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

Something they call photographs

As a cover up for not writing often enough, here are some of my favorite pictures.

From the Chilean style rodeo. We went to a festival in a nearby town to watch these guasos (cowboys) throw cattle into the wall. It sounds crude, but I loved it!

The three schools in downtown Santiago in procession for the Virgin Mary of Carmen, the Marian devotion of Chile. I joined the procession right after I took this photo.

View of Manquehue hill from afar. Rodrigo and I climbed in poor visibility, which turned out to be a problem, but this was one of the few good views we got of the summit all day.

Picnic in the Andes mountains. Hard to beat it.

The class I'm helping out with: Tercero medio B, humanistas. They are the equivalent of Juniors in high school. Great students.

Working hard.

View of the Andes from near the summit of Manquehue

Monday-Hospedería Santa Francisca Romana

You know when you were in school and your teachers told you to avoid making “laundry lists” out of your writing? I’m almost 23 and I while I can imagine what one might be like, I’ve still never encountered an actual laundry list (and this is no fault of a sheltered upbringing or that sort of thing). Instead, why don’t teachers tell their students to avoid “grocery lists”? If they were anyone like me, one reminder would be more than enough to turn them into Charles Dickens.

Being handed a grocery list naturally and inevitably leads to a trip to the grocery store. What’s so horrifying about that? you may ask. Well, unlike my mother, who could draw the blueprints of our local Cub Foods with a blindfold on, I might die of starvation just trying to finish shopping for everything on a grocery list. The closest I ever got to a laundry list was remembering to wash clothes in college so I didn’t have to go commando… but even that was normally refreshing. On the other hand, wheeling around in an unknown labyrinth and risking exhaustion… now that is something to avoid like the plague.  
  
So, out of my fear of grocery lists, I will not be sharing an exhausting account of the week in its entirety; instead, I will keep things spicy and take each day one at a time. I know you’ll forgive me.

So, let us embark.

On Monday morning we head off to school as normal, but at about 9:30 am we leave school and walk to the nearby bus station. We catch the B06, and depending on our luck we either get a heap of scrap metal on its way to the junkyard, or a modern bus that seems as if it could actually drive up a hill without dismantling itself. Regardless, once aboard, B06 takes us to the metro station “Zapadores” where we descend to the subterranean tunnels of Santiago’s metro system.
Note: “Underground” in Spanish is “subterráneo”, which translated means “subterranean.” I don't think the word subterranean carries the same added significance in Spanish as it does in English, and I don't know about you, but I think it's an exciting word. Every time I’m descending the escalator and I hear that robotic voice call out “subterráneo” I feel like I’m entering some clandestine adventure. But, I am yet to have any subterranean thrills.
 
Anyway, it’s not long on the metro until we get off at “Cerro Blanco” and climb back above ground. From Cerro Blanco we walk a few blocks down the road until we turn down calle Juarez Largo. Its roughness undoubtedly pales in comparison to Juarez, Mexico, be nevertheless we traverse past haggard-looking street dogs, over shattered beer bottles, and around unconscious drunkards sprawled out on the sidewalk until we turn onto calle Juarez Corto and arrive at the Hospedería Santa Francisca Romana where we are most often greeted by a couple guests puffing a cigarette and, I can only assume, gossiping.

The Hospedería is a house located in the neighborhood of Recoleta where single women and their children can come to sleep in a bed, wash their clothes, take a shower, and get a couple good meals. It’s basic, but without the house these women would be living in the street with nothing. The house works with the government and local hospitals and takes in women when they have no place to go; and in accordance with the government programs, the staff at the house is able to help the women get a job and find a place to live.

Because the women are mandated to leave the house by 10 am, and Jer and I start work at 10 am, the only contact we really have with the women is the brief exchange with the smoking gossipers. Apart from that it’s strictly business for us.

We usually arrive a bit before 10 and have some tea or coffee, whatever suits or fancy on the given day, and then we get to work. Our function? Don’t tell anyone, but Jer and I cook the books for the house, inventing guests so the house gets more government funding. 

