Pardon the (time) lapse

Ever since I returned to Chile on January 2nd from the United States, where I passed the Christmas holiday, I've been busy as a tree (I'd argue a tree is busier than a bee). On January 3rd I left with some students from San Lorenzo on a ten day work trip in a location several hundred kilometers south of Santiago, in Pichidegua. We returned the 14th to Santiago and had a few days rest before taking off again, this time for the south of Chile to Patagonia. There we took part in a two-week mission trip in the towns surrounding Lago General Carrera. I went to a small town called Guadal and Jer went to Murta. In total, we were around sixty young people from the movement dispersed among about five towns. And after the mission ended on the 29th of January, we stayed around Patagonia to work on the farm owned by the movement and help with the internship of a compatriot, Gabriel Molina, who is studying agronomy and who also partook in the missions. We started work on the first of February and worked until the third of March, when we flew back to the life we had left behind in Santiago. And now I'm writing from Santiago, more or less with haste because, in the words of the dude: certain things have come to light.
So, I would like to express retroactively my apologies for not being able to blog for the last couple of months, and also to alert you all that you will not be hearing from me via this mode of communication until July. I am shipping off again for Patagonia to spend the next four months in the formation house of the movement in San Jose de Mallín Grande, to live again what I have just finished experiencing. It really is hard to put into words everything that we experienced, but I hope to write as much as possible before I take off on Tuesday, so as to justify and pacify anyone who has been estranged by my nonexistent missives.
I know this was short and probably not too sweet, but at least I can leave you with a few great photos from my time in the south. I have tons more, and Jer has tons more that are way better than mine, but unless you have facebook, you'll have to wait until July to see them. But here are a few.

A shot of us with our tools in front of Puesto Blanco, the gaucho post where we lodged for two weeks. Zoom in for some good faces.

A shot of the mountains from near Guadal

Our group 'paseo' out of Guadal during missions

Nicasio Luna strumming at the final barbecue for the missionaries (lamb is roasting in the forefront)

Jer working his magic in the kitchen at Puesto Blanco

A view of the lake and the mountains from the road to Gaudal

Mountain view from Casa San Beda, the formation house

Jer and me during our Sunday afternoon paseo through the foothills

Kite master J

Our camp and adjoining barn at Puesto Santa Clara in the mountains

The 'spot' overlooking the lake from the farm

Fly fishing fully outfitted ;)

Night Chillin' 

A nice cliff for a sit

The formation house, San Beda

So that's it for now, but I assure you you will get at least a few more lines of text before next Tuesday.

Until then,
Andrew

Pilgrimage update

Well as it turns out the bike pilgrimage wasn't as long as I mentioned before. Instead of a grueling 150 kilometers we rode a bit under half of that—70 kilometers. But this was probably a good thing, since as I would later realize, not only were we not sleeping the whole night, but we were not sleeping the whole night while exercising for several hours... and that's not mentioning that we had to stay awake for another span of time once we arrived at the shrine.

I must admit I've been really bad at taking pictures while here, and it's quite a shame since everything is so vibrant at this time of year, but except for a brief daily stroll through the city center on Mondays, I dare say we don't get out much. And along those same lines, I didn't take many pictures during the ride, but I did take quite a few videos with my camera. Unfortunately, since it was dark for the majority of the ride, most of the videos look like a lot of nothing. However, I have two videos that may or may not be interesting.

 

That annoying creaking noise is my left pedal without sufficient lubrication. No more than ten minutes after we began our journey it started to creak, and it didn't stop until the day we got home from the ride and I liberally applied WD-40 to the pedal's bearings. It was an unfortunate occurrence, but in contrast it accentuated my metronomic-like cadence. I bet Lance would have been proud... or maybe just bothered like all the rest of my fellow bikers.

Here's the second video I took that's more or less viewable. It's the same tunnel as above.

I was fairly proud of my "doggin" joke when I cracked it, impromptu, at 4 AM, to myself. But now that I review it in a normal environment with a fully functional brain, it appears I would have been better off just omitting it and all the other comments that follow. I would tell you that I was simply tired to the core at that point in time, but I've been known to tell terrible jokes at any moment of the day and on any amount of sleep... so I'll just hope you get a good laugh at my expense.


And here are some pictures from after we finished the pilgrimage.

My ride. Could have done without the full suspension and pedal fiasco, but she got me there!

