This weekend I solved a mystery that's been puzzling me since I arrived in Chile: Where do all the Santiaguinos disappear to on Saturdays and Sundays? During the week, the area around my apartment is absolutely bustling, borderline hectic, from 10 in the morning until 9 at night. Shoppers, business people, casual strollers--we have all types making their way up and down Avenida Providencia. Come the weekend though, this busy thoroughfare becomes pleasantly calm. Coming from the States, where people do most of their eating out, shopping, and strolling on the weekends, this caused me some confusion. Were the herds of people I bobbed around in on weekdays simply spending their days off inside? The answer is no.
They're at the mall.
OK, so in the States, the malls are certainly popular weekend destinations, especially among the teenage set. But Santiaguinos take it to a whole different level.
Saturday afternoon two friends and I took the bus to Parque Arrauco Mall in a neighborhood of the city called Las Condes, well known for being one of the most affluent and North Americanized. This was my second time at this mall--or I should say, shopping town--and it is, for me, the clearest testament I've seen yet of the side of Chile that is downright obsessed with all things U.S. First of all, it's HUGE, rivaling any mall I've been to in the States. You get off the bus and walk into an open air plaza lined with nothing but American chain restaurants--Ruby Tuesday, T.G.I. Friday's, Benihana, Tony Roma's, Starbucks, and the list goes on. When we got there, a band was setting up in the center of the plaza, preparing for the live concerts that are put on there six days a week. When we entered the mall itself I was shocked by the crowds. It was like the malls in the States during the week before Christmas. From families to teens to old people, all had flocked to this mecca of materialism to spend their Saturday browsing the racks, perusing the home goods, and just generally being surrounded by items of conspicuous consumption.
As the afternoon wore on it only got more crowded. The lines for fitting rooms and registers got longer; it seemed we couldn't walk anywhere without getting stuck behind a gaggle of teenage Chilean girls who, it goes without saying, were more preoccupied with chatting than getting anywhere in particular; and the din in the cavernous building became deafening. Like the Santiaguinos, we had gotten sucked into the lure of excess--we had spent five hours browsing, mostly among things we didn't really need. But then again, who ever really needs the stuff they shop for in malls on Saturday afternoon? No one. But someone out there has done a hell of a job convincing Santiago's residents that the mall is not only the place they want to be, but the place they need to be on weekend afternoons. The town square has certainly been replaced.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Getting Started a Little Early
My students came to class drunk on Friday. Well, I should say a couple of my students, in my last class of the night--you know, the one at the ridiculous hour of 9:15-10:45--showed up buzzed, with one among them blurry-eyed, head in his hands, asking to go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes, drunk.
It started as I was waiting for the students trickle in. A group of five or so guys, who always sit together in front of the class were chatting and making jokes as they usually do when I noticed one guy pass another a 2 liter bottle of lemon Fanta. "Que rico esto!" (Mmm, that's tasty!) he exclaimed after he took a swig. I light went off in my head. Are they doing what I think they're doing? I shot them a look and instantly they knew I knew. Laughing and chattering in Spanish ensued, and I barked at them to cut it out and went to the board to begin the day's lesson.
A few minutes into the lesson is when I noticed the drunkard of the group. They kept making comments and laughing at him, with him waving them off and putting his head down on the desk. "What is going on here???" I asked them, though of course, it was already clear that we all knew the answer to that question. "Are you kidding me?" I asked, in English, but my exasperated tone was, I'm sure, understandable in any language. "Do you need to leave?" I asked him. "No, Miss," he muttered, and hiccuped. "Oh Jesus," I muttered. "Missss, it's just because he's so flaco (skinny)" one of his friends offered. I had to fight my smile back. "Alright, enough! Who can tell me what's wrong with this sentence?"
I guess I can't really blame them. My class is their last class of the week, it's at 9 PM on Friday night, and it's English--a class that the majority of them view as kind of a joke. It probably doesn't help that their teacher is obviously (no matter how I try to hide it) around their same age, and doesn't totally speak their language. Maybe I shouldn't admit it, but I found it at least a little amusing. Not the blatantly drunk boy--that was just too much. It was distracting for the rest of the class and he couldn't function at all. But his friends...yes, it was disrespectful of them to come to class drunk, but if it weren't for the skinny boy, I probably wouldn't have realized. In all honesty, I actually probably would have thought that the class had gone particularly well--they were extra chatty, and not just in their side conversations. I guess the Fanta and whatever it was loosened their inhibitions with speaking English.
They better not make a habit of "haciendo la previa" (pregaming) before my class, but if a drink or two it makes it so that I don't have to drag every English word out of their mouth, well, call me a bad teacher, but I don't think I'd mind it every once in a while.