Just kidding. Our job is to transfer the daily guest list from notebook hard copy onto Excel spreadsheets so they can run statistics on the guests and determine who is a “permanent guest”—a woman who has stayed more than 60 days (not necessarily consecutive).

One of the most rewarding parts of the job is that we are so practiced in Excel and the use of a keyboard that we have astounded the staff with our efficiency. Really, the only setbacks we’ve had have been due to the staff’s error. The first time we found discrepancies between our records and the notebook records we went back to double check our work, but it turned out that the receptionist had made an error.

And last week our boss deleted some of our work because she assumed she was deleting and old record, when really we had just worked farther than she thought. It wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, but she was embarrassed and from then on vowed to keep her nose out of our work. Thank God.

We work hard, but we keep the atmosphere light. I think it would be funny to walk in on one of our more colorful moments. Maybe I’m just imagining the humor we emit, but I think you could have a nice chuckle at our expense.

“Hey, did Soledad stay last night?”
“By last night do you mean August 11th? If so, then yes she was here last night.”

Or:

“What?!! No Carmen? How can that be? She hasn’t missed a day in years?!”
“Ha just kidding she was here.”
“Oh, you scared me, I thought she slept out in the cold for a moment there.”

I also think we puzzled the painter with our dialogues last week. All he saw were two gringos, a notebook, and a computer; and all he heard was one gringo spitting out Spanish names like an auctioneer. Then why would we all of a sudden burst into laughter? By the looks I caught in my peripherals, anyone’s answer was as good as his.  

So, when we finish with our quasi-work we say goodbye to all the women and head back out into the unforgiving streets of Recoleta. From there our destination is San Lorenzo where we run an after-school English workshop for students, but more on that another day.

Until then!
Andrew

What I've been "pining" for

Rodrigo and I ran some errands this afternoon, and our way home took us through an affluent suburb of Santiago. The houses were nice, but reminded me of most modern neighborhoods in the United States—too many houses too close together with too little yard space. 
Many years ago my neighbor’s garage started on fire. They were planning on grilling inside the garage and the gas they used to start the fire combusted a bit more erratically than they had expected. Within minutes the whole garage was engulfed in flames. As I watched the twenty-foot tall flames lick the roof and nearby trees, the neighbors adjacent to the conflagrant garage sprayed the side of their house down with water to prevent the fire from spreading to their intact garage. Thankfully, the fire never made the leap.

Where was I going with that? Well, if Jose Smith, resident of aforementioned neighborhood, were to blow up his garage in a grilling accident like my innocent neighbors did that fateful afternoon, I doubt Señor Smith’s neighbors would be lucky enough to escape with an intact garage. Hence, give your kids some space to play, and God shall reward you with a garage free of charcoal (except charcoal that you may have purchased for a barbecue that is to take place outside of the garage).

But, the suffocated houses were only an afterthought. What I was really fixated on were the trees. Oh, the quantity and quality was breath…giving. And since we’re in spring, the trees are in full bloom. Spectacular. But why was I so surprised and excited to see trees of all things?

Well, up until today I hadn’t realized the sparseness of foliage around San Lorenzo. There are trees, but very few; and the ones there are haven’t started to bloom yet—most likely because they aren’t watered often enough. So when I feasted my eyes upon the cornucopia of greenery along the boulevard, I was reintroduced to what I had been so accustomed to all my life.    

I won’t say I ever took for granted the arboretum at Saint John’s University, and I know I was always aware of Stillwater’s proximity to wide open countryside, but spending twelve hours a day in a cement complex with no prominent display of greenery weighs on the psyche and makes one nostalgic for some shrubbery. Who knows, at the end of my time in San Lorenzo I might just ask for some herring and start yelling “Ni!”

Joking aside, yesterday I witnessed the manifest antithesis of blooming tree land. I didn’t notice it at the time, but it all became clear driving through the neighborhood today.

