Beatles and pop-eye

Western pop-culture shows up in the weirdest places here. In the fresh market, the spinach is labeled only as “pop-eye.” And turtlenecks are called “beatles.”

Conspiracy in the Taxi! A ramble.

My friend and I were on our way from the symphony in Providencia to Ñuñoa to get some french fries. Chileans do french fries right, like unbelievably right.They make the Burger King vs. McDonalds french fry debate seem so irrelevant. Maybe right now you’re imagining a packet of french fries from one of those. In your mind, pour those out on a plate. Now imagine they’re bigger and plumper. Longer. Tastier. Look at that plate, and now imagine the plate is much bigger; an oblong platter. That whole plate is covered in big fries. Half of a Chilean french fry dish is more than enough for dinner. Now imagine that plate of steaming fries is covered with a mountain of steak, onions, and an over-easy eggs. Or chicken and salsa. Or ground beef and cheese. In Chile, everything is a valid french fry topping. This story isn’t even about french fries, but it should be, because the Chilean fries are fantastic.

We were on our way to get fries after the disappointing absence of cocktails at the symphony. We were told there would be cocktails! It was Beethoven’s ninth in it’s entirety, which was absolutely wonderful. It had been ages since I’d seen a symphony, and it was so fascinating to hear Ode to Joy in it’s proper context, you know, outside of children’s piano recitals. The Universidad de Chile musicians were exceptional and I was transported for the evening. I was so grateful to get to enjoy it, but I was also very hungry. We wandered around the theater’s museum, waiting for the cocktails to be served. I even got my nails done in anticipation for the chic cocktail party, my first manicure since coming here. One of the manicurists was a Dominican man who told me how Chileans aren’t really part of South America or Latino, but rather European. You don’t have to tell me! He thinks gringos in North Carolina can dance better than Chileans. Well, I don’t know about that.

The theater was at the police academy and they had a collection of police hats from all over the world, which was neat. Although, it would be even neater if some Chilean museum curator had to travel the world and steal each the hats from an officer’s head. Young, clean cut police students in full regalia wandered around like Rolfe from Sound of Music, like 18 years old, idealistic, and I assume very honorable. Chilians are proud of the integrity of their police force. Bribes will get you absolutely nowhere, which is a shame when the cocktails never come and you’d really like the police to do something about it.

So after taking some photos of the pope-mobile that The Pope used when he visited, we headed out to nurse our disappointment about the cocktails. Later, my friend would explain to me the meaning of the phrase pasto seco literally “dry grass” which can mean someone who can learn anything, even how to “make fire from water.” It also has the connotation of being down for anything, without hesitation. As soon as someone makes a suggestion, a pasto seco says, “yeah, let’s do it, let’s go.”She said it was applicable to me because I was down to go get dinner together without a second thought. Really I was just hungry. When someone says, “do you want to go get french fries” in Chile, you’d be insane to say no.

We hopped into a taxi and set off. Two different cell phones on the taxi driver’s dashboard were open to two different taxi apps. The notifications sounded like someone yelling for a taxi, “taxi! taxi! taxi!” as if lots of potential passengers were in the car with us. Things got interesting when he started to ask if I was from a different country.

After hearing I was from the U.S., he asked, “You don’t work for Monsanto, do you?”

“uhhh no, I’m just here because I have a Chilean fiance” (usually, this is the point where people ask me what do I like or prefer about Chilean men in general, which is awkward since I am only romantic with one Chilean man. It’s not like I dated a representative sample beforehand. I just describe what I like about Carlos, which are traits that I would like in a man of any nationality and that I don’t think make him particularly Chilean or not Chilean. Then I make a joke about mother-in-laws to divert the conversation, since that’s a favorite joke here, even though my mother-in-law is wonderful and not at all like the negative stereotype.)

The taxi driver says there are gringos here working for Monsanto, and I agree with him that it’s a bad company, and I tell him I have noticed the Chilean protests against Monsanto. This sympathy only encourages him.

There’s something I have to show you, he says. He whips out an iPad and pulls up a youtube video. All this while driving through traffic and the two cell phones are incessantly yelling “taxi!” I hear a voice begin to dramatically describe 9-11. Footage of the twin towers plays on his steering wheel. I begin to giggle a bit, oh here we go. Whenever a Chilean brings up September 11th to me, it seems a bit absurd. But it got better… It was a conspiracy video. The driver told us that he showed it to another gringo who had no idea that his own government had blown up the towers. Well, maybe they did blow them up, and maybe they didn’t, but I wasn’t really in a good position to judge the merit of the video on a five minute taxi ride (but look at all the architects who agree! He insisted, fast forwarding to the list of names with “Architect” next to them.) If not for my friend’s warning he would have hit a cyclist, since he was driving with the iPad on the wheel.

