My life has become significantly less interesting in the last several weeks, due largely to the fact that I have decided to go on a diet. And let me tell you, this is a miserable time for me. Two blog entries ago I dedicated multiple paragraphs to the subject of food. All of the foods I mentioned in those paragraphs are now on my black list of untouchables. I have been reduced to eating nothing more than breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and I haven't had chocolate or sweets or dessert for weeks. I have resorted to eating bananas when I want something sweet. I have lost count of how many bananas I've eaten, that's how desperate I am. My favorite chocolate with a squirrel on the wrapper is history, flan is a no-no, blueberry muffins from Castano are out of the question. All of the pleasure I got out of life has been taken away from me... by me. People say that the longer I go without chocolate and sweets, the more I will forget about them. Not so. The longer I go without them, the more time I spend fantasizing about them.
My life could be worse, I know. But damn, I didn't realize how much delicious junk I put into my body until I took it all away from myself. I guess I will have to channel the extra energy I spend fantasizing about food toward something more productive, like watching movies. This whole movie project has turned into something of an obsession (that's usually how I roll when I get interested in something), and I have watched over 40 movies in the past two months. I'm a movie-watching machine. Too bad movies don't taste good.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Complacency
It's midterms week. I have a 5-6 page paper (written in Spanish) due tomorrow and just started writing it today. I feel a sense of kindship with my classmates because most of them haven't even started. That's what happens when your Politics and Culture in Chile class sucks and your professor sucks even worse. Professor Subercaseaux is annoying for a number of reasons, the number one reason being that he repeats "No es cierto?" literally every 10 seconds. He also talks like he's got a mouth full of mashed potatoes, has all white hair except for his eyebrows and moustache, and assigns us presentations only to interrupt us every sentence to go off on a 10-minute-long boring-ass tangent. But like one of my classmates told me yesterday, bitching about it doesn't help. I disagree with that, since bitching significantly lifts my spirits, but I guess listening to someone bitch isn't quite as entertaining as being the one doing the bitching.
Facundo went back to Argentina last night, so now that he is gone I have much more free time to dedicate to my latest project: watching movies. My goal is to watch all the "greats", or at least the movies that people talk about a lot. Not quite as ambitious a project as working on a llama farm or landing an internship, but rejection certainly lower's one's standards. So far I have watched Traffic, Volver, Constantine, Mona Lisa Smile, Babel, Amelie, Kill Bill, Donnie Darko, and V for Vendetta. Not a very impressive list, but I'm working on it. Tonight I am going to rent the Matrix, even though Keanu Reeves is an annoying and sucky actor. My goal is to become more "well-read" with regards to movies. I have never been much of a movie person because they usually bore the hell out of me, but I am trying to turn a new leaf.
As you might be able to tell from my latest blog posts, I am becoming complacent. It could be because I have been in Chile long enough so that I am now in a place to take it for granted. I think I have stopped paying attention to my surroundings and am living in the future, waiting for summer to come around so I can go home. Earlier this year, especially around the time Tahir Shah came around, I was chomping at the bit to get started on projects and planning my near future. But that inspiration has worn off due to rejections and the numbing power of time. To be honest, I am quite disappointed in myself at this point. I am not developing any new projects, going on any interesting trips, doing anything at all. I spent awhile looking at grad schools the other day, but that's about it. I think maybe I have been here too long and there is nothing here left for me to discover. Maybe I just need to move on with my life as soon as possible. Whatever it is, I do not like the feeling of complacency, and I hate taking things for granted when I know I am going to miss them when they are gone. Oh, the human condition. I wish there were something I could do to avoid it.
Facundo went back to Argentina last night, so now that he is gone I have much more free time to dedicate to my latest project: watching movies. My goal is to watch all the "greats", or at least the movies that people talk about a lot. Not quite as ambitious a project as working on a llama farm or landing an internship, but rejection certainly lower's one's standards. So far I have watched Traffic, Volver, Constantine, Mona Lisa Smile, Babel, Amelie, Kill Bill, Donnie Darko, and V for Vendetta. Not a very impressive list, but I'm working on it. Tonight I am going to rent the Matrix, even though Keanu Reeves is an annoying and sucky actor. My goal is to become more "well-read" with regards to movies. I have never been much of a movie person because they usually bore the hell out of me, but I am trying to turn a new leaf.
As you might be able to tell from my latest blog posts, I am becoming complacent. It could be because I have been in Chile long enough so that I am now in a place to take it for granted. I think I have stopped paying attention to my surroundings and am living in the future, waiting for summer to come around so I can go home. Earlier this year, especially around the time Tahir Shah came around, I was chomping at the bit to get started on projects and planning my near future. But that inspiration has worn off due to rejections and the numbing power of time. To be honest, I am quite disappointed in myself at this point. I am not developing any new projects, going on any interesting trips, doing anything at all. I spent awhile looking at grad schools the other day, but that's about it. I think maybe I have been here too long and there is nothing here left for me to discover. Maybe I just need to move on with my life as soon as possible. Whatever it is, I do not like the feeling of complacency, and I hate taking things for granted when I know I am going to miss them when they are gone. Oh, the human condition. I wish there were something I could do to avoid it.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Gastronomical Meanderings
Today my host family invited Facundo over to cook dinner. He arrived at 7:30 and dinner wasn't ready until midnight, I kid you not. I hesitate to generalize, but I feel that Argentinians (or maybe it's just Facundo) do everything more slowly than molasses in January. Facundo started cooking, with me as his pathetically useless assistant, around 8:30 or 9:00. Soon after helping him make the apple cake dessert, I got tired and went to take a nap. I was awakened from my slumber at midnight and told that dinner was ready, which surprised me since Facundo had started cooking over three hours ago. I guess that's what happens when you make the lasagna noodles from scratch. But damn was it delicious.
Anyway, the evening of cooking got me to thinking about my eating habits and the way they evolve depending on where I am. When I was in Russia, my everyday food staples were hot chocolate and oatmeal in the morning, several Cokes and/or Fantas throughout the day, half a liter of grapefruit juice a day, chocolate tea cookies, and blinchiki (a lot like a crepe filled with cheese and mushrooms, or caviar, or honey). It's funny how the small snacks I bought shaped so much of my experience, and yet I had almost forgotten about them until today. My memories of Russia are laced with the taste of grapefruit juice and borscht and my favorite cookies. I think the foods I ate in Russia, and the foods I eat in any other part of the world I may be in, contribute a lot to my nostalgia. Sometimes I wish I could just buy one more carton of греипфруктовы сок to help me remember. Simple things like tasting a certain food can bring back floods of memories. Isn't that strange?
Here in Chile my staple foods have been blueberry muffins from Castaño, Pura Fruta mango-flavored ice cream, water with added flavor packets (I gave up on soda, remember?), and empanadas. And whenever I am in Argentina, it's something different, like Paso de los Toros soda (I made an exception in my soda diet for Paso de los Toros because it's my absolute favorite) and flan. Traveling the world has forced me to develop nuanced eating habits wherever I go, and it's really been interesting. It's impossible to maintain a stable diet when I am traveling, because whenever I go to another country the food supply changes. For instance, whenever I go back to the US, my diet changes dramatically. I start eating food that is much higher in fat, like hot wings, chocolate, Ramen noodles, pizza, fruit roll-ups (yeah I know, that is really pathetic, but I can't help it). I almost wish all of that food wasn't available to me, because it's so much unhealthier than the things I eat when I am living abroad. But if disgustingly fattening things like that are in front of my face, they will be eaten.
It's sad how quickly I have converted Facundo into a ravenous consumer of unhealthy US food products. His partiality to fried chicken has turned into an obsession; we have eaten KFC three times this week. I introduced him to Ramen noodles in a cup earlier in the week, and he was in love. I introduced him to Nutella (okay, not American, but still fattening) also, and we have gone through two jars in one week. He tried American-style marshmallows also and has gone through two packages of those this week. To my shock and awe he hasn't gained a single pound, whereas of course I eat the same amount of food, if not less, and end up gaining weight. Maybe when Facundo comes to the US and has a steady diet of pure shit for food, I will see some progress.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that I have found it fascinating to introduce a foreigner to a whole new world of food that he never new existed. It has made me aware of the things I eat and the way they shape my life.
In other news, I caught a pigeon yesterday on Cerro San Cristobal. I will most certainly be posting photos as soon as possible.
Anyway, the evening of cooking got me to thinking about my eating habits and the way they evolve depending on where I am. When I was in Russia, my everyday food staples were hot chocolate and oatmeal in the morning, several Cokes and/or Fantas throughout the day, half a liter of grapefruit juice a day, chocolate tea cookies, and blinchiki (a lot like a crepe filled with cheese and mushrooms, or caviar, or honey). It's funny how the small snacks I bought shaped so much of my experience, and yet I had almost forgotten about them until today. My memories of Russia are laced with the taste of grapefruit juice and borscht and my favorite cookies. I think the foods I ate in Russia, and the foods I eat in any other part of the world I may be in, contribute a lot to my nostalgia. Sometimes I wish I could just buy one more carton of греипфруктовы сок to help me remember. Simple things like tasting a certain food can bring back floods of memories. Isn't that strange?
Here in Chile my staple foods have been blueberry muffins from Castaño, Pura Fruta mango-flavored ice cream, water with added flavor packets (I gave up on soda, remember?), and empanadas. And whenever I am in Argentina, it's something different, like Paso de los Toros soda (I made an exception in my soda diet for Paso de los Toros because it's my absolute favorite) and flan. Traveling the world has forced me to develop nuanced eating habits wherever I go, and it's really been interesting. It's impossible to maintain a stable diet when I am traveling, because whenever I go to another country the food supply changes. For instance, whenever I go back to the US, my diet changes dramatically. I start eating food that is much higher in fat, like hot wings, chocolate, Ramen noodles, pizza, fruit roll-ups (yeah I know, that is really pathetic, but I can't help it). I almost wish all of that food wasn't available to me, because it's so much unhealthier than the things I eat when I am living abroad. But if disgustingly fattening things like that are in front of my face, they will be eaten.
It's sad how quickly I have converted Facundo into a ravenous consumer of unhealthy US food products. His partiality to fried chicken has turned into an obsession; we have eaten KFC three times this week. I introduced him to Ramen noodles in a cup earlier in the week, and he was in love. I introduced him to Nutella (okay, not American, but still fattening) also, and we have gone through two jars in one week. He tried American-style marshmallows also and has gone through two packages of those this week. To my shock and awe he hasn't gained a single pound, whereas of course I eat the same amount of food, if not less, and end up gaining weight. Maybe when Facundo comes to the US and has a steady diet of pure shit for food, I will see some progress.
Anyway, the moral of the story is that I have found it fascinating to introduce a foreigner to a whole new world of food that he never new existed. It has made me aware of the things I eat and the way they shape my life.
In other news, I caught a pigeon yesterday on Cerro San Cristobal. I will most certainly be posting photos as soon as possible.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Condoleezza Rice is a Bitch
Why does Stanford host all the best speakers when I am away? Earlier this week Condoleezza Rice had a Q&A in one of the dorms at Stanford, which I watched on YouTube. I was hoping some of the students would put her in her place, but instead she put them in their place. Damn bitch. During the Bush administration she authorized the use of waterboarding (definition according to Wikipedia: a form of torture consisting of immobilizing the victim on his/her back with the head inclined downwards, and then pouring water over the face and into the breathing passages. By forced suffocation and inhalation of water, the subject experiences drowning and is caused to believe they are about to die.) Sounds like torture to me. But according to Condi during the Q&A session, no, it's not torture, she would never authorize torture. Then she accused the students of not having done their homework and that they should keep their comments to themselves until they knew what they were talking about. And of course she referred to 9/11 as many times as is humanly possible. Whatever, Condi. You's a bitch.