I was playing tennis with a student named Francisco after school yesterday and he hit the ball up on one of the roofs and it fell into the gutter. We found a janitor and got him to lend us a ladder to recover the ball. Francisco was eager to use the ladder that is normally prohibited to the kids, so I let him climb up. He reached the top and alerted me that the ball was a few feet out of his reach, but suggested that I grab a stick for him to use. I searched the ground and the surrounding area, but I couldn’t find any loose sticks.
“Andrew, just take one off that tree. Look, there’s a long one right up there.”
“No Francisco, I don’t want to break a branch off the tree.”
“Well, you could just take one from that bush–there are plenty of long ones.”
Once again, I didn’t want to take a living branch from the bush.
So I told him to come down and I would see if I could reach it with my longer arms. We moved the ladder over a bit and I climbed up. It was literally right under my nose. All we had to do was move the ladder over a bit and even Francisco could have reached it.

Combining my two recent encounters with trees in two very distinct settings, I realized how different my attitude toward nature is compared to Francisco. Whereas I was once teased for my alleged love affair with plants, Francisco didn’t even think twice about tearing a living branch from a tree—he would more readily chop off its limb than descend the ladder to move it over a couple feet. As crazy as I hope that sounds, that is his reality. And I’m now eager to change it.

It’s strange to think that this realization was borne out of a car ride through a rich suburb of Santiago, but in the end it was quite beneficial. Not only did it refresh my senses, but it also prompted me to think about some projects I could start in San Lorenzo related to tree planting and environmental awareness. You know what they say about keeping plants around the house for happiness and sanity!  

¡Que estéis bien!
Andrew

P.S. I suppose you’re all wondering what I’m actually doing at San Lorenzo… I should have that up and ready to read in the near future—probably on Monday or at the latest Tuesday. Take care!

Tremors en la tarde

Two afternoons ago Jer and I were sitting in the main cloister of San Lorenzo, basking in the sun and watching some young kids playing racket ball, when all of a sudden Jer turned to me and asked, somewhat strangely, ‘Hey, do you feel that?’
It took no more than a few seconds to realize what was happening. The ground was shaking beneath us as if the school had been built on a thick layer of Jell-o. We were oscillating as freely as a spring.    

We both looked at each other astonishingly, and then up at the tips of the flagpoles that were waving back and forth above our heads.  

On February 27th, 2010, Chile experienced an earthquake with a magnitude of 8.8 on the Richter scale. For those of you unfamiliar with earthquakes or the Richter scale, a magnitude of 8.8 is massively destructive. The epicenter was about 100 miles southwest of Santiago. According to “precise GPS measurements,” the city of Concepción, which is around 75 miles southwest of the epicenter, permanently moved 10 feet to the west following the quake; Santiago moved 10 inches west. And surprisingly (to me), Chile gained an estimated 1.2 square kilometers of area following the quake. I would otherwise make some smart remark, but I think a bit of reverence is more appropriate.  

Inevitably, the many affected areas were plunged into chaos. And sadly, that continues to be the case today--many of the hardest hit areas remain devastated from the earthquake, and thousands of families are still without homes and basic necessities. Immediately following the earthquake there was a humanitarian rush to rescue and rebuild, but as soon as the media moved the focus from the aftermath, the aid all but ceased. The schools of the Manquehue Movement have made several trips to affected areas for support, and when their term ends in December more groups will go down as part of their community service requirement.

So was there another earthquake in Chile just two days ago? No. Not even close. What Jer and I felt is called a tremor. Whereas an earthquake produces another natural disaster in itself--a tsunami--tremors might make some small waves in the neighbor’s pool. They are very small aftershocks that can occur several months after the initial earthquake. In our case, it was almost 7 months to the day.

