Booblandia

My plan to post every day for 20 days was thwarted twice. Once by an amusement park and again by a stomach bug.

For the last week, Max and Maya were good sports while we did lots of adult activities when guests visited us. My kids made the best of it when Rob went to New Jersey for nine days, leaving the three of us to our own devices. By that I mean the kids watching The Wizards of Waverly Place in one room, while I watched RHONY reruns in the other. (Sorry, I love Bethenny Frankel. She's me times ten.)

Anyway, we decided that the last outing of our vacation should be the closest amusement park. Fantasilandia is possibly the most urban amusement park ever. We actually street parked. For an amusement park. In Santiago, that means a guy with an orange vest and a stick stood guard over our car for 6 hours. This service cost four dollars. In Tokyo, that would have cost a couple hundred dollars.

Anyway, it's a great park if your kids are tall or brave or both. There's not much for tiny tots, but after some initial hesitance, Maya was ready to take on anything she was tall enough to ride. Luckily, she's tall for her age.

We've all taken our kids to the amusement park. We know what that's like. But the difference between doing it in the States and doing it abroad is ALL THE BOOBS. Unless I missed the Disney mural with Minnie in g-string and pasties, I'm pretty sure we wandered into something that might not fly in the United States.

Okay, so there were butts, too. And a one-eyed girl and bizarre shooting water in your face symbolism. 

To be honest, the only thing I don't really understand is the connection all of this might have to the Easter Island heads. Although, they do seem to be appreciating all the boobs.  

Most of the rest of the day was kind of boobless until the last ride. 

This was the end of me. It wasn't just the bizarre juxtaposition of children and erotica. It wasn't just the sixth hour of blazing Chilean sunshine.

It was the spinning.

Everything was fine until the end of the ride with the scary bottomless-on-a-horse imagery. Right after the pleasant spinning and the lovely view of the Andes from the top of the ride, right to the bottom when you think it's all over, the ride spins you at light speed in circles of flashing light until any plans you had for the rest of the night are lost in a haze of nausea. 

Thus, my lack of a post for that night. 

The next night was lost in a blur of stomach bug, probably contracted from overexposure to poorly drawn boobs.  

Castellano

So, in the spirit of posting daily for 20 days, we just returned from dinner with a friend from the Canary Islands. I asked if he had met Chileans who used the word Castelleno to refer to Chilean Spanish. He said yes. I asked what he thought of that. He said, "It is very curious."

The Beginning of the End of the Vacation

Here's the problem with the last few days of vacation. If you're anything like me, you probably start vacation with a list of things you put off until you have some free time. I'll write a blog post. I'll read that book I meant to read for work, but it was too boring and I was too tired to stay awake while school was in session. I'll teach my daughter to read. Then, the free time rolls around, and I feel like I've earned some time to do absolutely nothing.

For two months.

That's right. The most productive thing I've done this summer is clean the turtle tank.

Don't get me wrong.  We entertained guests and traveled to new parts of Chile. It's been a blast. But, now I feel like I need to have this burst of productivity to make up for being a huge slacker.

So, in order to get my ass back in gear, I'm going to tackle one of the jobs I had laid out for myself, which is to share some of what we learned and experienced this summer.

Looking back, it was a lot. I'm positive that it was considerably less than what most of our friends did. But, after the year we had, it's a miracle we got out of bed these last 8 weeks. My parents and sister visited, so we did out best to run them ragged. Rob went to New Jersey for 9 days to prepare our former summer house for rental. Because we're in the Southern Hemisphere, our summer is now January and February, and there's no way we're spending our summer in New Jersey when it's ten degrees outside. Rob's mother visited for 9 days. She just left this evening, and I'm pretty sure she's officially done enough adventuring to hold her for a while.

I tried to think about my favorite part of the summer. What would I take off tomorrow to do again? I have to say the wineries. I haven't found the Chilean beach that I truly love just yet, although I'm more than happy to keep looking. Valparaiso is great, but I feel like I need to go again to learn more about the best way to experience it. There's so much trial and error in visiting a place for the first time. But, the wineries are fabulous every time, regardless of how many times you've been to one. Yes, the presence  of wine helps, but the whole package is fantastic.