Anyway, Stanford also hosted Colin Powell and one of the actors from The Office this year, among some other speakers I can't remember. Kinda sucks. At least during my first two years I took full advantage of all the celebrity speakers Stanford hosted. So far my list includes Bill Gates, Ted Koppel, Ralph Nader, Natalie Portman, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I hope we have a good commencement speaker my senior year. Last year it was Oprah Winfrey, but the year before that it was some poet laureate no one had ever heard of. My ideal commencement speaker would be Jon Stewart, but that'll never happen, since he charges $300,000 per speech. What a sell-out.
Anyway, Stanford also hosted Colin Powell and one of the actors from The Office this year, among some other speakers I can't remember. Kinda sucks. At least during my first two years I took full advantage of all the celebrity speakers Stanford hosted. So far my list includes Bill Gates, Ted Koppel, Ralph Nader, Natalie Portman, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
I hope we have a good commencement speaker my senior year. Last year it was Oprah Winfrey, but the year before that it was some poet laureate no one had ever heard of. My ideal commencement speaker would be Jon Stewart, but that'll never happen, since he charges $300,000 per speech. What a sell-out.
Monday, April 27, 2009
My Emo Phase
I am disappointed in myself for having practically abandoned my blog. However, I feel that as of late I have nothing very positive or humorous to write. Instead, I seem to be going through an emo phase, and I would rather not indulge myself in broadcasting my sorrows to the public. Those things tend to come back and bite you in the ass. Or worse yet, when you get bored and decide to read back over past posts, you come across an embarrassing post moaning and groaning about how much your life sucks when it really doesn´t, and you kick yourself for having divulged that information to the free world. I would compare the feeling to the one I get whenever I look back on the Buff Bagot from 7th grade. When I was about 14, I went through the emo stage. I wore ¨punk¨ type shit, like spiked necklaces and arm warmers and Avril Lavigne ties and every other supremely embarrassing accessory you could possibly think of. When I look back on those times, I cringe with... I don´t know what it is I cringe with, but I would compare it to fingernails on a chalkboard. What´s funny about the 7th grade Buff Bagot was that she had nothing to be emo about other than having gone to a Catholic elementary school and being forced to go to confession every month. Other than that, I was middle class Whitey McWhitealot who attended mass every Saturday night and got good grades. What a hard knock life. At least nowadays when I am going through an emo phase I don´t dress like Avril Lavigne. I just mope a little and that´s about it. Nothing wrong with a little moping, right? Let me be mopey, damnit. And I´m sorry if my blog has lost some of its luster, but I am going through a not-so-funny phase. It´ll be back soon, I promise.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I Was Going to Write about Cats Sooner or Later...
It would be nice to be in the company of a cat right now. Street dogs just aren't the same since I'm not supposed to touch them, and Blacky (the neighbor cat) is very moody an
d ignores me a lot. Sometimes just having a silent companion does wonders for my mentality. Cats are so unassuming and undemanding (well, unless it's DeeDee when she gets needy, but she's retarded, so that's different). They lay next to you and purr and make you feel loved (well, except Marie, who growls and slaps you if you move while she is laying on you).
I also like dogs, and since I've been in Chile I've grown to like them more. My host sister's boyfriend has a little dog named Twister who comes over a lot and makes really sad faces so that I'll give him table scraps. Facundo's dogs are really cute too, especially Juana, who lays on her back on my lap.
But dogs just aren't the same as cats. You have to earn a cat's love. And since cats are so moody, when they express happiness it is extra rewarding. Every time I go back to Kansas, each of my cats has her particular way of expressing excitement at my return. The first to appear is always Mokie, who rolls around on the floor and makes little chirps of delight. Then Carmela, who slinks into the room, tail twitching (she's a very twitchy cat), and waits for me to pick her up and carry her over my shoulder. I also have to make her do her trick: falling to the floor on command. Then comes Bessie, the neurotic one, who also throws herself to the floor and rolls like crazy. Then, later on after all the other cats have greeted me, she sits on my lap and neurotically plays with my pant strings. She also likes to carry highlighters around, sit on top of them, and
meow obsessively (I really don't know why she does that). Then comes Baby, the deaf princess, who stands at a distance and stares at me without moving. She always stays at a distance, but if I leave the room she follows me wherever I go. Marie and DeeDee never come to greet me. Marie is always outside and DeeDee is too retarded. Poor thing.
I always think it's weird when people tell me they don't like cats. I guess they just don't have the patience to understand a cat. There are some unpleasant cats, but I think that's just because they were not brought up in a nurturing environment in which they could develop a personality. That may sound like bullshit, but I think every one of my cats has something special and interesting about them, and I can't imagine anyone not liking them. Except, of course, Marie, the psycho one who slaps you if you get too close to her face. But cat slaps don't really hurt.
d ignores me a lot. Sometimes just having a silent companion does wonders for my mentality. Cats are so unassuming and undemanding (well, unless it's DeeDee when she gets needy, but she's retarded, so that's different). They lay next to you and purr and make you feel loved (well, except Marie, who growls and slaps you if you move while she is laying on you). I also like dogs, and since I've been in Chile I've grown to like them more. My host sister's boyfriend has a little dog named Twister who comes over a lot and makes really sad faces so that I'll give him table scraps. Facundo's dogs are really cute too, especially Juana, who lays on her back on my lap.
But dogs just aren't the same as cats. You have to earn a cat's love. And since cats are so moody, when they express happiness it is extra rewarding. Every time I go back to Kansas, each of my cats has her particular way of expressing excitement at my return. The first to appear is always Mokie, who rolls around on the floor and makes little chirps of delight. Then Carmela, who slinks into the room, tail twitching (she's a very twitchy cat), and waits for me to pick her up and carry her over my shoulder. I also have to make her do her trick: falling to the floor on command. Then comes Bessie, the neurotic one, who also throws herself to the floor and rolls like crazy. Then, later on after all the other cats have greeted me, she sits on my lap and neurotically plays with my pant strings. She also likes to carry highlighters around, sit on top of them, and
meow obsessively (I really don't know why she does that). Then comes Baby, the deaf princess, who stands at a distance and stares at me without moving. She always stays at a distance, but if I leave the room she follows me wherever I go. Marie and DeeDee never come to greet me. Marie is always outside and DeeDee is too retarded. Poor thing. I always think it's weird when people tell me they don't like cats. I guess they just don't have the patience to understand a cat. There are some unpleasant cats, but I think that's just because they were not brought up in a nurturing environment in which they could develop a personality. That may sound like bullshit, but I think every one of my cats has something special and interesting about them, and I can't imagine anyone not liking them. Except, of course, Marie, the psycho one who slaps you if you get too close to her face. But cat slaps don't really hurt.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's Just You and Me, Blog
I know, three blog entries in one day. I blame it on the fact that I haven't left my host house in three days. I mean, Jesus, I haven't breathed fresh air since Friday afternoon. I've got some serious cabin fever but nevertheless can't seem to bring myself to go outside.
These past few days I have entertained myself with documentaries, movies, chocolate, sleep, and econ reading (that part wasn't so entertaining). Today I watched Volver, a movie by Almodovar, so far the best one I've seen (and trust me, I've seen a lot). Surprisingly, this one didn't have any transvestites. Maybe that's why I liked it so much. Don't get me wrong, I don't discriminate against transvestites. But the transvestite motif really does get old after awhile, even if Gael Garcia Bernal does make one gorgeous woman. Lately I have been hoarding movies from the movie collection at the Stanford center, most of which are shitty Chilean movies. I must say, Chile makes some damn shitty movies. I am taking a Chilean film class this quarter, and the movies just pretty much suck. What a waste of 3 credit hours.
I mean, let me be brutally honest here. Chile kinda sucks in general. I have yet to discover anything distinctly "Chilean" here, besides the complete butchery of the Spanish language and Pisco sour. Have Europe and the US sent so many gringos here that it has lost all its Chile-neity? The fact that I am here is a testament to my country's monopolization of Chile (or at least Santiago). I am contributing to the destruction of Chilean culture. I am one of the millions of agents of US hegemony tainting the world's diversity. Shit. But I am digressing.
But let me qualify my harsh statements about Chile. By no means am I saying that the US is superior to Chile, because I totally disagree. It's the US' fault that Chile has been so inundated with American culture. I am sure that what is now an unremarkable metropolis crawling with American food chains was once a distinctly Chilean city. Or maybe a distinctly Euro-wannabe city, as I have read it was back in the old days. But, as far as I have noticed, Chile is far more globally integrated than, say, Argentina, or even Russia and Ukraine and Estonia and Finland and Turkey. I guess I am arguing, then, against global integration. Shit, I don't know. All I am saying is that when I walk the streets of Santiago I feel like I am walking the streets of any large city in the US, except I hear Spanish instead of English. Oh, and except that there are wild dogs here.
I don't mean to blame Chile for my hermit-like behavior during the last few days. But frankly, Santiago doesn't offer anything interesting or distinct enough to draw me out of my house. Poor Chileans. I am being such a bitch. I think I am just grumpy because I haven't stepped foot outside all weekend.
These past few days I have entertained myself with documentaries, movies, chocolate, sleep, and econ reading (that part wasn't so entertaining). Today I watched Volver, a movie by Almodovar, so far the best one I've seen (and trust me, I've seen a lot). Surprisingly, this one didn't have any transvestites. Maybe that's why I liked it so much. Don't get me wrong, I don't discriminate against transvestites. But the transvestite motif really does get old after awhile, even if Gael Garcia Bernal does make one gorgeous woman. Lately I have been hoarding movies from the movie collection at the Stanford center, most of which are shitty Chilean movies. I must say, Chile makes some damn shitty movies. I am taking a Chilean film class this quarter, and the movies just pretty much suck. What a waste of 3 credit hours.
I mean, let me be brutally honest here. Chile kinda sucks in general. I have yet to discover anything distinctly "Chilean" here, besides the complete butchery of the Spanish language and Pisco sour. Have Europe and the US sent so many gringos here that it has lost all its Chile-neity? The fact that I am here is a testament to my country's monopolization of Chile (or at least Santiago). I am contributing to the destruction of Chilean culture. I am one of the millions of agents of US hegemony tainting the world's diversity. Shit. But I am digressing.
But let me qualify my harsh statements about Chile. By no means am I saying that the US is superior to Chile, because I totally disagree. It's the US' fault that Chile has been so inundated with American culture. I am sure that what is now an unremarkable metropolis crawling with American food chains was once a distinctly Chilean city. Or maybe a distinctly Euro-wannabe city, as I have read it was back in the old days. But, as far as I have noticed, Chile is far more globally integrated than, say, Argentina, or even Russia and Ukraine and Estonia and Finland and Turkey. I guess I am arguing, then, against global integration. Shit, I don't know. All I am saying is that when I walk the streets of Santiago I feel like I am walking the streets of any large city in the US, except I hear Spanish instead of English. Oh, and except that there are wild dogs here.
I don't mean to blame Chile for my hermit-like behavior during the last few days. But frankly, Santiago doesn't offer anything interesting or distinct enough to draw me out of my house. Poor Chileans. I am being such a bitch. I think I am just grumpy because I haven't stepped foot outside all weekend.
Nationalist in Denial
Reading back over some of my observations about Argentina and Chile, I sound like such a nationalist in denial.
Nietzsche Would Be Disappointed In Me
I am going through another phase of self doubt, this one more acute than others for some reason. I think some of it has to do with my decision to stay in Santiago, which I am unsure whether I should regret. This quarter feels stagnant and I am experiencing an uncomfortable inertia. Of course I am learning things in my classes, but outside of class I am not growing or changing. At the beginning of the quarter one of the new students asked me what I planned on doing this quarter that I didn't do last quarter, and I was at a loss for words. What am I doing this quarter? Shouldn't I be volunteering at a homeless shelter, or teaching English, or founding an NGO, trying to prove to the world that I am worthy of my title as a Stanford student?
