Then there’s the sprawling, slow-motion fall onto the asphalt and the gasp of the surprised (usually) passenger who has opened his door into traffic at a [...]]]> There’s this moment between when you see the car door start to open and when you actually finally make impact that you think, shit, what’s going to happen here?

Then there’s the sprawling, slow-motion fall onto the asphalt and the gasp of the surprised (usually) passenger who has opened his door into traffic at a very inopportune time, that time being exactly when you were pedaling along, on your way to meet some friends for lunch, wearing a tshirt and denim skirt, and now, a banged up knee, an irate conscience, a blue, and purple bruised arm, and worst of all, what appears to be a badly sprained big toe. There are scratches on your hands from landing, and a bit of dirt that didn’t come out of the knee abrasion in the café bathroom where you washed it in the sink before eating a really great sandwich, that even had pickles on it.

And now biking doesn’t seem like a great idea, and walking is worse, and you don’t even want to think about what color it’s all going to be tomorrow and you’re just really pissed at how the driver of the car was all, “nothing happened, you’re fine” which is the same thing they always say when there’s no exposed bone or spouting blood. But I know what it’s like to fall, and then get up again, and what it feels like the next day, and the day after, and the limping, and the favoring of the other leg and not being able to live your life as normal, because some schmuck didn’t put on his blinkers to announce that he was, oh, stopping in the middle of the street to let his passenger out.

After it happened, I called my friends to tell them I’d be late, while a group of three police officers stood around trying to decide whether or not to call an ambulance for me. Which maybe I should have let them, but I had things to do, and I wasn’t dying, and I don’t want to go to the doctor and have someone give me a giant boot to wear and charge the driver my medical bills. I just want people to drive carefully and treat each other with care. The best part was when I talked on the phone, the driver went into a flat panic about me speaking English (perhaps I was someone important?) But I bet that panic was nothing in comparison to what I felt in that moment, that split second between when I saw the car door open and when I finally made impact and I flew through the air in slow motion thinking, “shit, what’s going to happen here?”

This I found out, to no great surprise, when I published this piece on MatadorNetwork, about how to piss off a Chilean. It’s part of a series on how to piss off a person of X nationality, with How to Piss [...]]]> is for a foreigner to comment on how to piss off a Chilean.

This I found out, to no great surprise, when I published this piece on MatadorNetwork, about how to piss off a Chilean. It’s part of a series on how to piss off a person of X nationality, with How to Piss off a German, and how to piss off a Korean already published, and a Dane and a Japanese person forthcoming. They’re humorous little posts about how to raise the hackles of the nationality involved.

Everything was running along smoothly, until BioBio picked up and translated the piece (and sort of recrafted it, in the strangest case of almost-scraping I’ve ever been involved with).

With currently 122 comments on the original, and 85 on the translation/recraft, this is big news. People question my right to say what pisses off Chileans, suggesting that I sat in a café in Bellavista and interviewed people on the spot. Are there cafés in Bellavista? Like real ones, with delicious coffee? Please do tell. People also doubt my intelligence, my perceptiveness and all kinds of other things. They also argue with each other about whether or not I’m right, whether or not they are right, and how good their English is or isn’t. All in good fun.

A reporter contacted me to see if I’d give an interview about the reactions to the piece, and yesterday on the micro (bus), in between listening to the hinchas (football supporters) screaming León, león, león. (Lion, lion, lion, for the team they support) and beating on the bus walls, I thought up a few things I’d say if he gets his story approved in pauta (editorial meeting).

I like the back and forth. I like it that people express themselves, argue with me, with each other. I think it’s great for people to debate a point and get their thoughts out.

The internet is (mostly) democratic. Anyone is free to write a blog and opine, write or otherwise blather about places they have been, would like to go, might someday go, currently, live, etc. Please feel free to blog to your heart’s content about what the truth is about your place. Or sing a song and take a picture. Direct traffic to it, share it with your friends. Take a page from Madonna 80s style and express yourself.

