Throughout my life, my energy has come from trees and sky, stars and open ocean expanses iced with wind gusts and sailboats bobbing on top of the water. Half of my life has been comprised of weekends chopping firewood for our wood burning stove, summer evenings inhaling the scent of cut grass off the freshly trimmed lawn or riding my bike through walls of humidity while listening to the crickets and summer peeps, skidding to a stop on the dirt lane. The crab apple tree in the center of my yard contains a stump in the middle where I would sit and write in my journal lofted above the yard while Friskey would lie out on a branch nearby. Even within these moments, I knew I was actually painted on a page of a storybook.
When I needed to think, finding myself in an empty kitchen after school, I would head to the woods and journey through the dead leaves and moss covered ground, trekking down to the swamp below my house or through the backwoods down my lane. In the winter time, parts of the swamp would freeze over, solidifying curvy narrow ice paths where my brother and I could slide. Runs to White Lake or down Slabtown Creek Road beneath shadowy tree trunks bursting with color characterized all seasons, the winter appearing in grayscale. With my first decent camera, I would take pictures of the sunset or photograph the tree tops for hours, the hard copy pictures now slowly bending in crates in my basement.
The silence slows steps and escorts you carefully into the quiet of the woods. They are very much alive, yet largely still. The trees continue to grow soundlessly; micro-organisms in the ground crunch with their mouths closed and only the occasional squirrel or bird making a swift move up the trees or over to neighboring branches can be heard. Alone on a hilltop or farmland edge I would sit and wait for some kind of miracle or inspiration to come, to write something genius in my journal while following the moving clouds with my eyes.
Fresh air rarely filters through this new metropolitan realm. Silence is elusive, found only within my apartment and sometimes creeping along darkened sidewalks or tiny side streets. I try to walk with it, but it runs away to lock itself away for me when I get home. People inhabit every corner surrounding me, carrying conversations, walking hand in hand, moving in vehicles or peddling bicycles. Grassy park commons and fountains painting rainbows in the air outline the city with nature, which I relish. Food and clothing come packaged in tasty styles and decorative wrappings, trimmed with articulate architecture and ancient materials. The city is a fabric of pockets which have been stitched together to form neighborhoods and districts, galleries of the wealthy and poor, laid out among towering structures that climb into the sky, exhaling their innovations and economy throughout the country.
From my bedroom window, the mountains watch me from a distance as I eye the orange sun setting itself along their backbone. Once gone, the moon comes through the black canopy, with a few starry escorts, brightly shining.
To compare the two just wouldn’t be fair.
Showing posts with label displaced. Show all posts
Showing posts with label displaced. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Displaced
Leaving your home can be very challenging once the reality of having very little familiar community around you settles in. The challenges of finding friends and making them are normal and you know that over time things will come together, but there are still moments when you know this isn't exactly your home and you feel it.
I comically stated to my new found co-workers, “I need some friends. I’ll just be upfront about that,” as we were greeting each other. All being ex-pats, we find ourselves in the same boat and I was promptly invited over to one of their apartments for dinner. One of the girls is actually heading home soon and told me I could inherit her friends when she leaves.
YESSS.
“So, what’s your number?... And what was your name?” I asked one of the girls.
"You mean you took my number without knowing my name?" she laughed.
I'm making a conscious effort to memorize my phone number, due to an experience I had a couple weeks ago involving a security guard and a cashier at a convenient store. The security guard from the office of my students was helping me purchase minutes for my phone by accompanying me to the convenient store where I could buy them. Upon purchase of the minutes, the cashier asked for my number to upload them, which I suddenly realized I didn't know. In Spanish, I had to apologize to the security guard while he put minutes on his own phone so that I could call my bosses from there. I had to call my bosses because I hadn't known the floor my students were on. After calling myself dumb, in Spanish, we headed to the "smart" elevators that I didn't know how to use. Once you punch in the number for your floor it tells you which elevator is coming but I had entered the first one that opened, in which the security guard yanked me out of. Eventually, I arrived to 28th floor of four students perfectly calm. But on top of it all, the books I had were the wrong level for them. "Today you are UPPER intermediate." I told them, confidently.