Standard protocol for tremors at San Lorenzo is to move everyone out into the open air and away from windows. We had no idea of the protocol until one of the senior administrative women approached us and asked us if we had been scared by the tremor. It seemed an odd question to me at first, but once all the young kids began asking us the same thing I started to consider the repercussions of not being a bit scared and prudent with the tremor. Instead of enjoying the feeling of floating on earth's landmass, I could have helped to guide the kids out of their classrooms.

In the end no weak structures collapsed, no windows blew out, and no one suffered a blow from a falling object. So, thankfully, I can write this with a light heart. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but keep present the thought of all the suffering caused on February 27th.

Andrew

Pura Energía

Today, September 18th is the bicentennial of Chilean Independence from Spain. Consequently, this whole week has been vacation for schools, and the last couple days for all other laborers. I was not alive for the bicentennial of the United States’ Independence Day, so I can’t really compare, but Chile is very proud of their country.
Among other things, all governmental buildings have been opened to the public for tours this week only, and several are showing special exhibitions. We’ve been to several museums over the past few vacation days, but if you’re like me it takes a certain magnificence in a museum to be enjoyable.

But, two nights ago, we did attend something worth mentioning. Enter ¡Pura Energía! (Pure Energy). I have to say I had been anticipating this show ever since I heard the day’s agenda one week earlier, if for no other reason than its name. Pura Energía: “with a name like that it has no choice but to be exciting,” I thought. It was that naïveté that I used to have about a book with a fancy cover: “Wow, this book must be really exciting since it’s got this outrageously cool looking cover.” More often than not I was let down within the first few chapters.

So, Pura Energía was scheduled for 9:30 pm on the front façade of La Moneda, the presidential building in downtown Santiago. And in terms of content, all I knew was that it was a professional light show. I later saw in the paper that the images they would make were three-dimensional.

We left the house at 8:00 pm to catch the subway. We weren’t alone. I’ve never seen a metro station so packed, and we were still six stops from the destination. I am obliged to link another YouTube video that I felt like I was living as we acquired passengers, but for now I will just say we were packed like a Tokyo Metro… Sardine can is an understatement. 
We arrived one station down from La Moneda, since the station had been shut down in anticipation of the crowd flow, and walked out onto the street. What the streets lacked in Metro density they made up for in sheer quantity. One of the local papers had estimated 30, 000 people spread over maybe about four city blocks. We stood shoulder to shoulder to give you an idea, and we were stationed three blocks back from La Moneda. 
So, we waited in anticipation for the start of the light show. The façade was a dark violet color, lit by an unseen light source, and there were huge searchlights beaming into the night sky. 9:30 rolled around and the crowd began an anticipatory whistle. All right, here we go…
9:45, someone gets on a mike and says something scarcely perceptible to our distant ears.
10:00, that same mystery voice gets on again and says some more unknown things. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “The light show I’ve been anticipating this whole week is malfunctioning, awesome.”
But then, at 10:14 pm (according to my watch), the façade turns from violet to a deep purple and the searchlights flash royal blue into the sky; a blast of music all but assures that the program has begun. The searchlights reaching thousands of feet into the night sky begin to descend on the crowd of 30,000. I felt like I was part of a science fiction movie--waiting for some huge machine to spot us with its light beams.  

And then the fun began.

I still don’t know the technology used to create the three-dimensional images on the face of the building, but nevertheless I am impressed at how they took a normal building with lots of windows and uneven planes, and transformed it into a three-dimensional movie screen.   

Here are a few of my favorite effects from the show:
#1: The building assumes a normal color and structure. Then, a massive drop of rain hits the surface, sending the face rippling in effect. The segments undulate back and forth like the building was just a gelatinous farce. I felt like I was living in a world created out of Inception.     

#2: Once again, the building appears in its normal state. But slowly massive faces began to press out of the whitewashed stone, stretching it as if it were nothing but a nylon veil. They survey the crowd and speak something before drawing back from the elastic façade and out of view.  