There are many Chiles, and many Santiagos. I live in my personal Santiago, a mostly starshaped blob that includes the places I go, with my home in Santiago centro at the center. I come and go on my schedule, have my friends, ride my bike, skate on my skates, live my life. The experiences I write about are from my perspective. If yours differs vastly, that doesn’t mean either one of us is wrong. It means we live on different planes, come and go at different times, know different people, notice different things.

I didn’t say anything truly nasty or polarizing about how to anger Chileans. I didn’t pit the cuicos against the flaites, the left against the right, the conservative against the liberal. It would have been easy to take cheap shots against any of a number of groups of people, talk about particular moments when I have been struck by what’s on the surface vs. what later reveals itself to be the truth.

In short, I was kind, and in some ways, too kind, because there’s a lot of anger en desarrollo (developing) here, about injustice, inequality, inaccessibility. But to talk about those things is to divide Chile into smaller and smaller pieces, the people who think X and the people who think Y, ad nauseam. I am tired of people drawing lines among Chileans, this us-and-them mentality, this “antes la gente vivía por acá” (people used to live here, where “la gente” means “la gente como yo/nosotros” or people like me/us”. We may all live in different Chiles, but in the end, we all live in the same Chile. I would like to stop ussing and themming.

In fact, I don’t us and them much anymore at all. Not even about me and Chile. I have more of a nosotros-based attitude, because for nearly eight years, I have called this slice of land my home. But the truth is, and what I didn’t say, and maybe just now I’m figuring this out, because I’m still learning, is that the single thing that pisses Chileans off the most is a person speaking her mind.

And the single thing that pisses me off the most is having people tell me I shouldn’t.

Fin.

oh wait: and here’s a link to that piece I wrote about how to alienate a Chilean. Because apparently that was funnier.

As I watched the beleaguered SeaTac airport try to open and then close again, all day long, first watching my 11:55 AM flight get cancelled, and then watching my 8:45 PM flight do the same, I realized that the short Smith family reunion was getting shorter and shorter. I would like to say [...]]]>

As I watched the beleaguered SeaTac airport try to open and then close again, all day long, first watching my 11:55 AM flight get cancelled, and then watching my 8:45 PM flight do the same, I realized that the short Smith family reunion was getting shorter and shorter. I would like to say that I handled this with aplomb, water-off-a-duck’s-backing it the whole day long, laughing uproariously at well-timed jokes.

Instead I hunkered. I went away. I was pesada. Really pesada (roughly, negative, a pain in the ass). I called the airlines and they were all, “I’d be happy to get you out on a flight on Saturday night” and I thought, Saturday night, no no no. I have a niece and nephew. 11 and 4. Do you know how few hours there are in a school day to hang out with a four-year-old? Arriving at night is a day wasted. Missing Saturday is unthinkable. The kid is busy growing and developing language and changing before our very eyes. Not Saturday night.

And I tried and tried and tried again and finally, with an inkling of pesadez and not just a bit of my voice breaking against the tearstorm that wanted to come (did you not know that I cry easily? It may or may not be relevant to our relationship), I got a willing ear. And after about 48 minutes of talking and hold and hold again, this genius of a woman, this sympathetic soul, to whom I told the story about how it’s a short trip, and my family my family my family managed to pull some strings at Alaska Airlines and get me what was quite possibly the very last seat out on a plane which costs me only about a day of the time with my family, and not more.

And the tension flowed out of my jaw and neck and shoulders, and I realized that I hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in hours (this, a grand change from what I heretofore proclaim to be the best eating during a snowstorm forever and ever amen with grilled wild caught salmon and a rainbow chard fritatta and parmesean rosemary scones and brownies and noodles and baby bok choy cooked with sesame oil (but not all together)). And then we (me, Pam and Mr. NEV) bundled ourselves to the teeth (and beyond, girl’s got to wear a hat) and we all went out for pizza. And to stand and hop and twitter (but not tweet) about everything all iced up, iced over, covered in ice, ice ice baby.

It was gorgeous. I kept on seeing sea anenome, urchins, other undersea creatures. I wondered if it was the wateryness of it, the otherworldliness of it, or just how silent the streets were, our puffs of breath converted into ascending bubbles. Anyway, here it is. Graininess due to lighting things up in iPhoto, but I tried to remain true to what I saw re: color and exposure.