In the afternoons I teach two managers at Endesa, one of the largest energy companies in South America. Lionel and Alan enjoy chatting and going off topic. For my first class Lionel asked me questions only about myself the entire time, which was actually kind of nice. Their office, like most of the offices I go to, have grand overlooks of Santiago, reminding me how many buildings there are in this big city - and how many different kinds. Looking at all of the different architectural feats is truly incredible, especially in a city that experiences so many tremors and earthquakes. It is HERE, in fact, where they are in the process of building the tallest building in South America.
“What are your weekend plans?” asked Lionel.
“I need more friends. I have two.” I told him, smiling at my helplessness.
"No, you know more people.”
“Yes, but they’re not my friends. I know some people and their families, but I need some friends, you know? People to call up.”
“Oh, but you are very friendly.” he assured me, as he sent me on my way.
In the city, hundreds of people pass me by daily on the subway and streets. Just like the Dr. Seuss book “Are you my mother?” I look around me thinking...
Are you my friend?
You look nice.
You don’t look nice.
You could be my friend.
Could we be friends?
Why are you two friends and not me?
And of course the usual…
STOP MAKING OUT ON THE STREET CORNER.
Walking through the parks after 5:00 or during the lunch hour is dangerous for your eyes. There are some things that are just not worth putting yourself at the risk of seeing.
Besides having a few classes, I have two tutoring students that I see as well. Sometimes tutoring feels like being friends, sometimes it feels like counseling. Either way, I am getting paid to speak. My boss has assured me,
Things are going to pick up soon.
BOYWHOCRIEDWOLF
The main company we work with, Endesa, has been pushing back the start up date for all of their classes. My boss says it's because there are so many students and once things start up, now in May, things are going to be crazy. In the mean time, my schedule is pretty slow. His honesty and personality make everything good though.
By the way, sorry I didn´t pay attention to you and your grammar point today; I was interested. The thing is, one of my old, old friends, a poet with whom I have had a very tempestuous friendship, was waiting for me.
One of my students had hounded me about a random grammar question, to which I found the answer on the very last page of my grammar reference book. The point was: when you begin a sentence with a negative word, you invert the subject and verb. For example:
Never have I had as few friends as I do now.
Rather than…
Never I have had as few friends as I do now.
Tricky. I was impressed yesterday when the six year old that I teach knew the word “tricky”. Her two front teeth have fallen out. She loves to write in script and I taught her how to do the upper case fancy “S” that I used to enjoy writing so many times when I was younger. Her name actually has two of my favorite cursive letters: uppercase S and lowercase f. They are Super fun.
YESSS.
“So, what’s your number?... And what was your name?” I asked one of the girls.
"You mean you took my number without knowing my name?" she laughed.
I'm making a conscious effort to memorize my phone number, due to an experience I had a couple weeks ago involving a security guard and a cashier at a convenient store. The security guard from the office of my students was helping me purchase minutes for my phone by accompanying me to the convenient store where I could buy them. Upon purchase of the minutes, the cashier asked for my number to upload them, which I suddenly realized I didn't know. In Spanish, I had to apologize to the security guard while he put minutes on his own phone so that I could call my bosses from there. I had to call my bosses because I hadn't known the floor my students were on. After calling myself dumb, in Spanish, we headed to the "smart" elevators that I didn't know how to use. Once you punch in the number for your floor it tells you which elevator is coming but I had entered the first one that opened, in which the security guard yanked me out of. Eventually, I arrived to 28th floor of four students perfectly calm. But on top of it all, the books I had were the wrong level for them. "Today you are UPPER intermediate." I told them, confidently.
In the afternoons I teach two managers at Endesa, one of the largest energy companies in South America. Lionel and Alan enjoy chatting and going off topic. For my first class Lionel asked me questions only about myself the entire time, which was actually kind of nice. Their office, like most of the offices I go to, have grand overlooks of Santiago, reminding me how many buildings there are in this big city - and how many different kinds. Looking at all of the different architectural feats is truly incredible, especially in a city that experiences so many tremors and earthquakes. It is HERE, in fact, where they are in the process of building the tallest building in South America.