It started as I was waiting for the students trickle in. A group of five or so guys, who always sit together in front of the class were chatting and making jokes as they usually do when I noticed one guy pass another a 2 liter bottle of lemon Fanta. "Que rico esto!" (Mmm, that's tasty!) he exclaimed after he took a swig. I light went off in my head. Are they doing what I think they're doing? I shot them a look and instantly they knew I knew. Laughing and chattering in Spanish ensued, and I barked at them to cut it out and went to the board to begin the day's lesson.
A few minutes into the lesson is when I noticed the drunkard of the group. They kept making comments and laughing at him, with him waving them off and putting his head down on the desk. "What is going on here???" I asked them, though of course, it was already clear that we all knew the answer to that question. "Are you kidding me?" I asked, in English, but my exasperated tone was, I'm sure, understandable in any language. "Do you need to leave?" I asked him. "No, Miss," he muttered, and hiccuped. "Oh Jesus," I muttered. "Missss, it's just because he's so flaco (skinny)" one of his friends offered. I had to fight my smile back. "Alright, enough! Who can tell me what's wrong with this sentence?"
I guess I can't really blame them. My class is their last class of the week, it's at 9 PM on Friday night, and it's English--a class that the majority of them view as kind of a joke. It probably doesn't help that their teacher is obviously (no matter how I try to hide it) around their same age, and doesn't totally speak their language. Maybe I shouldn't admit it, but I found it at least a little amusing. Not the blatantly drunk boy--that was just too much. It was distracting for the rest of the class and he couldn't function at all. But his friends...yes, it was disrespectful of them to come to class drunk, but if it weren't for the skinny boy, I probably wouldn't have realized. In all honesty, I actually probably would have thought that the class had gone particularly well--they were extra chatty, and not just in their side conversations. I guess the Fanta and whatever it was loosened their inhibitions with speaking English.
They better not make a habit of "haciendo la previa" (pregaming) before my class, but if a drink or two it makes it so that I don't have to drag every English word out of their mouth, well, call me a bad teacher, but I don't think I'd mind it every once in a while.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Going to the Dogs
A week or so ago I posted about Santiago's stray problem and my desire to find some way to help out. So I couldn't believe it when a friend and fellow teacher sent me this article yesterday. It's an interview with the director of Asociacion de Ayuda al Animal Abandonado (Association for the Help of Abandoned Animals). In it, he talks about Santiago's grave problem with stray dogs and what people can do to help, including volunteering with his organization. Needless to say, I contacted him right away and am planning to attend one of their meetings on Sunday. I can't wait! Thanks fate and Tara for sending this article my way!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Mission Memory Verb Game: Not Quite Accomplished
So I've been neglecting to share much about my experience teaching. Ironic since, after all, it is the principal reason behind my being here. Also strange because it really has been quite entertaining and interesting. I'm learning a lot about Chilean culture, especially the younger generation; the Chilean education system with all its idiosyncracies and frustrations; teaching and pedagogy, specifically teaching English as a foreign language; and a lot about myself: strengths, limitations, things that drive me insane, etc.
First of all, I feel very lucky to be in the teaching position that I am--a lead teacher in my own classroom in a university level institution--given my lack of an education background. DUOC, my school, has placed a lot of trust in me and my fellow North American teachers; after all our students' ability to graduate rests on whether they pass English. I am grateful for this challenge, and especially for the leeway that I have in how I teach my classes. On the other hand, there are times when I feel totally clueless about how to get through to my students, how to get them to participate more in class, how to explain something differently if they aren't getting it, how to evaluate them, and "un monton" (as they say in Chile, "a mountain") of other things.
Our goal, ultimately, is "practical fluency." That's all well and good in theory, but in practice it's infinitely difficult, especially when, along the way to the illusive "practical fluency," our students are expected to master, again, "un monton" of grammatical items. Of course, grammar--subjects, verbs, prepositions, articles, and the list goes on--are the building blocks of language. However, learning how to form a question by discussing the various parts of speech that you need to make up that interrogative sentence is not the way that all of us learned our native language. Things get even more complicated when the students you teach aren't all that familiar, if at all, with grammatical terms and structures, even in their own language.
So yesterday I set out for my day of teaching armed with what I thought was a great, (clever, fun, interractive, hands-on, etc) way to reinforce the conjugation of simple present verbs, which I had introduced in the last class. I had made a 9x6 matrix of subjects (He, I, She, John, We, etc) and verbs (plays guitar, goes to work, etc), and covered each with a post-it for my own spin on the classic "Memory" game. A lot of work for one lesson, but I figured the students would have fun with it and it would be more interesting than just conjugating and repeating.
