In Chile, you can shop in a huge supermart like JUMBO, or there are many ferias (“fairs”) or vegas, which are marketplaces with fresh produce, meat, small restaurants, and all sorts of wonderfulness.  The largest one is La Vega Central… if you think you’ve smelled fish before, think again.  Below is a lovely picture of crates of fruit in the mercado central, courtesy of Christy Loftus.

Around the corner from la vega central, you can shop at Patronato, an area originally turned into a business hub by Arabs but now run by Koreans… I’m sorry, I would try to be more politically correct, but frankly, these are Chileans we’re talking about. Anyhow, at the beginning of the 20th century the Arab immigrants transformed an agricultural area into what it is now–a center for buying cheap clothes, accessories, and food from small stores and street vendors.  It’s a fun place to check out, but can be risky in terms of pickpockets… so buy a fanny pack, and get on with your life.

Another exciting shipping adventure was the Persa Biobio.  I had been told to steer clear from this market because I would be robbed many times before I knew what hit me.  Nevertheless, as being with a Chilean makes me feel safer and less likely to get duped, Edwin and I went to buy some used books on the third of July (it’s tradition for me to buy used books for Independence Day).  It was a bustle of everything I can imagine anyone would sell: antiques, toys, books, clothing, furniture, electronics… you name it.  Granted, it all seems a little sketchy… I would put pictures here, but I don’t know anyone that would brave bringing a camera to persa biobio…

We Tufts kids finally made it to Pablo Neruda’s Santiago house, La Chascona, named for his third wife, Matilde Urrutia.

Interesting facts about this trip:

• Chascona–Chilean word… I’m frequently called ‘chascona’ for my mess of hair.
• Also, Matilde was a redhead with crazy hair and eight years younger than Pablo… Sound familiar?
• The house was built to look like a ship (see picture below)
• That hideous building in the background was built to look like a cell phone (see picture above)

ON TO DOÑIHUE!

Doñihue means “the place between eyebrows” in Mapudungun, the language of the indigenous Mapuche (I’m not sure why), and is famous for its chamantos, a kind of Chilean poncho, aguardiente, and agricultural economy.  We checked out some of the typical jobs (/tourism/) in the area, like harvesting oysters, making aguardiente, weaving chamantos, baking pan amasado (“kneaded bread”), farming aloe plants and eucalyptus …

• In Coínco, a neighboring comuna, the houses have to be made in the Spanish colonial style.  Adobe frequently does not hold up well in earthquakes.
• We rode up to the aloe and eucalyptus farms on horses
• It takes six months to make each chamanto, partially because each one needs to be completed by the same person.  Normally the women that make them work out of their houses.
• Words of wisdom: “In Chile, there are three things you take with your hand: your empanada, your guitar, and your woman.”

Beez! (Ben’s allergic reaction) Honey!  Too soon, obv.

So how do we protect ourselves?  And how do you know you’re not already a gringo?  Be informed.  Here’s how to spot a gringo of the female persuasion…

Ok, we’ll start with the most obvious situation: you see someone who looks different.  Usually, it’s something obvious, like in her coloring or race.  She has blue eyes, is blonde, is black, is blindingly white, or looks another specific ethnicity (I remember once I saw a woman in the airport that looked Irish… and therefore I knew she was American.)… that’s your starting point usually.  How do you figure out if this mina is chilena or gringa?

One, if you’re casually walking through Santiago, there is probably a 75% chance that this person is gringa.  If you’re in La Universidad Católica, you’re screwed.  There is an equal probability of it being either.  That’s when you have to rely on the checklist.

¡Warning! No one of these factors is really definitive per se and can recognize a gringa with its fulfillment.  However, each of these factors is associated with a probability that represents a significant variation in the population**

