Things I have been doing:

crossing the Andes by bus into Argentina. the mountains wrap around me, and feel warm even on the Chilean side where they are covered in snow. I wipe the wetness from the window, and press my nose. I feel like I am a child, but this is nothing new here. I take my time, and climb stairs--put my hands around my legs constantly. I eat white things, bland things, and get IV's in foreign hospitals. I am at the new nurse's mercy, and even with my "good veins," blood runs down my arm, and threatens to stain the only pair of school pants I have left that don't make me feel like too much meat stuffed into casing. I balk at comparisons like these, but know they are true. I count days, and cross them off a calendar that advertises aditivos y lubricantes alemanes. I count down days, but don't know what I am counting them for. Ten until school is over, fifteen until I leave Chile, twenty four until I am back on the real Jersey Shore hating everything equally. (Oh life, how funny you are). I curse and swear and stare out onto the Pacific, and feel privileged. Return home with dread tucked somewhere into Lindsey's copy of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, alongside old bus tickets that I don't feel I can throw out. I demolish novels like bottles of wine, while filling my own pages. I contemplate this time last year, and segue into next. I never finish completely.

"This order of things can't always endure"

Two am brought temblores--strong, and like a dream. When I wake up, I don't remember, and pull myself through another day. Sick again, and filled with the rage of misunderstanding I sit on the second floor, and pass my morning without students (occupied with standardized testing, and reggaetone). I look down, and the shoes on my feet are swaying from side to side. I am the only one who notices. Vamos a tener un terremoto-- I ask, and Denisse laughs: What floor do you live on? The answer is the 12th, and she laughs again.

I feel motion constantly, and know that something is coming. Not an earthquake, or a tsunami, or anything prophetic like that, but something. The earth vibrates, and I pass my time. My body moves without my assistance, and the days recede. I wait for my big change--however it is meant to come.

"The Buddhists are right in their belief that expectation is one of the great sources of suffering."

¿Flaca, qué estás leyendo? and I don't want to look up, but I do. I am sprawled out, and brooding with the copy of We the Living Amanda lent to me, and there is not a person in this world I want to be talking to. I like weekends like these, when I am going nowhere, and can just sit in Plaza Brasil with an Escudo and my thoughts, and feel like this a place I have been coming all of my life. I like being a stranger, and I like being left alone. I look up, but don't answer, and the man repeats his question. I recognize the inflection in his voice-- it is two thirty, and he is dead drunk. A little further off, a man rides a donkey through the park like a South American Jesus-- stoic, and destination driven. Even in this city that is in so many ways modern, seeing this does not surprise me. I raise the cover to the drunk, make a noise, and a gesture--a mute who cannot, and does not want to find language. Oh, inglés, he says, suddenly repelled. In front of me two girls practice yogic breathing exercises, and attempt hand stands. Nearby, a flock of pigeons take off slightly, and descend as the girls' feet fly up above their heads. The sound of their wings is like a small wave crashing on the shore, and I feel home. I am leaning with my back propped on a palm tree, not native to this part of the country-- we are both foreigners. A small bird shits on my sweat shirt. Some more good luck. Everything moves, and I am alone-- all of this just a small part of what is propelling my change.

Vamos por alli.

And when its all said and done, I have been having a great fucking time. Never have I felt so solitary, and so self-propelled. Never-- and just as time begins to dwindle down to nothing. I can already visualize my last night here. I will probably allow myself a few wine fueled tears for this country I have called my home for the past few months. Probably. My weeks following the bicentennial have been filled with long bus rides, and scenery more visually over powering, and mind numbing than anything I have ever seen before. My trip to Pucon in the Tenth consisted me saying, "Wow," and "I never fucking want to leave," over, and over again. The part about not wanting to leave rang extremely true, and the whole time I was there, searched for excuses and ways to stay on under the shadow of the volcano, but I have realized that the whole point of me being in Chile has been to do something that is not completely self-serving, and real life was waiting for me back in Santiago. I will make my way back South one way or another, as standing at the almost end of the world has become my goal.

And real life isn't so bad either. I have become adept at getting myself around (long and short distance), and can walk with a purpose in this enormous city without faltering, or needing directions. I even give directions when asked. One thing I have picked up as Santiago spring has dawned, clear and strong, is the tendency to sprawl out in the park with whatever it is I feel like drinking, a book, and a clear mind. The parks here are literally packed at all times when the weather is nice (normally with couples making out, generally with pot smokers, but also with people just looking to enjoy the day), and today as I reclined with my writing and red, I realized that I have sucessfully made it through the however-many steps of culture shock, and have become attached to the city, and its people with their dread locks, and business suits, and generally nonchalant way of going about their lives. I need a little bit more of that, the tranquility and lack of urgency. It might help me to live longer, or become a nicer person or something ridiculous like that.