“What are your weekend plans?” asked Lionel.
“I need more friends. I have two.” I told him, smiling at my helplessness.
"No, you know more people.”
“Yes, but they’re not my friends. I know some people and their families, but I need some friends, you know? People to call up.”
“Oh, but you are very friendly.” he assured me, as he sent me on my way.
In the city, hundreds of people pass me by daily on the subway and streets. Just like the Dr. Seuss book “Are you my mother?” I look around me thinking...
Are you my friend?
You look nice.
You don’t look nice.
You could be my friend.
Could we be friends?
Why are you two friends and not me?
And of course the usual…
STOP MAKING OUT ON THE STREET CORNER.
Walking through the parks after 5:00 or during the lunch hour is dangerous for your eyes. There are some things that are just not worth putting yourself at the risk of seeing.
Besides having a few classes, I have two tutoring students that I see as well. Sometimes tutoring feels like being friends, sometimes it feels like counseling. Either way, I am getting paid to speak. My boss has assured me,
Things are going to pick up soon.
BOYWHOCRIEDWOLF
The main company we work with, Endesa, has been pushing back the start up date for all of their classes. My boss says it's because there are so many students and once things start up, now in May, things are going to be crazy. In the mean time, my schedule is pretty slow. His honesty and personality make everything good though.
By the way, sorry I didn´t pay attention to you and your grammar point today; I was interested. The thing is, one of my old, old friends, a poet with whom I have had a very tempestuous friendship, was waiting for me.
One of my students had hounded me about a random grammar question, to which I found the answer on the very last page of my grammar reference book. The point was: when you begin a sentence with a negative word, you invert the subject and verb. For example:
Never have I had as few friends as I do now.
Rather than…
Never I have had as few friends as I do now.
Tricky. I was impressed yesterday when the six year old that I teach knew the word “tricky”. Her two front teeth have fallen out. She loves to write in script and I taught her how to do the upper case fancy “S” that I used to enjoy writing so many times when I was younger. Her name actually has two of my favorite cursive letters: uppercase S and lowercase f. They are Super fun.
In the evenings, I tutor Hernan in his cubicle at Banco de Chile. The building is beautiful; the elevator has an old man operating it and the doors spread open like an accordian. The center of the building is hollow and the walls tower upwards, the moldings around the windows elegant and antique.
“Did you know that Obama is coming?” I asked him, as he was sorting through his filing cabinet.
“Did you know that Obama is coming?” I asked him, as he was sorting through his filing cabinet.
“Yes. I called him.” he responded.
“Ah. So you practiced your English?"
“Yes, he is coming for you. You don’t know?”
Sometimes the English I receive is humorous in emails. Although, I have also been writing emails in Spanish sometimes, which is probably just as ridiculous.
We are waiting for you tonight. My coworkers want you tonight !!!!
Hernan's English is on the lower level side. We speak slowly and review grammar most of the time, but our conversations make me laugh and his comments are often witty.
“You look happy, today. Chilean boyfriend?” He asked me recently.
He also flies small planes on the weekends sometimes. I told him about homesickness and how things were beginning to settle in. Suddenly an idea came into his head concerning future English lessons.
“One Saturday we can do English in the plane, and fly to a vineyard for lunch.” he said.
"Perfect." I said, truly meaning it.
My roommate, Rosario, is one of my closest friends at the moment, along with my fellow Beverly transplant who has helped me through the pangs of homesickness by making me a nifty picture of the different stages of culture shock. One of them being:
WTF am I doing in Chile??
But although the downs exist, so do the ups. Rosario and I headed to Valparaiso and Vina de Mar the other weekend and had a great time being photographers, checking out Pablo Neruda's house (a famous poet), having lots of conversations in cafes, and taking in the wonderful ocean - which I have missed very much.
“Ah. So you practiced your English?"
“Yes, he is coming for you. You don’t know?”
Sometimes the English I receive is humorous in emails. Although, I have also been writing emails in Spanish sometimes, which is probably just as ridiculous.
We are waiting for you tonight. My coworkers want you tonight !!!!