When my parents were here, we went to Santa Cruz, mostly because a colleague of ours runs a hotel and restaurant there. It's a family operation. Her daughter is an amazing Italian chef, and they work together to keep everything running smoothly. Both the restaurant and hotel are called Vino Bello. If you live in Chile or are planning a visit,I recommend the trip to Santa Cruz.

http://www.vinobello.cl/en_vinobello.php

We really weren't thinking about wineries when we booked that trip. Once we were there, though, it dawned on us that we should find something to do besides play in the pool. We ended up taking a tour of Viu Manent. We knew very little about growing wine grapes, so the tour was perfect for us. The tour of the vineyards is in a horse-drawn carriage. The guide was personable. We tasted wines at the end. If you've visited wineries anywhere, I'm sure you know the drill. We did the same thing in Italy years ago, and it was similar, so we had an idea of what to expect.

But, I have to say, there was something especially enchanting about Viu Manent. The grounds are welcoming, green, and lush. It truly feels like an estate. There's a restaurant adjacent to the main building, so you can follow up your tour with a leisurely lunch under a trellis covered with grape vines. I really respond well to food and wine in a gorgeous setting. This lunch was  straight out of my fantasies of how I'll live when I have a big house in wine country with a long table out back, laid out with food and wine for all my friends and family.

When Rob's mom came, we toured Vina Undurraga. It's about an hour south of Santiago, so it's a perfect day trip. Again, we had a great guide who know the business inside and out. It was interesting that on both trips we had very knowledgeable guides, but there was very little repetition in the information.

Undurraga is still on the original site, where the Undurraga family home was years ago. The buildings and gardens are fantastic.

There was no carriage ride or lunch, but it was still a trip I would do again.

I won't even begin to analyze the wines. My knowledge is limited to my personal preferences. I have yet to try a Chilean wine that wasn't great. For me, late harvest wines are too sweet, but other than that, I've enjoyed everything that I've tried.

Instead, here's Maya sneaking grapes at Undurraga.

Seven Months Later, I Acknowledge Santiago

I put off writing about Chile for a long time. When we left Japan, our friends were very kind in saying that they looked forward to posts about Santiago, but when we arrived, I found that when I tried to write, all I could do was stare at a blank screen. I told myself a million reasons why I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was dealing with the book, putting off the much-needed editing of said book, dealing with my stupid internet stalker, relearning Spanish, and getting to know my new job.  In truth, these were all just excuses. They should have been reasons to write instead of impediments. It took a while for me to realize why I wasn’t able to conjure up anything to say.

When it comes down to it, I didn’t want to be one of those writers who produce an endless string of first impressions. That might seem silly since half of the travel writing out there is based on first impressions, but that’s a whole different beast. If I’m going on vacation for a week, all I really need for reference is a quick heads-up from someone who has been there. I don’t need the down and dirty on the nuances of the culture unless I do something really stupid and end up in jail. For a quick visit, I just need a map and a rerun of No Reservations that tells me where to eat. However, if I’m going to take the trouble to actually live here, I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to document in a personal way.

We’ve been here for about 7 months now, and I feel like I’m starting to get past the first impressions phase. It would have been silly for me to write about Santiago earlier, since most of the time I wasn’t even sure I remembered where my apartment was. I wasn’t exactly in a position to make deep observations about life here. I remember walking to a nearby restaurant after we first moved into our flat and wondering if it was even remotely possible that this could ever start to feel like home. Now that some time has passed, I do feel like this is where I live. Maybe, just maybe, enough of the overwhelming unfamiliarity has faded that I can start writing again.

