New gal

She arrived late yesterday from Iquique, a city in the north of Chile. She´s pale, a bit on the heavy side. Wears a striped shirt. Smokes, one or two cigarettes a day. She´s quick to smile, quicker to laugh, and listens to punk rock. Her name is Maria-José, and she´s the second student after myself to arrive in the house.

After waking this morning to discover both forearms and my head covered in bugbites, I spent a few minutes in my room moaning, complaining, trying not to itch, and contemplating tears.
I like cold. I like snow. I hate bugs. Why, I wanted to know, why had I chosen to study in a warm country?
Because there are no cold countries that speak Spanish.
Why did I have to choose a language spoken only in tropical and semi-tropical parts of the world? Where it´s warm? Where there are BUGS??

*sigh*

I finally dragged myself out to breakfast after putting on a long-sleeved shirt and a bandanna to hide the bites on my forehead. Maria-José was there, calmly buttering her toast. Hóla, she says. Hóla, I say. I try not to look too uncomfortable and fail, as she asks what´s wrong. Bugs. I show her the bites. She commiserates and agrees that, since she needs to go out and buy toothpaste anyway, the two of us can go look for a pharmacy that sells OFF, an insect repellent cream.

So we go. This is my first time out in the city with someone who does not know where we are, but we manage: she deciphers some of the more confusing conversations and signage while I map our way around the neighborhood, with which I´m a few days more familiar. The house really is right in the middle of downtown-- less than ten minute´s walk to the central square, of which I have pictures from a later outing that day with Cristobal in tow (he wanted to buy formal pants and a shirt and ended up buying neither, but I picked up some sweet sunglasses from a street stand). We went to the supermercado and a number of farmacias, as they´re called, found the cream, and then decided to look for the local PUCV building (the History Institute, for history majors).

It´s a castle. On a hill. With turrets.

Regrettably, I left my camera´s memory card in the computer.... but don´t worry! I will take a history class this semester specifically so I can walk by that row of old mansions and up three flights of winding stairs to a castle. I will take pictures then.

Other highlights of the day:

I watched Myriam light a candle, and asked if the house had a smoke detector (I hadn´t spotted one in the house yet; in fact, anywhere in Chile). It doesn't. Most places don't-- you have to be either a skyscraper or some rich person's mansion to warrant a smoke detector. It was slightly awkward confessing that my house in the States has three.

A gringo, in Chile, is specifically a person from the US-- not any foreigner as I had been told. Something to do with the Mexican War. So, while the pair of ladies from France who came to dinner today were foreigners, they were not gringas.
I am the only gringa in the house.
I try not to be too offended, but it was a bit of a set-back to learn that people from my country are singled out more than from anywhere else. I mean, heck, I'm supposed to be an ambassador for my nation here and all, and I immediately get stuck with a special nickname given to us and us only? What did I ever do to deserve this, aside from being born in a certain place?

I catch myself wishing I was from somewhere else on occasion, just to reduce the level of special attention I keep getting. I order an avocado in Spanish, I don't want the fruit-seller to try and negotiate in English. I may be a gringa, but I'm speaking Spanish, dammit! I have a horrible accent and hilarious grammar, but I am making an effort to appreciate you and your language and your country!

I try to be calm about this for the most part, or laugh it off. It's better to laugh it off. Never mind that every so often I feel like a tourist from the future where machines wash dishes and warn of fires and people wear seatbelts and aren't bitten to death by bugs.

Good God, the bugs. I'm whining, I know, but I'm really not happy about this aspect of the country.

Oh-- there were people from France at the dinner table today. Friends of Myriam. Conversation was conducted in a mishmash of Chilean and French-accented Spanish, French, and mine and Cristobal's occasional comments in English-accented Spanish, Spanish-accented English, or American English. I didn't really talk much because it was difficult to keep up and it was even more bizarre being from the US with people from Europe at the table. Talking about free schooling and healthcare, or the lack of, wouldn't you know.
Hi. I'm from the US. I have three smoke detectors in my house and have to pay for college and all my medical expenses not covered by company insurance. I'm from a nation simultaneously so far advanced and so far behind that no one is quite sure what to make of me, but no one dares to speak up because, if slighted, we might invade them.

I didn't talk much.

I miss peanut butter.

Pictures from now on will be uploaded to that flickr account-- here's the link again, for anyone who might have misplaced it somehow: http://www.flickr.com/photos/48182168@N05/

Today's installment features the central plaza of Viña del Mar. The gal in stripes is Maria-José. Dude with the cyborg headpiece is Cristobal. I'm in green. The big black statue guy is Sr. Vergaras, who is credited for founding the city. The church is not in the plaza, but it's nearby. There were two guys playing some sort of amazingly long game of checkers-- I went to the plaza twice, separated by at least three hours, and they were there both times. Multiple games, perhaps. Different guys? Dunno. The board remains.
Always, the board remains.