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.

Thanks for the Memories, KC and the Sunshine Band

See that picture? That's me getting down to KC and the Sunshine Band. You know, the guy that sings "Do a little dance, make a little love". That was in the 1970s, and now KC is back: older, fatter, clumsier, and more emotional than ever.

A couple days ago we went to Viña del Mar for its annual music festival to see Juanes and KC and the Sunshine Band perform. Although most of the students in our group were mainly eager to see Juanes, I was eager to see KC, because it was my mom's favorite band in high school and she lives vicariously through me. I felt it my duty to enjoy the hell out of KC's performance just for her. And that I did. Juanes was good and all, and he's pretty hot for a 37 year old, but KC was frickin' awesome. Not awesome in the traditional "what a great performer" kind of way. More like awesome in the "this is like watching a train wreck" kind of way.

First of all, KC has gotten fat. Back in the 70's he was a hunk, but now he looks like he's had a few too many Sundays in front of the TV eating buffalo wings and drinking beers. Second of all, he has gotten old. It's one thing for a 58-year-old to perform live music, and it's another thing for a 58-year-old to dance around onstage in some sort of attention-induced stupor and repeatedly spin around like Chris Farley in the Chippin Dales Saturday Night Live skit. Seriously. The guy reminded me exactly of Chris Farley. Just look up KC and the Sunshine Band in Viña del Mar on youtube and you'll see what I mean. His dance moves were just sloppy. Not only that, but he was dancing awkwardly with his whorish backup dancers who just didn't really fit in with disco music. Then, to top it all off, in the middle of one of his sloppy dance moves he slipped and fell. At that point my friend turned to me and said, "Did that really just happen?" Yes, it did, and Chilean television will not let KC live it down. On the news I have seen plays and replays of the video clip of KC falling on his ass. The poor guy. He was humiliated. Throughout his performance he kept getting tired and panting, saying "oh mi corazón!" ("my heart!") like he was going to crap out any minute. In spite of KC's endearing fuck-ups, the crowd loved him. The Chileans knew some of his songs better than I did. At the end of the concert, he got all teary-eyed and thanked them for loving him so much. Do I smell a midlife crisis?

I must say that KC won me over. The poor guy tries so hard. And I boogied my little heart out that night.

Oh Latin America, You Never Fail to Impress Me

Thank you, God, for the endless supply of blog material that you have granted me. There are lots of things about my life that I don´t like, but there is one thing I do like: it is not boring. Not a day goes by in which something blogworthy does not happen.

For example, last night a Chilean man approached me and asked me how much I cost. As offended as I was by this proposal, I admit that afterwards I looked to the heavens and said, ¨Thank you, God, for allowing that blog opportunity to fall into my lap.¨ Here´s what happened:

Arelys, one of the girls in the Stanford program, invited me last night to go on a double date with some carabineros (policemen), which was an offer I absolutely could not refuse. Policemen in the U.S. are one thing; carabineros are a whole other animal. Chilean policemen, although nowadays the most professional and respected police in Latin America, have a history of brutal violence under the Pinochet regime (1973-1988). Under the military regime, carabineros carried out mass violence (kidnappings and murders of alleged leftist sympathizers) and were generally feared by the people. Given that history, the concept of going out with carabineros was intriguing for me. The details are uninteresting, but the carabineros were nice guys and we had a good time. But that´s beside the point.

The point is that, while waiting to meet the carabineros, Arelys and I were asked how much we cost. We were sitting at a bench in Plaza de Armas, which is pretty dangerous at night. It is a hotbed for homeless people, bums, prostitutes, and Peruanos (which, according to my racist host mom, are bad news). I knew the place was notorious, so I got out my knife (I always carry a knife and pepper spray) and kept it in my hand just in case. I never thought I would actually flash it at someone, but divine providence was with me and granted me the opportunity to do so. Some sleaze came up to us, sat down on the bench, and in Spanish asked us, ¨How much do you cost?¨At first I was rendered speechless, but I soon overcame my loss for words and responded, ¨Get away!¨as I flashed my knife at him. The dumbass didn´t move and just repeated the question. Again I showed him my knife and told him to get away, and he finally got the picture. As he walked away I called ¨son of a bitch¨after him, just for good measure. I probably seemed pissed off, but the truth was that inside I was laughing my ass off and already beginning to write my blog entry in my head.

I am glad I accepted Arelys´invitation. I got to go out with some carabineros and I was solicited for sex. What a great night!

я очень плохо говорю по-русский...

Translation: I suck at Russian.

It seems I can't escape from the death grip that Russia has on me. Everywhere I go, I run into Russians and am forced into speaking the worst Russian on earth because I have forgotten 90% of what I learned in Russian class.