Living in Chile is different than living in Japan in many, many fundamental ways. For me, one of the most important distinctions between daily in the two countries is that I speak Spanish. I made a good effort to learn Japanese. I did fairly well but was never fluent. As a result, the language barrier was always frustrating.  It’s different here, though. I’ve had to relearn a lot of Spanish, which hasn’t been a completely effortless process. Chileans are the first to point out that the Spanish here is different than anywhere else.  More than once, someone who grew up here has explained to me in Spanish that Chileans don’t speak Spanish. Chileans call the language here Castellano. It’s Spanish mixed with the language of the Mapuche culture, which is one of the indigenous peoples of the area. Castellano is wicked fast, super slangy, and words are often abbreviated. There’s no s at the end of gracias. It’s just gracia. “How are you?” is “Come stai?” I have no doubt that in the course of those two examples I made about twelve mistakes. There are a million other differences, words that are used only here and such, but that's for another time.

Nonetheless, it’s been refreshing to feel like I can go anywhere, ask questions when I need help, and accomplish daily tasks with a minimum of frustration. More than that, the constant burden of translation has been lightened. It’s not gone by any stretch of the imagination. I still have whole conversations with my face scrunched up in concentration, trying to pick up on key words, and reminding myself to breath at the same time. I have this ridiculous theory that if you tense up, then the words can’t get in. If you try to relax and just let the words flow past you, the odds of actually catching a few go way up. Or something like that.

Anyway, seven months into this adventure, I might be ready to think about it as more than a series of hurdles to jump. We’ll see how the next seven months pan out now that I’m operating at a different comfort level.

Not My Fault. All of the blame clearly lies with Sky Mall and its evil powers.

I have a theory. No, really. This is a good one. Trust me.

I've decided that Sky Mall has tapped into a marketing technique that is only available to a few vendors. Mind Control.

Before you doubt me, think about it.

You know that scene in A Clockwork Orange where Malcom McDowell was strapped to a chair with his eyes held open while violent images were flashed in front of him repeatedly.  Okay, so I know that he developed an aversion to violence, but I think the Sky Mall works the other way.

Instead of being repulsed by horrible images, we are lulled into a state of languid namaste by a combination of white noise, five dollar beers, and lack of movement.

Being strapped to an airplane seat for many hours makes us completely vulnerable to whatever strange mind tricks anyone has in store for us. All of this culminates in a general state of sensory deprivation that renders us helpless.

We're sitting ducks.

An enormous percentage of us will eventually turn to the Duty Free and Sky Mall to help pass the time.

The problem with the Duty Free catalogue is that it's too short. Just as we're about to drink the Kool-Aid, it's over. Sky Mall, on the other hand, is roughly the size of the Vogue September issue. Or a smallish dictionary.

And it's not just the size that matters.

It's the progression.

First, they warm you up to the whole idea of mind control by featuring a game that you play with your brainwaves.

So, now you're already thinking about how cool telekinesis is and how you'll be the hit of every party once you learn to operate a corkscrew with your mind. You're so absorbed in the fantasy of telekinetically bitch-slapping the annoying guy from work from across the room that you don't even notice that with every page you flip, you're gradually losing perspective of what is and isn't a necessary component of a happy, fulfilled existence.

Not that the ping pong ball gun isn't cool, but anyone who's been to Bangkok knows that YOU DON'T NEED A GUN TO SHOOT PING PONG BALLS. (And if you don't know what I mean, a quick Google search should clear that up for you.) Really, ladies, a little dedication and practice could save you twenty dollars and the shipping costs.

About four hours into our last Tokyo-United States flight, Sky Mall convinced me that perhaps my son's education in the particulars of Punjabi cage matches was seriously lacking. How can he be expected to recreate his favorite matches if he doesn't even understand the basics? Enter the Punjabi Prison Match Ring- a delightful gift for all occasions.

What I don't understand is this, are you supposed to fight or escape?

OR is the idea to keep your opponent from escaping? How am I supposed to use this toy during a special parenting moment if I don't even understand how to guide my child's play?

Before I could completely freak over my Punjabi-related parenting deficiencies, a  quick flip of a page allowed the great minds at Sky Mall to usher me out of the stressful world of toys

and into a blissful home decorating trance. I instantly felt calmer and was able to embrace the fact that everything I thought I knew about decorating was completely off base.

See how they do that? Halfway through the catalogue and I'm totally in. I don't just want this. I need colored lights in my showerhead.