Look at the pretty:

And I know it’s not fair to play favorites, but these giant tufted birdheads, well, they win.

In a stealth move that I told precious few people about, I am on the other side of the world now. I think the people on three flights I was on had an inkling that I was on the move, as did everyone on line at the three separate security lines I suffered [...]]]>

In a stealth move that I told precious few people about, I am on the other side of the world now. I think the people on three flights I was on had an inkling that I was on the move, as did everyone on line at the three separate security lines I suffered through where nobody removed the long T-wrench from my possession, despite its (probable) illegal presence in my carry on. The wrench is used for skate maintenance, and I just discovered it last night. Whoops.

So I’m here, not there. 90 degree days in Santiago for the high 20s with luck in Seattle. I’ve been having a ridiculously laughy and well-fed time with Pam and her husband, and yesterday Pam and I each put on two pairs of pants and went out for a wander in the snow and ice and precip and blowy weather. We came upon the following items:

-A father and daughter trying to convince Lucky, their very aged, white-masked golden retriever to sit on the wooden sled they had out with them. In the end, the daughter (early to mid teens) sat on the sled and lucky galloped along, pulling her down the slope.
-A father pulling his young toddler child down the road on a bumbo-like purple sled, while the child sat blinking, as if incredulous that this type of transportation was possible.
-A cyclist, who had remarkable control over his bike, especially considering what it felt like to just walk down the street
-A handful of children and their parents sledding down a hill at a local park
-A group of people building a castle and a tower in their front yard. They moulded the bricks using a loaf pan, which just last week had been used to make meat loaf. They had also carved a dragon, and easily win the most elaborate snow sculpture in the hood award.

All of these funny little red berries and things.

and the giant, healthy arucaria (monkey puzzle tree) across the street, with snow in its pointy leaves:

And snow piled up in places making pretty patterns:

What I’m really hoping to see today is the inside of a plane on my way to San Francisco, which was the main purpose of this trip, family and whatnot. But the tinkling of icy rain falling on the crust of ice outside my window has me doubting, though the airlines are acting like there’s no ice storm at all. I’m guardedly optimistic. Probably foolishly so. At least I have my red berries. And I want to go check on that dragon.

But there [...]]]> Chileans aren’t too big on eating food on the street. A friend of mine and I once told the story of how we were sitting on a ledge eating our lunch, and her husband couldn’t even really hear the rest of the story, as he was so busy saying, “you were doing WHAT?”

But there are some exceptions. People drink yogurt in the street. Yes, drink. They tear open a corner and drink it out of the container. I know, strange, I prefer a spoon as well. You will also see people eating sopaipillas (fried disks of dough), ice cream, and maybe fruit. And then there are the nuts.

Nuts are these candied peanuts, sold hot on the street by people who are stirring a hot pot of molten sugar and nuts, even as they take your 300 pesos and hand you a bag. The original candied nuts in Chile are actually a re-import of those Nuts4Nuts guys you see in NY. The guy who started the company was Chilean, and he re-imported his brand back to Chile. And so we have Nuts4Nuts carts all over the place.

Which people like to say Noots for Noots (or as I like to think of it, Newts for Newts), or even Newts cuatro Newts.

I am not sure what percentage of the population knows that nuts for nuts means, “crazy for nuts,” but I’m guessing that the imitator, like nuts8nuts (really, I did see this), doesn’t get that other meaning of the number 4. Plus Newts ocho Newts is hard to say.

I should also say that many people know it’s not Newts, but rather nuts. Unfortunately, Spanish does not have that u sound, leading to great confusion between the words cup and cap. So instead we get what sounds like Knots for knots.

Newts, knots, and numbers. Where am I going with this post. Take it out! Take it out!

What do I mean, take it out? I must be honest with you. I have no earthly (get it, peanuts are also called groundnuts) idea:

Take WHAT out?

But this, in addition to the newts and knots, is another brand of maní confitado (candied peanuts). Which, by the way, are never quite as good as you would hope, and I think they’d benefit from a little salt in the recipe, and I don’t taste a hint of honey, it just tastes like caramelized sugar.