What I thought would be straightforward confused my students immensely. Not only did they struggle to understand how to play the game (they would pick "I" and "a student" and not understand why that couldn't be a match. I understand what they were thinking, but I had to explain maybe 10 times that those were two subjects, that they needed a verb). Even the ones that did understand were still making mistakes ("They goes to work. Siii." "No Juan, that is NOT a match. THEY: NO S"). I had even drawn two circles on the board, one for "NEEDS S" (He, She, It, ANY NAME) and one for "NO S" (I, You, We, They). Still, no dice. To top it off, they almost always refused to read the words, and instead simply looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to read them and tell them whether it was a match or not. That pretty much defeated the purpose of the exercise to get them to read and speak, two fundamental goals of language instruction, duh.
So, halfway through the game I finally accepted that it wasn't working. Time to regroup and revise. We switched over to a less complicated activity, well actually borderline dull in its straightforwardness, but it seemed to work better. I'm still not convinced that come the quiz next Wednesday they won't all write in "Juan go to school," and that makes me feel nervous, guilty, and frustrated. But, I planned my lesson for tomorrow this morning, and I guess I'm a glutton for punishment because I crafted a new activity, construction paper, scissors, markers, and all. We'll see if this one works better or if we'll have to resort, once again to boring book activities and repetition. Call me stupid, but I'm hopeful this one will make this new grammar item crystal clear...I'll let you know.
First of all, I feel very lucky to be in the teaching position that I am--a lead teacher in my own classroom in a university level institution--given my lack of an education background. DUOC, my school, has placed a lot of trust in me and my fellow North American teachers; after all our students' ability to graduate rests on whether they pass English. I am grateful for this challenge, and especially for the leeway that I have in how I teach my classes. On the other hand, there are times when I feel totally clueless about how to get through to my students, how to get them to participate more in class, how to explain something differently if they aren't getting it, how to evaluate them, and "un monton" (as they say in Chile, "a mountain") of other things.
Our goal, ultimately, is "practical fluency." That's all well and good in theory, but in practice it's infinitely difficult, especially when, along the way to the illusive "practical fluency," our students are expected to master, again, "un monton" of grammatical items. Of course, grammar--subjects, verbs, prepositions, articles, and the list goes on--are the building blocks of language. However, learning how to form a question by discussing the various parts of speech that you need to make up that interrogative sentence is not the way that all of us learned our native language. Things get even more complicated when the students you teach aren't all that familiar, if at all, with grammatical terms and structures, even in their own language.
So yesterday I set out for my day of teaching armed with what I thought was a great, (clever, fun, interractive, hands-on, etc) way to reinforce the conjugation of simple present verbs, which I had introduced in the last class. I had made a 9x6 matrix of subjects (He, I, She, John, We, etc) and verbs (plays guitar, goes to work, etc), and covered each with a post-it for my own spin on the classic "Memory" game. A lot of work for one lesson, but I figured the students would have fun with it and it would be more interesting than just conjugating and repeating.
What I thought would be straightforward confused my students immensely. Not only did they struggle to understand how to play the game (they would pick "I" and "a student" and not understand why that couldn't be a match. I understand what they were thinking, but I had to explain maybe 10 times that those were two subjects, that they needed a verb). Even the ones that did understand were still making mistakes ("They goes to work. Siii." "No Juan, that is NOT a match. THEY: NO S"). I had even drawn two circles on the board, one for "NEEDS S" (He, She, It, ANY NAME) and one for "NO S" (I, You, We, They). Still, no dice. To top it off, they almost always refused to read the words, and instead simply looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to read them and tell them whether it was a match or not. That pretty much defeated the purpose of the exercise to get them to read and speak, two fundamental goals of language instruction, duh.
So, halfway through the game I finally accepted that it wasn't working. Time to regroup and revise. We switched over to a less complicated activity, well actually borderline dull in its straightforwardness, but it seemed to work better. I'm still not convinced that come the quiz next Wednesday they won't all write in "Juan go to school," and that makes me feel nervous, guilty, and frustrated. But, I planned my lesson for tomorrow this morning, and I guess I'm a glutton for punishment because I crafted a new activity, construction paper, scissors, markers, and all. We'll see if this one works better or if we'll have to resort, once again to boring book activities and repetition. Call me stupid, but I'm hopeful this one will make this new grammar item crystal clear...I'll let you know.