You know what's really hysterical?

When you go through the metal detector at the airport and they can't figure out why you keep beeping. So, you double-check and make sure your keys and your change are out of your pockets,

but you still keep beeping, so they get out the little wand and scan your whole body.

 I LOVE THAT! 

The TSA guy laughs.

I laugh.

It's just all-around good fun. I'm almost disappointed when that doesn't happen.

But I'm in luck.

With stainless steel fibers in my wallet, I'm guaranteed to set off every metal detector in every single aiport I go into all summer long.

In all the uproarius fun, I could almost forget that the whole point of this wallet is to prevent identity theft, because apparently today's thieves can steal your information from inside your pocket.

Anyway, about five, maybe six hours into a twelve hour flight,

these things become essential to my well-being.

Things don't get ugly until about hour eight, which is when I'm ready to swipe my credit card through that little phone on the back of the seat and start ordering things to be delivered to our house.

It doesn't help that I don't really remember ordering most of these things. I only remember an intense sense of longing followed by deep tranquility and peaceful sleep.

Clearly, this is not my fault.

Sky Mall gradually pulled me in, hooking me with moderately useful items for which I could genuinely find a place in my life. Once I started, I found that anything could be useful,

or at least interesting. Especially the giant Yedi. No one is going to break into the house with the mutant ape man in the backyard.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.



Pirates of Harajuku/Part 1

IN WHICH I GET ON MY SOAP BOX IN DEFENSE OF A WORTHY CAUSE

Harajuku is easily one of the coolest places in the world.

Unfortunately, I found out last night that thanks to shameless consumerism, of which I'm usually a huge fan, Harajuku has been rendered just slightly less cool.

Now, when you step off the Yamonote Line, instead of seeing Snoopy Town and The Purple and Yellow Store, there's a GAP the size of the American Embassy.

I have nothing against the GAP, and I'm sure that particular spot is prime real estate, but come on.

I know I'm complaining about one store replacing another. It's not like they slashed and burned the rainforest, but Harajuku shopping is sacred. not that the rainforest isn't, because it is completely sacred and fabulous. Just in a different way.

I not usually much of an activist, but this shit is important.

The Gap definitely doesn't have a Nudy Boy shop with an upstairs Wonder Rocket.
I'm sure the folks at Abercrombie and Fitch would consider it, and probably will after this posts, in which case I want part of the profits.
 And if they put rabbit heads on their Nudy Boy mannequins, I want double.

Here are some more things the Gap needs to consider selling if they want me to stop resenting their presence on sacred ground. 

Only in Harajuku could the outfit on the bottom right look boring. If I walked into a faculty meeting wearing that, people would talk. Unless the meeting were in Harajuku, which would mean our school just got a whole lot more fantastic, but I digress.

But as long as i'm on the tangent of faculty meetings, they would be a lot more fun if we all had to wear these.

 

But that's mostly because I would look great in a samurai kimono.

I hold Gwen Stefani responsible for the invasion of H&M, Forever 21 and Topshop into Harajuku's streets.

When the demise of the last bastion of unadulterated cool comes around, it will be her fault.

I know she was excited to find some cool chicks hanging out and waving their freak flags high.

We all love that.

But she didn't even learn to SAY HARAJUKU RIGHT before she wrote that stupid and song and watered down the whole beauty of the area to little dolls on top of perfume bottles.

Uncool, Gwen. Very uncool.

Pirates of Harajuku/Part 2

IN WHICH WE MEET ACTUAL PIRATES

In an effort to shorten the lifespans of our friends, Rob and I occasionally invite them to join us for an evening of heavy drinking and cholesterol.

Seriously, these are really healthy people. They run and bike and eat well. If someone doesn't do something, these people are going to live forever.

That's where Rob and I come in.

Last night, we went out for Brazilian Barbeque.

You don't order. You just wait until the meat guys stop by to see if you want them to carve a slice of beef, pork, lamb, sausage, or chicken hearts off their giant skewer.

This was taken during that portion of the evening when we were still sober, and therefore civilized.