All of my summer plans have fallen through, as I have already iterated in past blog entries. But with time the weight of rejection is not getting lighter; it is getting heavier. Everyday it's the same question: How am I going to get into grad school if I have nothing impressive to offer on my resume? And if I don't go to grad school, what business would ever hire me? What kind of business could I even apply to with a degree in international relations? Now that my years of piddling around in college studying obscure theoretical topics are winding down, what tangible credentials do I have to show to my future graduate professors, or my future employers? While my Stanford peers are doing clinical research, or interning at prestigious firms, or getting involved in student groups, what am I doing? Dicking around in South America with nothing to show for it? I will grant it to myself that I am studious and do all of my work. But in the end, who is going to notice that?
Also, for the first time in maybe 10 months I am genuinely starting to miss my friends at Stanford. I haven't seen Elise since last June, and a lot of my other old friends have probably forgotten me and moved on. When I come back to Stanford, will I even be able to reintegrate? Will I regret having studied abroad for a year?
I am terrified. I feel that I am at a standstill and I don't know what to do about it.
All of my summer plans have fallen through, as I have already iterated in past blog entries. But with time the weight of rejection is not getting lighter; it is getting heavier. Everyday it's the same question: How am I going to get into grad school if I have nothing impressive to offer on my resume? And if I don't go to grad school, what business would ever hire me? What kind of business could I even apply to with a degree in international relations? Now that my years of piddling around in college studying obscure theoretical topics are winding down, what tangible credentials do I have to show to my future graduate professors, or my future employers? While my Stanford peers are doing clinical research, or interning at prestigious firms, or getting involved in student groups, what am I doing? Dicking around in South America with nothing to show for it? I will grant it to myself that I am studious and do all of my work. But in the end, who is going to notice that?
Also, for the first time in maybe 10 months I am genuinely starting to miss my friends at Stanford. I haven't seen Elise since last June, and a lot of my other old friends have probably forgotten me and moved on. When I come back to Stanford, will I even be able to reintegrate? Will I regret having studied abroad for a year?
I am terrified. I feel that I am at a standstill and I don't know what to do about it.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Argentinians Love Road Blocks
Last weekend I went to Argentina to visit Facundo's family, which involved 16 hours on a bus (thank you, sleeping pills, for getting me through that eternal bus ride). And, just as I was only half an hour away from Zapala (Facundo's home town), the bus was held up by a roa
d block made up of car tires. My first thought, as is often my first thought in many situations, was "WTF?". A group of Argentinians with makeshift tents on the side of the road had rolled out a bunch of tires in two straight lines across the road, making it so that no vehicles could pass through. Now, that really pissed me off. First of all, I had been on a bus for the last 15.5 hours, and I was damn ready to get off that bus. Second of all, the Argentinians in charge of that little bitch of a road block were sitting around on their tires, chatting, enjoying themselves as traffic started to build on both sides of their tire blockade. Third, nobody seemed the least bit offended by the road block. In fact, everybody got out of the bus and started to smoke, and chat, and hang out. I appeared to be the only pissed off passenger on that bus.
Once people started deboarding the bus, I heatedly paced back and forth for a few minutes, wondering what I should do. I'd be damned if I was going to sit there and take it while those assholes prevented me from arriving in Zapala on time for Facundo's parents to pick me up. So I approached the bus driver and asked him what the road block was for and when it would be over. He told me that the road block had been going on all week and that the protesters were unemployed people who wanted the government to increase unemployment handouts. The road block would open up at 7:00 PM and we would be able to pass through after that. Well, that's fine and dandy, but at that point it was
only 3:30 in the afternoon and I was not going to wait another 3.5 hours. So I asked the bus driver if it would be possible for me to walk around the road block and continue to Zapala on my own. He said yes and allowed me to get my luggage out of the bus. At that point I was seriously considering walking the rest of the way. The only problem was that Zapala was still 20 kilometers away. Lugging my bags for 20 kilometers would have been a bitch, but I figured maybe I could hitch hike the rest of the way there.
I got lucky. A bus coming in the opposite direction stopped at the road block, let off a group of people, and those people crossed the road block to my side so that they could board another bus and continue on their way. The drivers of the bus on the other side allowed me to cross over and get on their bus, because they were turning around to go back to Zapala. So while all the rest of the suckers on my original bus waited around for another 3.5 hours, I hopped on another bus and arrived in Zapala soon after. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
After that episode I kept asking myself why Argentinians are so complacent about all the protesting. Apparently protesters set up road blocks all the time demanding various concessions from the government, like salary increases. Last year the entire farming community got pissed off at the government and blocked all access into the cities, leaving people without dairy products and meat. The day I left Zapala to come back to Chile, there was another road block, making my bus a few hours late. Why doesn't anybody get fed up with it?
Apparently there are a number of explanations, one of them being that the road blocks are effective. Protesters almost always get what they want from the government, in exchange for votes of course. Populism at its finest. Another reason is that there is really not much that can be done to stop the protesters. A few years ago the police were sent to quell an uprising in a city in Neuquen, and a police officer accidentally shot and killed a teacher. So after that the police force stopped intervening. Now people just sit around patiently while protesters disrupt traffic and make the entire population suffer for their demands. I don't know, it just doesn't make much sense to me. Of course, I don't support police intervention either, because it always turns violent. But I feel like Argentina is in some embryonic stage of development, because obviously something is wrong with the government if people have to take to creating road blocks all the time to get what they want. One c
ould argue that it is healthy for people to fight for their rights, but it seems to me that more diplomatic means could be used to solve these issues, or at least means that don't involve making the entire population suffer.
It makes me wonder why I don't see demonstrations like that in the US, or even in Chile for that matter. If I decided to set up a road block in Kansas, what would people do? I know they would definitely not be complacent about it. They would raise hell. But what would the police do? And what is different about our government that makes it so that people don't need to take to the streets? It seems like there is always some public manifestation going on in Argentina. Last summer when I was staying with Facundo in Cordoba, I was awoken every morning by loud protesting outside of the window. People burned stuff, honked horns, and chanted every morning without fail. And of course, that time they were also protesting about wages. It's as if Argentinians just discovered the concept of the protest and are milking it for all it's worth. In my opinion, it's bizarre. But in the opinion of Argentinians I know, it's just everyday stuff, and they don't pay it any attention.
But then again, this is also a country that had almost constant military coups from the 1930s on. What a weird country.
d block made up of car tires. My first thought, as is often my first thought in many situations, was "WTF?". A group of Argentinians with makeshift tents on the side of the road had rolled out a bunch of tires in two straight lines across the road, making it so that no vehicles could pass through. Now, that really pissed me off. First of all, I had been on a bus for the last 15.5 hours, and I was damn ready to get off that bus. Second of all, the Argentinians in charge of that little bitch of a road block were sitting around on their tires, chatting, enjoying themselves as traffic started to build on both sides of their tire blockade. Third, nobody seemed the least bit offended by the road block. In fact, everybody got out of the bus and started to smoke, and chat, and hang out. I appeared to be the only pissed off passenger on that bus.Once people started deboarding the bus, I heatedly paced back and forth for a few minutes, wondering what I should do. I'd be damned if I was going to sit there and take it while those assholes prevented me from arriving in Zapala on time for Facundo's parents to pick me up. So I approached the bus driver and asked him what the road block was for and when it would be over. He told me that the road block had been going on all week and that the protesters were unemployed people who wanted the government to increase unemployment handouts. The road block would open up at 7:00 PM and we would be able to pass through after that. Well, that's fine and dandy, but at that point it was
only 3:30 in the afternoon and I was not going to wait another 3.5 hours. So I asked the bus driver if it would be possible for me to walk around the road block and continue to Zapala on my own. He said yes and allowed me to get my luggage out of the bus. At that point I was seriously considering walking the rest of the way. The only problem was that Zapala was still 20 kilometers away. Lugging my bags for 20 kilometers would have been a bitch, but I figured maybe I could hitch hike the rest of the way there.I got lucky. A bus coming in the opposite direction stopped at the road block, let off a group of people, and those people crossed the road block to my side so that they could board another bus and continue on their way. The drivers of the bus on the other side allowed me to cross over and get on their bus, because they were turning around to go back to Zapala. So while all the rest of the suckers on my original bus waited around for another 3.5 hours, I hopped on another bus and arrived in Zapala soon after. The squeaky wheel gets the grease.
After that episode I kept asking myself why Argentinians are so complacent about all the protesting. Apparently protesters set up road blocks all the time demanding various concessions from the government, like salary increases. Last year the entire farming community got pissed off at the government and blocked all access into the cities, leaving people without dairy products and meat. The day I left Zapala to come back to Chile, there was another road block, making my bus a few hours late. Why doesn't anybody get fed up with it?
Apparently there are a number of explanations, one of them being that the road blocks are effective. Protesters almost always get what they want from the government, in exchange for votes of course. Populism at its finest. Another reason is that there is really not much that can be done to stop the protesters. A few years ago the police were sent to quell an uprising in a city in Neuquen, and a police officer accidentally shot and killed a teacher. So after that the police force stopped intervening. Now people just sit around patiently while protesters disrupt traffic and make the entire population suffer for their demands. I don't know, it just doesn't make much sense to me. Of course, I don't support police intervention either, because it always turns violent. But I feel like Argentina is in some embryonic stage of development, because obviously something is wrong with the government if people have to take to creating road blocks all the time to get what they want. One c
ould argue that it is healthy for people to fight for their rights, but it seems to me that more diplomatic means could be used to solve these issues, or at least means that don't involve making the entire population suffer.It makes me wonder why I don't see demonstrations like that in the US, or even in Chile for that matter. If I decided to set up a road block in Kansas, what would people do? I know they would definitely not be complacent about it. They would raise hell. But what would the police do? And what is different about our government that makes it so that people don't need to take to the streets? It seems like there is always some public manifestation going on in Argentina. Last summer when I was staying with Facundo in Cordoba, I was awoken every morning by loud protesting outside of the window. People burned stuff, honked horns, and chanted every morning without fail. And of course, that time they were also protesting about wages. It's as if Argentinians just discovered the concept of the protest and are milking it for all it's worth. In my opinion, it's bizarre. But in the opinion of Argentinians I know, it's just everyday stuff, and they don't pay it any attention.
But then again, this is also a country that had almost constant military coups from the 1930s on. What a weird country.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Fried Chicken: A New Platonic Form
I am surprised at how strikingly different Chile and Argentina are, given that they are neighbors. I guess it was a little stupid of me to assume that all Latin American countries are generally the same, because they're really not. I especially started realizing this when Facundo got here and pointed out all the differences between Chile and his country. Of course, his observations are pretty discriminatory against Chile, and he often loudly imitates Chileans when we are in the metro surrounded by them.
The most striking difference has been the high level of capitalism in Chile as contrasted with Argentina. In Chile you can find a wide array of American food chains: Dunkin' Donuts, McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Applebee's, Pizza Hut, Subway (most of which I have eaten at during my time here. I'm sorry, okay?). In Argentina, you can only find McDonalds and Burger King. In Chile you can find almost any American import you want. In Argentina you can't find basic things we take for granted like peanut butter, maple syrup, Skittles, Ramen Noodles. It's always an adventure when Facundo and I go to the super market. He gets so excited when he sees stuff like Skittles and Ramen Noodles, because in Argentina he has only come into contact with things like that through me, when I bring him stuff from the US. After the 2001 economic crisis in Argentina, the country closed its borders to a lot of US imports, so most of the American products previously available to Argentinians disappeared. So the last time Facundo tasted fried chicken and maple syrup was eight years ago.