Things to write off right off the bat…

• Sports gear?  I don’t think most Chilean chicks would be caught in public dressed like that.  Moreover, if the gear is for a specific sport, it’s even more likely that it’s a gringa.  Soccer included.  Gringas play way more soccer than Chilenas.
• Does she make you think: Woah, she’s tall.  It’s not a secret; Chileans (and many Latinoamericanos) are shorter than the average gringo.
• Does she look confused? (Read: she is staring at some map in the metro while a sneaky Chilean is reaching into her purse…)
• Do you recognize her brands?  American brands are usually a good hint, or rather, the presence of non-gringo brands will probably steer you away.  If she’s a student and has a backpack with the brands Head, Jansport, or Xtreme (or something else you don’t recognize), she’s probably Chilean.
• Does she have thighs and/or junk in the trunk?  Probably not Chilean.  For some reason, Chileans tend to be petite and to have modest proportions.  It’s not the first time Chileans break Latino stereotypes…
• Is she wearing bootcut or skinny?  Bootcut is a gringa, especially if they’re nice jeans.
• There are just certain hairstyles that aren’t that common on Chilean gals (all of these rules are applied to the generic student population).  If her hair is all up in a messy bun, for example, that’s a gringa do.  Short hair, unless she’s clearly associated with a subculture that supports such a cut, probably indicates a gringa.
• But the final and most telling check I make is: what do her shoes look like?  This has taken a long time to think about.  I remember always getting a definitive answer when I looked at her shoes, but it was hard to specify.  I mean, the most obvious footwear that just doesn’t make sense for a Chilean to be wearing is the flip-flop.  They’re hideous, let’s face it… but gringas, especially some of the types that end up at la Católica, wear them everywhere.  Chileans are more likely to wear some ridiculous-looking thong sandal-type thing that crawls half-way up their calves than flip-flops.  “Regular,” athletic sneakers are also a no-go.  As are Uggs.  They’re gross.  Get over them.

That’s basically it.  Of course, any of these must be reconsidered if she’s also making out on the metro while donning a fanny pack, but hey, I do what I can.

**Not actually statistically or scientifically proven.  Kosher/Parve.

Dear loved ones, the time has come to share the story, the suffering, the beauty.

We’re deep, we root people.  We have skin rough and thick, prepared to guard us against the unforgiving earth.  But that skin holds in it some of the most powerful, pale fruit you will ever experience.  That’s why it has happened like this.  A stranger’s stare, a quick joke, a couple eerily exclusive coincidences–they rub against that skin, poke at the husk a bit, and in spite of the indignation we root people carry on with our knotted and twisted grace.  But it is past words and sticks and stones; it is more than a question of skin and bones… once you have cut into the root, we will make our presence known.  A simmering in your nostrils, a heat in the back of your throat, a tear in your eye… you may not realize it.  But we’ve arrived.

Ginger:
1 : a thickened pungent aromatic rhizome that is used as a spice and sometimes medicinally
2 : pep, verve:  the “ginger” to work hard
3 : A human, characterized by pale skin, freckles and bright red hair. “Gingers” are generally considered to be inferior to their more melanin-rich brethren, and thus deservingly discriminated against. Gingers are thought to have no souls. The condition, “gingervitis” is genetic and incurable.

Maybe it was my Human Rights class that was getting to me, some lofty ideas that we as a species may reach a place of respect for the dignity of every person.  Maybe it was because in the absence of the truths I’d held to be universal so long, naiveté rose to the surface and hope tickled my eyes shut with her feathery reasoning.  I had begun to believe in some brand of colorblindness.

And then it happened: I was walking away from my house, not even flinching as that damned golden retriever that always barks ran back and fourth behind my neighbors’ fence.  “You know, he’s barking at you,” Edwin told me.  Ha, I thought, how ridiculous.  But eduvin insisted on proving this to me.  He strolled on by the fence.  No alarm.  Looks easy enough.  I don’t make it two steps before the dog goes crazy.  I hide again.  Edwin comes back to my side.  Leaves rustle.  I show my head—rage confined by an iron fence greets me.  We try this three times.  Edwin says the dog looks at me, fixated. 

I will not doubt again. Even if three times doesn’t constitute statistical significance for an alpha of 0.05. 

Emily asked me, bewildered in spite of her ample experience with the demon of ginger discrimination, “How does it know?  Dogs aren’t even supposed to be able to see in color!”

Which leads us to our main conclusion, friends.  Nobody is colorblind.  Mother Nature nor any of her children.

Ginger discrimination:

The tendency of Earth’s natural laws to seek out those in the human population with the mutation stated above in order to unfurl the misfortunes of many on a select few.  The condition is especially exacerbated when juxtaposed with an individual with divine favor, a wizard of the 17^th level, or a universal truth (read: Charles Skold).