Last night I went out with a friend only to discover that no bars were open, so we sat down on some chairs outside at a closed, abandoned bar. No one was there but us. But soon a group of six Russians sat at the table next to us. Once I heard them speak Russian, I couldn't refrain from trying to speak Russian to them. But god was my Russian horrible. They tried to toot my horn and tell me I speak well, but we all knew it was bullshit, including my friend who doesn't even speak Russian. Pretty soon I decided to excuse myself because I was embarrassed, and that was that. I had a similar encounter a few weeks ago in Valdivia, when I went to an international artisan fair and talked to a Russian woman selling matryoshka dolls (another Russian phenomenon from which I can't seem to escape). My Russian sucked then also.

As a result of my embarrassing experience, I dreamed last night that I got rejected from the State Department Critical Language Program in Russian. I'll hear back from them in the first week of March, and if they have any sense they will certainly reject me. My inability to communicate even the most simple ideas in Russian makes me wonder how I was able to survive there for three months. It's such a relief living in a country where I can communicate myself and do things without the help of a translator. Nothing makes you feel like a bigger dumbass than not being able to speak a language.

Almost All Art is Asinine

I don't like art. Try as I might, I just cannot appreciate it. I spent a good six weeks in SLE analyzing, watching movies about, staring at, discussing, shitting, eating, and breathing art, and even after all that I still don't like it. I'm sorry, all right? Now don't get me wrong, I don't hate all forms of art. Most of my hatred is channeled toward painting and sculpture (although I also hate poetry). These are forms of artistic expression that I will never understand, and sad as this may sound, I don't care to ever understand them. But I really have tried. I've been to many museums--the Guggenheim, the San Francisco Museum of Metropolitan Art, the Hermitage, the Tetryakov, etc.--but every single one of them makes me cringe. Just like anyone else, I can appreciate a pretty picture once in awhile. But other than that I am bored to tears by art museums and the like. And Shakespearean poetry, oh boy, don't even get me started. One might call me uncultured, ignorant, insensitive. In fact, every time I express my opinion regarding art, the common response is horror and/or condescending lectures about the virtues of the fine arts. But damnit, let me have my opinion. I have struggled for this elusive concept called art appreciation, and it just ain't happening.

All right, let me add a caveat. I do like Kandinsky, Diego Rivera, Rodin, pop art, and a few others. But I've seen so many fugly paintings considered to be masterpieces that are really just scribbles on a canvas, that I am beginning to wonder WTF.

One form of art that I find particularly irritating is French impressionism. First of all, painting after painting of flowers and trees and French aristocrats and shit like that gets old fast. Second of all, the concept of a bunch of little paint dots that look obscure up close but actually look like something from a distance just doesn't get me all that excited. Sorry Monet, but your dotty paintings of flowers just don't toot my horn.

I find modern art sort of intriguing, but abstract art is a big WTF for me (albeit sometimes a positive WTF). I think Picasso is pretty cool, but even his paintings start to annoy me after awhile.

The most annoying paintings, though, are still lifes. The most uninspired, pointless, uncreative art ever. Why have so many artists dedicated so much time and effort to painting fruit in a damn bowl?

Maybe I'm just a hick. Art is high society, and I'm Buff Bagot from Kansas. Whateva.

Life and Lemon Foot

Jane and I have been having some great conversations in the past two days. I'm glad because I feel that I've been losing touch with people. I am a person who lives most of my life inside my head, and it's easy for me to forget that a real world exists outside of the labyrinthine mess between my ears. This past month and a half has been so devoid of meaningful conversation that I was beginning to believe everyone but me was an empty walking shell. In my mind I am constantly kicking and screaming and wrestling with myself, so when I see other people who appear calm and collected I am easily fooled into believing that they aren't experiencing the same thing.

That's why it was nice when Jane and I went out for drinks the other night and discussed life. It made me realize that I'm not the only one grappling with my future and myself. We're all constantly searching for some sort of meaning in our lives, and we're always second guessing ourselves. It was nice to hear about someone else's struggles for once, and try to offer some advice, as unqualified as I may be to give it. It felt good just talking to Jane. The moral of the story is that it's good to have a friend.

On another note, sometimes I can't believe how much of an idiot I am. Here's what happened. Whenever I go to buy ice cream near the Stanford center, I always see a flavor called "pie de limón", which literally translated means "lemon foot". Now, any rational human would instantly ask, "WTF is lemon foot?" and insist that "lemon foot"-flavored ice cream could not possibly exist. Then that person would rationally conclude that "pie" must be a reference to the English word "pie", and not the translation "foot". Turns out that since the word for pie does not exist in Spanish, they just stole the English word "pie" from us.