We arrived at our destination as he was expounding on the evil of all governments. Being a taxi driver is a bit like being a dentist because people can’t get away when you start talking to them. At least he was careful to differentiate between a people and their government, a distinction I think is pretty generous when officials are elected. One of the most ridiculous parts of being an expat here is the people who are really eager to tell you all about the country you’ve lived in all your life, especially when they’ve never visited it, or perhaps seen it once. That and how good the french fries are. 😉

Neighborhood Love, II

It’s a neighborhood of many smells. With closed eyes I can pick out each separately: fresh baked bread, raw meat, bleach, and piss. On cold mornings, bus fumes fill the air as they rumble along like giant worms, blocking intersections and crosswalks, enraging taxi drivers and forcing pedestrians to cross by weaving through cars.

In the afternoons, gypsy bands pass playing instruments: flutes, base drums, xylophones, and cymbals, loud and merry, their faces painted like clowns. There’s a golden Buddha, trying not to sweat through the metallic paint. A few blocks away, a man who wears a prisoner costume, black and white striped pajamas, feeds pigeons and sells newspapers.

Once every few months, protests flow and ebb as police in riot gear stand stoic in front of the banks.

When we were apartment hunting, someone was selling fresh milk straight from a donkey’s utter here, but I haven’t seen that since.

Near the market, hosts approach customers, lauding the lunch specials as nonchalant cats guard the restaurants. In la vega, the cats come up while you’re eating and demand a share.

A young, muscled tattooed man is selling vegetables, wearing only jeans and an apron, singing reggaeton at the top of his lungs as he weighs the spinach and beans.

Across the street amplified voices are proselytizing, the mics crackling with the force of the brimstone, and the soundtrack of salvation rolls over the streets. The sequined and sloppy drag queens try to dance to bible verses with the men that walk by.

A tall man passes carrying what looks like at least half a cow on his shoulder. His shirt is protected only by a plastic bag laid like a baby’s bib beneath the enormous, uncovered, raw side of beef.

Business women pass with bright lipstick and fashionable coats, their heels tapping on dusty cement, the cadence of their voices rising and falling with emphasis.

An stray dog rests under the meat counter inside the butcher’s shop, sound asleep, surrounded by the smell of ground beef as customers come and go.

On the walkway, a couple is dancing the traditional cueca. Their feet are swift and precise on the cobblestones – hers small and bare, his in spurred boots. As her skirts swirls his symbolic white cloth spins in the air.

Here, I am worlds away from the Chile across town, the Chile of immaculate malls with colorful fountains and spotless bathrooms. Thirty minutes by car will take you to an expansive suburbia, but here, among the rows of dead fish on fluorescent ice, I am home.

Delicious As(s)

Any journal of Chile would be remiss if it did not mention the endless possibilities of living in a country that has a meat called, “as” (pronounced ass). As in, I ate as for the first time today. Or, hey do you want some hot as? For those who don’t mind sophomoric humor, the possibilities are practically endless.

It’s beef served on a toasted hot dog bun, covered in various veggies and toppings (including the topping corn with mayonnaise, plus extra mayonnaise). It’s like the combination of a thick churasco and a completo. I had mine with sauerkraut, corn, green beans, pebre, ketchup, aji, and mayo.

We were celebrating that when my doctor told us I unequivocally, definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, have Celiac’s what he really meant was, “just the genetic marker.” He told me I couldn’t eat gluten for the rest of my life unless I wanted to risk infertility. But today he said I don’t have Celiac’s, and that I can eat gluten, which makes me think he may have consulted someone else about diagnostic procedures since we last saw him. I don’t think it was a language barrier issue because Carlos was there, too. I was annoyed, he had so emphatically insisted that I definitely have it and that the biopsy results would only show the extent of the damage.

So anyway, I enjoyed the steamy delicacy of Chilean as on a hot bun and then Carlos kissed me goodbye and said, “you taste like as.” The end. Ha ha

Do you have a sandwich?

Right now we are on a “sandwich*” week, which is Chilean slang for when there is a holiday one day away from a weekend. Today, Thursday, is a holiday (Labor Day**). Friday is not a holiday, which forms a sandwich between vacation days and a working day. This also could happen when a holiday falls on a Tuesday. The free days of Sunday and Tuesday form the bread and Monday the meat.

Everyone has today off. Lots of people still have to work on Friday, but many get Friday off from their employers will enjoy a 4 day weekend. Many kids don’t go into school because their families use the time off to travel. Subsequently, many of the schools close for the day because the classrooms are half-empty. Which probably stinks if you don’t have the day off and your kids do; thank goodness for grandmas.

Now I understand the sense of holidays that are set, as the “third Monday of January” or “first Monday of September” which totally eliminates the sandwich phenomena.

For all the holidays the US has, people still have to work on most of them. Here in Chile there are many more days off during the year, which is pretty wonderful.

 

 

*You can probably understand how this term was initially confusing. At first, I thought everyone was talking about all the sandwiches they were going to eat this week.

**May 1 is labor day for basically every country except the US, which I guess is what you get to do when you’ve invented a holiday? Snark in direct response to certain Chileans being like, “why does the US have to be weird and make their own separate day.” Because we invented ours first. Also, ‘murica. Plus, May Day was already being used for the very important celebration of making children anonymously put flowers on people’s doorknobs. Interestingly, the international version is set in May to commemorate the Haymarket affair in Chicago. I never really thought of that as an international event, and I’ve been reading about how influential it was.