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Reentry - Final Survey Questions

August 22nd, 2005

Here’s the final questions of the reentry survey:

Would you recommend to a friend that they should study abroad? Would you recommend Chile? Would you recommend your program?
All of the above. Study abroad is amazing, I loved Chile, and my program was very organized.

What was the number one reason you wanted to study abroad?
I wanted to find out what I was capable of.

Of the other people in your program studying abroad, what do you think is the number one reason they wanted to study abroad?
To improve their knowledge of the global situation (most were International Studies majors) and experience a different culture.

Do you feel you have a new appreciation for other cultures?
I now know that there is no one “right” way of doing things; each country has valuable unique practices, customs, traditions, etc.

Do you feel you have a new appreciation for America?
Yes. We have SO MUCH here. Hearing people complain about driving a 2-year-old car or having to repair their jet ski again reminds me of how much we take for granted.

If you could give one piece of advice to someone who was going to study abroad, what would it be?
Experience constantly. Even when frustrated and tempted to shut out the outside world, go to a park and watch people, sit outside in the sunshine, make cookies with your host family. Never stop soaking up your life abroad, because it goes by so fast.

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Reentry Continued

August 18th, 2005

Here’s some more of that survey!

What was your favorite class/who was your favorite professor? Why?
I really enjoyed my “Picaresque Spanish Novel” class; the professor was insanely difficult, the work was much too hard, and the material was completely worthwhile. Tapping his marker impatiently against his podium the first day, Dr. Miguel Donoso announced that this class was NOT for foreign students, and that they would probably fail miserably. He invited us to leave. The four exchange students (one from England, three others from the States) squirmed in our seats. Yet I decided to stick it out. Our first assignment, a 900-page book written in practically incomprehensible Old Spanish, sent us scrambling for English translations on the Internet. However, when none were found, I had to grit my teeth and struggle through the book. The feeling of satisfaction when I passed that test was amazing.

Though Dr. Donoso ignored us at first, brushing off our attempts to be friendly and shaking his head when we tried to answer questions in class, I think he eventually began to respect us for our persistence. “Your Spanish has improved greatly throughout the course of the semester,” read an email he sent me last week. “I have enjoyed having you as a student.”

How would you compare classes abroad to those at home?
They were much more difficult for me because they were in Spanish, however, content-wise, the content was easier than in my classes at St. Norbert. In my theology class, for example, we were only expected to take two tests throughout the course of the semester, and occasionally watched movies instead of having class. Of course, all the of the classes were still worthwhile, but (considering Universidad Catolica is referred to as the “Harvard of Chile) I think US classes are comparatively more difficult.

What did you miss most about America?
As much as I enjoyed improving my Spanish, I missed the ease of communication. Finding my way around a new city and university sometimes posed problems, and building new relationships requires effort, but I enjoy a challenge and rarely got tired of navigating or meeting new people. However, I did get tired of trying to think of just the right words to tell my host mom about the hostal we had stayed in, or to describe a character’s actions on a literature test, etc. etc. There was never really a break. Even when in a stressful situation, I could not resort to English; I had to cope in Spanish.

Do you feel like a different person now? Do you think studying abroad has changed you in any permanent ways?
I am probably more globally aware and less blinded by the US mentality that we are the best and (due to economic and technological inferiority) other countries are less important, etc. I feel that I can now truly appreciate what we enjoy here after observing the conditions in various South American countries. We take so much for granted. I also now know that I can do much more than I thought I could. Braving Class IV rapids, leaving everything I’d ever known, eating guinea pig, looking incompetent and looking to others for guidance, surviving mugging and robbery, navigating in five South American countries, taking normal university classes completely in another language…I never imagined what I could accomplish in five months. I feel empowered now; I can definitely do more than I thought I could.