Last night I went to a karaoke bar with Elfego because he had been craving some mariachi sing-along. Turns out the place was pretty cool. They gave us free appetizers and pisco sours, and we sang our little hearts out. My song options were limited since I don't know any Spanish tunes, and the only English offerings were along the lines of Elton John, Celine Dion, and Christina Aguilera. Quite a selection. I finally opted for "All By Myself", but only after several pisco sours had significantly boosted my confidence level. The Chilenos in the room got a kick out of the gringa and the chicano and encouraged us to come back again sometime. I think I might.

Street-Walking Creatures of the Night

My blog has not even existed for 24 hours and I already have enough new material to make my second post. This time it regards transvestite prostitutes and cockroaches.

Jane and I spent a pleasant evening having drinks at my favorite outdoor bar near the Pedro de Valdivia metro stop, which is in a relatively nice middle class part of Santiago, in the commune of Providencia. One would not expect prostitutes to be selling their wares in this part of town. However, as we were making our way home, we came across two very tall, skinny, and blonde women standing on the street corner. Well, standing isn't the right word. I think oozing is better. They were oozing. Their heels were so high that they couldn't walk properly. They reminded me of drunken felines prancing around in heat. One of the girls was wearing a skirt that covered only the top part of her ass. I must admit that she did indeed have a nice ass and great legs, and a lovely blonde wig. However, once I came within five feet of her I realized that she was a he. He had a nice ass and great legs. As Jane and I walked by, he greeted us with a suggestive "hola", to which I also responded "hola", although as unsuggestively as possible so as to avoid any strange lesbian/gay/heterosexual/WTF advances. After this encounter, Jane asked, "How are you supposed to respond when a prostitute says hello?" That is a good question. But I think that the answer is to respond normally, maybe try to ignore the fact that a dude is wearing a half mini-skirt and a blonde wig and high heels, and just pretend you're at a business meeting. "Hello there." "Why, hello to you too." And then be on your way. Jane also wanted to know whether that prostitute was trying to sell himself to us, to which I did not know how to respond. How does that work? Does a trannie prostitute only solicit males, or does he also offer his services to females? And once a client realizes that the prostitute is really a male, does he still want to purchase the prostitute's services? This business of prostitution is more complicated than I thought. But that being said, I do feel a bit sorry for prostitutes. As enthusiastic as those two prostitutes appeared to be about the fact that they were standing on a street corner in uncomfortable heels and tasteless clothes, I am just not sure if someone would really choose the business of prostitution out of a desire for constant sex or because he/she has no moral foundations. I imagine prostitutes are pretty desperate. I realize that what I am saying is painfully obvious to anyone with common sense, but still, I never really hear anyone talking about it. Just because prostitutes are prostitutes, does that mean they are bad people? A little weird maybe, but bad?

Now, on to the cockroaches. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate cockroaches. I've said it before and I'll say it again: cockroaches are evolutionary abominations that deserve to be wiped out as a species. Anything that could survive a nuclear holocaust is a freak of nature in my book. The reason I mention this is because while walking down the street near my house tonight, Jane pointed out a number of cockroaches skittering around like little sons of bitches. They were everywhere. I swear I saw about eight cockroaches in one square meter of pavement. Sure, it's nighttime, and where darkness falls cockroaches reign. But to find out that so many cockroaches live literally within a few yards of my house is too much for me to handle. All I have to say to you, Jane, is this: why? Why did you have to draw my attention to the pavement? Why couldn't you let me continue living in ignorance to the fact that cockroaches are among us?

Prostitutes and cockroaches: street-walking creatures of the night.

Llama Herding and Purse Snatching

I´ve decided to break the ice. Buff Bagot´s Blog for Beginners.

I was inspired to start writing by a self-righteous, provocative, nerve-grating, yet inspiring travel writer named Tahir Shah, who came to speak yesterday at the Stanford center in Santiago. I had never read any of his books or watched any of his documentaries, but he won me over quickly with his outspoken disdain for showy rich people and his belief in the ability to travel even when you don´t have money. From there I was enamored by what he had to say, which ranged from pep talks about believing in yourself to urges to travel often, dangerously, and alone. Tahir obviously loves to hear himself talk, which started to annoy me after about 15 minutes. But I went ahead and signed up to have a short meeting with him earlier this afternoon, because I thought I could get some pointers from him. Before the meeting I situated myself in the computer cluster and watched half of his documentary called ¨The House of the Tiger King¨, which covers his journey through the jungles of Peru in search of a lost Incan city. What I learned from the documentary is that Tahir is full of shit, hangs out with a lot of sleaze bags, and is culturally insensitive. But I had already signed up for the meeting, so I ignored the sour taste that the documentary had left in my mouth.