This story has illuminated one flip chip, but we’re talking about the hardwiring of all the cosmos.  I’ve lived all my life under much the same circumstance as I live now: with red hair, pale skin, yes, freckles and an abhorrence for sunlight.  Sure, bad things happened.  All the time, now that I think of it.  But I’ve always been of optimistic nature, and I have always taken misfortune to be synonymous with life.  Until coming to this beautiful land of brown eyes and dark hair … and TCSFRML.

Here, the untold stories of ginger suffering:

You have all likely heard of how the people of Chile incinerate our honey.  Not Charles’ honey, mine.  Check out http://gabriellebills.wordpress.com/2009/07/29/the-pelirroja-peligrosa-posts-her-premier-post/

That wasn’t the last run-in with officials that left me hiding my hair for a week afterward.  Later on, when it came time to procure my Chilean documents, I was detained for significantly longer than my peers at the PDI.  Granted, that was mostly because the officers found me attractive, but still.

And then there were the ruins.  Literally, not metaphorically.  Though you can take it as you please…  When Charles A. H. Skold, a commanding young man of over six feet, chooses to climb rocks, leave trails, or otherwise all but piss on the common rules of certain historic sites, nothing happens.  But the moment my head appears over a rocky ledge, I hear a whistle and a demand to get back at once.

Not convinced?  How about how on a train to Aguas Calientes (the stopping place before Macchu Pichu) Emily, Charles, and I were all sitting with our feet up on the seats in front of us.  An official came by and told me to remove my feet, but the others were not spoken to, then or for the remainder of the trip.

Or how about the question of service.  On a trip to La Serena with our program, I was the only one not served food.  In Arica, Chile, Emily, Chaz, and I received the bill before I had received the tea that I ordered (my only order).  But Cusco takes the service cake: after requesting my tea several times, the server returned with two more chichas for Emily and Charles.  Nothing for me.

And think: those are several of the stories when there is clearly someone to blame.  But many the time when everything that can go wrong does go wrong, and I come to realize that Murphy probably came from a long line of Irish gingers.  Moved to England only to have his surname change from Ó Murchadha to Murphy and his “You are a human worthy of dignity” to “You are a ginger spud.”

Anyhow, discrimination without a face: someone apparently taking a sledgehammer to my suitcase when I arrived in Boston after a flight in which the number for my seat was ‘XXX’ (good thing I wrapped that pisco in bags of jam and manjar); Peruvian girls insisting I’m ugly (beauty is a social construct, speaking of which, pale has been out for a couple hundred years); or how about when my wallet was stolen the first time I ever carried it in my purse, the only time I was carrying most of my documents, right after I had picked up around eighty bucks from the office…  And then there’s MIA’s new music video…

Friends, there are many other untold stories.  I can only pray that time will give utterance to our suffering.

“Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.”

In the first part of the rodeo, both men and women compete.  It’s really just showing your horse off, making it run this way and that, stopping quickly, doing circles and figure eights.  Competitors, men and women alike, are dressed in traditional huaso style.  In fact, many of the spectators chose to dress up the event as well.  As I looked out over the medialuna (the stadium that holds the competition, called a “crescent moon” due to its shape) to see hundreds of chupallas bobbing in the crowd.  I did wish I had one… I had to apply sunscreen numerous times.

Outside of the arena, mote con huesillo stands, restaurants, booths set up with artisan goods and all the makings of a proper huaso.  Women walking around in white dresses.

And in the medialuna—two horsemen run a novillo(a three-year-old calf) around a small fenced area to tire it out a little.  The fence is opened, and the horsemen chase the novillo across the medialuna, slamming it against the wall strategically to get the most points possible.  The novillo probably falls to the ground, seemingly casually sitting with his legs folded under him, as two men run out to rouse it into rising again—with a pull of the tail and a smack in the face, the novillo is usually back up, unless complications necessitate grabbing its legs and rolling it over.  Back up and running, one horse at its tail, another pushing it at its flank, spittle covering its back as it’s rushed to be slammed into two more walls before being led out of the medialuna.  Dozens of huasos stand by and wait their turn in the center of the ring.

I couldn’t get used to it.  I’m no animal rights activist, don’t get me wrong, but I was upset to be there instead of going to church.  Or doing my homework.  Or serving jury duty.  The idea is to have an important cultural experience.  I don’t know if observing the lack of PETA in this country is valuable or not… I exaggerate, maybe.