Do you ever think you’ll become entirely adjusted to life back in America? Do you even want to be?
If being “adjusted” means once again taking our lavish lifestyle for granted and feeling superior to all other nations, I do not want to adjust. However, I am still hoping to integrate to the point where I once again feel useful and truly connected to people here. (Maybe when school starts… )

Knowing what you know now, would you have studied abroad? Would you have chosen Chile?
Definitely. Yes and yes. As much as I still want to see Europe and Australia (along with all of the other “typical study abroad destinations”) there will be time for that. I feel this was a rare opportunity to see South America. (While I would not hesitate to return to Chile now, I previously shared the US mentality that South America is “dangerous” and thus would have been hesitant to go there “blind,” - without the security of a study abroad program.) Also, while several of my fellow English majors chose to spend time in Great Britain, I have been practicing my English for 20 years now and felt it was time for a change.

If you had to do it all over again, what would you change and why?
I would have asked for a family with children; this would have greatly contributed to the “family environment” in the home. My family at home is always going places and spending time together (my neighbor refers to us as “The Brady Bunch”) and I really missed this in Chile. Friends who lived with host families with small children were able to enjoy more of these family activities.

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I’m Back

August 17th, 2005

Here are some of my answers to a reentry survey I completed:

How did it feel packing your bags for what would be the last time this semester?
Although I had packed my bags countless times throughout the semester (in preparation for various trips,) that last time was different. As I placed (ok, so it was more like jammed) each souvenir, postcard, or new photograph into my suitcase I thought of when, where, and with whom it had been obtained. While I was excited to come home and see my family and friends again, it was a very sad feeling knowing that I may not be able to return to Chile for a long time.

What were you thinking on the plane ride back to America?
I felt like I was switching lives; it was time to leave one set of family and friends, one home, one university, one neighborhood, one city, one country, one continent, one reality behind and adopting another. Honestly, I felt a bit apprehensive. Would I feel disgusted with the rampant materialism of the US? Distant from my family? I have never been so scared to go home.

What was it like seeing your family and friends for the first time?
My parents and little sister (who looked much taller than I remembered) picked me up at the airport. Thus began the never-ending process of summarizing an indescribable semester in entertaining 60 second anecdotes for the entertainment of family and friends. I can tell that I have changed, (though my mom insists, relieved, that I am “just the same,”) though it is hard to say how.

Does your relationship with them feel different?
I think (although the blogs and phone calls helped) that there is no way they can understand exactly what I have gone through. Since they have never seen the country, met the family, or spoken the language, it is hard to find common ground with anyone when reminiscing about Chile. Other than this, I think that I have become accustomed to absolute freedom (ie “Buenos Aires for the weekend, anyone?”) and thus am finding it difficult to adjust to the routine and structure of everyday life at home.

What do you miss most about Santiago? Chile? South America? Why?
I miss my friends! I had an amazing support system in Chile, composed of other students in my program, their families, friends from the university, friends from my neighborhood, professors, my host mom, etc. I somehow felt that I could relate to them on a deeper level. They were, (although this sounds terrible,) a “different kind of people.” Their interest in foreign affairs, enthusiasm for new experiences, and desire to travel matched my own. Here, everyone seems so wrapped up in the mundane.

What did you like best about Santiago? Chile? South America? Why?
I loved being able to communicate in two languages (though it was frustrating at times.) I also relished the feeling that I was “doing something important” everyday. Even while taking the metro, writing a research paper, or getting coffee with friends I tried to remember to appreciate and enjoy every second since I was living a life few are able to experience.

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Reality Check

July 18th, 2005

4am. Bitter cold. 19 cummulative layers of clothing. My two friends and I boarded the “Geyser Tour” van anxious to catch a glimpse of dramatic eruptions in the rising sun. However, we arrived at the world’s highest geothermic field with hours to spare, prompting a few of our fellow tourists to disregard our guide’s warnings and attempt to navigate around the geysers in the dark.

Fortunately, it was soon light enough to see, and we were able to get a closer look at the geysers and more colorful “mud geysers.” After observing the carefully constructed walkways and countless signs surrounding the geysers at Yellowstone National Park, I was surprised when the guide invited us to stroll freely in the field, and even more surprised to see people walking near, peering into, and even reclining against some of the geysers. One guide, anxious to serve hot instant coffee to his group, had tossed a box of milk into one of the geysers and was impatiently waiting for it to heat. Over breakfast, our guide congratulated us on our success in navigating the field, and concluded with a few stories of those who had not been so lucky. I felt as though we had passed some sort of test, earning the privilege of exploring The Cactus Forest, our next destination.