I bought this bag of take it out newts/knots one day on the street, and gladly accepted the warmish, oversweet nuts for a little snack. It wasn’t until I had unrolled the sides to open the bag that I could see that there were two messages waiting for me, like the “say no to drugs” on the inside of the red hots box.

But here is where I learned that both God and his earthly son, are both big fans of peanuts.

See for yourself:

Smile, Jesus loves you (and peanuts, apparently).

And in case take it out newts/knots has achuntared (from achuntar, to guesstimate, or hit the nail on the head, conjugated as though it were an English word, a use of Spanglish that is tremendously time-saving at times, and tremendously annoying to most) incorrectly, and you’re not a Jesus-follower. Well, then there’s this:

In God we trust. And they all ate peanuts, Amen.

I don’t really know where to go here. First of all, I don’t understand what I’m supposed to take out. Secondly, Jesus may, in fact love me, in fact, he probably does. However, I am certain this has nothing to do with peanuts. And In God We Trust? Well, um, that’s the official motto of the United States. Which has what, exactly to do with peanuts?

I’ve been thinking about it. And I’ve decided that one day, when I get my entrepreneurial mojo, I am going to go to the United States and sell peanuts called Mani Pedi from a pedicab, and put on the side of the bag “By reason or by force.” (that’s Chile’s national motto) Cierto? (Right?)

(Mani Pedi is a joke. Maní, with an accent, is peanut. Without it, it’s Mani, from manicure (in English). Pedi in this case would mean pedicab, but it goes so well with Mani (which is how people in the US would pronounce it), as pedi for pedicure).

Tell me the truth. Does low blood sugar make me make no sense? Well then, Take it out!!! Thank God for peanuts.

AND I have been afraid of the dentist since [...]]]> AND The other morning I was going up to Portillo to go for a hike (more on this, soon) and I saw a man cycling to work in a full-on suit and a bright-green tie. Bad for the drycleaning bill, yet good for making me smile.

AND I have been afraid of the dentist since I don’t know when, but I have one now that I like. If you are in Santiago and need a dentist, send a message. She’s conservative on treatment, has a gentle hand, and is close to the Shangri La Supermarket, which now means I’m enjoying some pumpernickel bread for breakfast these days. Also, at the shangri-la supermarket, two items competing to be the most ridiculously overpriced imported food products on the Chilean market. Perhaps you would like four veggie burgers for fourteen dollars? Or maybe two french bread pizzas for eleven? If any Chileans are buying these, I would also like to sell them, well, anything, because clearly price is not a barrier.

AND I recently posted on FB that when life gives you 3 kilos of tomatoes, you should make tomato soup. Eighteen people commented on it. This either means, everyone is a huge fan of tomato soup, people like it when you change a saying, or no one was saying anything even remotely interesting on Sunday. I also suspect a possible south american tomato cartel. Any thoughts?

AND It has recently come to my attention that actual cheddar cheese has been right under my nose in Santiago and I never noticed. Not the Santa Rosa kind, which is peculiarly orange and is a bit too gummy. Thank goodness for Aussie friends who tell you about these things. Cost, about 2800 CLP (six bucks). Not the slices, the chunk. And oh yes, that is tasty, just like the cheese says. I choose it over Santa Rosa, which is hard to find, anyway. None of these items show up at my local supermarket, fwiw, though Lider did just start carrying Great Value brand chocochip cookies and mint chocolate chip icecream. I smell a chipwich party… Oh right, the cheese.

AND There should be a website called “is there anything screwy going on with where I’m going?” You could put in your start and finish points, and they could tell you that, for example, the trail up Cerro San Cristobal is under construction and dusty as hell and you will have to climb over a giant pile of rocks on your way up. Or that Parque Araucano is closed on Mondays and you will have to walk all the way around and thereby almost be late to your dentist. Whose office looks like this:

AND the Gap in Chile. It’s true. Open in Santiago, at Parque Arauco, downstairs. Prices are high, sale prices are better. I am slightly ashamed to say I felt a sense of consumer relaxatory bliss upon entering the store.