It's been really entertaining to watch Facundo fall in love with capitalism since we've been together and especially since he moved to Santiago. I'll never forget the euphoric look on his face each time he has tried a new American food: first it was Nerds, then Sour Skittles, maple syrup, Reese's peanut butter cups (he is particularly in love with those), Cherry Coke, marshmallow Peeps, burritos, pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut, and finally, today, Kentucky Fried Chicken.
For eight years Facundo has lusted after fried chicken. Once, back in 2001, he ate some fried chicken from a Wal Mart in Argentina, and he has been enamored ever since. He idealizes it to the point where it has become something like one of Plato's Forms. So today, when we decided to go to KFC to have some fried chicken, he got so excited that he could hardly contain himself while we waited in line. We ordered a great big Chicken Box, which contained 3 chicken thighs, 8 nuggets, and 5 chicken strips. I have never seen Facundo rip into food so aggressively or eat so much of it in one sitting. Surprisingly, I think the fried chicken surpassed his expectations. At one point, with his ha
nds covered in chicken grease and a huge smile on his face, Facundo said to me, "Thank you so much, you don't know what this means to me." HAHAHAHAHA.
I really wish I would have brought my camera to take a picture of Facundo's nirvana-like chicken experience. But it'll have to do for now to put up a picture of a bucket of chicken.
I have a feeling we will spend many an afternoon at the KFC in Santiago.
The most striking difference has been the high level of capitalism in Chile as contrasted with Argentina. In Chile you can find a wide array of American food chains: Dunkin' Donuts, McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, Applebee's, Pizza Hut, Subway (most of which I have eaten at during my time here. I'm sorry, okay?). In Argentina, you can only find McDonalds and Burger King. In Chile you can find almost any American import you want. In Argentina you can't find basic things we take for granted like peanut butter, maple syrup, Skittles, Ramen Noodles. It's always an adventure when Facundo and I go to the super market. He gets so excited when he sees stuff like Skittles and Ramen Noodles, because in Argentina he has only come into contact with things like that through me, when I bring him stuff from the US. After the 2001 economic crisis in Argentina, the country closed its borders to a lot of US imports, so most of the American products previously available to Argentinians disappeared. So the last time Facundo tasted fried chicken and maple syrup was eight years ago.
It's been really entertaining to watch Facundo fall in love with capitalism since we've been together and especially since he moved to Santiago. I'll never forget the euphoric look on his face each time he has tried a new American food: first it was Nerds, then Sour Skittles, maple syrup, Reese's peanut butter cups (he is particularly in love with those), Cherry Coke, marshmallow Peeps, burritos, pepperoni pizza from Pizza Hut, and finally, today, Kentucky Fried Chicken.
For eight years Facundo has lusted after fried chicken. Once, back in 2001, he ate some fried chicken from a Wal Mart in Argentina, and he has been enamored ever since. He idealizes it to the point where it has become something like one of Plato's Forms. So today, when we decided to go to KFC to have some fried chicken, he got so excited that he could hardly contain himself while we waited in line. We ordered a great big Chicken Box, which contained 3 chicken thighs, 8 nuggets, and 5 chicken strips. I have never seen Facundo rip into food so aggressively or eat so much of it in one sitting. Surprisingly, I think the fried chicken surpassed his expectations. At one point, with his ha
nds covered in chicken grease and a huge smile on his face, Facundo said to me, "Thank you so much, you don't know what this means to me." HAHAHAHAHA.I really wish I would have brought my camera to take a picture of Facundo's nirvana-like chicken experience. But it'll have to do for now to put up a picture of a bucket of chicken.
I have a feeling we will spend many an afternoon at the KFC in Santiago.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I Ate Raw Meat for Dinner
Last night Facundo dragged me to what seems like the millionth all-latino birthday party I´ve been to with him. Not that I don´t like birthday parties. It´s just that when you get anymore than five latinos together, they start slurring their speech like crazy. It´s like Facundo completely switches languages when he talks to other latinos, because I am suddenly unable to understand what he or anyone else is saying. Alcohol would have helped in this situation, but I wasn´t in the mood to drink, so I had to soberly endure pretending I understood what was going on and inserting a polite laugh in all the right places. To make matters worse, the party attendees were primarily Chileans, which made understanding the conversations doubly more difficult. I still struggle with comprehending Chilean slang, and even Facundo told me he was having trouble following what was going on because of it. As soon as he told me this, I resigned myself to remaining silent, because if my Spanish speaking boyfriend can´t even understand his own language, I am beyond help.
The party would have been as unmemorable as all the other latino parties I have been to were it not for the crudo that the host served for dinner. Crudo is a special Chilean ¨delicacy¨ that, if you didn´t know what it was, you might want to try, just because Chileans absolutely rave about it. But as soon as you realize that crudo is actually ground up raw beef with lemon, salt, and cilantro, you are somewhat sickened. I grew up being taught that raw meat is a food for dogs and that it is not safe because it may contain e-coli and other scary shit like that. But apparently the Chileans didn´t get that memo, because they love that shit.
I first heard of crudo when I was in Valdivia in February. Down there crudo (also known as Tartaro, which is a version of crudo containing raw eggs) is extremely popular, and it is a ritual of sorts for groups of men to get together and eat piles and piles of crudo on toast and drink beer. I first witnessed this at a German bar called Kuntsmann in Puerto Varas. A bunch of raunchy dudes were sitting at a table next to us, drinking lots of beer and talking loudly and eating this messy raw hamburger meat with onions and eggs in it. It looked so nasty. In my opinion, this was man going back to his state of nature: eating raw, bloody meat like pigs. I swore to myself I would never try that disgusting-looking dish.
However, last night I was virtually forced to try it. At first I refused to eat it on principle, but after awhile my hunger really started to get to me. That and Facundo was sitting next to me wolfing it down and going on and on about how delicious it was. So finally I reluctantly spread a little bit of crudo onto a piece of toast and prayed that the meat didn´t contain e-coli.
And, of course, the crudo was delicious.
It didn´t taste so much like raw meat because the lemon and cilantro flavors dominated. Supposedly the lemon in crudo does the job of ¨cooking¨ the meat so that it is safe to eat. As an added bonus, the meat didn´t look very raw, either. It was sort of brown, so I didn´t feel so repulsed. But really, the crudo was quite good. I think I would eat it again, but definitely not with raw eggs in it. This particular crudo didn´t contain raw eggs, fortunately. I would never have tried it otherwise. Raw meat is bad enough, but with raw eggs mixed in it´s just too much.
The picture I´ve attached is actually Tartaro, the crudo that contains raw eggs. The meat in this picture is much redder than the meat I had last night, and looks a lot more disgusting. But it stays pretty true to the essence of crudo.
So in conclusion, I´ve officially eaten raw meat. And liked it.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Canada Finally Did Something Mildly Interesting
Now, I know I like to hate on Canada for being a more boring, less war-prone version of the United States. But I have to hand it to Canadians for making damn good airplanes. My 11-hour flight from Canada to Chile has converted me to Air Canada. Contrary to what I would have thought (maybe because I'm more nationalistic than I'd like to admit), Air Canada is far superior to any American airline I have used.
First of all, it appears that every air craft utilized by Air Canada (and not just the Boeing 777 in the case of other American airlines) features individual TVs mounted on the back of every seat, which becomes really effing important when you have
insomnia on a flight that is 10+ hours long. Second, I noticed as I was passing through first class on my way to economy class (hey, f@#$ you, rich snobs in first class) that the seats in first class are like little space cubbies. Air Canada totally p'owns American Airlines and United in terms of first class seats. What white male business executive or face-lifted ho with a sugar daddy wouldn't want a space-age style first class seat? (The reason I mention white male business executives and hos with sugar daddies is because these are the types I usually see in first class). Air Canada sure knows how to treat its first class passengers.
Also, Air Canada airplanes have mood lighting. Okay? We're talking real mood lighting. As I was sitting in the airplane waiting for our departure from Toronto, I noticed that the lighting in the cabin faded from plain old yellow to violet. WTF? I can't imagine how many millions of dollars Air Canada had to spend just to install mood lighting in its air crafts. But damn, it sure put me in a good mood.
In terms of comparative advantages, that's about all Air Canada has on other airlines, but that's enough for me. Well, I guess I forgot to count the fact that Air Canada airplanes have big red maple leaves on them, which is cool.
But in the end, who really gives a shit about airplane accoutrements? I don't know why I have wasted the last 10 minutes on this subject. But too late.
First of all, it appears that every air craft utilized by Air Canada (and not just the Boeing 777 in the case of other American airlines) features individual TVs mounted on the back of every seat, which becomes really effing important when you have
insomnia on a flight that is 10+ hours long. Second, I noticed as I was passing through first class on my way to economy class (hey, f@#$ you, rich snobs in first class) that the seats in first class are like little space cubbies. Air Canada totally p'owns American Airlines and United in terms of first class seats. What white male business executive or face-lifted ho with a sugar daddy wouldn't want a space-age style first class seat? (The reason I mention white male business executives and hos with sugar daddies is because these are the types I usually see in first class). Air Canada sure knows how to treat its first class passengers.Also, Air Canada airplanes have mood lighting. Okay? We're talking real mood lighting. As I was sitting in the airplane waiting for our departure from Toronto, I noticed that the lighting in the cabin faded from plain old yellow to violet. WTF? I can't imagine how many millions of dollars Air Canada had to spend just to install mood lighting in its air crafts. But damn, it sure put me in a good mood.
In terms of comparative advantages, that's about all Air Canada has on other airlines, but that's enough for me. Well, I guess I forgot to count the fact that Air Canada airplanes have big red maple leaves on them, which is cool.
But in the end, who really gives a shit about airplane accoutrements? I don't know why I have wasted the last 10 minutes on this subject. But too late.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Quitting Cold Turkey
I've decided to go on a non-soda diet. It's a lot like taking a pacifier away from a baby, or removing a narc-addict's heroin supply. Imagining a meal without Coke or Fanta is difficult for me, and I don't know how I am going to deal with not having my morning Fanta before class.
The diet was brought on by a concern for my weight, which is typical of any female, but heightened by my sustained exposure to strict South American weight standards. Contrary to what one might assume, weight standards in South America are more rigid than weight standards in the US, which after a little thought doesn't come as so much of a surprise, since Americans are so grossly overweight. Lacking the plethora of fast food chains and processed food so widely available to us in the US, South Americans don't gain weight quite as easily as we do, and they're generally skinnier. They also seem more critical of overweight people, which of course makes me paranoid about my own weight.
But whether I am overweight or not, I think the non-soda choice was a wise one. At least it will make me healthier in the long run and wean me off of an unhealthy addiction. As I am only on day two of this diet, I can't make any sweeping statements about it yet, because I could easily grab a Coke from the fridge tomorrow and wreck the whole thing. But I'm going to stick it out as long as possible, meanwhile making up for my sudden drop in caffeine/sugar intake by gorging on chocolate and Laffy Taffy. Wholesome trade-off.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Factory Farming and Friedrich Nietzsche
Today I finished reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, which took me a total of four months to read (although, in my defense, I didn't pick the book up once during the entire quarter). It was a good book, but not good for my appetite, since it delves into great detail about the evils
of the industrial food system in the US. I'm not sure which image disturbed me more: the one of hormone-injected chickens stuffed six to a shoebox-sized cage in a room filled with 3,000 other identical cages; the one of thousands of sardined cows milling around in a foot-deep lake of their own shit; or the one of spare cow parts being mashed up and used as chicken feed. The bottom line is that at dinner today I was unable to bring myself to touch the chicken chunks in my chicken and noodles. It sort of makes me want to go back to Chile, where at least I can rest assured that my food is not tainted with petrochemicals, hormones, and heaps of corn. I don't think the book will affect my diet in the long run, as my high-fat, high-carbohydrate, high-junk eating habits are deeply ingrained. However, it did significantly disconcert me, so that each time I eat I ponder the long, dirty chain of industrial events that gave birth to that particular food item.
