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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.
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.
I really want nothing more right now than a ticket to a Coldplay concert.
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...
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