#3: The lights go dark, but the straight lines of the stone are still visible. Then, those same lines transform in color and new lines grow from the stone. The building is now composed and supported by a vast network of lively neon strings, ebbing and flowing in the light breeze. The strings then turned white and gave the appearance of complete vacancy within the structure. 

The show finished with a grand finale of fireworks and as quickly as it had begun the building was once again tranquil, with the façade returning to its violet hue. 

After that, it was a free-for-all to get out of the crowd and back onto the metro. Which brings me back to the YouTube video I promised to link. I can’t say our ride was as impressive as the Tokyo ride, but with Rodrigo leading the way I literally dropped my shoulder and pushed our way into the train. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlNyCHlLt1Y



Andrew

La semana del colegio

Imagine a week long celebration in favor of your school, your country, and all the best aspects of your culture. In a pistachio shell, that is what just transpired at San Lorenzo, San Anselmo, and San Benito--the three schools run by the Manquehue Movement, the religious group with whom I am working and living.

Although I’ve never kept a diary, they seem to be a cinch compared to writing a blog, because one has no readers in a diary (or at least that you know of), so no story must be introduced, prefaced, rationalized, nor explained in any more detail than the writer wishes to give.

Starting out my writing is like riding a bicycle through the mud, struggling to explain the reasons and histories that make my posts pertinent, finding myself bogged down in everything I wish to share; and unfortunately, when I make it out of the mud on my own terms, I’m riding down a hill out of control and with no interest to stop and share the ride.

This is my explanation for a lack of communication. In the beginning I’m too lazy to spend the time making sense for my readers of what I would like to write, and in the end I’m too busy with things that I don’t wish to write them down. That, and I feel it as a type of sacrilege to turn great experiences into a brief note scribbled down in a blog, never quite doing it justice.

Which relates to why I don’t like to take pictures. Why spoil a great moment or series of moments by taking out a camera and snapping a picture? Why alter the course of a moment just for proof of an experience? Sure, pictures are nice to look at years later and reminisce, but they tell so little and capture only one dimension.

And now that I've rationalized my reasons for not writing often, I will do just the opposite. I still can’t make any promises on taking pictures, but every time I think about the bulk of my camera in my jeans or in my coat pocket, I’ll make sure to bring it along. 

Which brings me to my task: my experiences from this last week--"school week". And since I remember most of the week as one big day patched together, there will be no chronology to this post, which I am sure makes no difference whatsoever.

San Anselmo smorgasbord:
Monday. We woke up early and were on the road by 7:05 am, arriving at school by 7:30 am. The day began with prayer, lauds, at 7:45 in the chapel. After lauds the tour began. We saw all parts of the school and were introduced to many professors and staff, who all, curiously, seemed glad to meet us and interested in who we were. It was a curiosity at first, but as my time with members of the community continued and I met more people from the movement, I discovered the curiosity to be a genuine interest. The foundation upon which Manquehue was founded is that of true community. They follow the rule of Benedict, and anyone who knows anything about the Rule knows how integral the concept of community is. And it wasn’t just the oblates of the community that welcomed us so exceptionally--the students of the school showed the same hospitality.

So, our day continued as we met more students and staff, and wandered around, occasionally involving ourselves in a game of football or a brief chat with an interested student.

The relationship the students have with the administration and staff at the schools is unique and very different from the United States. In Chile, staff and students are friends. Kids would come up to the principal nonchalantly and say hello, give a handshake, and ask about how he was doing. The normal greeting in Chile between a man and a woman is a kiss on the cheek. Girls would come up to their principal, their dean and give them a kiss and say hello. It wasn’t awkward at all, but I tried to imagine myself approaching my principal at the Catholic grade school I attended, shaking his hand and asking him how he was doing. It never happened… unless I was in the principal’s office, in which case the atmosphere wasn’t relaxed enough to lend itself to this occasion.

When I went to Spain, I remember my host mother asking me about all the lawsuits in the States. That is how we are seen--a nation full of lawsuits, for this reason or that--full of people coldly interacting through lawyers to extract whatever they possibly can for their own benefit.