Hernan's English is on the lower level side. We speak slowly and review grammar most of the time, but our conversations make me laugh and his comments are often witty.
“You look happy, today. Chilean boyfriend?” He asked me recently.
He also flies small planes on the weekends sometimes. I told him about homesickness and how things were beginning to settle in. Suddenly an idea came into his head concerning future English lessons.
“One Saturday we can do English in the plane, and fly to a vineyard for lunch.” he said.
"Perfect." I said, truly meaning it.
My roommate, Rosario, is one of my closest friends at the moment, along with my fellow Beverly transplant who has helped me through the pangs of homesickness by making me a nifty picture of the different stages of culture shock. One of them being:
WTF am I doing in Chile??
But although the downs exist, so do the ups. Rosario and I headed to Valparaiso and Vina de Mar the other weekend and had a great time being photographers, checking out Pablo Neruda's house (a famous poet), having lots of conversations in cafes, and taking in the wonderful ocean - which I have missed very much.
“This is great. I think I’m going to cry.”
Rosario contemplated this as we were watching families gather near the ocean from our restaurant window, taking pictures and walking arm in arm. It’s the relaxed moments such as those that make me stay – when I know I can travel a short distance to a new place and experience a different landscape. Plus, I can't go home until I've seen a glacier in Patagonia or visit Buenos Aires.
Yet, as Rena and I drink some Starbucks on a patio in the middle of the city, I tend to forget that I’m in such a faraway place. Often it looks so familiar and feels so comfortable, but then other times when I stare at my Inbox, I’m reminded of how far away I am from sharing a cup of coffee with people who I love and care about back home. The pull between the two spheres can be very tumultuous at times and a reason for tears.
I was raised up believing
I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes
Unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking,
I’d say I’d rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery
Serving something beyond me
But I don’t, I don’t know what that will be
I’ll get back to you someday, soon you will see.
Helplessness Blues Fleet Foxes
Rosario contemplated this as we were watching families gather near the ocean from our restaurant window, taking pictures and walking arm in arm. It’s the relaxed moments such as those that make me stay – when I know I can travel a short distance to a new place and experience a different landscape. Plus, I can't go home until I've seen a glacier in Patagonia or visit Buenos Aires.
Yet, as Rena and I drink some Starbucks on a patio in the middle of the city, I tend to forget that I’m in such a faraway place. Often it looks so familiar and feels so comfortable, but then other times when I stare at my Inbox, I’m reminded of how far away I am from sharing a cup of coffee with people who I love and care about back home. The pull between the two spheres can be very tumultuous at times and a reason for tears.
I was raised up believing
I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes
Unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking,
I’d say I’d rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery
Serving something beyond me
But I don’t, I don’t know what that will be
I’ll get back to you someday, soon you will see.
Helplessness Blues Fleet Foxes
Friday, March 11, 2011
Being Gringa
“You look like a tourist.” Patricia lamented, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen.
Unfortunately, settling into a new country is challenging when you have to tear down American stereotypes that have attached themselves to your appearance. When judged by my appearance, I believe I’m something along the lines of wealthy, opportunist, flaky, naïve and into partying. I don’t know how many people realize that America is in a recession, most people are drowning in college debt and the standard of living is too high for the wages that one receives. The most expensive thing I have EVER owned has been my computer and I was only able to travel because I have a useful skill, saved up some money, and put my college loans on hold.
When you meet people from western countries, they seem to be one of two extremes: they’ve worked hard and saved up money to be here or they’re living off their parents’ wealth and are just floating around. Of course there are the students, humanitarians and capitalists in there somewhere as well. But I’ve had a few experiences of meeting Westerners where I was very turned off by their attitude towards me as if they were trying to group me into one of the extremes. They seemed suspicious of me and used that as an excuse to be condescending.
