adapted to the market by opening express windows on the street that sell only soft serve cones, sundaes, and McFlurry's.

Although I don't dine out often, there are also some great fine dining spots in this town. My roommate's friend is visiting from the US right now, so we all went out to a traditional Chilean restaurant known for its grilled meat. You can get a steak three inches thick grilled to perfection- not bloody on the inside or burnt on the outside. And of course, each meal comes with fries and bread to soak up the juices.

All I can say is it's a good thing I am doing 6 hours of capoeira a week or else all this gormandizing might be the death of me...