Now I am reading Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, which is considerably less entertaining than The Omnivore's Dilemma. It is written in Biblical form (a lot of thous, thys, and verbs ending in -eth) and contains a lot of allegory and metaphor, which are literary devices I have not come into contact with for quite some time, since I don't usually read literature. I'm more into nonfiction. But I think it's about time I read Zarathustra because it is supposedly Nietzsche's greatest work, and if I claim to be a Nietzsche fan, then I need to read it. I've already read The Antichrist, The Genealogy of Morals, and The Gay Science, so this one shouldn't be too new or different. I just hope I get through it quickly so I can move on to Guns, Germs, and Steel. But since I'm such a damn slow reader, I'll probably abandon Zarathustra halfway through and never finish it. Oh, the things I put myself through to try to qualify as an intellectual...
of the industrial food system in the US. I'm not sure which image disturbed me more: the one of hormone-injected chickens stuffed six to a shoebox-sized cage in a room filled with 3,000 other identical cages; the one of thousands of sardined cows milling around in a foot-deep lake of their own shit; or the one of spare cow parts being mashed up and used as chicken feed. The bottom line is that at dinner today I was unable to bring myself to touch the chicken chunks in my chicken and noodles. It sort of makes me want to go back to Chile, where at least I can rest assured that my food is not tainted with petrochemicals, hormones, and heaps of corn. I don't think the book will affect my diet in the long run, as my high-fat, high-carbohydrate, high-junk eating habits are deeply ingrained. However, it did significantly disconcert me, so that each time I eat I ponder the long, dirty chain of industrial events that gave birth to that particular food item. Now I am reading Nietzsche's Thus Spake Zarathustra, which is considerably less entertaining than The Omnivore's Dilemma. It is written in Biblical form (a lot of thous, thys, and verbs ending in -eth) and contains a lot of allegory and metaphor, which are literary devices I have not come into contact with for quite some time, since I don't usually read literature. I'm more into nonfiction. But I think it's about time I read Zarathustra because it is supposedly Nietzsche's greatest work, and if I claim to be a Nietzsche fan, then I need to read it. I've already read The Antichrist, The Genealogy of Morals, and The Gay Science, so this one shouldn't be too new or different. I just hope I get through it quickly so I can move on to Guns, Germs, and Steel. But since I'm such a damn slow reader, I'll probably abandon Zarathustra halfway through and never finish it. Oh, the things I put myself through to try to qualify as an intellectual...
War of the Worlds
I'm back in Ark City for spring break, the plane ticket for which is being funded by a Stanford University loan. It feels so good to defer financial responsibility to the future. But then when I get to thinking about it, as often happens when I return to Ark City and start thinking about things while I sit in my room doing jack shit, it really doesn't feel so good. I'm sure I will kick myself a few years from now when I have to start paying off all of these loans. Then again, I'm living the kind of life I always wanted, at the expense of a few thousand dollars that shouldn't be so difficult to pay off once I have a career. As my economics professors always say, going to a top university is a long-term investment in human capital that more than pays for itself over time. Sounds great in theory. Oh, theory.
On another note, it seems that every time I come back to Ark City I feel more and more removed from this place. Of course, things with my family and cats never change, as they are my foundations. But as I get older and experience more things, I feel less able to relate to my old friends, less able to recall life before Stanford, and less able to enjoy myself here for a sustained period. Everything from the things we talk about, to the movies we like, to the type of people we interact with on a daily basis is completely different, maybe even opposite. It's like our spheres of life experience don't even overlap anymore, and we have hardly anything to say to each other. It's not that I don't love my old friends. It's just that the bonds holding us together are growing weaker, and the only thing we have in common anymore is our history together, things of the past. I suppose that is life, something that happens with anyone who moves away from their home town. But that doesn't make it any less of a strange sensation, and it certainly doesn't make me feel any less awkward.
What makes it all the more awkward is that I still don't feel completely integrated into the Stanford community. I feel suspended between the Ark City world and the Stanford world, like I don't really belong anywhere. I don't want to snub Ark City like a pretentious bitch, and I don't want to reject the Stanford community like a rich people hater (which I am). It's just that I feel like I've moved beyond the Ark City mentality, which as patronizing as it may sound, is a narrow, almost elementary mentality that I find harder to understand the older I get. My increasingly negative opinions regarding Ark City are very upsetting to me, because I don't want to become pretentious or high-minded, and I don't want to be viewed as someone who walks around with her nose in the air. Maybe with time I will be able to reconcile these conflicting feelings, but right now I am very confused. My parents want me to come home for the summer, and it's not that I don't want to spend time with them, but I don't know if I could endure living in Ark City for longer than a couple of weeks. It's like being placed in a time warp bubble or something, because absolutely nothing happens when I am here.
Ark City is not all bad. It's nice to come home and have some down time. I can spend all day reading if I want, or watching shitty dating shows on VH1, or watching movies with my parents, or spending some quality time with my girls (that is, my cats). As much as I bitch about Ark City, it's good to come touch base once in awhile and remember where I came from. The last thing I want to do is completely reject this place in favor of a pretentious, yuppy life. I may abhor goat roping hicks, but I also hate rich yuppies. Hopefully with time I will be able to reach a happy medium. But right now I have to go because it's time to watch For the Love of Ray J on VH1.
On another note, it seems that every time I come back to Ark City I feel more and more removed from this place. Of course, things with my family and cats never change, as they are my foundations. But as I get older and experience more things, I feel less able to relate to my old friends, less able to recall life before Stanford, and less able to enjoy myself here for a sustained period. Everything from the things we talk about, to the movies we like, to the type of people we interact with on a daily basis is completely different, maybe even opposite. It's like our spheres of life experience don't even overlap anymore, and we have hardly anything to say to each other. It's not that I don't love my old friends. It's just that the bonds holding us together are growing weaker, and the only thing we have in common anymore is our history together, things of the past. I suppose that is life, something that happens with anyone who moves away from their home town. But that doesn't make it any less of a strange sensation, and it certainly doesn't make me feel any less awkward.
What makes it all the more awkward is that I still don't feel completely integrated into the Stanford community. I feel suspended between the Ark City world and the Stanford world, like I don't really belong anywhere. I don't want to snub Ark City like a pretentious bitch, and I don't want to reject the Stanford community like a rich people hater (which I am). It's just that I feel like I've moved beyond the Ark City mentality, which as patronizing as it may sound, is a narrow, almost elementary mentality that I find harder to understand the older I get. My increasingly negative opinions regarding Ark City are very upsetting to me, because I don't want to become pretentious or high-minded, and I don't want to be viewed as someone who walks around with her nose in the air. Maybe with time I will be able to reconcile these conflicting feelings, but right now I am very confused. My parents want me to come home for the summer, and it's not that I don't want to spend time with them, but I don't know if I could endure living in Ark City for longer than a couple of weeks. It's like being placed in a time warp bubble or something, because absolutely nothing happens when I am here.
Ark City is not all bad. It's nice to come home and have some down time. I can spend all day reading if I want, or watching shitty dating shows on VH1, or watching movies with my parents, or spending some quality time with my girls (that is, my cats). As much as I bitch about Ark City, it's good to come touch base once in awhile and remember where I came from. The last thing I want to do is completely reject this place in favor of a pretentious, yuppy life. I may abhor goat roping hicks, but I also hate rich yuppies. Hopefully with time I will be able to reach a happy medium. But right now I have to go because it's time to watch For the Love of Ray J on VH1.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Lider: The Capitalist Mecca
In spite of my strong desire to sleep given that it's 2:30 in the morning, my faithfulness to my blog is undying.
As a native of Capitalistan (for those of you who aren't familiar with its second name, I'm talking about the United States), I like to think I know a thing or two about capitalism. I also like to think that all things capitalist, big and small, great and not-so-great, begin and end in the US of A. For 21 years of my life, until this very day, March 18 of 2009, I believed that Wal Mart-esque mega gigantic superstores only existed in the US. I believed with all my heart that the Arkansas City, Kansas Super Wal Mart was the apotheosis of capitalistic greatness. Only in the US could such vast expanses of concrete and metal house such a large plethora of manufactured products and processed foods. Only in the US could one buy everything one needed in the same place: school supplies, tooth paste, motor oil, DVDs, Ramen noodles, flash lights, medicines, laundry detergent.
But today my image of US capitalistic domination crumbled. Today I saw the hugest effing superstore in existence, and it was not in the US. It was in Chile.
Instead of Wal Mart, Chile is home to a similar chain called Lider (which, according to Facundo, was recently 50% bought out by Wal Mart). Now, I have seen my fair share of Liders in Santiago, and most of them are small, unremarkable vendors of food items. But today, when I was visiting the Vitacura commune where Facundo lives, I came across the mother of all Liders. This place was huge. Not Super Wal Mart huge. We're talking Super Fucking Mega Wal Mart huge. As I entered, I immediately commented to Facundo that the place was strikingly similar to Wal Mart. Then, as I explored its vast depths, I quickly realized that it was strikingly better than Wal Mart. First of all, its shoe section meant serious business. There were women's boots of all sizes, shapes, and colors lining the walls. I personally have never seen any Super Wal Mart with that kind of shoe selection. Secondly, the food section was not playing around. I saw every kind of fruit in existence, including fruits I didn't know existed. There was a liquor section the size of a liquor store.There were at least 20 smoked pork legs on display. There was an entire station dedicated to lunch meat. There was a cafe. There was a school supply section the size of a small bookstore. The list goes on. I spent about 10 minutes in complete awe. And keep in mind that a born-and-bred US capitalist is not easily awed by other countries' capitalism. Especially countries in the third world. But Chile, I bow down to your greatness. You have outdone us.
It required a serious amount of self control to walk away from Lider without spending my entire life's savings. In fact, I am proud to say I actually walked away having only spent about $US7. I will admit, though, that I went back to Lider for a second time a few hours later, just to wander its aisles and absorb its greatness. Lider is the Mecca for one-stop-shoppers, a holy land to which I hope to return again and again.
As a native of Capitalistan (for those of you who aren't familiar with its second name, I'm talking about the United States), I like to think I know a thing or two about capitalism. I also like to think that all things capitalist, big and small, great and not-so-great, begin and end in the US of A. For 21 years of my life, until this very day, March 18 of 2009, I believed that Wal Mart-esque mega gigantic superstores only existed in the US. I believed with all my heart that the Arkansas City, Kansas Super Wal Mart was the apotheosis of capitalistic greatness. Only in the US could such vast expanses of concrete and metal house such a large plethora of manufactured products and processed foods. Only in the US could one buy everything one needed in the same place: school supplies, tooth paste, motor oil, DVDs, Ramen noodles, flash lights, medicines, laundry detergent.
But today my image of US capitalistic domination crumbled. Today I saw the hugest effing superstore in existence, and it was not in the US. It was in Chile.