Regardless…the Chileans around me were much more entertaining than whatever was happening in the ring.  (Probably because for four hours of the five we watched they were ramming cows into walls.)  Vendors passing and re-passing all day shouting, “Helado! Helaohelaohelao! Piñachocolatehelao!”  or soda, cabritas (popcorn), peanuts with merquén… applause and cheers from the crowd… laughter as some sort of “clown,” a black figure covering his face, sneaks through the crowd… a rag doll body the size of a small child being tossed around the medialuna until it falls apart… and English conversations from my fellow Tuftsters (girls’ day out!) about Prince Charming (or in Spanish, el Prícipe azul) and marriage (not to say that those topics are at all related).  And that’s probably why those guys in front of us kept staring… we are glaringly gringa.

1. STOP SWEEPING. I just don’t understand.  We wear shoes throughout the house and track dirt everywhere, but you need to make sure the sidewalk outside is all clear?  I’ve always been amazed by this practice.  Slightly more befuddling is when they use hoses instead of brooms… now you’re going to waste your time AND spurn conservation efforts?  That’s just like you , Chile.  (Santiago was put under regulations according to “environmental pre-emergency” as of Monday.  Because the smog burns my nose.  Among other things, it means that 60% of cars are not allowed to drive. Xileno?)
2. Yellow lights—not a challenge.  You have not failed yourself as a driver or individual if you do not make a yellow light.  I should clarify: if you have to stop because the yellow light will turn red, you actually might be saving someone’s life.
3. Photocopying entire books is illegal and not normal.  Don’t act like I’m a freak for being stressed by your endless lines of students, stacks of paper, and broken staplers.
4. It doesn’t make send to ask me what country my Chinese friend is from.  When I say she’s a “chinita,” I mean she weighs about 90 lbs and lives in China.  Your confusion makes you racist.
5. Grapes vs. Avocado.  Let me explain something to you: Grapes will not make you fat.  Let me explain something to you: Avocados have almost twenty times the fat of any other fruit.  If you eat several pounds of grapes everyday, you will gain weight.  But they are not going to make you fatter than eating a bunch of palta every day.
6. The front row will not kill you.  In class, in church, in movies… there is nothing there that is life-threatening.
7. Actually, Super 8s aren’t that great.  Actually, ají is not spicy.  Actually, your mantecoso and goat cheese are not strong-tasting.
8. Just say goodbye.  One, maybe two of the following are acceptable to signal the end of a conversation… all are not necessary:  listo-que-estes-bien-gracias-besitos-chauchau-nos-vemos.  Also, you don’t have to fit them all into one word… or sentence, even.

Anyhow, that’s it for now… I had a revelation recently when my cellphone randomly chose to be without service for like… the third time in a week… that “sin servicio” was a good way to describe living in a foreign country at times.  The feeling of dependency that you develop for your cellphone, that connection to your loved ones, a secure line in case of danger, a versatile resource … and then to suddenly not have it there… without service.  Yup.

Anyhow, I wanted to present a clever list of occurrences, but unfortunately I’m such a shell of a person without Jumpstart that all I can think to do is this weekend’s pluses (+) and deltas (∆):

• Bus rides
  • +  I wasn’t reading about violent organizations (what I was doing last time I was headed to La Serena… thanks, Sociología de Organización)
  • ∆  I wasn’t really doing anything “productive“–developing my philosophical autonomy and individuality is worthless (because I’m a woman…)
• Campsite
  • +  The stars and fireside conversations were out of this world
  • ∆  The cars and quaint little house by our side were quite earthly.
• Typical Chile
  • +  Palta.  Manjar.  Pisco.
  • ∆  Why hello, empty reception desk.
• Food
  • +  Garlic cloves and apples roasted over an open fire
  • ∆  Kosher.  There, now I don’t have to explain what it is, and I maintain my right to not answer the why if I so chose.
• Company
  • +  Nice mix of gringos and Chileans… yay Oasis!
  • ∆  2 blondes + 2 redbeards > 2 Chileans . . . People still yelled at us in English.
• Hiking
  • ∆  We got utterly lost.  (Ha! I put the delta first!)
  • +  Utterly lost = horses, hiking up to a mirador with a cross, and Ranma 1/2
• Holy week
  • +  Seeing a via crucis *
  • ∆  Madeline came.