AND litre will give you a rash again if you do not, apparently, scour your litre-ridden socks with some kind of powerful blasting thing. Gads, that’s itchy.

AND I have been skating again, and I’m getting betterish at it, which brings me great, 40-year-old joy.

My brain dump is now complete. Now I have room for more minutiae. See you soon!

It may be, my friend, it may be. [...]]]> I believe myself to have some of the best-traveled recycling in the city. This is hubris, you might say. Why just the other day you went around the block to find a place to lovingly deposit your empty plastic bottle, and that is some darn good traveling.

It may be, my friend, it may be. But behold. This is where my recycling has been in the past two days:

If you we are friends on fb, you will know that I have been riding around town looking for the yellow plastic domes into which to put my recyclable plastic bottles. I know, I know, plastic will kill us all, and I just really like the bubbles in the agua con gas, and anyway, I’m trying to do the right thing here, so bear with me.

The red no entry signs on the map (generated from at mapmyrun, which I love) indicate where there should be, but are not plastic recycling domes. The one in Parque de Los Reyes I added in myself, because it does seem like a giant park should have some recycling.

There used to be domes in the Plaza Brasil, and also, a plaza which I am told is called Sta. Teresa de Los Andes but which everyone calls Sta. Ana, because that is both the church it is opposite and the metro it is at. First I piled all my bottles into a giant bag (squashed them first, so more would fit) and rode over to Plaza Brasil, where I struck out. In fact, there is no longer any recycling there, though there is a sign that says “Zona de Reciclaje” which is simply not true, unless they are in the business of recycling air. There are some nubs on the ground where the bolts holding the domes used to be.

Then it was off to Plaza Santa Ana or Teresa or whomever, where the glass dome is still in place, but the yellow plastic one has also gone missing.

Then I came home, and checked out the municipality of Santiago’s webpage, specifically the environmental section, and more specifically, the public recycling areas page.

And here I found that there is (or shall we say should be, in a small piece of foreshadowing) recycling at the following places:

Intersection of Portales and Cueto
Plaza Yungay
Intersection of Libertad and Mapocho

And so I dutifully set off, bottles in bag, whereupon I discovered that lo! Nary a yellow dome. I can’t say I was completely surprised, although truly annoyed. But at least I got to have the following interactions with people.

1. Riding down the right lane of the Alameda to take a right down Bulnes to take the ciclovía, one helpful motorist suggested at great volume that I take the ciclovía. (he meant the one down the Alameda, which is in the middle of the street and does not directly connect with the Bulnes one). I have GOT to work on my flying bike skills, so I can leap, pedaling like ET from ciclovia to ciclovia, and stop bothering motorists with my presence.

2. Riding for 20 feet up a street the wrong way while traffic was stopped, to get to the next corner, by a person who walked out into the middle of the street to cross it, without looking in either direction, and who I absolutely did not come close to hitting, and to whom I apologized. Him: what are you doing? you’re going against traffic! Me: What are you doing? you’re crossing in the middle of the street! Him: But you’ll get hit! Me: so will you but not by me! Him: (making crazy sign with finger next to temple) What is wrong with you? Me: Do they not teach you how to cross the street in this country? (maybe not my finest moment, but I did not mention his mother even once in this detente).

Then, because I was worried my recycling had not yet gotten enough air, I brought it to the bank with me. I parked my bike outside and left them dangling from my handlebar. I hoped someone would come along and steal the bottles, but had no such luck, and now we are all safely back at home, ready to write a scathing note to the municipality to find out where exactly, in Santiago Centro I am supposed to recycle my bottles. If a 10k loop isn’t a wide enough net to cast, perhaps I should go further? But the truth is, I’m probably going to end up bringing them up to another comuna in the coming days. Which annoys me no end. Come on Santiago Centro, get your act together. I’m pleased as punch to see the street signs back up, but how hard is it to get your recycle on?

And so ends my recycling rant for today. I was actually wondering if I could shred them myself and turn them into something useful but then I remembered I don’t even own an iron, so it seems unlikely.