Monday, April 19, 2010
A Doorknob Disappointment
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been considering and casually looking for a new apartment. Although I love my location, I’m starting to feel seriously cramped in my 10x5 foot room. I constantly feel like I need to be picking up and organizing because there is just nowhere to put anything! And, I’ll admit, I’m not the most neat and organized person, so that just makes it worse. There are also just little things that, in my desperation to get out of the hostel, I didn’t notice when I decided on my apartment. My bed sucks, for one. And it’s not even anything I can fix. It’s super squishy, to the point of feeling like all the material of the mattress has disintegrated, and I can feel springs poking into my back. Our kitchen also leaves something to be desired, with minimal counter space and grungy floors and appliances. I’m not looking for a palace, but in general I’d like to live in a newer building and in an apartment that was decorated and is kept up with a little more attention.
So that brings me to the apartment search process. This second go around has proven much more difficult and frustrating for me. I think it’s because I now have fairly specific elements I am looking for, that I simply wasn’t aware of before. For starters, I really would like to stay within a ten-block radius of where I am now. It’s just too convenient being able to walk to work to move anywhere else. Plus, I cut out transportation costs of the metro or buses. I now know to give the bed a test drive; to ask about a dryer as well as a washing machine (otherwise I’m going to be dry-cleaning everything I own that I don’t want to look like it’s two sizes too big); to ask myself whether I can see myself spending time and cooking in the kitchen; and a number of other little particulars. Given all that, it’s proven impossible thus far to find a place with everything I want!
I thought I had hit the jackpot this past week with a huge apartment (more like a house) just one metro stop up from where I am now, and still within walkable distance from my school. The room was sizable, the bed a super comfy double, and I had a private bathroom to myself. It was in my price range and the common areas were pleasant enough, the only doubt I had concerned the roommates. The woman who showed me the apartment was a forty- or fifty-something mother, and she shared the apartment with her two grown daughters. She seemed nice enough and I had a great experience living with an empty nester in Spain, but it just hadn’t been the living arrangement I had pictured for myself for my time here in Chile. Nonetheless, after my initial visit I decided to return for a second look, feel her out once more, and make my decision.
I had pretty much decided I’d take it after chatting with her for about fifteen minutes and carefully inspecting the apartment for the second time, when my potential roommate asked me a question: “Ok Megan, there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, are you a very quiet person?”
I thought about it for a second. “Well, yes, I think of myself as a pretty quiet person.”
“Oh good,” she replied, “because loud noises bother me quite a bit. And the last person was always slamming the doors.”
I guess my puzzled look tipped her off.
“Oh, let me show you what I mean,” she offered.
We walked over to my future bedroom.
“You see, he used to shut the door like this.”
She proceeded to close my bedroom door. Not slam. Not shut with force. Just close the door. Yes, it made a noise. Perhaps it’s the way the door is made or sits in the frame, or maybe it’s the particular kind of doorknob.
“But, really,” she went on, “I’d like the door to be closed like this.”
She demonstrated: “You turn the doorknob first, and then close the door softly.” “See?”
She looked at me expectantly, looking for my recognition that yes, of course, this was a much better way to close a door. Alarms were blaring in my head at that moment. PSYCHO. OBSESSIVE. YOU DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO WALK AROUND QUIET AS A MOUSE IN YOUR HOUSE. But, I simply nodded and smiled, “Claro, claro” (of course, of course), “that makes perfect sense. That’s a much better way.”
I was out of there thirty seconds later, having promised to call her later that day about when to bring my money by for the deposit.
Do you think that happened?
So that brings me to the apartment search process. This second go around has proven much more difficult and frustrating for me. I think it’s because I now have fairly specific elements I am looking for, that I simply wasn’t aware of before. For starters, I really would like to stay within a ten-block radius of where I am now. It’s just too convenient being able to walk to work to move anywhere else. Plus, I cut out transportation costs of the metro or buses. I now know to give the bed a test drive; to ask about a dryer as well as a washing machine (otherwise I’m going to be dry-cleaning everything I own that I don’t want to look like it’s two sizes too big); to ask myself whether I can see myself spending time and cooking in the kitchen; and a number of other little particulars. Given all that, it’s proven impossible thus far to find a place with everything I want!
I thought I had hit the jackpot this past week with a huge apartment (more like a house) just one metro stop up from where I am now, and still within walkable distance from my school. The room was sizable, the bed a super comfy double, and I had a private bathroom to myself. It was in my price range and the common areas were pleasant enough, the only doubt I had concerned the roommates. The woman who showed me the apartment was a forty- or fifty-something mother, and she shared the apartment with her two grown daughters. She seemed nice enough and I had a great experience living with an empty nester in Spain, but it just hadn’t been the living arrangement I had pictured for myself for my time here in Chile. Nonetheless, after my initial visit I decided to return for a second look, feel her out once more, and make my decision.