My meeting with Tahir lasted only about 15 minutes because he had to go to lunch with a friend, but I was, one could almost say, divinely inspired by our conversation. Tahir was impressed by my stint in Russia--he appears to not know much about it or to have spent much time there. I ran by him my idea of staying in South America through the summer, traveling up through Peru to Colombia and Venezuela. He sounded excited by the concept and encouraged me to follow through with it, even if I don´t have the money for it. He said I could easily earn some money by writing journalistic pieces about my travels. I´m far from qualified for that, though, and I don´t have the necessary contacts. But he assured me that, especially as a young woman traveling alone, I would attract a lot of journalistic interest.

The major concern I have is my safety. Tahir is a man, and men don´t have trouble traveling alone, aside from the occasional mugging. Women have to deal with sexual advances, rapes, muggings, all the works. Especially after Jodi´s murder, I´m not thrilled about the idea of exposing myself to that kind of danger. I´m not sure whether I agree with this, but Tahir claimed that it´s all about my attitude. If I exude the air of a victim, I will be victimized. But if I exude confidence and, well, bitchiness, men will stay away from me. He also said that wearing a wedding ring makes women a lot less vulnerable, because when men see it they scatter like flies (at least in Muslim countries). So it´s possible that I could travel alone throughout South America, as long as I have the right ¨attitude¨and wear a ring. If only life could really be that simple.

Tahir encouraged me to research women travel writers who travel alone and to consider writing journal pieces from the perspective of a lone woman traveler. The concept sounds great, right up my alley, but I don´t know how feasible it really is. I am really interested in doing it, in fact I´m more excited about this project than any of my recent potential projects. But I´ve got to have an idea first, or some sort of goal. I´m really interested in working on a guanaco/alpaca/llama/vicuña farm, and/or herding them in Peru. I think writing about that would be interesting, at least in my mind it appears to be. Tahir also liked the idea and told me he will send me some resources regarding finding jobs. I am more interested, though, in traveling around like a nomad than settling somewhere for an extended period of time. I´d like to make my way through South America, making some money on the way in the black market. But being a nomad for the sake of being a nomad doesn´t really appeal to me all that much. I´d like to have an end in mind, or some sort of project. I´d like to spend more time thinking about, or better yet discussing it with someone close to me who might be able to help me develop my ideas. For once, I´d like to see a project through to its end. In the past few years I´ve flaked out on projects like crazy...

But this blog isn´t really about my intellectual musings. Rather, I want it to be a travel blog. I want to document some of the weird/scary/funny shit I see on a day-to-day basis. As time goes on, I grow more and more insensitive to what´s going on around me, even if it´s nothing like anything I would ever see back in the states.

Case in point: today I witnessed a robbery. As I was walking along the sidewalk just outside the Stanford center on Hernando de Aguirre, a woman screamed ¨Ayúdame!¨(¨Help me!¨). I turned my head and saw a gangly teenage boy hightailing it down the street with her purse. Startled and unaware of what I should do, I started running toward him (like I could have taken him down). But as soon as I started running, I saw a pack of Chilean men herding toward him. They were coming in all directions. It was like someone had blown a special dog whistle for Chilean males, and they all came running. They quickly closed in on the thief, had him on the ground within seconds, and gave him a few hard kicks in the stomach. He lay there on the ground defenseless, holding his head in his arms, probably thinking ¨WTF did I just do, I´m such a dumbass¨. After a minute or two of being surrounded by Chileans, one of the men decided to give him a kick in the head just for good measure. Someone called the carabineros (police), and everybody stood and watched the spectacle while we waited for them to show up. Latinos really love to watch other people suffer. Car wrecks, deaths, arrests, fights--hell, the show is free, so why not watch it? Well, since I´m in Latin America, I also stared googly-eyed at the scene until the carabinero arrested the thief and took him away. It was a good 10-minute show, and then I left. Reminds me of the time I saw a bus wreck into a taxi in Argentina. The taxi driver got out of his taxi and got all machista on the bus driver, asking him if he wanted to fight and shit like that. It was great.

Makes me wonder what I would do if somebody tried to rob me. I honestly think I would slap a bitch. I am pretty aggressive about protecting my property. Instead of shouting ¨ayúdame!¨ I´d probably yell ¨Goddamn son of a bitch, get back here before I shank you!¨ But who knows. Hopefully I never have to find out.

This blogging thing is a little awkward for me, so I think I am going to call it a day. With time I am sure my entries will improve.