Trafi (Cristobal Garcia) looking haggard.

The redcoat, Chris Dobson, fancying a yawn.

Well that's all for now. Peace and Merry Christmas!

Andrew

Pilgrimage to the Virgen of Vazquez

Tonight I'll be embarking on a 150 kilometer (93 mile) bike ride... at 2 AM in the morning. Along with over a million other people, I'll be a pilgrim on my way to the Virgen of Vazquez. I was originally going with the other Andrés in our house, but he pulled up sick this morning, so I'm a bit unsure of all the logistics now. I still have a ride to the departure point, but from there it gets a bit fuzzy.

Hopefully I'll have an update a bit later today, but in the meantime say a prayer for me and everyone else making their way to the shrine.
Andrew

The challenge

A fresh, unopened deck of playing cards is brought to the floor of the Taj Mahal casino in Vegas. They arrive at the table of Doyle Shufflington, a veteran dealer of the Taj, who is dealing no-limit Texas Hold-em to eight high rolling businessmen from New York.

Upon the deck's arrival to his table, Doyle opens the brand new box of cards, tosses the jokers into the trash, and splits the remaining 52 cards into a perfect 26 and 26, taking the top half with his left hand and the bottom half with his right hand. He then begins to shuffle the two halves together using the classic riffle method (fanning the two packs into each other). His shuffle begins with the bottom card of the left-hand pack, followed by the bottom card of the right-hand pack, then the second-to-bottom card in the left-hand pack, followed by the second-to-bottom card from the right-hand pack. He continues this to perfection until all 52 cards are shuffled one on top of the other. 

After his first shuffle, Doyle pauses, carefully sets the deck down in front of him, and takes a sip of water. He then poses this question to the players in front of him:

"Gentlemen, as you all probably know, a newly opened deck of standard poker playing cards comes arranged ace to king in ascending rank, divided into the four suits, which are hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. I have just shuffled the deck one time so that the two packs of 26 cards have been equally and perfectly mixed. If I continue to shuffle the pack as I have just done, following the exact method of the first shuffle, would I ever shuffle the pack back into its original order? And if you think it can be done, how many shuffles do you reckon it would take, in total, gentlemen?"

The most cavalier businessman stood up first and stated that even if it could be done, he didn't care to ponder such a trivial question. He was in the business of making money, not humoring a stiff old card sharp like Doyle. 

The next expressed a similar opinion, but then added his personal conviction that it couldn't be done.

A third withdrew his chips from the action in order to think, and after some time he gave his answer...


And now, readers, I pose the same question to you. Can it be done? If so, how many shuffles would it take?

A Quasiconventional Thanksgiving Feast in Chile

It all began a few weeks ago at the dinner table when we were talking about holiday traditions and celebrations. We were breaking down each big holiday in the US and explaining what they stood for. This is what we came up with for Thanksgiving: a huge feast consisting of getting family and/or friends together to celebrate life and give thanks for all the blessings we have received. It sounded like a nice holiday to the oblates, and when we mentioned that it was coming up soon, Cristóbal didn't hesitate to suggest we celebrate in Chile. 

The minute we got the go ahead on Thanksgiving we started plotting our feast. It would be a traditional dinner consisting of all the regular dishes—turkey with cranberry sauce, stuffing, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. We readjusted our day off to Thursday and began to put together our grocery list. N.B.— grocery list + me = inevitable failure

Regardless, I sent Niko our shopping list on Wednesday afternoon, and although it was meticulously prepared, I still had my concerns. Well, the saga of the cursed grocery lists continues. Upon arrival to the supermarket Niko laid the bad news on us. No sweet potatoes, no cranberries, no turkey. (Cough). No turkey? Apparently the only time they get whole Turkeys is during Christmas. In the end our list came out de-feathered and gizzard-less. The recipes we had planned would either have to change partially, totally, or go without one ingredient or another. But as quickly as I was demoralized by the thought of Thanksgiving without turkey, sweet potatoes, or cranberry sauce, I was rejuvenated by the notion of creating an original feast from scratch using our Benedictine brains. And since there were two of us, we would be able to divide our labors.