Via Crucis —-sooo these seem to be a pretty popular thing in Latin American countries; at least, I feel I’ve heard about them primarily in Spanish classes over the last eight years of my life.  Oh wait, are they all Catholic?  Oh, yes they are.

Scene is a placid, summer garden.  The breeze tickles the pool’s surface, and her warm breath slowly lulls you to sleep.  In spite of this, I stay awake and read about universal human rights and other things that mean the world but can never be measured or proved.

Human Rights and the Social Construction of Nature

reads a subtitle.  This should be good.

Everything hangs; a couple hesitant, ho-hum notes from the wind chime, the laundry draped on a clothesline dangling from one vine-saturated wall to the next, and the sun has begun her spider-like descent, suspended on some invisible thread and drop, drop, dropping ever so slowly, spinning her web of light ever closer to my feet.

Enters Susana, exhaling a thread of smoke that hangs and floats toward the pool.  Hair up, apron on, she looks surprised to see me, asks about my studies.  She adds, “Hey, and those little notes that you leave me, I just love them.  I find them so charming: “I’m at classes, won’t be home until such-and-such a time”… they’re so straightforward and sweet.  You know, I keep all of them.” (Ah yes, I thought, that explains the gourds.)  With that, she’s back to wandering through the house, humming a classical waltz.

The breeze continues.  Humming.  And Susi sprinting frantically out onto the porch. Fran follows hollering, “What has she robbed this time??”  I hadn’t noticed anything in her tiny, ewok mouth.  Fran stands, eyeing Susi as the latter calmly, without shame or remorse, continues chewing on her victory until it falls from her mouth—a piece of cork.  She stares at it, head cocked to the side, and Fran’s exasperated form disappears through the doorway.  Her verdict is that the cork is unworthy of her time and energy, sits sunbathing for a moment, and then leaves me alone again.

At least until Tono’s oversized tiger pantuflas lead him bleary-eyed across the stage to the computer room.  Clicking is heard within.

Coping with Contentious Foundations

ENTER key (the loudest and most certain).

Above the walls of green and the vines’ little footprints creeping across my door, little bursts of white, magenta, orange and yellow, and the last flourish of summer purple…

Enter Pelli.  Hooked umbrella in hand, he struts across the patio to the lemon tree, green with unripened lemons.  He is unimpressed.  He futzes around a bit with the umbrella until PLOP into the pool falls the one yellow lemon stranded on that tree.  He fetches it out and, with dignity, collects his umbrella from the tree and is off.

Clicking from stage left.

Lunch is usually a difficult time for me; it’s simply unnatural to hold in that much laughter for that amount of time and while eating.  It can’t be good for the digestion.

I will never understand platinum blonde hair.

I met a Chilean named Jonatan on Monday.  He told me his name, quickly informing me that it was missing an ‘h.’  He then pointed to his nametag where there should be an ‘h’ and said, “FAIL.”  I died laughing.  He later used “EPIC FAIL.”  We talked a little about Starcraft.

Chocolate and basil is a great combination.

Latest Chilean bagged item: juice concentrate.

I’m not sure how many times watching A-ha’s “Touchy” in the Metro station is too many…

Good idea: fans in the Metro.  Dumb idea: to have those fans mist water onto you so you feel grossly cool for 1.7 seconds before hitting the thick wall of hot, sticky humidity in a train that forces skin-to-skin contact on you.  Santiago is fairly dry; keep it that way.

Lessons in Chilean:

Andar a pata pelada–literally going around with peeled paws.  I’m always barefoot, and my parents always think I’ll be cold.  It’s summer here.

Te fijaí—(frequently used at the end of a phrase…like cachaí)  You know?  Did you catch that?

Ponte tú—basically another way of saying, ‘you know,’ or ‘you realize’… I think of “don’t cha know” in Minnesota for any of the three “you knows” listed above.

Banano—Fanny pack.  It’s what all the cool kids here do.  I’m getting one.  Probably today, even.  Don’t judge me.

Funny story about fanny packs: a Chilean friend in Oasis (Ricardo) was explaining something to another gringa and me (probably pickpockets or something), and he said, “See, I just wear my banano here,” indicating with both hands the area where he wears it… I’m not sure I have to go into much detail here, but I will say that we gringas were scandalized.