Shedding layers, we continued through the desert, reaching the cactus forest a few hours after sunrise. What we initially assumed was a scenic overlook turned out to be a three hour hike, winding us through canyons, next to 15 foot cacti, and past a waterfall.

Mesmerized by the breathtaking views and satisfied with our choice of tours, no one realized the bus tickets were disappearing: by the time we returned to San Pedro, all buses to Santiago and San Pedro (our two final destinations) were booked. Naturally, all of the hostals were full; when I inquired about a room at one of the more expensive options, the receptionist took one look at my dusty sweatshirt and dirty jeans and announced (in perfect English) “This hotel is expensive.” Elated to discover a hostal with vacancies, we tossed our luggage in the room and collapsed on the beds, no questions asked. A few minutes later, we discovered that the hostal had neither water nor electricity. All was “being renovated.”

One 22 hour bus ride later, we found ourselves back in Santiago. After one last brunch with friends, one last “night on the town” (dinner atop a classy revolving restaurant,) one last micro ride, and one last wave at “my friends the constuction workers,” I boarded the plane for Atlanta. Wednesday, July 13th, I touched down at O’hare, 148 days after departure.

In the days since then, I’ve re-entered US culture. I’ve grown accustomed to using only English words (rather than the awful Spanglish spoken by “the gringos of Chile,”) rediscovered the joys of cranberry juice, driving, peanut butter and jelly, drinking fountains and the consistent presence of tp and soap in public restrooms. I have been able to see (for the first time) the true wealth of the States and how much is taken for granted. I truly appreciate the open fields and cleaner air (not to mention the weather; everyone here is surprised to learn that it’s winter in South America.)

Along with the excitement of the initial “tourist phase” of re-entry, I am beginning to miss aspects of my life in Chile. I miss empanadas and Chilean chocolate, I miss my doting host mom, who would not even let me stir my own coffee, I miss my friends. But at the same time, it’s so hard to believe it’s over; as one of my friends said, it feels as though I could wake up in Chile any minute.

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Bolivian Flamingos

July 11th, 2005

After some essential grocery shopping and laundry, we boarded yet another Turbus Tuesday night, trading the (comparatively) balmy breezes of Iquique for the cooler “antiplano” climate of San Pedro de Atacama, a small desert community nestled between soaring volcanoes on the Bolivian/Chilean border. Weary from travel and finally accustomed to the economic practice of sleeping on buses, we were startled awake when the bus pulled unexpectedly into a dark security station a few hours into our journey. Shaking off sleep, we stumbled out of the bus and were immediately surrounded by security guards, who proceeded to perform a thorough search of the bus, luggage, and passengers. Though familiar with the customs procedure, we were confused because our journey did not involve a border crossing; I was later informed that we were likely being searched for drugs, considering the region`s thriving cocaine industry. Fortunately, the bus was permitted to continue, and after a brief transfer we arrived in San Pedro just as the sun was rising.

At first glance, San Pedro, a community of less than 1,000, appears small. However, after lugging our duffels and suitcases down countless dirt roads we realized that we would have plenty to explore. Thus began the quest to book tours. We surveyed our options, met up with a few friends, consulted a few guidebooks, and were eventually able to negotiate three days worth of affordable tours. After a brief look around the city, (San Pedro’s cathedral was constructed without the use of a single nail,) we were herded into a sturdy looking 12-person van, ready for our initial exploration.

Tour 1 included photo stops at Valle de la Muerte (Valley of Death) and Valley de la Luna (Valley of the Moon, referred to as “the loneliest place on Earth”) both of which are popular testing sites for lunar spacecraft due to their moon-like conditions. Our next stop was a national reserve, where we were able to photograph numerous rock formations and try a little spelunking (head lamps provided.) Much of San Pedro’s desert is comprised of salt deposits, and streaks of rough salt streaked the inside of the caves. Emerging from the caves, we were invited to scale an enormous sand dune, thus obtaining the optimal viewpoint to enjoy the setting sun reflecting off the nearby mountain ranges. As glowing reds and warm golds turned to icy purples, our guide pointed out several active volcanos visible in the distance. Though all valiantly attempted to capture the wonder of the desert sunset, pictures just can’t do justice.