“Oh, you studied in Chile? I’m headed there next. I’m intimidated by the Spanish… I hear it’s a lot faster.” I said to a girl from the States who had been living in Lima for about 5 years. She stared at me blankly as if she had no conception of the widespread view of Chilean Spanish. Even among South Americans it is notorious for being botched up and having a whole realm of idioms and words that exist nowhere else. It would be like a person not acknowledging that Irish is sometimes difficult for even English speakers to understand or that American English is different from British English. She then replied, “Well ANYWHERE you go you have to just learn the idioms and local dialect. I studied in Chile for about a month before I went to Argentina, and I’d say they’re just different. ”
The other strange thing about being western is that most times, in fact, you do come from a higher standard of living and find yourself easily in circles of the upper middle class, or even the wealthy class, because these are the people who either know English or want to know English. Therefore, if I’m teaching English, I’ll probably meet wealthy people. It’s strange to feel the class difference and sometimes I have these kind of Great Gatsby moments of being around people who have a maid, drive an expensive car, own a blackberry, and the art on their walls makes me feel like I’m in a gallery or a museum.
Unfortunately, settling into a new country is challenging when you have to tear down American stereotypes that have attached themselves to your appearance. When judged by my appearance, I believe I’m something along the lines of wealthy, opportunist, flaky, naïve and into partying. I don’t know how many people realize that America is in a recession, most people are drowning in college debt and the standard of living is too high for the wages that one receives. The most expensive thing I have EVER owned has been my computer and I was only able to travel because I have a useful skill, saved up some money, and put my college loans on hold.
When you meet people from western countries, they seem to be one of two extremes: they’ve worked hard and saved up money to be here or they’re living off their parents’ wealth and are just floating around. Of course there are the students, humanitarians and capitalists in there somewhere as well. But I’ve had a few experiences of meeting Westerners where I was very turned off by their attitude towards me as if they were trying to group me into one of the extremes. They seemed suspicious of me and used that as an excuse to be condescending.
“Oh, you studied in Chile? I’m headed there next. I’m intimidated by the Spanish… I hear it’s a lot faster.” I said to a girl from the States who had been living in Lima for about 5 years. She stared at me blankly as if she had no conception of the widespread view of Chilean Spanish. Even among South Americans it is notorious for being botched up and having a whole realm of idioms and words that exist nowhere else. It would be like a person not acknowledging that Irish is sometimes difficult for even English speakers to understand or that American English is different from British English. She then replied, “Well ANYWHERE you go you have to just learn the idioms and local dialect. I studied in Chile for about a month before I went to Argentina, and I’d say they’re just different. ”
The other strange thing about being western is that most times, in fact, you do come from a higher standard of living and find yourself easily in circles of the upper middle class, or even the wealthy class, because these are the people who either know English or want to know English. Therefore, if I’m teaching English, I’ll probably meet wealthy people. It’s strange to feel the class difference and sometimes I have these kind of Great Gatsby moments of being around people who have a maid, drive an expensive car, own a blackberry, and the art on their walls makes me feel like I’m in a gallery or a museum.
“You graduated about 4 or 5 years ago. What have you been doing since then?” said my interviewer for a business school, sitting behind a desk with my resume right in front of him. I looked at him curiously and casually pointed to the place entitled “work experience”. “I’ve been teaching English for 2 ½ years at the New England School of English.” I replied.
“Oh, right right, sure.”
He and his partner soon told me how they only hire people who already have a work visa. They explained how many institutes start the paperwork for your work visa, but everything is basically done under the table, and that they can basically fire you whenever they want because nothing is actually legal. Getting a work visa is actually more involved and when you stop working you have to leave the country.
Did they think they were doing me a favor or was this some sort of hazing?
I’ve gotten the impression that the competition between English institutes and schools is very high. English is in high demand and teachers basically have their pick of all kinds of opportunities. I emailed someone about an apartment and he emailed back, “The apartment is taken, but I’ve been wanting to learn English! Can you teach me three times a week? How much do you charge?”
Also, the people who I’ve interviewed with have been quite nosey. “You’ve interviewed somewhere else? What’s the name? How much did they say they’d pay you?” Or, when my employer found out I was from the New England School of English (recently rated one of the top English schools on the East Coast, if not the USA) he questioned, “What kind of teachers do they hire? What’s their curriculum? How do they get good teachers?”