We are full of fear in the United States, instilled in us by strict laws and taboos. Seldom do we hear about a teacher-mentor that has helped a student overcome adversity; instead the headlines tell about sex scandals and teach us to fear a healthy, active teacher-pupil relationship. In Chile, I saw plenty of kisses, hugs, and interested conversations between students and staff. Rodrigo pointed out that Chile will soon be where the United States is when it comes to school related laws, but for now their sense of community and friendship remains intact.
     
San Benito skits and Karaoke:
So the next day we were off to San Benito, the most prestigious of the three schools. The morning began with lauds, once again, and then we went off to meet the staff working in the tutoría.

Here I need to start another tangent that will tie some things together. The tutoría. The tutoría is the name the movement gives to the staff-student/ student-student relationship. They are responsible for fostering a sense of community on all levels. Older students mentor younger ones, staff mentors old and young alike, and the result is a school environment rich in friendship and unity. One of the projects Jer and I will be working on at San Lorenzo is the tutoría, fyi. So after meeting the staff in the tutoría, we were invited to the event of the morning: skits put on by the teachers and staff.

This was another thing that surprised me about the schools: teachers had a sense of humor to look silly in front of all the students. I won’t go into detail about the skits, but they ranged from nonsensical and boring to educational and well-planned. Needless to say, everyone seemed to be enjoying the spectacle of their teachers running around in funny outfits.

After the skits there was a break time, at which point we did some more browsing of the campus, and made our way back to the main cloister where there was a very entertaining contest going on-- one I’m sure was much more entertaining for me, the gringo, than for the Chilean students.

Fifteen students sit on chairs, in a straight line, all facing a shoe placed on a mattress, about thirty feet away. A mattress sits behind the first, guarding some concrete steps. Music starts playing and all or a few students bum-rush the shoe, trying to be the first to grab it. Pig piles, body checks, hair pulling--I saw it all… striking. So, the first to reach the shoe gets a special prize: they get to sing Karaoke in front of the whole school. 1,500 students. Now, apart from the bum-rush and rugby scrums, I thoroughly enjoyed this contest because of the singing.

Remember William Hung or whatever his name was from American Idol? Now think of listening to Chilean boys singing Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber and Chilean girls singing Daddy Yankee. For those of you who do not get my references I would recommend at least listening to a few seconds of William Hung on YouTube. I applaud you if you can endure more than that.

I don’t sing. I’ve never been proud of my voice. Few are the souls that have heard me sing a song solo, although I once rapped a Ludacris song to the whole Saint John’s cross-country team. I’m in no way suggesting that I would do better than these students at their task. All I’m saying is that they were the unlucky ones to grab the shoe and sing like William Hung. What started out as entertainment devolved into a William Hung festival--between several serenades and a few contestants that had no idea what they had to sing, my sympathies were exhausted by the end. Call me old fashioned, but later that day several jock straps were added to the lost and found by the San Benito janitorial staff; they were found lying on the ground near the competition area.   
       
Sports day at San Lorenzo:
I had planned to conveniently skip a certain event that took place on this day, but since I can make a good story out of it and really everything else that happened on this day was just me watching sports, I decided it was necessary to insert.

Knowing it was sports day at San Lorenzo, I brought some shorts and a t-shirt, in hopes that I would have the opportunity to get schooled on the art of South American fútbol. I had no idea I would be running in a race.
It was the morning and we had just finished lauds. We were walking around and Rodrigo was inquiring about the schedule:
“What’s going on this morning?”   
“El maratón.” (“The marathon”--Chilean for a long-run--American for a short race).
“Ayaaa, ¿a qué hora?!” (Oh! What time?)
“Ahora!” (Now!)
“Andrew, you’ve gotta run.”
(Me thinking) Mhmmm, I don’t want to change out of my warm clothes and run a race.
“Eh, I think I’ll just watch.”