Tour 2, “A Day in Bolivia,” began at sunrise our second day. After a brief bus ride to the border, the six of us survived customs and piled into the back of a freezing cold jeep, anxious for our first glance at another “off-the-beaten-path” country. Though no one was anxious to brave the 12 degree (Fahrenheit) wind chill at our first scenic overlook, turquoise Laguna Verde, our subsequent stop at volcanic hot springs was much more well-received, and we eagerly joined a few other tourist groups thawing their feet in the steamy mineral water. Anticipating only the three lakes promised on the tour brochure, I was thrilled to see steam pouring from the ground when our driver pulled off the road unexpectedly. My sole experience with geysers was on a family vacation to Yellowstone National Park years ago, and it was nice to get another whiff of sulfur. After lunch and some interaction with the local llamas, we proceeded to our final destination, Laguna Colorada, characterized by its bright pink water (tinted by algae,) and correspondingly bright pink flamingos! Though three species of flamingos frequent Laguna Colorada, we were satisfied to see several members of one species relaxing among the ice chunks on the lake. 3 rolls of film later, we returned to make tea and sleep before our 4am geyser tour the following morning.

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The Epic Journey Continues…

July 6th, 2005

The night of my last entry, I had another new, travel-related experience. South American food poisioning. The morning of our Machu Picchu tour dawned bright and sunny; I waved goodbye from the bathroom window as my friends boarded the tour van. Thus, as they discovered Inca history and survived an exhilerating climb up the ruins, I discovered the location of several local pharmacies and survived two days of misery. Fortunately, I was able to make it to the plaza for a few hours, and visited with travelers from Germany and New Zealand (a few of whom had been traveling for over a year - the ideal life…)

Though Cuzco is The Tourist Capital of Perù, I was unable to maintain the typical oblivious tourist mentality after talking with some of the local vendors, children between the ages of 5 and 11. One boy confided that, though his birthday was the following day, his parents had no money for presents or a party. After spending time with these kids, who forfeit school to sell postcards in the Plaza, I began to contemplate the more serious issues lurking under Peru`s colorful exterior.

After my friends’ return we spent our final day in Cuzco visiting the numerous museums and cathedrals pictured on our “tourist ticket,” and finished the day with hot chocolate and a cultural dance show. Tired and happy, we boarded the bus for Puno, relieved that we had chosen to pay extra for “full cama” seats (counterpart to airline first class.) An hour later, when one of our fellow passengers politely informed the driver that our bottled water was beginning to freeze, we discovered that we would be spending 8+ hours, navigating through snow covered mountains to one of the world’s highest lakes, in an unheated bus. We arrived in Puno humming the Titanic theme song and eager for sleep in a warm hostal.

Our days in Puno, a chilly mountain town on the shores of Lago Titticaca, included fresh papaya juice, a ride in one of the hundreds of bicycle rickshaws crowding the streets, and a tour of the surrounding islands. One of the first stops on our tour were the man-made islands of Uros, constructed completely of woven reeds and home to over 500 people.

Getting off our old fishing boat was like stepping hundreds of years back in time. At first glance, the poverty was unbelievable; eventually we realized that these Peruvians live much safer and more sanitary lives than thousands of their fellow citizens in Lima and Cuzco. The people of Uros live as they have lived for centuries, completely independent of society, using the reeds surrounding their island for shelter, clothing, transportation, and even food (they taste a little like celery.) One man selling tiny reed boats was happy to introduce us to the 18 species of native fish, holding up lively examples from a bucket at his feet, and his 10-year-old sister accompanied us as we took a larger, two-story, Nile-like reed boat to the neighboring islands.