Pega—work…

Penca—I love this word.  It can mean many things, though… and I have made the mistake of leaving the meaning up in the air before.  Here are some uses: boring/fome, shoddy/low quality, I guess it can mean artichoke, or …ummm…

A friend of mine was describing the most penca situation he’d been in, which was crashing on a couple of couches at a sold-out hostel in Buenos Aires.  I talked about a leaky, super-penca hostel I stayed in in Viña del Mar.

A couple days later, Ricardo asked me what my favorite Chilenismo was. (How could I chose??)  I said a couple things and then, “Me gusta ‘penca’.”  Laughter and an exclamation: EPIC FAIL.

Apogón—blackout… they happen here.  Twice in the last week, in fact.  That means no electricity, no internet, and no cellphone service.  But don’t worry; I just light a mosquito repellent candle in my room.  And now I can pull out my charango.

List of incredibly Chilean things I’ve done within the first 3 days in Chile:

Eaten:

• Dulce de Membrillo,
• Avocado (palta, po),
• Mote con huesillo,
• Super 8,
• Alfajores,
• Marequetas (chilean bread),
• Big Time gum,
• TUNA (not what you think it is),
• Cuchuflíesmmmmm

Attended:

• A choripanada (a get-together where you eat these),
• No classes

Kissed:

People I know

• People I know,
• People I don’t know,
• People I’m getting to know,
• Susi

Made:

• 3 unfruitful phone calls,
• Mashed avocado,
• Fome(cheesy) jokes

Ignored:

• Aftershockssss,
• People sneezing

Non Chilean things

Been:

• On time for a party,
• Friends with people of the opposite sex/gender,
• Pale,
• Ginger

Gone:

• Running for fun
• To La Reina instead of Ñuñoa (I got lost on the public transportation, OK?)

Said:

• Estaba instead of ‘ta’a
• ¿Cómo estás? instead of ¿Cómo estaí?
• “Escúchame” instead of “Péscame” (listen to me/ fish me…)

Avoided:

• Meat,
• Soda,
• Mullets

I’m not yet back in Santiago, but there is something foreboding in the air, which is saturated with rapid-fire Spanish and fostering a remarkably high number of mullets. A couple mullet donners animatedly discuss vacán happenings in Chile, po.

And so the second half of the journey begins.

This time around, I have to convince myself that they are Chilean; I’ve become so accustomed to the accent and look of the people that it’s hard for me to differentiate. One adolescent girl is wearing the large faux pearl earrings that I made a game of last semester, counting how many I would see each morning on the metro. The shoes are not like the beat-up sneakers Americans might wear. The name “Chile” is pronounced with that percussive “ch” (almost “ts”) that indicates higher classes in the country. And you can be certain not a blonde or fellow ginger sits among us. But really, the mullets give them away. So many mullets. I think two thirds of the men around me right now have them. And if I were to only count those age 15 to 30… I’d say over 90%.

It’s been a stressful week, as I spent it in an unexpected country. I know all my friends and family members have been worrying about the situation in Chile after the 8.8 earthquake that hit 8 days ago, but life goes on, and I can’t stay away from the country forever. In the meantime, classes at the Universidad Católica started today, which means I’ve had the startling opportunity to miss two days of classes even before signing up for them! I pray all will work itself out soon. While it does, I hope you all will be patient with me if I’m slow with communication; I promise I haven’t fled the country with the sole purpose of getting away from you all.

March 9, 2010

Upon arrival in Chile:

We’re told that there are complications with getting through customs and wait for another half hour in the plane. Once we do get off, the problem becomes clear. The airport had sustained damage in the earthquake, and so all checking and customs was happening outside in tents. I lined up in the summer sun and heat for over an hour, clarified that alpaca goods were acceptable to bring into the country (I noticed a huge bin with a picture of flames covering it; above was a sign saying LAST CHANCE and had pictures of honey, meat, artisanal goods, and other things unacceptable to take into the country. I was terrified.), and found a taxi to take me home.

The taxi driver discussed the earthquake’s damages, speculating the time it will take to recover, especially because the copper industry has taken a big hit. He pointed out a bridge that had been cracked open in the quake. He described incredible beauty down in the seventh region of Chile and how heartbreaking it is that those cities are in ruins. Despite all this, I was increasingly excited until we arrived at my house and were greeted by Susi’s enthusiastic yips.

All is well in Santiago. Send me your mailing and email addresses.