As for the menu, instead of a scrumptious turkey we went for two chickens... but two heads are better than one, right? Only these birds were missing theirs. And what better way to demonstrate self-denial and promote the Rule of Benedict than to forgo deliciously prepared sweet potatoes and substitute them for hearty, earthy Russets (or Idahoes, or whatever we bought that looked like your run-of-the-mill potato). And the cranberries... who needs a berry packed with antioxidants and vibrant color when that corner of your stomach could be stretched by more stuffing or clogged by more congealed gravy? You see folks, we had our bases covered.

So we returned home with our spoils, ready for Thursday. Our plan was to do two different chickens—one soaked in a brine and herb mixture, another that would be cooked with an open beer shoved into its body cavity, dubbed the "drunken chicken". The drunken chicken required no previous preparation, but for the salty chicken Jer made the brine and herb emulsion Wednesday night and let him bathe in the Dead Sea overnight for thorough salt permeation.

And so it began!

We started at noon the next day with our dessert. 100% homemade pumpkin pie. Jer boiled the pumpkin flesh to soften it up and then he strained out the fibrous matter. He did this while I encountered my first hurdle of the day.

We had no real pie pan, and nothing but the counter top to roll the crust on. My first attempt was ignorant and I rolled a great crust on the counter, but had no way of getting it off without total destruction. I tried a second time, rolling the dough in the vessel we would use as the pan, but this was also worthless because I could only roll it flat to the vessel's edges—I had no way of bringing up the edges to complete the mold. Finally, I came to my senses and used the last bit of plastic wrap to roll the dough onto. From there I flipped the crust onto the sheet and rolled up my edges for containment. ¡Filo!

After the pie was in the oven and we had a few other things out of the way we stopped to eat some lunch. As soon as we finished lunch it was right back to work with the stuffing, the potatoes, and the green bean casserole.

It was late in the day when we pulled out the stuffing and casserole from the oven, and surprisingly, we were ahead of schedule. All we had left was to put the chickens into the oven. We were planning on covering the whole thing with aluminum foil for moisture control, but we didn't have any foil. No problem, there was a store nearby with kitchen supplies. I hopped on one of the mountain bikes at the house and took off for the store. Riding fast it's about a ten-minute bike. I was nearly there when all of a sudden I felt a surge in resistance in the back tire. Anyone who has ever gotten a flat tire knows the feeling, and you'd probably know the feeling even if you've never had a flat tire before. The thing is, I was riding "on the sidewalk" but the state of Chilean sidewalks, and for that matter, many roads, is disrepair. The sidewalk is a series of raised slabs of concrete interspersed by valleys of dirt that the driveways pass through. They're like moguls, but with slabs of concrete jetting out and breaking the curves.


Now, if you think I walked the bike home or even hitchhiked back, you're wrong. I was on a mission, and in fact, I love odd running challenges. For example, I once ran five miles in school clothes with a winter jacket and a backpack. I've ran the six miles from Saint Benedict's to Saint John's in school clothes at 4 AM on Highway 94. I've also run seventeen miles with nothing more than rubber sheaths on my feet. But this isn't the time to toot my horn.

So I picked up the foil and turned back for home, only this time running alongside the incapacitated bike. It was nice to have a rolling vehicle to support some of my weight... I haven't gotten fat or anything; I was just utilizing my resources wisely. For those of you who don't know, VO2 Max is dependent on several variables. One of them is weight. The less you have to haul around, the less oxygen it takes to move. I didn't have my arms to swing, and I was running like a hunchback, but I could still go fast by using the bike as a VO2 turbo booster.

Now, people running in a hurry look out of place in general, but here I was, some kid hurtling down a neighborhood street hunched over a bicycle carrying a stick of aluminum foil. Was I hurrying back to cover my anti-alien safety bunker with aluminum foil? Yes, it would appear that was the case.

But joking aside, I got home and we got the foil over the birds and put them in the oven. But after the birds went in there wasn't much to do. We washed some dishes, set the table, prepared a serving area, and then just hung out.

Once all our guests had arrived, which was at about 8:45 PM, Jer commenced the ceremony with an explanation of the Thanksgiving feast and where it comes from. It was quite fun to be sharing such an important cultural holiday with the oblates who were more than enthused to be experiencing this classic United States tradition.

After the Thanksgiving lecture we all moved into the kitchen for debriefing. We decided that in true American style we would do the self-serve, buffet style setup, giving each person the freedom to mix and match quantities and flavors (which we all know is an important part of the meal). Not wanting to commit any Thanksgiving faux pas, they all insisted on Jer and me going first to be an example of proper plate loading. Jer ceded the honors to me.