The hazy mountains of Bolivia were visible from the shores of our subsequent destination, the island of Taquile. “The way of life here is very different,” our tour guide warned us as we approached. (In contrast to the last island, where we were encouraged to greet the islanders with “good morning”-camisaraki,) he informed us, “Here, people greet each other by exchanging koka leaves; since you do not have koka leaves, please do not acknowledge the villagers. Also, the people who live here are able to tell each other`s marital status, age, number of children, and mood from their dress, thus, it is also inappropriate to ask any questions made unnecessary by the information provided through their clothing.” With this mysterious explanation, our guide invited us to begin the ascent up the mountain to the main plaza.

The bright sun, crystal clear water, and red tile roofs peeking out from the grassy hillsides made the climb from the dock up to the main plaza enjoyable (though difficult with the altitude.) As we gasped for air during the final part of the ascent, local children, 5 or 6 years old, with babies tied to their backs with strips of brightly colored cloth, skipped past us. After lunch in the plaza, our tour guide held up examples of local clothing, explaining the significance of each item. During festival times, for example, the placement of a man`s hat signifies his marital status; the number and color of a woman`s layered skirts indicate her age, and the color of the tassel on the corner of a girl`s shawl indicates her mood. The remainder of our time on Taquile was spent analyzing the clothing of the villagers.

After dinner and some last-minute grocery shopping, we boarded another overnight (heated!) bus for Tacna, the main border town between Perù and Chile. 12 hours, countless windy roads, and customs later, we paid our taxi driver and began exploring Arica, Chile`s northernmost coastal community. Feeling a bit homesick for the traditional 4th festivities, we were excited to witness a local parade outside the Chilean naval headquarters, featuring a band, numerous military groups, and the requisite firetrucks. After the parade we explored Arica`s cathedral, designed by Eifel (architect of the Parisian tower,) and then strolled down to the lighthouse to watch the surfers and poke around in the tide pools.

Fortunately, bus time to Iquique (current location,) was less than 6 hours. After the chill of high altitudes, we took advantage of the 70 degree temps and spent Independence Day on the beach (smiling at the skeptical glances from sweater-clad locals.) After dining on local seafood last night, we were even congratulated (believe it or not) for our nation’s Bday. To conclude the festivities, last night we located an English showing of ”Batman Iniciada” (in English) and indulged in buckets of “dulce” theatre popcorn (a sort of caramel/kettle corn blend.)

Tonight, it’s on to the salt flats and geysers of San Pedro de Atacama.

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Dining on Cui in Perù

June 28th, 2005

I have now officially sampled Cui, one of Peru’s most prized national dishes. My roasted guinea pig arrived to our table tonight complete with tail, claws, and a toothy smile (at least until a friend insisted I cover its face with my napkin.) After only three days in Peru, we have had the opportunity to sample several national dishes. Though cui is by far the most fun, others include alpaca (a type of llama) which was much better than the guinea pig, corn soup, and Inca Kola (counterpart to CocaCola, with subtle hints of cream soda.)

With less than 24 hours in Lima, our first destination, we were able to observe the local surfers, explore the local markets (featuring gigantic fruit and every llama fur article imaginable,) and try ceriche, a traditional Inca drink consisting of fermented corn flavored with fruit. Our original hostal reservations were for El Centro (downtown Lima,) but after a bit of discussion our taxi driver convinced us to stay somewhere “less dangerous,” dropping us instead at a hotel in the coastal suburb of Miraflores. The central plazas, however, were gorgeous and filled with cathedrals and statues of Pizarro and San Miguel. My favorite sculpture depicted a miniature llama perched atop the head of the Virgin Mary (apparently the sculptor misunderstood his instructions when asked to adorn her with a crown of llamas(thorns).) After hours of exploration, we dined at a convent-run-restaurant nearby, sipping Inca Kola as the nuns harmonized in a spontaneous rendition of ”Ave Maria.” Three hours of sleep later, we boarded the plane for Cuzco.