Instead of Wal Mart, Chile is home to a similar chain called Lider (which, according to Facundo, was recently 50% bought out by Wal Mart). Now, I have seen my fair share of Liders in Santiago, and most of them are small, unremarkable vendors of food items. But today, when I was visiting the Vitacura commune where Facundo lives, I came across the mother of all Liders. This place was huge. Not Super Wal Mart huge. We're talking Super Fucking Mega Wal Mart huge. As I entered, I immediately commented to Facundo that the place was strikingly similar to Wal Mart. Then, as I explored its vast depths, I quickly realized that it was strikingly better than Wal Mart. First of all, its shoe section meant serious business. There were women's boots of all sizes, shapes, and colors lining the walls. I personally have never seen any Super Wal Mart with that kind of shoe selection. Secondly, the food section was not playing around. I saw every kind of fruit in existence, including fruits I didn't know existed. There was a liquor section the size of a liquor store.There were at least 20 smoked pork legs on display. There was an entire station dedicated to lunch meat. There was a cafe. There was a school supply section the size of a small bookstore. The list goes on. I spent about 10 minutes in complete awe. And keep in mind that a born-and-bred US capitalist is not easily awed by other countries' capitalism. Especially countries in the third world. But Chile, I bow down to your greatness. You have outdone us.
It required a serious amount of self control to walk away from Lider without spending my entire life's savings. In fact, I am proud to say I actually walked away having only spent about $US7. I will admit, though, that I went back to Lider for a second time a few hours later, just to wander its aisles and absorb its greatness. Lider is the Mecca for one-stop-shoppers, a holy land to which I hope to return again and again.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Awana Slap a Bitch
No matter how many times it happens to me, rejection never hurts any less. Of course, nobody likes rejection, so writing my second blog entry bitching about rejection is really nothing interesting or new. But I still gotta do it.
In what appears to be Chapter 1,372,404 of my self-titled series Buff Sucks, I have been rejected from a llama farm that I didn't even technically apply to in the first place. And this isn't polite, but I need to say it: Fuck you, Awana Kancha llama farm. Ahhh, that feels better.
After a long and drawn-out correspondence stretching over several weeks, today it culminated in a highly disappointing "no" on Awana Kancha's part, particularly painful because the co-owner had buttered me up and made me think I had virtually snagged a free 3-month stay in the Sacred Valley in exchange for scooping the shit and shearing the fur of llamas.
The most entertaining part of the rejection was the reason behind it: Awana Kancha is afraid I will take its private business information and share it with other people. HA. A llama farm with business secrets. Maybe they secretly inject their llamas with a magic serum that makes their fur extra soft, and they're afraid other llama farms will steal the idea. I didn't realize that llama farming was such a competitive industry. Cutting-edge stuff. Anyhow, in a nutshell the co-owner informed me that I could essentially not be trusted because nobody on the farm knows me. Even though a) I was basically only asking to volunteer as a llama shit scooper, b) I don't give two shits about the business side of llama farming, and c) I'm about as threatening as a llama.
On a positive note, the co-owner did offer me free lodging and food for the summer. He said I could hang out, visit the farm, help the local veterinarian, and basically piddle around for a few months. That sounds like fun, but I rejected the offer, because I don't feel right accepting all that free stuff in exchange for nothing. Plus, there is so much pressure to do something "important" over the summer that I wouldn't be able to deal with the guilt of just dicking around in Peru for three months.
Why, Stanford? Why have you driven me to searching for obscure jobs in foreign countries?
In what appears to be Chapter 1,372,404 of my self-titled series Buff Sucks, I have been rejected from a llama farm that I didn't even technically apply to in the first place. And this isn't polite, but I need to say it: Fuck you, Awana Kancha llama farm. Ahhh, that feels better.
After a long and drawn-out correspondence stretching over several weeks, today it culminated in a highly disappointing "no" on Awana Kancha's part, particularly painful because the co-owner had buttered me up and made me think I had virtually snagged a free 3-month stay in the Sacred Valley in exchange for scooping the shit and shearing the fur of llamas.
The most entertaining part of the rejection was the reason behind it: Awana Kancha is afraid I will take its private business information and share it with other people. HA. A llama farm with business secrets. Maybe they secretly inject their llamas with a magic serum that makes their fur extra soft, and they're afraid other llama farms will steal the idea. I didn't realize that llama farming was such a competitive industry. Cutting-edge stuff. Anyhow, in a nutshell the co-owner informed me that I could essentially not be trusted because nobody on the farm knows me. Even though a) I was basically only asking to volunteer as a llama shit scooper, b) I don't give two shits about the business side of llama farming, and c) I'm about as threatening as a llama.
On a positive note, the co-owner did offer me free lodging and food for the summer. He said I could hang out, visit the farm, help the local veterinarian, and basically piddle around for a few months. That sounds like fun, but I rejected the offer, because I don't feel right accepting all that free stuff in exchange for nothing. Plus, there is so much pressure to do something "important" over the summer that I wouldn't be able to deal with the guilt of just dicking around in Peru for three months.
Why, Stanford? Why have you driven me to searching for obscure jobs in foreign countries?
Geese That Shit Golden Eggs
I should be at the university right now cramming for my political science final, but since my host grandma is in the bathroom taking her daily hour and a half-long shower and I still haven't had mine, I have some time to kill.
I've noticed by the exchange rates posted on the casas de cambio (places where you can exchange dollars for Chilean pesos and vice versa) that the dollar is falling more and more everyday. Up until recently I've been able to avoid the pains of the economic crisis that the U.S. is experiencing, since I haven't really been there for an extended period since last August. But now I'm starting to feel it, because Chile is gradually getting more and more expensive for me. When I first got here in January, the exchange rate was about 640 pesos to the dollar. Now it's fallen to 590 pesos to the dollar, and things like food and drinks are putting a bigger and bigger dent in my budget. I'm already in debt, and living abroad renders impossible my ability to make money, since I have no work visa. Why couldn't Stanford host a program in Argentina or Bolivia, where the dollar is strong? I think I know the answer to that, though. Stanford has to protect its precious student resources, so it sets up shop in the most developed countries. Plus, since most of us are rich, buying mundane stuff like food and drink is no problem, no matter how expensive it is. And I guess Stanford is afraid we might get caught in the line of fire where, in Bolivia for example, the president just implemented agrarian reform and decided to expropriate all the rich people's land. Or maybe it doesn't want to expose us to the constant civil strife in Argentina caused by its plastified bitch of a president. But anyway, Stanford preserves us in a bubble of steel wherever we go. Great way to expose us to the real world.
Speaking of which, I didn't realize it until Facundo pointed it out, but Stanford really does treat us like geese that shit golden eggs. The process of entering the program center here in Santiago is kind of ridiculous. The entrance to the center is always locked, and you have to enter a code into a special key pad in order to unlock it. It's kind of like a less high-tech version of Minority Report, where you can only enter high security locations once your eye has been scanned by a laser. I brought Facundo with me to the center the other day and had to ask permission for him to be there. When the receptionist first saw Facundo, an uneasy look came across his face, and he went and fetched the program coordinator to make sure Facundo was allowed. It's as if anyone not in the Stanford program is guilty until proven innocent, some South American terrorist whose mission it is to assassinate Stanford students. One time a woman came to the entrance and knocked on the door since she didn't know the special code, so I let her in without thinking twice. Afterwards I received a stern lecture from the program coordinator about letting strangers into the center. WTF man.
Oh Stanford.
I've noticed by the exchange rates posted on the casas de cambio (places where you can exchange dollars for Chilean pesos and vice versa) that the dollar is falling more and more everyday. Up until recently I've been able to avoid the pains of the economic crisis that the U.S. is experiencing, since I haven't really been there for an extended period since last August. But now I'm starting to feel it, because Chile is gradually getting more and more expensive for me. When I first got here in January, the exchange rate was about 640 pesos to the dollar. Now it's fallen to 590 pesos to the dollar, and things like food and drinks are putting a bigger and bigger dent in my budget. I'm already in debt, and living abroad renders impossible my ability to make money, since I have no work visa. Why couldn't Stanford host a program in Argentina or Bolivia, where the dollar is strong? I think I know the answer to that, though. Stanford has to protect its precious student resources, so it sets up shop in the most developed countries. Plus, since most of us are rich, buying mundane stuff like food and drink is no problem, no matter how expensive it is. And I guess Stanford is afraid we might get caught in the line of fire where, in Bolivia for example, the president just implemented agrarian reform and decided to expropriate all the rich people's land. Or maybe it doesn't want to expose us to the constant civil strife in Argentina caused by its plastified bitch of a president. But anyway, Stanford preserves us in a bubble of steel wherever we go. Great way to expose us to the real world.
Speaking of which, I didn't realize it until Facundo pointed it out, but Stanford really does treat us like geese that shit golden eggs. The process of entering the program center here in Santiago is kind of ridiculous. The entrance to the center is always locked, and you have to enter a code into a special key pad in order to unlock it. It's kind of like a less high-tech version of Minority Report, where you can only enter high security locations once your eye has been scanned by a laser. I brought Facundo with me to the center the other day and had to ask permission for him to be there. When the receptionist first saw Facundo, an uneasy look came across his face, and he went and fetched the program coordinator to make sure Facundo was allowed. It's as if anyone not in the Stanford program is guilty until proven innocent, some South American terrorist whose mission it is to assassinate Stanford students. One time a woman came to the entrance and knocked on the door since she didn't know the special code, so I let her in without thinking twice. Afterwards I received a stern lecture from the program coordinator about letting strangers into the center. WTF man.
Oh Stanford.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Terremoto
My sincerest apologies to all of my avid readers (as I'm sure there are many of you) for abandoning my blog these past few days. I promised myself that I would not abandon my blog, as it is my newest obsession.
The reason for my sudden negligence was Facundo's arrival in Chile on March 11. After many months of cajoling on my part and trying to obtain a long-awaited document on Facundo's part, he finally made it safely across the Chile-Argentina border. We had actually broken up in December due to distance and travel complications, but we have decided to get back together now that the situation lends itself to an actual relationship, as opposed to a long-distance relationship, which we endured for about a year and a half. Long story short, these past few days I have been showing Facundo around and introducing him to all my friends, so I haven't had much time to blog.
Anyhow, this past Friday after our last class of the quarter, a few of us girls had an "epic day" involving seafood empanadas at Mercado Central, terremotos (I'll explain more later) at La Piojera, and horse races. Unfortunately I missed out on the horse races as I had other business to attend to, but the seafood empanadas and terremotos were quite enough to make my day epic.
The terremoto is a phenomenon worthy of extensive elaboration. La Piojera is a Peruvian restaurant located near Plaza de Armas--which, let me remind you, is teeming with Peruvians, my host mom warns me--with the ambience of a saloon, replete with drunken cowboys (South American style), stray cats, and slapped together wooden tables. La Piojera is famous for the terremoto, which is an alcoholic beverage containing pineapple ice cream, white wine, and some unidentified liqueur, served in a classy plastic cup. It sounds pretty delicious, I know, but don't be fooled. It's actually pretty nasty until you've started on your second one, by which point you are already too tipsy to really care. And let me tell you, the terremoto (translation: earthquake) certainly fits its title. Simply enter La Piojera, take a look at the clusters of loud, obnoxious, completely wasted men, and you'll know that the terremoto is at work. Every table is littered with half-consumed plastic cups of terremoto, accompanied by a cloister of sleazy, disgusting, sweaty men in their mid-40s wearing business suits (they must have come directly from work to get wasted). La Piojera is not a place for the socially refined. Nor is it a place for a group of girls, as the instant I entered the restaurant I realized that we were the only girls in a room swimming with the aforementioned sketchy men. As the four of us sat down, I felt that I was being eaten alive by the stares of predatorial drunkards. The table next to us was occupied by a group of particularly obnoxious men, who proceeded to take out their cell phones and take pictures of us. This pissed me off, so I gave the group of men the finger and told them to stop taking pictures of us, to which they responded with some incoherent babbling. After awhile I started feeling a little friendlier (oh alcohol) and ended up enjoying myself, so much so that I brought Facundo with me the next day. I felt a little more secure in male company, but that didn't stop the drunks from whistling and carrying on. That, along with the pregnant cat moseying around searching for food scraps, and the South American cowboy accordion player, gave La Piojera a true twilight zone-like atmosphere. At the same time, I think it's pretty representative of the campo (country side) of South America. Nothing touristy about it. Just real people in a real crappy restaurant drinking real bad alcohol having a real good time. An experience to be had.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Paco's Anticlimactic Public Debut
I have come to the conclusion that Chileans take themselves too seriously. Admittedly, they are nowhere near as cold and stuffy as Russians, but they are remarkably void of a sense of humor (at least in public). They don't call this place the England of South America for nothing.
