“Viene el mar y reúne nuestras vidas”

Well, do I have a story to tell you.

So, last Thursday Gianni offered to take me to a discotec. I have really been wanting to check out some live salsa music, but I guess 80s pop on a stage is just as good. Anyways, I was pretty excited, just to see what it would be like, and I have to admit, I was also pretty scared-I mean for obvious reasons: non-native language, disco lights, loud pop music, a stage, and these drinks called "piscolas." right.

So, we left the house at about a quarter to 11, drove probably twenty minutes away from the house, and pulled into this quiet, empty parking lot. Did I mention empty?

By the way, Gianni was wearing a white t-shirt with a red collar and some sorta picture on the front.

We parked and began to walk towards the door of the building when another car pulled in. A guy jumped out and started talking to Gianni. I looked back to see Gianni pulling on his shirt and then motioning to the parking guy.

The guy in charge of parking was wearing the exact same shirt as Gianni, same white shirt with the same red collar. Now, this may not seem funny to you but at the time, I nearly cried from laughing. I'm not sure if it was the look on Gianni's face when he motioned to the guy's shirt or. . .

did I mention at this point that the club wasn't open yet? It was 11pm, and we were too early. So, we ended up sitting in the truck for like thirty minutes, and this whole time the parking guy had been moving around doing random stuff in the parking lot, setting up tables and stuff. in Gianni's t-shirt. and Gianni just kept shaking his head. it was pretty funny. So, Gianni is like. . "this is all going wrong. First we're here too early and the place is closed, and the guy is wearing my shirt."

ha.

So, we head in. Gianni has his jacket on. This club is huge-two levels, probably four or five bars, a big stage in the middle. and guess what? at 11:30-11:40 we are the only two people in the club. I started lauging again- I couldn't help it, he was laughing too. So, we're both just sitting around in this huge club by ourselves and chatting. They're still setting stuff up and everything. He asked one of the bartenders what time the place fills up, and he says 1:30. and I'm like-oh great. but we had a nice chat. He's pretty funny. and it filled up around 1ish, and the music, well. . .the music was a hoot.

Madonna, Shakira, some Blondie, some great Chilean and Brazilian pop, "Starting spreading the news. . .We're leaving today. I've got to be a part of it. New York, New York," Michael Jackson, and a little Nelly Furtado. It was hilarious and lots of fun. I danced my pants off. Gianni was like "Now I see why you have friends in the US. You're very sociable and funny and you dance really well."

and I was like "Thanks. I think."

like hmm, what did you think I was like before?
a dragon?

but sociable, good word.

anyways, it turned out to be a blast-lot of dancing, lot of laughs, all around good time.

New York, New York was the last song.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I'm preparing to leave. I fly out on Wednesday, and I have to tell you. . .I'm a little sad. I mean I'm excited to start my life in Concepcion, but this place feels like home. This month has been a wonderful way to adjust to the country. I'm very lucky to have stayed with this family. okay, I'm tearing up. . .enough.

anyways, I received a couple emails from the woman I will be staying with in Conce. Her name is Ana Maria, and I think she may live alone. I don't know much, but I do know:

-She lives in a large house right across from the central library on Campus.
-She has children, but they are all married.
-I will stay in a private room with a private bath, internet, tv, laundry, and three meals a day.
-I think the price may be a little expensive, but it will do for now.
-Hopefully, if I make some friends, maybe I can move out later on. we'll see.
-She is going to pick me up at the airport.

I was a little frightened about this last one, because she said in her email, "Advise me if you need me to pick up you at the airport." and I was thinking advise you, how else am I going to make it to your house? I don't even know your address. Not to mention the fact that I've never been to Concepcion.

So, I wrote her this long email, gave her my flight info again, and told her that I did need her to pick me up.

I also got an email from the university with the steps I need to register. The semester officially begins Monday the 5th. Hopefully I will be able to go up to the University on Thursday or Friday to register. We're going to send my suitcases on Tuesday by bus, so cross your fingers and hope that they make it to Concepcion and that I find them once I get there.