After spending our first day in Peru surrounded by the 24 comunas and 9 million inhabitants of Lima, arrival in Cuzco was beyond refreshing. Golden mountains, bright blue sky, and lots of flowers greeted us as we manuevered our luggage out of the airport and through the maze of predatory taxi drivers. The whitewashed clay houses and shops of Cuzco extend far up into the surrounding mountains, creating a tangle of unbelievably narrow one way streets. Sidewalks are rare, and pedestrian alertness is a necessity, as we discovered in our initial taxi ride.

Upon arrival at the hostal we were greeted with my favorite national offering, koka tea. Recently educated regarding the tea`s ability to alleviate altitude sickness and its powerful mood-lifting effects, we gratefully finished off the pitcher before boarding the bus to Pisca, a local community renown for its Sunday morning market. Exploring the market gave us an opportunity to purchase dirt cheap alpaca blankets, jewelry, and CD`s, chat with the locals and enjoy a musical performance outside of the local cathedral. Underneath the colorful exterior, however, Pisca was marked by extreme poverty, and several of the vendors were practically pleading with us to purchase a whistle or an ice cream for 1 sole (approx 30 cents.)

After lunch we set out to explore our first set of Inca ruins, hiring a taxi to drive us up to the temples and stone dwellings overlooking Pisca. The views were breathtaking (literally) and after one friend fainted from the altitude we decided to follow local advice and chew koka leaves throughout the remainder of our climb.

Today, aside from a morning of exploring downtown Cusco`s art museums and cathedrals, we were able to explore 5 more Inca ruin sites in the surrounding hills. Increasingly amazed at the genius of the Inca people, we snapped pictures of elaborate aquaduct systems, intricate astronomical calendar devices, complex arquitecture, and even the sites used for human sacrifices. Throughout the tour, our guide explained the core Inca values of love, knowledge, and hard work, relating them to the three most honored local animals: the serpent (symbolizing death, the underworld, the past,) the puma (land, the present, humanity,) and the condor (afterlife, future, perfection.)

Tomorrow’s plan: 6am train to AguaCalientes (the jungle community at the base of Machu Picchu), an afternoon soaking in the hot springs and exploring the surrounding rainforest. After a night in AguaCalientes, we’re hoping to take another insanely early bus to the Inca ruins to beat the tourists and watch the sun rise. Resigned to high altitude temperatures, (60ish during the day; 40 or less after sunset) we were thrilled when today’s tour guide mentioned banana plantations and 80 degree weather at the base of Machu Picchu. Sounds like a promising excursion-(now if only I could bring some cui along.)

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Lomito Party & Viaje Final

June 23rd, 2005

Aaahh, exam week in Chile. Suffocating under mountains of papers, books, and to-do lists, I felt it was time to do like any conscientious college student and throw a party (at my elderly host mother`s suggestion!) The menu: Chilean beer, Argentinian wine, at least 20 varieties of cookies, and-the highlight-lomitos! Though several of my friends were previously unfamiliar with the lomito (a delectable grilled beef sandwich,) last night served as the perfect introduction. Smothered in cheese, tomato, gobs of “mayonesa” and “palta” (avocado,) the lomitos disappeared as fast as they were served. After 6+ hours of festivities, (including a game of charades-leading me to conclude that at 20 and 21 we have reached the age of party games once again,) we called it a night and returned to our books.

There were definitely no books involved today as my colegio class threw me a going away party. They were thrilled with our first opportunity to converse completely in Spanish, (and, not surprisingly, much more talkative than in previous classes.) Though I admit I expected the discussion to revolve mainly around music, movies, and teen relationships, I was unexpectedly educated regarding the politics between Perù, Chile, and Bolivia after mentioning our upcoming trip. The refreshments were tasty, (though I also learned several new words for kitchen accidents as one girl presented her first baking attempt, supposedly a cake.)

Thanks to my colegio students, I now feel prepared to intelligently discuss the Chilean/Peruvian border disputes as we embark on our final journey to Perù this Saturday. Since I am accustomed to “spontaneous travel” (i.e. bus to Maipu) this is the extent of the itinerary:

-Final CIEE party Friday night, carreteando (clubs, discos, possibly more lomitos…)

-Quick stop for the luggage, flight to Lima-6:50am Sat morning

-Less than 24 hours of frantic Lima exploration

-Flight to Cuzco-6:10am the following day (who needs sleep anyway?)