Throughout my whole experience in South America, about 90% of people have gone above and beyond my expectations of being kind, hospitable and overall just friendly and fantastic. On the way to Machu Picchu I met a woman from Santiago who gave me her email and invited me to her birthday party when I got here! It was wonderful. However, there is of course, that 10% that either rub me the wrong way or have outright offended me. The other day I had a little stumble when I was about to rent an apartment.
I was excited about the place and had told the woman the day before that I would take it. It was clean, quiet, and the rooms were very peaceful and comfortable. There were gardens outside and even hammocks! She was very organized and told me that there was no drinking or smoking allowed in the house. Although wine is one of the reasons I came to Chile, I liked the look of the place so much that I figured it would probably save me some money. It would definitely be a challenge, but I figured I could go to a friend’s house or go out for drinks.
The next day I went back ready to pay for the month. A woman who does the administration had come to talk to me about all of the rules of the contract. This time, I got to hear them in English and discovered that in fact, I’m not allowed to have ANY friends in my room. She kept saying how the house was a place of rest and it was important that it be a home for the people who live there. I’m all in favor of no partying, but to not be able to have even just one friend come over? And even more, not be able to share a bottle wine? Suddenly I felt the retaliation of my gut saying, “NO WAY.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t act fast enough. I contemplated these rule as I was signing the documents, this was my own mistake. Perhaps it’s because I’m a flaky American. It wasn’t until I looked into my wallet to hand over the payment that I realized that I couldn’t. Community is too big a part of my life; I can’t live in a place that suppresses that. Was this a convent?
Well, when I explained that I didn’t want it after all, I set off a whole storm of Spanish between both the owner and the administrative lady. The administrative lady had already spoken down to me in English, explaining the rules as if I were a child. But once she realized her time was for nothing, suddenly she felt the need to tell me,
“This isn’t like America! This house is a safe place. That is IMPORTANT. You need to understand this. This isn’t America! This is a good place and you will not find this kind of security. This is not America!”
She kept reiterating that this wasn’t America, even stating,
“I know! I lived there for 5 years.”
To which I now, beginning to boil under my skin, shot back,
“I KNOW this is not AMERICA. I’ve lived there my ENTIRE LIFE.”
I wish I could have spouted off to her in Spanish, but it just wasn’t possible. I felt like she saw me as careless, flaky and looking for a place to party (party of 2?). I was beginning to think that the place was actually a cult or a convent, especially when they demanded that I erase all the pictures I had taken of it from my camera. She also demanded a copy of my passport, for some kind of security reasons and was saying,
“You can’t just come in and take pictures. This is someone’s home. This is a safe place.”
By the time I left the gate, I wasn’t sure what I was leaving. I really thought the landlord was about to give the people Kool Aid in there. Needless to say, I was trying to find a liquor store the whole way home. I’m definitely glad I didn’t sign that contract.
Being an English speaking Gringa goes both ways. Sometimes I find myself with the wealthy upper class, embraced with open arms, and other times I’m looked as suspiciously and assumed to be very careless. At this point, I am only in my initial stages of getting to know Santiago, so I just have to take these experiences in stride. Supposedly “Gringa” (feminine) refers to the fact that I’m foreign or have an accent. According to Wikipedia, the term came about during the Mexican war when the Irish would sing some old song that was like, “Green Grow the Rushes, Oh!” which the Mexicans began interpreting as “Greigo” which later became “Gringo”. It also says that Americans, specifically, can be referred to as this because Latin Americans don’t want to call us “Americans” and the other option would be “United Statesians” which is awkward in English (and we don’t use it anyway).
Green Grow the Rushes, Oh!
“Oh, right right, sure.”
He and his partner soon told me how they only hire people who already have a work visa. They explained how many institutes start the paperwork for your work visa, but everything is basically done under the table, and that they can basically fire you whenever they want because nothing is actually legal. Getting a work visa is actually more involved and when you stop working you have to leave the country.
Did they think they were doing me a favor or was this some sort of hazing?
I’ve gotten the impression that the competition between English institutes and schools is very high. English is in high demand and teachers basically have their pick of all kinds of opportunities. I emailed someone about an apartment and he emailed back, “The apartment is taken, but I’ve been wanting to learn English! Can you teach me three times a week? How much do you charge?”