After I had navigated the table and given them an idea of what a proper Thanksgiving plate looks like, they followed. You might argue I had deceived them greatly by not taking any gravy (homemade by Jer), but I gave them all fair warning beforehand that I was in the minority in not liking gravy with my meal. You'll be relieved to know everyone else heaped gravy over their plate.

Now you may be wondering how the meal actually tasted. Well, two things happened during dinner that gives evidence to the quality of the meal. One, we received ample compliments on how amazing everything was. And two, the meal was relatively quiet unless someone was making a savory noise and praising a certain food item.
And the days following the feast our Thanksgiving meal was the talk of the Movement. Everyone had heard about the awesome meal we had prepared for the house and wanted one of their own.

After the main course we served the pie with homemade whipped cream (also prepared by Jer). This was such a hit that jokes were made about ensuing violence over the last slice that was to be saved for Andrés. And one more testament to our cooking: they asked us to make another pie, which we did, of course.

When dinner had finished we moved outside to the calm central valley air to continue the feast with a tumbler of scotch and an assortment of Dominican and Belgian cigars. Any chance passerby might have confused us for some great council philosophizing in the moonlight, but we were but simple men laughing and socializing. Later, after no spool was left unwound and things themselves were winding down, Cristobal broke out his father's accordion and improvised some tunes. Although they were simple melodies, it was enough to remind me of the few times I've heard my grandpa Stevens jamming out on his squeezebox.


And there I'll end my recounting of our Chilean Thanksgiving. It may not have been the most traditional of feasts, but in the end we achieved the ultimate goal—to give thanks and to show appreciation for life, family, friends, and the blessings that have been bestowed on us.

Peace!
Andrew

A brief visit to the coast

Sorry about not posting for a long time. I'll be posting a story about Thanksgiving soon, but in the meantime here's some interesting tidbits from yesterday:

I went to the coast with Jaime and Guga, two tutors from San Lorenzo, to check out a campsite that they were planning to use for a Scout camp this summer. They used the same campsite last year but since the earthquake and ensuing tsunami they weren't sure how it would be. It turns out the tsunami wiped out a whole forest. I saw the pictures from last year's camp and the place is unrecognizable.

The drive was about three hours long, and a third of it was on precarious dirt road that wound through the valleys and spit us out near the coast. From there we had to navigate through rural towns and a massive plantation owned by one of the richest men in Chile. It turns out the guy's son used to be a student at San Benito, so he is known to the schools. I guess that's how they found out about the campsite, even though it took a national law to open up the coastline bordering his plantation.

When we made it down to the office on his plantation we found out that we would not be able to continue by van because of all the sand that got washed onto land by the tsunami. So we had to leave our van a few miles from the site and we went walking to reach the site. On our way Jaime had been talking about this line of coast being one of the most popular places to surf. Coincidentally, soon after he mentioned that, a white Subaru Legacy loaded down with surfboards and windsurf gear came barreling down the sand road.

Partly because we had a long way to walk and partly without reason, I threw up my hitchhiker's thumb and the next thing we knew we were packed into the back of the wagon with windsurf sails and surf boards over our heads. Our gracious surfer friends were two Frenchman on their way to the coast for a couple months of shredding the gnar, and they definitely looked the part.

We made it to the campsite successfully, where we were met by the razed coastline. I wasn't there last year, so I had no comparison, but Jaime and the surfers were in awe at the destruction caused by the tsunami. Like I said, I saw the pictures this morning and it really is incredible how much damage the tsunami caused.

The drive back was uneventful, except that I saw a black widow spider the size of a tarantula crawling across the road, and we had some really good empanandas (dumplings stuffed with meat, onions, egg, and other things) for lunch.

Hasta pronto,
Andew

The wall comes down like it's 1989

I've never felt compelled to refuse to perform an assigned task based on principle, but last week was nearly an exception.  

As a final project in their English class, the students of tercero medio B at San Lorenzo were assigned the work of putting on a musical for the school. Myriam, their teacher, had suggested various well-known, classic musical numbers, but it was apparent from the get-go that the students had seen this assignment coming and had already thought of their number... they wanted High School Musical 2.