-Machu Picchu (probably on the top 10 list of world tourist attractions; I have heard numerous scary stories involving pickpockets and stampeding tour groups clad in matching shirts)

-A few nights in Puno on the shores of Lago Titticaca, (T-shirt!) and hopefully a homestay with the locals on one of Titticaca`s numerous man-made reed islands

-San Pedro de Atacama, home to the world`s oldest mummies, sunrise-triggered geysers, and unbelievably expensive completos.

-(Collectively)45+ hours of bus time through rainforest, desert, and mountains en route south to Santiago

Equipped with bottled water and disposable cameras, we are ready to brave customs, stampeding tour groups, and consecutive bus journeys and explore The North.

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White Picket Fence

June 20th, 2005

Between cramming for finals and helping my host mother debate whether or not to adorn our new stereo with ceramic elephants, (which are gradually taking over the living room,) I have been spending more time in the house over the last couple of weeks. My recent “intense exposure” coupled with four months of observation (of my own and friends’ living situations) have provided me with a deeper understanding of the Chilean family.

La madre: In some respects, the “ideal” Chilean mother resembles June Cleaver (including the pearls.) She is expected to clean, cook, care for the children, and host frequent family events, all while looking as though she has just stepped out of a Polo ad. Naturally, this role varies somewhat depending on the family economic situation. I have observed the mothers of friends who deem it better to leave all domestic duties and child-rearing to the “nana,” choosing instead to lounge in bed and watch soap operas and reality TV.

In addition, (as in many cultures,) the mother is expected to be completely selfless, devoting all waking hours to the care of the family. “Time with the girls” and “time at the gym” are possible only for the very wealthy, many of whom go to exclusive workout clubs more “to be seen” rather than improve their physical state.

Though Chile certainly has its share of working mothers, I feel that this concept is still not as mainstream as in the States. (Curiously, the “soccer mom” is also absent, since children here are much less involved in school activities, athletics, etc.)

Though the current average age for marriage is probably somewhere in the mid 20`s, Berta, (my 75 year old “mama chilena,”) married at age 15 and feels that her 18 year old granddaughter is “running out of time.” (From my experience,) women are expected to be married at some point in their lives. Widows and those who are “separated” are socially accepted; (divorce, recently legalized and considered “un-Christian,” is extremely rare,) “soleteras” who have never been married are not.

El padre: The “ideal” Chilean father is either a doctor, lawyer, banker, or business owner, works 9-7, and spends weekends with his extended family. He has an extensive knowledge of history and culture, (demonstrated by his mastery of “sopaletras”-crossword puzzles,) and numerous theories regarding human nature, politics, and, of course, South American fùtbol. The father is certainly the head of the family (when not separated,) and fathers of friends have been known to exercise this role by refusing certain types of food when served ”too often,” etc. Many fathers, though they enjoy family dinners and cookouts on weekends, spend a few hours every night after work at the bar “unwinding” with friends.

Los niños: Children in Chile (at least in my experience,) “stay younger” much longer than children in the States. As in many South American countries, it is not uncommon for 30 and 35 year old adults to live with their parents. (My host sister, who lives at home, is 52.) While this contributes to a strong sense of family, it also occasionally undermines the independence of the young adult. (Case in point: My host mother recently informed me that her daughter does not know how to cook, but maybe she will teach her “someday.”) Children, as I mentioned before, are generally less involved. When I asked my colegio students if anyone belongs to a sports team or plays a musical instrument, less than 10% of the class raised their hands.

I then made the mistake of asking if any of them had an after-school job. After an awkward silence, one lone boy in the back responded affirmatively. I have since discovered that, unless the family situation is dire, students here are encouraged to focus completely on their classes and not expected to work part time. (I am unsure how this lack of committments affects grades; the 18 year old host granddaughter seems to spend most of her time text-messaging friends…)

En resùmen: The family atmosphere in general is more reserved. Since all family members are not on tight schedules, many families are able to eat and spend evenings together on a daily basis. Social commitments are also more rare; a Chilean friend commented that going to a movie here is discussed with the same reverence as space travel (maybe someday…) Family vacations usually consist of a few weeks at a beach house in January, though by attending the “Harvard of Chile” (Universidad Catòlica) I have met children of wealthier familes who travel internationally. All in all, observing my family here has made me more appreciative of my family at home and given me better perspective on Chilean culture in general.