Also, the people who I’ve interviewed with have been quite nosey. “You’ve interviewed somewhere else? What’s the name? How much did they say they’d pay you?” Or, when my employer found out I was from the New England School of English (recently rated one of the top English schools on the East Coast, if not the USA) he questioned, “What kind of teachers do they hire? What’s their curriculum? How do they get good teachers?”
Throughout my whole experience in South America, about 90% of people have gone above and beyond my expectations of being kind, hospitable and overall just friendly and fantastic. On the way to Machu Picchu I met a woman from Santiago who gave me her email and invited me to her birthday party when I got here! It was wonderful. However, there is of course, that 10% that either rub me the wrong way or have outright offended me. The other day I had a little stumble when I was about to rent an apartment.
I was excited about the place and had told the woman the day before that I would take it. It was clean, quiet, and the rooms were very peaceful and comfortable. There were gardens outside and even hammocks! She was very organized and told me that there was no drinking or smoking allowed in the house. Although wine is one of the reasons I came to Chile, I liked the look of the place so much that I figured it would probably save me some money. It would definitely be a challenge, but I figured I could go to a friend’s house or go out for drinks.
The next day I went back ready to pay for the month. A woman who does the administration had come to talk to me about all of the rules of the contract. This time, I got to hear them in English and discovered that in fact, I’m not allowed to have ANY friends in my room. She kept saying how the house was a place of rest and it was important that it be a home for the people who live there. I’m all in favor of no partying, but to not be able to have even just one friend come over? And even more, not be able to share a bottle wine? Suddenly I felt the retaliation of my gut saying, “NO WAY.”
Unfortunately, I didn’t act fast enough. I contemplated these rule as I was signing the documents, this was my own mistake. Perhaps it’s because I’m a flaky American. It wasn’t until I looked into my wallet to hand over the payment that I realized that I couldn’t. Community is too big a part of my life; I can’t live in a place that suppresses that. Was this a convent?
Well, when I explained that I didn’t want it after all, I set off a whole storm of Spanish between both the owner and the administrative lady. The administrative lady had already spoken down to me in English, explaining the rules as if I were a child. But once she realized her time was for nothing, suddenly she felt the need to tell me,
“This isn’t like America! This house is a safe place. That is IMPORTANT. You need to understand this. This isn’t America! This is a good place and you will not find this kind of security. This is not America!”
She kept reiterating that this wasn’t America, even stating,
“I know! I lived there for 5 years.”
To which I now, beginning to boil under my skin, shot back,
“I KNOW this is not AMERICA. I’ve lived there my ENTIRE LIFE.”
I wish I could have spouted off to her in Spanish, but it just wasn’t possible. I felt like she saw me as careless, flaky and looking for a place to party (party of 2?). I was beginning to think that the place was actually a cult or a convent, especially when they demanded that I erase all the pictures I had taken of it from my camera. She also demanded a copy of my passport, for some kind of security reasons and was saying,
“You can’t just come in and take pictures. This is someone’s home. This is a safe place.”
By the time I left the gate, I wasn’t sure what I was leaving. I really thought the landlord was about to give the people Kool Aid in there. Needless to say, I was trying to find a liquor store the whole way home. I’m definitely glad I didn’t sign that contract.
Being an English speaking Gringa goes both ways. Sometimes I find myself with the wealthy upper class, embraced with open arms, and other times I’m looked as suspiciously and assumed to be very careless. At this point, I am only in my initial stages of getting to know Santiago, so I just have to take these experiences in stride. Supposedly “Gringa” (feminine) refers to the fact that I’m foreign or have an accent. According to Wikipedia, the term came about during the Mexican war when the Irish would sing some old song that was like, “Green Grow the Rushes, Oh!” which the Mexicans began interpreting as “Greigo” which later became “Gringo”. It also says that Americans, specifically, can be referred to as this because Latin Americans don’t want to call us “Americans” and the other option would be “United Statesians” which is awkward in English (and we don’t use it anyway).
Green Grow the Rushes, Oh!
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