-------------------------------


I've been thinking a lot about cultural identity this week. How do we define our culture? How do we define our culture in the United States of America? Is american culture pop songs from the eighties, fast food?, cult-movies?, an american dream? or a beauty myth?

are we defined by an ideal "american " life-the house, the spouse, kids, dog, fence, SUV, exotic vacations once a year, 9-5?, 8-5? football? by christian values? are these our cultural identifiers? our holidays? religious celebrations? are these things "american"? Is that what this generation of authors is trying to discover? are we finally melted to the point where you can't tell what any of the original ingredients were? or is that just some of us? food for thought. ha. no pun intended.

Macarena and I were having this discussion in class, and I accidentally kept saying "American" culture. The spanish word of a citizen of the United States is estadounidense, I think, and it's kinda hard for me to say.

That is how we label ourselves, "Americans." If I asked you what you were, you'd say, I'm american. I'm mean think about how many people in the US want to be more than just asian-americans or african-americans, they want to just be americans, americans without the hyphen.

But Macarena asked me,

"Why do you all call yourselves that? Americans?"

and I thought for a minute. I have been trying to be careful about using that word, American, because I"m in South America. South America. And just like in North America, in Central America and in South America-they are Americans too.

Macarena said, "I'm an American too."

and I knew that. I had thought about all this before. . . about how odd, maybe even disrespectful it is for us to call ourselves American and only think of that label as referring to people within the US. I mean it is the United State of AMERICA, hmmm.

anyways,

She didn't ask me why I said it or what I meant-

she asked me why we called ourselves that, americans.

and I had a brain fart. hmm, because It's easier than saying citizens of the united states of america? or because we aren't unitedstatesians? umm, "I don't know."
Maybe because even though the continents are North america and South America, our country's name is the united states of America?

all I could think of was, "America, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain. . .America, America, God shed his grace on thee. . ." and the explorer Amerigo Vespuci, right? he's where the word comes from.

so, i told her I wasn't really sure, but that we really weren't trying to be disrespectful. It's not like we Americans sit around and think mannn we're the only people in the western hemisphere cool enough to call ourselves americans. maybe it's just easier than saying unitedstatesians.

Ok, so I tried to do some google research on the source and I found this sweet article. It's on wikipedia, which basically means, some random person posted it to the internet, but it's pretty interesting. You should read it.

http://www.answers.com/topic/use-of-the-word-american

It also states that in the US census millions of people describe their ancestry or ethnic origin as American, "particularly those in the south."

maybe mashed potatoes and gravy are american.

nope, they have those here too.

well, that's all I have to say about that. We talked a lot about feminist literature this week too, I got a chance to read a couple feminist chilean writers, and I showed some texts to Macarena. but I'm really to mentally drained to even try to go there.

it was cool.


I went to a movie on Thursday with Macarena, my professor. We saw Babel, and let me tell you-it was a pretty powerful experience for several reasons. I mean I'm still processing. But the movie for me was about communication, about how and why we communicate, through and without language, how culturally we are all connected, the value of life, shared experience, global perspective--If you haven't seen it-again, you should.

and not to give away too much: but the movie interweaves the three main story lines: with U.S. citizens in Morocco/a Moroccan family, a deaf japanese girl and her father, and a Mexican nanny and her family. So you're hearing four languages and seeing one (sign language). I'm not sure how it is in the US, but here, there are spanish subtitles for everything except, or course, the scenes in spanish. sweet. anyways, I can't really talk to you about it until you see it, but it was a weighty place to be after the movie,

Macarena said, "Well, you must have an interesting perspective. Watching this here and being an 'American'."

and so, all I got is:

We are all connected. Communication is so much more than symbols, In the end, who we are always translates, across time-across culture- across lives.

on a less serious note, I bought boots for the rain yesterday and a few sweaters.

and I just have one more thing to show you. These are the only pictures this entry. I can't believe I haven't showed this to you before. Did I tell you that we ride around town in a school bus? It's called the super-micro. Berti actually takes kids to school in the mornings--a big, yellow, bus.

I love it here.




So, the next time you think, "hmmm, I wonder what Mere is doing over there."

Just picture me, riding along with the windows down, my hair blowing around my face (and usually sticking to my chapstick), in the sweet super bus. At least for the next three days.