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Going to Oz

June 13th, 2005

Study abroad horror stories. Losing credit cards, money, digital camaras. Being mugged. Accidentally eating undercooked cow tongue. Though I have survived all these things and more, I recently experienced something even more terrifying. I was taken to…(dramatic music)…”the end of the line.” Just days before, an unfortunate friend had a similar experience, in which the micro driver failed to inform her when to get off the bus, and thus she ended up at what she referred to as “the source” (ie bus terminal.) This, she, revealed in hushed tones, was frightening enough, though the mix-up occured during daylight hours and in a decent neighborhood. I, however, would not be so lucky…

The day began like any other. After a quick breakfast of toasted bread and coffee, I joined the countless rush-hour commuters packing themselves into the metro and attended a few morning classes at Catòlica. After more metro rides, an hour walk to the UChile campus (though still “en toma,” selected professors are now holding classes for international students,) I sat through my 2 hour class, in which the professor informed us that ”the two good things to come out of your country are John Wayne movies and jazz.”

He concluded the class by reiterating the impossibility of understanding US culture without a working knowledge of westerns, jazz, and (most importantly) Chuck Norris. I was relieved when class ended and a friend informed us that she was having a party, gave us directions to her house in Tobalaba (one of the nicer neighborhoods,) and told us to come around 10.

Thus, vowing to be punctual (for once,) I left my house at 9, allowing plenty of time to track down a micro and travel to Tobalaba, normally a 20 minute ride. Since micros at night are usually more difficult to find, I was thrilled when one reading “Tobalaba” (along with some other destinations I did not bother to notice) pulled up a few blocks from my house. My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat when the bus turned in the opposite direction of Tobalaba, but, confident in my familiarity with Santiaguian public transportation, I felt sure it would circle around at some point.

An hour later, I became suspicious when we passed a sign welcoming us to Maipu. My false confidence was replaced with a growing sense of dread. Trying to recall if I had ever heard of Maipu, I attempted to regain a sense of direction. Envisioning Dorothy in Oz, I noticed that the neighborhood had changed somewhat, and began to doubt the wisdom of allowing certain passengers to board. The angry clowns spray-painted on a nearby gas station did nothing to lessen my concerns. Gradually, the bus grew empty and the neighborhoods more questionable. As the last passengers exited, the bus went dark.

I approached the driver. ”¿Vamos (we`re going) to Tobablaba?” I inquired, ever hopeful. He grunted and killed the engine. “This was my last run. Take a taxi,” he muttered. Though I am normally fine with taxis, suggesting I wait for anything on a corner in that neighborhood seemed equivalent to proposing I jump off a bridge or run into a burning building.

“What time is it?” I squeaked, hoping he would realize the danger that may befall a lone gringa wandering through Maipu in the dark.

“After 11,” he informed me, lighting up a cigarette. “Where did you get on?” My reply provoked a long whistle. He mopped his forehead. “That`s nearly two hours from here.” He shook his head. “Good luck.” I stood on the dark bus, envisioning my friends feasting on hot dogs and cake, wondering why I never showed up.

Fortunately, as I debated how much a taxi from Maipu would actually cost (probably over $40,) he paused and turned around. “I`ll see what I can do,” he promised. “Stay on the bus.”

30 minutes and a fair amount of pleading later, another driver agreed to take me back into Santiago after he finished fixing his tire. The ride home, (which ended up being complimentary,) involved an interesting discussion with the driver regarding the current situation in Bolivia and the “Chilean mentality,” among other things. Our blatant disregard for the ”Don`t Talk to the Driver” sign ended when, making a strong point about Catholicism, he nearly drove us into a cement barrier. We rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

Fortunately, I was actually able to attend a party last night. (We walked.)

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