Luckily, paying a set price for whatever you want to drink for two hours tends to loosen people up.
A lot.

See that green drink in front of Sandy? That's a caipirinha, the national drink of Brazil, made with a sugar cane aclohol called cahaca, sugar and limes.

I think the literal translation of caipirinha is "Where are my pants?"

When we ordered them, the waiter asked, "Are you sure?"

which kind of scared us until we realized he was saying, "Do you want sugar?" I don't know who the hell is ordering these without sugar, but they are a better drinker than I am.

Mark took one drink this concoction and realized that it's about as strong as a shot of lighter fluid, even if you put sugar and limes in the lighter fluid.

He decided to try a Moscow Mule, but it was too fizzy.

So he ordered a gin and tonic.

And a glass of red wine.

Eventually, we started to worry that the waiter was going to come tell us that the bar needed its glassware back, so we helped Mark drink some of the rejects.

All told, we must have collectively consumed at least one cow and the better part of a pig.
Becky got all misty-eyed and called her dinner "a barnyard on my plate"
because she's a huge animal lover.

It all made Dave wax poetic about a similar restaurant in Kenya.
Granted, I was at the other ended of the table, but I'm pretty sure that story went like this.

Dave: They specialized in gay meat.

Rob and Christina (in unison): How could they tell?

Dave: Tell what?

Rob: Whether or not the cows were gay?

Becky: By their horns.

Dave (ignoring everyone): Eventually, Kenya outlawed hunting, so a lot of gay meat places shut down.

OH...

 GAME MEAT!!!

Always on the lookout for special forces, Mark and Becky recognized the guys at the table behind us as members of the Israeli CIA, because everyone knows that the Mossad are crazy for meat.

Apparently the Mossad are completely different from the Masai, which cleared things up for me, because these guys were clearly not Masai.

Later, we learned that they aren't Mossad.
They're PIRATES.
How cool is that?

See the one who's trying way too hard to look sexy- that's Chris.

Apparently, he's the hot pirate.

The moustache guy is the elder pirate.

The rest just stand around saying things like "Aye, matey" and "Scurvy made me teeth fall out."

Then the models came in.

Rob told me this morning that he thinks the guys were famous Japanese athletes, so that would explain why everyone else in the restaurant was fascinated by them and why one of them is trying to cover his face with his hat in the picture that I took, which seemed weird at the time because I didn't care at all about having the guys in the picture.
Our table was much more interested in their stick-armed dates.

We took a shot at guessing where the girls were from, and Dave gallantly offered to speak to them in Polish for us,
which would have been extra awesome since Sandy found out that they're from New York.

I still don't know why Sandy had Flat Stanley in her purse, but it just goes to show that mothers really do have one of everything with them at all times.

I guess she told her daughter she'd find  some exotic place where Stanley could be photographed, and it doesn't get more exotic than real live pirates.

Drunken pirates are really accomodating.

I don't know why Sandy wanted them to hold their arms out like they were flying. It doesn't make sense. They just look like airplanes, not boats.

Years ago, Tracey Ullman did this bit where whe was at a bus stop and no one was talking to each other, so she started singing "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Strangers bonded as they broke into a choreographed song and dance number.

It was brilliant.

And it totally doesn't work on Japanese trains.

Becky had already attanied seemingly unreachable levels of awesomeness by attempting to orally stimulate the phallic image on her sugar pack.

But it was her attempt to engage the 300 people who were literally smashed into our train car in a sing-a-long that secured her position as the reigning Queen of Amazingness.

We did get a couple of drunk guys next to us try to hang with our effort at social unity and breaking the societal boundaries that isolate us.

Everyone else was completely uncooperative, which means that they just aren't interested in promoting social harmony.

I know it wasn't because they didn't know the words, cause how hard is it to just sing "Owem-away" a hundred times?

Next outing, fried food on sticks.

And we'll have to find something even cooler that pirates.

Who am I kidding?
There's nothing cooler than pirates.
Especially pirates that will make plane arms for a picture like they're pretending to be pilots.
Oh, hell...
I guess pilots are pretty cool, too.
Right?