But let me justify that statement. Today I had to take Paco, my giant stuffed llama, with me to school because s
ome students needed him for a presentation. Paco is anything but inconspicuous, as he is three feet tall and not easy to conceal. I was not thrilled about having to carry him with me downtown and into the metro, but I didn't want to let my friends down. I sat at home this morning, trying to think of a way to get Paco to the university without hurting my pride. I considered taking a taxi but decided against it given the extra cost. I considered calling my friend and telling her to come pick up Paco, but that was too inconvenient. Finally I resolved to muster up the confidence and head out the door with Paco under my arm, wearing my sunglasses so that people could not look me in the eyes with their penetrating, judgmental gazes. I also wore a particularly bitchy look on my face to balance out the ridiculousness of the stuffed llama under my arm, so that people would think twice if they wanted to criticize or judge the gringa with the llama.
Sure enough, it appears that no one judged or criticized. In fact, I don't think anyone even noticed. But that's impossible. In a crowded metro, how could one not notice? My conclusion is that the Chileans did notice, but they take themselves entirely too seriously to laugh, break a smile, or even acknowledge anything out of the ordinary. Or maybe they could feel my embarrassment and decided to give me a break by pretending they didn't notice how stupid I looked carrying a giant stuffed llama onto the metro. Either way, in the United States the public reaction to such a spectacle would have been much more varied and interesting. I must admit I was a little disappointed at the Chileans' lack of interest. I thought that at least the experience would provide me with some good blog material. But ex post facto, I realize that I should not have been so afraid to carry the llama in public. I could walk around with a leg growing out of my head and Chileans wouldn't notice.
But let me justify that statement. Today I had to take Paco, my giant stuffed llama, with me to school because s
ome students needed him for a presentation. Paco is anything but inconspicuous, as he is three feet tall and not easy to conceal. I was not thrilled about having to carry him with me downtown and into the metro, but I didn't want to let my friends down. I sat at home this morning, trying to think of a way to get Paco to the university without hurting my pride. I considered taking a taxi but decided against it given the extra cost. I considered calling my friend and telling her to come pick up Paco, but that was too inconvenient. Finally I resolved to muster up the confidence and head out the door with Paco under my arm, wearing my sunglasses so that people could not look me in the eyes with their penetrating, judgmental gazes. I also wore a particularly bitchy look on my face to balance out the ridiculousness of the stuffed llama under my arm, so that people would think twice if they wanted to criticize or judge the gringa with the llama.Sure enough, it appears that no one judged or criticized. In fact, I don't think anyone even noticed. But that's impossible. In a crowded metro, how could one not notice? My conclusion is that the Chileans did notice, but they take themselves entirely too seriously to laugh, break a smile, or even acknowledge anything out of the ordinary. Or maybe they could feel my embarrassment and decided to give me a break by pretending they didn't notice how stupid I looked carrying a giant stuffed llama onto the metro. Either way, in the United States the public reaction to such a spectacle would have been much more varied and interesting. I must admit I was a little disappointed at the Chileans' lack of interest. I thought that at least the experience would provide me with some good blog material. But ex post facto, I realize that I should not have been so afraid to carry the llama in public. I could walk around with a leg growing out of my head and Chileans wouldn't notice.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
|LA| > |LL|
Jane and I took a nice outing to the Buin Zoo yesterday. I had been wanting to go there for quite some time, as I get thrills out of observing animals in captivity (not really). The truth is, I had heard the zoo had llamas, alpacas, and guanacos, and it's been a long time since I actually saw a camelid in person. And of course, if I am going to work on a llama farm for three months (knock on wood again), I need to be 100% certain that I love these animals enough to scoop their shit everyday.
Indeed, after my zoo outing, I still love camelids. In fact, if anything my love for them has grown. To be exact, my love for alpacas has grown and my love for llamas has diminished. However, given that LA = increase in love for alpacas, and LL = decrease in love for llamas,
|LA| > |LL|
In other words, after seeing the llamas, I am a bit disappointed, but not as excited as I am about the alpacas. The reason for my disapointment regarding the llamas is two-fold: 1) they are much larger than I had imagined them to be, and 2) they are dirty and swarming with flies. However, the alpacas more than made up for the llamas. First of all, alpacas are more compact--about 4 feet in stature with shorter noses than the llamas. Secondly, they are fluffy and have the softest fur ever. Thirdly, they are by far the cutest camelid there is. And fourthly, I got to touch a baby one at the petting zoo. As for guanacos, they look just like llamas except they come in only one color: light brown.
But I think I've exhausted the camelid topic. Besides, they were not my favorite
exhibit at the zoo. Jane and I agree that the best exhibit was the Hamadryas baboon (as shown in the picture). I had never seen one in person before, and his likeness to a human blew our minds. The lone baboon sat on a branch the entire time we observed him, with his arms around his knees looking pensive. There was something so disturbingly human about it. I've seen enough chimps in my life to know that apes act like humans, but this baboon was way cooler than any chimp.
In summation, the Buin Zoo was an enlightening experience at the expense of a large number of captive animals. The living conditions were favorable in comparison to other zoos, but my conscience cringes a little at the concept of paying to go stare at a bunch of animals trapped in cages. Maybe one day karma will come back to haunt me, and I'll end up in a cage somewhere, being scrutinized by baboons...
Indeed, after my zoo outing, I still love camelids. In fact, if anything my love for them has grown. To be exact, my love for alpacas has grown and my love for llamas has diminished. However, given that LA = increase in love for alpacas, and LL = decrease in love for llamas,
|LA| > |LL|
In other words, after seeing the llamas, I am a bit disappointed, but not as excited as I am about the alpacas. The reason for my disapointment regarding the llamas is two-fold: 1) they are much larger than I had imagined them to be, and 2) they are dirty and swarming with flies. However, the alpacas more than made up for the llamas. First of all, alpacas are more compact--about 4 feet in stature with shorter noses than the llamas. Secondly, they are fluffy and have the softest fur ever. Thirdly, they are by far the cutest camelid there is. And fourthly, I got to touch a baby one at the petting zoo. As for guanacos, they look just like llamas except they come in only one color: light brown.
But I think I've exhausted the camelid topic. Besides, they were not my favorite
exhibit at the zoo. Jane and I agree that the best exhibit was the Hamadryas baboon (as shown in the picture). I had never seen one in person before, and his likeness to a human blew our minds. The lone baboon sat on a branch the entire time we observed him, with his arms around his knees looking pensive. There was something so disturbingly human about it. I've seen enough chimps in my life to know that apes act like humans, but this baboon was way cooler than any chimp.In summation, the Buin Zoo was an enlightening experience at the expense of a large number of captive animals. The living conditions were favorable in comparison to other zoos, but my conscience cringes a little at the concept of paying to go stare at a bunch of animals trapped in cages. Maybe one day karma will come back to haunt me, and I'll end up in a cage somewhere, being scrutinized by baboons...
Friday, March 6, 2009
P'owned by the State Department
I am officially a professional reject. After months of anxiously waiting for a response from the State Department for a Critical Language Scholarship I applied for back in November, I have received my official "fuck off, you suck" letter. These letters are beginning to take on a character of their own. If such rejection letters were a human, they would be a bitchy woman in her mid-50s wearing a pant suit and glasses, typing away at a computer, too busy to look me in the face while she says "bitch, get out of my office, there are 5000 more kids just like you waiting in line". Oh, rejection. How compassionate you are.
All rejection letters follow a similar format. One of my favorite aspects of this format is the line that reads: "We thank you for applying to the [enter program here] and applaud your desire to [enter program activity here]. We received more than [enter outlandish number here] qualified applications for the [enter tiny number here] available scholarships". You applaud my desire? Great, that's nice. I can just picture a bunch of tight wads in business attire sitting around a long table, "applauding" my hopes and dreams. Do you know where your "applause" gets me, assholes? Nowhere. That's right. NOwhere. But anyway, thanks for applauding me. It makes me feel like a little bit less of a loser.
All right, I'll grant the fact that I wasn't particularly gung-ho about going back to Russia. It is, put simply, a miserable hemorrhoid on the ass of the earth. However, I had put a large sum of my proverbial "eggs" into the Russia "basket". I studied abroad there, learned some Russian, am minoring in Russian Studies, and even thought about going to graduate school in Russian Studies. This Critical Language Program was just one more step on the old resume/career ladder, eventually leading to a position as a Russia specialist in the U.S. government (oh, me and my silly dreams). Thank you, State Department, for reminding me how unpractical it is to dream.
Now, one might wonder why I harbor such bitterness toward the State Department. It's not just because it serves the dirty function of entrenching U.S. hegemony. Oh, no. It's simply because I've already been rejected before from the State Department. I applied for an internship there as well, to which the State Department responded "bitch, please". After two rejections, I am starting to realize that Buff Bagot was perhaps not cut out for the State Department. They are probably asking themselves, "can't she get the picture?"
Well you know what, State Department? I've got something bigger and better going for me. You know what it is? A llama farm. Okay, fine, maybe a llama farm isn't bigger or better, but it's certainly cooler.
Please, llama farm owners in Peru, please don't reject me.
All rejection letters follow a similar format. One of my favorite aspects of this format is the line that reads: "We thank you for applying to the [enter program here] and applaud your desire to [enter program activity here]. We received more than [enter outlandish number here] qualified applications for the [enter tiny number here] available scholarships". You applaud my desire? Great, that's nice. I can just picture a bunch of tight wads in business attire sitting around a long table, "applauding" my hopes and dreams. Do you know where your "applause" gets me, assholes? Nowhere. That's right. NOwhere. But anyway, thanks for applauding me. It makes me feel like a little bit less of a loser.
All right, I'll grant the fact that I wasn't particularly gung-ho about going back to Russia. It is, put simply, a miserable hemorrhoid on the ass of the earth. However, I had put a large sum of my proverbial "eggs" into the Russia "basket". I studied abroad there, learned some Russian, am minoring in Russian Studies, and even thought about going to graduate school in Russian Studies. This Critical Language Program was just one more step on the old resume/career ladder, eventually leading to a position as a Russia specialist in the U.S. government (oh, me and my silly dreams). Thank you, State Department, for reminding me how unpractical it is to dream.
Now, one might wonder why I harbor such bitterness toward the State Department. It's not just because it serves the dirty function of entrenching U.S. hegemony. Oh, no. It's simply because I've already been rejected before from the State Department. I applied for an internship there as well, to which the State Department responded "bitch, please". After two rejections, I am starting to realize that Buff Bagot was perhaps not cut out for the State Department. They are probably asking themselves, "can't she get the picture?"
Well you know what, State Department? I've got something bigger and better going for me. You know what it is? A llama farm. Okay, fine, maybe a llama farm isn't bigger or better, but it's certainly cooler.