The Sea

One single being, but there's no blood.
One single caress, death or rose.
The sea comes and reunites our lives
and attacks and divides and sings alone
in night and day and man a creature.
The essence : fire and cold : movement

El Mar

Un solo ser, pero no hay sangre.
Una sola caricia, muerte o rosa.
Viene el mar y reúne nuestras vidas
y solo ataca y se reparte y canta
en noche y día y hombre y criatura.
La esencia : fuego y frío : movimiento

hope you and yours are happy and safe,

una aurora,
Mere

"Por eso a fuego lento surge a luz del día,
el amor, el aroma de una niebla lejana
y calle a calle vuelve la ciudad sin banderas
a palpitar tal vez y a vivir en el humo."

I love this poem. I typed out the English for you and included it at the bottom.

I know I posted on Friday, but yesterday was a pretty full day. These memories may be a little scattered:

On the way home it was night, and outside the window of the bus, the horizon, was a dark grayed purple, the mountains loomed like black construction paper cutouts, 2d shadows pasted up against the moody background. The stars beckoned clear and bright.

Today, now, the church bells ring off in the distance.

When we began our day, on an hour bus ride to Valparaiso, I almost imploded from holding in laughter on the bus.

Berti, I love you, but you are definitely one of "those people."

When we first got on the bus, Berti called Pancho and spoke to him on her cell phone. She was speaking so loudly that I was almost cringing for all the people around us. Then, she popped her earphones in and music was so loud that the man two rows in front of us was tapping along with his hand.

Periodically she would break out into song with the music, at normal voice level, and I kept waiting for someone around us to join in, but it never happened--I think they were too busy cursing.

The best part came periodically throughout the ride when she would catch sight of something off in the landscape she wanted to show me. Without removing her earphones, she would yell and point. At one point, when I could bear it no longer I sorta shushed her without meaning to, and she said,

"Oh, am I loud?"

"just a bit. I think it's because you're trying to speak over the music."

"Oh right. sorry"

If her English every gets good enough to read this (and it's getting pretty good)--I love you, I love you, I love you Berti.

It was a great beginning to a wonderful day. When we stepped off the bus into the sunshine, my grin had already begun to stretch.

Here's some of the shots I took on the bus, on the road from Santiago to Valparaiso:










People here say that Valpariaso is a lot like San Francisco. I was a little skeptical, but I see the similarities. Like for example,
a cable car. I "have a thing for" cable cars:


These are pictures of the city. I think the camera was acidentally in color tint mode for some of these:








After we had walked around for a while, we took an amazing boat ride around the port:

















I fell in love twice yesterday. Seriously, gone. done. crazy.

The first time I fell in love with this two year old. He sat next to me in the boat. He clung to my leg and wanted to sit next to me. We played peek-a-boo with our sunglasses.






After the boat ride we walked around for a bit. Then, we went up this box car on a 45 degree angle up a hill. ha. Every time it jerked, I kept thinking, hmmm, this isn't supposed to be a ride. . . and yet. . .










The magnificent view from the top caught me off guard.

















A gazebo. There was a gazebo at the top. I love gazebos.




This is the ride down.










We ate lunch at a quaint little restaurant in town. It was nice and calm. The food was great. Everything was quiet and simple.


Then we got on the bus from Hell. This driver seriously was a) having a bad day b) on some form of drugs or c)just a hyper, unhappy man. He tried to pass a huge line of cars on the wrong side of the road and almost had a head on collision. But, we made it to the beach. We changed clothes in a McDonalds bathroom. a very small McDonald's bathroom.

Then we headed to the beach--and let me tell you--IF I could imagine spring break in one of those insane cities like Panama City or anywhere MTV goes . . .this beach. . . it was like that. I was feeling very casper like in the sea of beautiful tanned people:








Then, I changed back in the same McDonald's bathroom.

I officially have a new favorite ice cream flavor, which is dangerous. It's some type of vanilla with chocolate pieces. Have I told you this yet? I think I have. anyways, I had it again yesterday. It's like a dairyqueen dip cone that been through the blender. yum. This is the ride back. The view of the coast, littered with rocks and sunlight. . .it was . . .hmm. Here's the other guy in the corner of the photo that I kinda fell in love with. I didn't speak to him or anything. he spoke french. He was funny though-the three french guys. I could tell in some other situation I would've been friends with them. One of them reminded me of Clay Butts. Wherever you are Clay, here's to you. These are two shots on that ride home.