Also, who can be mad at a culture who mixes ice cream and white wine? Certainly not me...

Down and Out in Santiago de Chile

I like that here, the weather forecast calls for "abundant sunshine." Spent hours summing up my bicentenario experience here, only to accidentally delete all I had written after having one too many glasses of wine. This is life, and blogging in a manner of straightforward "Today this happened," isn't conducive to my flow or who I am. I am the girl who deletes her long, slaved-over blog posts accidentally after one too many glasses of wine. I am also the girl who says "I fucking hate my life" outloud without realizing she is saying it outloud in front of a class of kids old enough to know that "fucking" is a bad word (for most the only word they know in English). I need to revise my attitude towards this whole thing, and get back to all three of my followers after I figure out just how I want this to go.

y tengo una canción que cantar por todo el país

The bicentennial is approaching quick, and making me realize just how fast my time is going. I left home eight weeks ago, and have divided my time, it seems, between school, illness, and carretes. Its strange because before I came, I imagined life in Chile as one huge adventure-with every day different and interesting, yet it seems like I have fallen into a routine here, and become at home. Things aren't so startlingly different that I have pages and pages worth of shareable information. Its all been rather personal, and introverted. Not to say that I don't learn something everyday: a new word, custom, route home from school. Now that I have moved to Santiago, there are times when I can forget that I am in South America completely. Jumping on the metro here is much cleaner and safer than New York, but sometimes I just get that feeling like this is something I have done a million times before. I lose myself and start to ask a question in English. This isn't the Village, its Bella Artes, I have to remind myself. Although, I feel comfortable, I can say, being half way through with my time here, that I have grown extremely tired. All language fails me. Some days I wake up, and want nothing more than to be like Allende's Clara in
The House of the Spirits, and go mute for a few years to save my sanity. Most days I want nothing more than for someone to recognize that going through an entire day trying to decipher and speak a foreign language is exhausting! Saturday night, I found myself losing it. I couldn't understand some of the Chileans we were sitting around with (me being overtired and tipsy, and the Chileans slurring as they chugged back vino), and they were giving me a hard time about it. I want infinite patience, but its just not in my nature. "Well, its not like you can fucking speak English!" etc. etc. etc. I was almost shocked how theraputic it felt to bitch about something outloud, without being understood. I will be doing that again very soon (with caution, but still..).

Anyway, the last two weeks of school have all been preparation for the parties that will begin Wednesday and extend throughout the weekend. My duties have been extended (or rather changed) to costume designer, choreographer, and general observer of the madness. Tomorrow, I will substitute as an assistant baker, as segundo medio B and I will be making pan amasado and pebre (a spicy and ubiquitous staple that reminds me of pico). The rest of the week will be spent sipping vino at asadas and picking meat out of all of my food. I will dance the Cueca (Chile's national dance that has grown on me to the point where I am actually excited to get on the floor, and make a fool of myself!), and take a million photos. Promise. Full recap after I have sufficiently recovered from the festivities.

Also, felt my first tremor yesterday afternoon. Not too macho to admit...I was a little scared!

Cara de Carrete

The first morning you wake up feeling OK, after a long, sinus gutting illness is like finding religion. Today is the first day I feel OK, after having the flu all week, and my own optimism is making me sick all over again. I can finally swallow without feeling like everything from behind my ears to the nape of my neck is on fire. This means the world to me.

The flu happened simultaneous with my moving out of Til Til, and my elation had to be supressed as I was at the same time completely fucking miserable. I guess the best part of all of this was I was forced to take the rest of the week off from school (creepy doctor who made me take off way too much clothing to check my breathing's orders). So I am sitting here on a beautiful Santiago Thurday looking out my window from the 12th floor out on to Matucana, and feeling like when I am fully upright and functional, I will have the energy to propel myself through these next couple months with purpose, and (finally!) satisfaction.

Another bright spot in all of this is I have finally had time to start planning my trip to Rio. Getting to see my Brasilian family is going to be perfect after all of this hard work at school, not to mention the Brasilian bikinis and caipirinhas in my future!