If you haven't seen High School Musical 2, don't despair, it most likely means you still retain some form of sanity in your life. That might sound a tad harsh, but I would seriously consider a healthy flogging before watching that movie. There are just some things I don't do, and to watch High School Musical is one of them.   

I'm really at the mercy of my prejudices since I haven't actually seen the musical, but I've seen enough through the media to equate it with your standard-issue adolescent brainwash nowadays. I see the general Disney Channel characteristics that I loathe: the cliché storyline centered on a jock-cheerleader romance with overly theatrical adolescents that talk so animatedly it appears they might either get their face stuck in a constant strained expression or faint from overexertion.

And if that isn't enough, I've never really enjoyed any musical. Almost every musical I've ever watched either leaves me thinking about the inappropriateness of singing at a crucial point in the performance, or gives me an impatient feeling when the characters break into some extended poetic lament about love lost. Some may argue in favor of its "artsyness", but my brain can't get past its superfluousness. I enjoy movies, I enjoy music, but for some reason a musical seems to me like mating a horse and a mule: the result works but is ultimately infertile. 

I can count the musicals I've managed to sit through with my eyeballs: Grease and Hairspray. Grease was more or less bearable, but Hairspray took an act of God to endure, which came in the form of the theatrical genius and master of rug cutting, Christopher Walken himself. Had it not been for Walken, I can assure you my chin would suffice for counting. 

But enough out of Mr. Philistine... back to the point.

As part of the preparation for the musical Myriam asked me to prepare a wall display for a large bulletin board located along the main corridor of the school. She wanted pictures of the characters, song lyrics, and basically anything having to do with High School Musical 2 that I thought would be good to put up... er, so nothing?

If I didn't respect the students and their interests, I probably would have put up lots of mind-numbing grammar tidbits instead and claimed ignorance to my devious insubordination. But alas, I couldn't bring myself to disappoint the class, so I made the display and painfully stapled the items to the board. 

I finished my work on Thursday afternoon at 1:30 p.m. Apart from showing Jer the board shortly after I had finished it, I didn't return to it until the following morning. We arrived extra early that morning, second only to the doorman, because Rodrigo had to go to the airport to pick up a visiting monk. As I was strolling past the display on my way to Lauds my eyes beheld the wall in shambles. Someone had torn down the protective plastic covering of the display and heisted everything except the lyrics to one of the songs... apparently I have below average taste in teeny bop music—mhmm, what a pity. 

I was a bit sad that someone had disrespected my display like that, but at the same time I felt a bit of ironic redemption. My reluctance to adorn the bulletin board with High School Musical memorabilia was met by a student's uncontrollable frenzy to have it all.

In light of my recent proclamation of my dislike of musicals and special disdain for High School Musical, it might be natural to pin the act on me, hypothesizing that I hired a hit girl (or boy, I suppose) to tear down the wall. However cunning that would be, I must admit that such a plan never crossed my mind, and if it did I wouldn't state it outright. Of course, I can't prove anything, so you'll just have to take my word that this was truly an act of High School Musical hysteria and not a personally motivated crime.

And also, one can't be sure that the perpetrator wasn't motivated by the same feeling that almost kept me from putting up the display, but I have fairly good evidence that they were motivated on the contrary: From the time I brought my materials to the wall to the time I had jammed the last staple into the board (which wasn't long), there were multiple attempts to run off with the pictures and a few polite inquiries for me to give out the photos. I guess I thought the plastic cover would be a sufficient psychological barrier to keep the wall intact. Lesson learned.    

But one matter still remains: with the gusto to ravage a bulletin board in pure daylight, there's no telling what atrocities might transpire on opening day. If I wasn't familiar with the type of hysteria created by Disney creations, i.e. The Jonas Brothers, Hannah Montana, I might cede victory to a pure act of vandalism, but I suspect it is much more grave and profound than the work of amateur vandals—what we're dealing with here are crazed fans ready to drive across the country in diapers to sequester their own Zac Efron.

I heard the call to restore sanity. The administration has been alerted to the threat and security measures are in motion. I'm making sure nobody pulls a fast one this next time around.

With this in mind, I hope the next time I write to you about the High School Musical 2 project is after the premier, recounting the professional quality and the superb acting and singing talents of the students. And who knows, maybe it will be the performance that changes my opinion to the affirmative on musicals.

But until then, keep it real!

Andrew