Please, llama farm owners in Peru, please don't reject me.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Awana Kancha
On a lighter note, my Tahir Shah-inspired dream of working on a llama farm in Peru is gradually becoming a reality. At the risk of jinxing this whole thing (knock on wood), I have been corresponding with one of the owners of a llama farm in the Sacred Valley. He responded positively, and he is going to bring the subject up in a committee meeting next week. He said he should have a definite yes or no for me by next week, so I am keeping my fingers crossed until then. Based on what he has told me, it appears that the rest of the staff will be receptive to the idea. He even told me he already has a place for me to live while I'm working there. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up yet, but it's a little difficult when such cute animals are involved.I should elaborate a bit about the llama farm I am talking about. It's called Awana Kancha, and it's located in the Sacred Valley of Peru (near Macchu Picchu) outside the city of Cuzco. I came across it during a pathetically vague Google search (key word: "llama farm Peru"), which produced a shit ton of results about tours to llama farms. Most of the results were long-winded travel blogs written by retired white Americans. In any other circumstance no one would have ever read these blogs, but fate drew me to one of them, and I discovered t
he name Awana Kancha. It turns out that Awana Kancha is a pretty famous camelid (read: llamas and the like) farm, known for its traditional weaving. I found the website, read up on it, decided I wanted to work there, and that was that. I've also found quite a few youtube videos about Awana Kancha, and the place looks pretty legit. I hope this plan works out, because that would be frickin' sweet. But as for now, it's up to the owners of Awana Kancha to decide my destiny.Why I am Staying in Chile
People keep asking me the same question: why are you staying in Chile? To be honest, this is a question to which I don't know how to respond, because even I don't know the answer. It's not that I'm particularly in love with Chile. Aside from its uniquely Chilean idiosyncrasies, it's really not that much different from the United States. Things are slightly cheaper, the people are nicer, the language is different, the guys have mullets, there are a lot of stray dogs. But people are still discontent with their lives, they still have to get up and go to work every morning, they still get bitchy sometimes. Unlike Russia, Chile (at least for me) is not a constant struggle against difficult circumstances. I'm still the old Buff, only here I have to speak Spanish. What's more, I'm not as happy in Chile as I was in Russia. So why am I staying here until June?
Part of the reason is because I'm tired of moving around. I lived in Kansas for three months last summer, then Russia for three months, now Chile. I am tired of attempting to make a life for myself in a place, then, just when I'm starting to feel settled down, having to pack up and leave. For reasons unknown to me, I have a hard time making friends, and three months is not near long enough in my opinion to create the foundations of a meaningful friendship. Not that people don't like me or don't want to be my friend. I think I am just very wary of people and extremely aloof in social situations. It took me about two months to start warming up to the group of Stanford students here in Santiago, and within the next three weeks they are all going back to Stanford. All of the friendships I developed here will wane with time, and who knows if they will last until I come back to Stanford next September. Then, this group of Stanford students will be replaced by another group of Stanford students, none of whom I know. Surely it will be a repeat of the beginning of this quarter, when I felt extremely awkward and lost, unsure of where to start. The truth is, even though I did not feel particularly partial to the current group of students (save a select few), they have grown on me, and in the back of my mind I continually ask myself what I am going to do when they leave. But here I have gone off on a tangent.
But if I worry so much about loneliness and making friends, why do I travel? Traveling is such a lonely experience. I meet so many new people all the time, but about 95% of the time I know I will never see them again, because like me, they are just passing through. Being a nomad is extremely lonely, and one of my biggest fears is loneliness. And yet I continue to subject myself to it. This is something I don't understand.
I realize that there is something I am looking for, and that this is why I continue to travel. The problem is that I don't know what it is I'm looking for. If I went back to Stanford, at least I would be surrounded by people I know in my nice little bubble, protected from the realities of life. But even there, I feel an emptiness that I can't quite put my finger on. When I'm traveling, I am actively searching for something to fill that emptiness. Or maybe I'm just running away from something. Whatever that something is, I have not successfully escaped from it, because it follows me wherever I go. No matter where I go, Buff Bagot follows me, and there's nothing I can do to get away from her. So my only option is to deal with myself. I realize that being in another country won't make this process any easier. But for some reason I would rather deal with myself here than at Stanford.
So maybe that's why I'm staying here. Maybe it's not such a good reason to stay here, but I've made the decision and the deal has been sealed.
Part of the reason is because I'm tired of moving around. I lived in Kansas for three months last summer, then Russia for three months, now Chile. I am tired of attempting to make a life for myself in a place, then, just when I'm starting to feel settled down, having to pack up and leave. For reasons unknown to me, I have a hard time making friends, and three months is not near long enough in my opinion to create the foundations of a meaningful friendship. Not that people don't like me or don't want to be my friend. I think I am just very wary of people and extremely aloof in social situations. It took me about two months to start warming up to the group of Stanford students here in Santiago, and within the next three weeks they are all going back to Stanford. All of the friendships I developed here will wane with time, and who knows if they will last until I come back to Stanford next September. Then, this group of Stanford students will be replaced by another group of Stanford students, none of whom I know. Surely it will be a repeat of the beginning of this quarter, when I felt extremely awkward and lost, unsure of where to start. The truth is, even though I did not feel particularly partial to the current group of students (save a select few), they have grown on me, and in the back of my mind I continually ask myself what I am going to do when they leave. But here I have gone off on a tangent.
But if I worry so much about loneliness and making friends, why do I travel? Traveling is such a lonely experience. I meet so many new people all the time, but about 95% of the time I know I will never see them again, because like me, they are just passing through. Being a nomad is extremely lonely, and one of my biggest fears is loneliness. And yet I continue to subject myself to it. This is something I don't understand.
I realize that there is something I am looking for, and that this is why I continue to travel. The problem is that I don't know what it is I'm looking for. If I went back to Stanford, at least I would be surrounded by people I know in my nice little bubble, protected from the realities of life. But even there, I feel an emptiness that I can't quite put my finger on. When I'm traveling, I am actively searching for something to fill that emptiness. Or maybe I'm just running away from something. Whatever that something is, I have not successfully escaped from it, because it follows me wherever I go. No matter where I go, Buff Bagot follows me, and there's nothing I can do to get away from her. So my only option is to deal with myself. I realize that being in another country won't make this process any easier. But for some reason I would rather deal with myself here than at Stanford.
So maybe that's why I'm staying here. Maybe it's not such a good reason to stay here, but I've made the decision and the deal has been sealed.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Chile Stole September 11 From America
Today in political science class I came to the realization that Chile stole September 11 from us. Sure, their September 11 happened in 1973 (the military coup), and ours didn't happen until 2001. But I think our 9/11 should have overridden their 9/11, damnit. The rest of the international community recognizes 9/11 as America's 9/11, not Chile's 9/11. So hey Chile, stop being so unoriginal and pick your own special date. Stop trying to upstage the Greatest Country in the World. You know you can't. Because we're America. Fuck yeah.
P.S. For those of you who didn't realize that I'm being facetious, you're probably Republican.
P.S. For those of you who didn't realize that I'm being facetious, you're probably Republican.
The Solution to Unemployment
Chile is so crafty. High unemployment? No worries. Chile can fix that with a little creativity. For example, instead of pumping your own gas at the gas station, how about creating a new job for someone by letting them pump your gas for you? Or instead of having your groceries bagged and paying for them all at the same counter at the grocery store, why not have one person bag them, one person calculate the total, and one person collect your money?
I think people in the U.S. who are upset about unemployment should stop their complaining and create exciting new jobs for themselves. Why not go to the gas station, rip the gas nozzle out of someone´s hands, and start filling their tank up for them? It´s genius.
I think people in the U.S. who are upset about unemployment should stop their complaining and create exciting new jobs for themselves. Why not go to the gas station, rip the gas nozzle out of someone´s hands, and start filling their tank up for them? It´s genius.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Rich People Syndrome
Last night I was again reminded why I don't usually go out in large groups. At the risk of provoking criticism by those who read this post and realize I am talking about them, what happened last night was an abomination, but also pretty f-ing hilarious.
A group of about 12 of us went out to a karaoke bar last night in Bellavista. First of all, for reasons unknown to me, crowds of gringos (at least this particular crowd) are loud as fuck and obnoxious as hell. We can't just converse in inside voices like normal people--no, we have to scream. Especially when the alcohol starts flowing, the voices start shrilling and my ears start ringing. We attract attention wherever we go. Not only do we look different, but we are rude and demanding and noisy.
Well, we all ordered a number of drinks, sang, screamed at each other, and had a merry good time. But when it came time to pay the check, all hell broke loose, which seems to be a general trend within this group of people. The bill came to around 30,000 pesos ($45) total, which wasn't so bad, considering the number of people. I owed 6,000 pesos but paid 10,000 because I didn't have change. I then handed the bill over to the other people, most of who proceeded to pay their share without complaining. However, what should have been a relatively pain-free process soon turned into a bitch fest, because two of the girls started yelling at each other over how much they owed. One accused the other of not paying enough, to which the other responded along the lines of "bitch please". Then another girl decided to join the fight, and they started screaming amongst themselves. They created a huge scene, and the Chileans in the room stared in amazement at us. I'm sure they thought we were spoiled bitches who couldn't negotiate a bill like adults. After a few minutes of staring on in horror as the girls verbally ripped into each other, one of them stormed off. Somehow the bill got paid, but only after we showed that gringos really are as spoiled and demanding as they say we are.
The conclusion I have drawn from this experience is that there is a disease called "rich people syndrome" which afflicts a large majority of Stanford and other Ivy League students who come from money. Those who actually have money refuse to pay their part, while those who don't have money pay without complaints. It seems paradoxical to me. My friend and I, neither of whom are wealthy, sat by in horror and watched while those who actually have the money to spend refused to do so. After the girls left, the Chilean bartender asked me what the hell had just happened. I explained to him that what he had just witnessed was a serious case of "rich people syndrome". He nodded as if he understood completely.
I must say I was pretty embarrassed by the spectacle. I imagine the managers of the karaoke bar hope to never see us again. Thank you, America, for harboring such a fine group of young adults.
A group of about 12 of us went out to a karaoke bar last night in Bellavista. First of all, for reasons unknown to me, crowds of gringos (at least this particular crowd) are loud as fuck and obnoxious as hell. We can't just converse in inside voices like normal people--no, we have to scream. Especially when the alcohol starts flowing, the voices start shrilling and my ears start ringing. We attract attention wherever we go. Not only do we look different, but we are rude and demanding and noisy.
Well, we all ordered a number of drinks, sang, screamed at each other, and had a merry good time. But when it came time to pay the check, all hell broke loose, which seems to be a general trend within this group of people. The bill came to around 30,000 pesos ($45) total, which wasn't so bad, considering the number of people. I owed 6,000 pesos but paid 10,000 because I didn't have change. I then handed the bill over to the other people, most of who proceeded to pay their share without complaining. However, what should have been a relatively pain-free process soon turned into a bitch fest, because two of the girls started yelling at each other over how much they owed. One accused the other of not paying enough, to which the other responded along the lines of "bitch please". Then another girl decided to join the fight, and they started screaming amongst themselves. They created a huge scene, and the Chileans in the room stared in amazement at us. I'm sure they thought we were spoiled bitches who couldn't negotiate a bill like adults. After a few minutes of staring on in horror as the girls verbally ripped into each other, one of them stormed off. Somehow the bill got paid, but only after we showed that gringos really are as spoiled and demanding as they say we are.
The conclusion I have drawn from this experience is that there is a disease called "rich people syndrome" which afflicts a large majority of Stanford and other Ivy League students who come from money. Those who actually have money refuse to pay their part, while those who don't have money pay without complaints. It seems paradoxical to me. My friend and I, neither of whom are wealthy, sat by in horror and watched while those who actually have the money to spend refused to do so. After the girls left, the Chilean bartender asked me what the hell had just happened. I explained to him that what he had just witnessed was a serious case of "rich people syndrome". He nodded as if he understood completely.
I must say I was pretty embarrassed by the spectacle. I imagine the managers of the karaoke bar hope to never see us again. Thank you, America, for harboring such a fine group of young adults.
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