Five minutes later a group of students approaches me:
“Hey, will you run in the race for our team, we need to get the points for our alliance?!”
“Well, I can’t turn down a group of persistent students… yeah, I guess.”
“You better win it for us.”
“Hmm, I can’t promise anything.”

Five minutes later I’m on the starting line cold with goose bumps, staring at the gates to the front of the school wondering how all of us are going to squeeze through such a small area. But this wasn’t my first rodeo....

I thought the crowd at Cross Country Nationals was loud. They don’t hold a candle to the kids at San Lorenzo. I’ve never before gotten an adrenaline rush from the beat of a bass drum or from the sight of a crowd packed around a starting line, but with all honesty and no artistic hyperbole whatsoever, I stood on that starting line amidst the throng of roaring voices and drums and had the most exhilarating start to a race in my life.

And like almost all amateur races I’ve ever been in, someone tried to be a hero in the first 200 meters. Bolt and Johnson would have been proud, but not Bowerman or Lydiard. Needless to say our hero was accosted by the silent killer, Lactic Acid, before the first turn, and I saw his honey-buns dragging him over the finish line some time later. No guts no glory, right? Or was it no brains no glory? I forget.   

So we had to make three laps of the blocks around the school and then turn back into school and finish in the main cloister. My strategy was to stick with the front pack until we had made one full lap and I was sure of the route; at which point I would turn on the burners--if they were functioning.

Unfortunately, my strategy was garbage after the first quarter mile. I started out at a modest pace, but it was soon apparent that there were no heavy hitters in the field. There were professors and young adults running this thing, but I was pulling away without effort. Well, I thought, they’ll follow me. But they didn’t.

It was sort of bittersweet. I was in the mood to have to grit out a tough race and get outrun by some young prodigy and help make him the hero of the school. Girls would gossip:
“Oh yeah Paco is so awesome he beat the gringo who everyone thought would win.”  
 I had this hidden desire that Paco would catch up with me at the final turn and outkick me in front of all his peers and teachers.

I never look behind me in a race. I think it’s bad sportsmanship. That and I’ve never been good enough to look back so as to slow down and win a race. I looked back before the final turn, hoping my phantom runner would be on my heels. I knew I wouldn’t see anyone, but I wanted to.

Once I knew Paco wasn’t going to make it a blockbuster, I settled for some self-satisfaction. I started to pick it up and look over at the police car that had been escorting me around the course. Let’s go, piggy.

I’d like to think he couldn’t keep up with me, but I’m guessing the reason I beat him down that last stretch of road had more to do with the potholes and large crowd than my junior-high kick.

I turned the corner and headed into the gates. The same roaring voices and beating drums greeted me as I crossed the threshold of the school, and I soaked it up, throwing up a fist in celebration. Had I thought of it in time I would have pulled out the smoking guns in honor of Señor Kilkus himself, but I’m not that quick with the six-shooters.

I didn’t give it any thought at the time, but when I crossed the crepe paper banner it was on the ground. Rodrigo would tell me later that the kids at the finish line hadn’t expected my arrival so promptly.

So, ego stroking aside, the race was great fun and I think the students enjoyed the spectacle and cheering. 

The day continued with an obstacle course, soccer all day, and lots of unorganized kite flying mixed in (kite flying is extremely popular in Chile).

Well, that's going to have to be all for now!

Guasos (wahsos), Cuenca, Chilean Mass, and the House Cup:
To be continued… since this post is getting lengthy I’m going to save it for another day.



And the day after I wrote my first post Cristóbal Valdés arrived, the head of the house. He’s a bigwig at San Anselmo, holding the principal type position, but just like all the others his humility and kindness are the only characteristics one can see. He’s just one more guy that’s a great person to be around.       

Andrew

First thoughts

I know I will, so if I miss a certain detail that you would like to hear about, make sure to tell me in some form or another. Comments to the blog seem the most efficient. So here we go.