Which leads me back to the stars. It was cold and dark when we got back to Santiago, but I was laughing. what a wonderful day.

"That’s why daylight comes with slow fire,
and love, the aroma of far-off fog,
and street by street the city returns without flags
trembling perhaps, to live in its smoke."

Don't forget to read the rest of the poem. The english is below.

Hope you and yours are happy and safe.

una aurora,
Mere

No Hay Pura Luz

No hay pura luz
ni sombra en los recuerdos:
éstos se hicieron cárdena ceniza
o pavimento sucio
de calle atravesada por los pies de las gentes
que sin cesar salía y entraba en el Mercado.

Y hay otros: los recuerdos buscando aún
qué morder
como dientes de fiera no saciada.
Buscan, roen el hueso último, devoran
este largo silencio de lo que quedó atrás.

Y todo quedó atrás, noche y aurora,
el día suspendido como un puente entre sombras,
las ciudades, los puertos del amor y el rencor,
como si al almacén la guerra hubiera entrado
llevándose una a una todas las mercancías
hasta que a los vacíos anaqueles
llegue el viento a través de las puertas rehechas
y haga bailar los ojos del olvido.

Por eso a fuego lento surge a luz del día,
el amor, el aroma de una niebla lejana
y calle a calle vuelve la ciudad sin banderas
a palpitar tal vez y a vivir en el humo.

Horas de ayer cruzadas por el hilo
de una vida como por una aguja sangrienta
entre las decisiones sin cesar derribas,
el infinito golpe del mar y e la duda
y la palpitación del cielo y sus jazmines.

Quién soy Aquél? Aquel que no sabía
sonreír, y de puro enlutado moría?
Aquel que el cascabel y el clavel de la fiesta
sostuvo derrocando la cátedra del frío?

Es tarde, tarde. Y sigo. Sigo con un ejemplo
tras otro, sin saber cuál es la moraleja,
porque de tantas vidas que tuve estoy ausente
y soy, a la vez soy aquel hombre que fui.

Tal vez es éste el fin, la verdad misteriosa

La vida, la continua sucesión de un vacío
que de día y de sombra llenaban esta copa
y el fulgor fue enterrado como un antiguo príncipe
en su propia mortaja de mineral enfermo,
hasta que tan tardíos ya somos, que no somos:
ser y no ser resultaban ser la vida.

De lo que fui no tengo sino estas marcas crueles,
porque aquellos dolores confirman mi existencia.

There is no clear light

There is no clear Light,
nor shadow in the memories:
They have grown ashy-gray,
a grubby sidewalk
crisscrossed by the endless feet of those
who come in and out of the market.

And there are others: memories still looking for
something to bite,
like fierce, unsatisfied teeth.
They gnaw us to the last bone, devouring
the long silence of all that lies behind us.

And everything lies behind, night and day,
days suspended like a bridge between shadows,
cities, ports of love and rancor,
as if war had broken into the store
and carried off everything there, piece by piece
till through broken doors
the wind blows over empty shelves
and makes the eyes of oblivion dance.

That’s why daylight comes with slow fire,
and love, the aroma of far-off fog,
and street by street the city returns without flags
trembling perhaps, to live in its smoke.

Yesterday’s hours, stitched by life
threaded on a bloodstained needle,
between decisions endlessly unfulfilled,
the infinite beat of the sea and of doubt,
the quiver of the sky and its jasmine.

Who is that other me? Who didn’t know
how to smile, who died of sheer mourning?
The one who endured the bells and the carnations,
destroying the lessons of the cold?

Perhaps that’s it, the real mystery.

Life, steady flow of emptiness
which filled this cup with days and shadows,
all brightness buried like an ancient prince
in his own infirm and mineral shroud,
until we are so behind that we don’t exist:
to be and not to be—that’s what life is.

Of all that I was, I bear only these cruel scars,
Because those griefs confirm my very existence.