All is well here in Santiago. I am living with six other men, one of whom is my fellow Volunteersman--Jeremy Graney from Saint John’s, and the other four are men of the Manquehue oblate community. Here’s a short description of all five:

Jeremy (Jer): I forsee only good times in this next year living with Jer. He’s easy going like myself and has an adventurous soul. We both enjoy similar things and although he doesn’t really speak Spanish he has been toughing it out like a champ.

Rodrigo: One of the founders of the Manquehue movement that got started 35 years ago, Rodrigo has the aura of an Englishman cast in a Chilean mold. I say this because not only is he familiar with the British and their culture (still not sure on the”how”), but if I knew he weren’t Chilean I would swear he were McCartney’s best bud. I couldn’t envision a kinder, more down to earth man than Rodrigo, so I’m glad he is our contact and sort of guide in Chile. He took us to downtown Santiago yesterday to show us the layout and give us some background on the city and its citizens. He’s an all-around great guy. 

Cristobál: A small, wiry character. Cristobál is soft-spoken but also very kind at heart. He runs the media at the school I will be working at. He’s like Igor from Ghostbusters… except smaller.

Vicente: Vicente reminds me of my friend Ted. I think it’s the way he talks and the things he says that have their own unique humor about them. One of the things I will undoubtedly remember him for is his impersonation of the movie “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” It’s a movie I haven’t seen, but that is not too hard to picture. While choosing a movie to watch last night, Vicente fired up his air chainsaw and began to hack through imaginary bodies. It was either the moment, his impersonation of a lunatic killer, or both that turned the room into a bunch of laughs.

Nikolas: Nikolas’ appearance reminds me of the stereotypical coffee shop college snob; however, he is anything but that. He’s very outspoken, but his ego could fit in my hand.

Andrés: As he just arrived from a retreat today, and we’ve only just had lunch, I can’t say much at all except that he appears to be another kind Chilean.
We live in a normal house in Chiculeo, which is a suburb to the North of Santiago. I’m sure I’ll have a picture of it soon, but for now it will suffice to say it comfortably houses the six of us.

We haven’t been to the school yet--that is tomorrow--so I can’t say anything of the kids or the work situation, but Rodrigo has suggested that we work from the morning (8 or 9 am I assume) and return home around 7 or 8 pm. We would have one day off each week to do what we please, and weekends are free too. It sounds like we’ll be working a lot, but I have no problem with that.

The temperature right now hovers around 50 degrees Fahrenheit, but in the sun it feels quite a bit warmer because there is hardly a wind to disrupt it. Unfortunately, the whole inside of the house is in shade, so temperatures tend to be chilly. It’s nothing a sweater and shoes can’t fix, but the first day was a bit chilly adjusting.

We are currently in the Spring season, with plants and trees beginning to bloom. It really feels like a Minnesota autumn, but that idea doesn’t last long in Santiago as we can see the Andes Mountains looming on the eastern horizon. I went for my first run this morning and got a good chance to ogle at the peaks rising high above the land. I guess one of the oblates has climbed the highest peak, which is about 4500 feet and not too technical, so Rodrigo has said perhaps we would have time to do it ourselves. I’m hoping he remembers his words, but if not I’ll be sure to remind him.

Rodrigo had said with an air of apology that their food tends to be very plain compared to the Mexicans or Spaniards, but I would say he was being modest, whether he intended to or not. We’ve had two large meals, dinner and lunch, and both are worth mentioning. The main course last night was a type of hot dish made with potatoes, squash, meat, and whatever else. Great flavor and very hearty! And today for lunch we had pancakes (more of a crêpe) stuffed with spinach, chicken, and other things, topped with corn and a cream sauce. They were delicious.

I’m not sure what’s on schedule for this afternoon, but right now most of us are either napping, writing, or reading a book.

My intention is to write twice a week while I’m here, but with periods of less frequent writing when the entries get repetitive. So until next time!

Andrew

P.S. I wrote this a couple days ago and a lot has happened since then, so I will be revising and adding to these thoughts shortly.