I had pretty much decided I’d take it after chatting with her for about fifteen minutes and carefully inspecting the apartment for the second time, when my potential roommate asked me a question: “Ok Megan, there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you, are you a very quiet person?”
I thought about it for a second. “Well, yes, I think of myself as a pretty quiet person.”
“Oh good,” she replied, “because loud noises bother me quite a bit. And the last person was always slamming the doors.”
I guess my puzzled look tipped her off.
“Oh, let me show you what I mean,” she offered.
We walked over to my future bedroom.
“You see, he used to shut the door like this.”
She proceeded to close my bedroom door. Not slam. Not shut with force. Just close the door. Yes, it made a noise. Perhaps it’s the way the door is made or sits in the frame, or maybe it’s the particular kind of doorknob.
“But, really,” she went on, “I’d like the door to be closed like this.”
She demonstrated: “You turn the doorknob first, and then close the door softly.” “See?”
She looked at me expectantly, looking for my recognition that yes, of course, this was a much better way to close a door. Alarms were blaring in my head at that moment. PSYCHO. OBSESSIVE. YOU DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO WALK AROUND QUIET AS A MOUSE IN YOUR HOUSE. But, I simply nodded and smiled, “Claro, claro” (of course, of course), “that makes perfect sense. That’s a much better way.”
I was out of there thirty seconds later, having promised to call her later that day about when to bring my money by for the deposit.
Do you think that happened?
Saturday, April 17, 2010
La Chascona: A House Built for a Genius
I've been meaning to visit the famous Chilean poet and diplomat Pablo Neruda's Santiago home for some time now. I had heard great things about the whimsical residence of perhaps Chile's most world reknowned son. I finally got around to it on one of my off days this week.
A friend here, Mike, and his girlfriend Caren who is visiting for the week, and I headed into the artsy neighborhood of Bellavista and got to La Chascona just in time for the last tour of the day. Lucky us, we got a private showing with a knowledgeable and enthusiastic guide.
Pablo Neruda lived from 1904 to 1973, his life spanning a huge, and extremely significant chunk of the twentieth century. He was a member of an extremely influential group of artists working and producing during from the twenties on through the fifties. His house, particularly the decor and the many collectibles he had, reflects how the drastically the world changed in this time period. I've always been fascinated by the first half of the twentieth century, from its literature, to its art, to its history. Wandering the rooms of Neruda's house, imagining him and his artist friends having parties and meetings, and generally having a great time, made me wish I could time travel back and see what it was really like.
La Chascona is one of three houses that Neruda had in Chile. He built it, in part, as a secret getaway to be with his mistress, and the house is named for her: chascona is a word in Quechua meaning messy hair, and Matilde apparently had a mass of unruly red hair. Although he couldn't swim until very late in his life, Neruda was obsessed with the sea, and the house was built to be as similar in design and feel to a boat as possible. The windows are circular, the floor intentionally creaky and slanted, and the staircases small and circular.
Unfortunately, during the 1970s with the military dictatorship, La Chascona was looted and all of the books in the home were burned and some of the valuables lost. Indeed, the quirky, playful feel of the house is underpinned by the dark reality that for much of his life, Neruda was considered an enemy of the state for his communist leanings. Somehow though, he managed to always stay an arm's length ahead of the authorities and was able to continue working as an artist and influential statesman.
A home, of course, reveals much about the person who lived in it--especially when it is a home with the incredible attention to detail of La Chascona. Without a doubt, I finished our visit convinced of the genius and truly unique spirit of Neruda (and excited to read more of his poetry!).
A friend here, Mike, and his girlfriend Caren who is visiting for the week, and I headed into the artsy neighborhood of Bellavista and got to La Chascona just in time for the last tour of the day. Lucky us, we got a private showing with a knowledgeable and enthusiastic guide.
Pablo Neruda lived from 1904 to 1973, his life spanning a huge, and extremely significant chunk of the twentieth century. He was a member of an extremely influential group of artists working and producing during from the twenties on through the fifties. His house, particularly the decor and the many collectibles he had, reflects how the drastically the world changed in this time period. I've always been fascinated by the first half of the twentieth century, from its literature, to its art, to its history. Wandering the rooms of Neruda's house, imagining him and his artist friends having parties and meetings, and generally having a great time, made me wish I could time travel back and see what it was really like.
La Chascona is one of three houses that Neruda had in Chile. He built it, in part, as a secret getaway to be with his mistress, and the house is named for her: chascona is a word in Quechua meaning messy hair, and Matilde apparently had a mass of unruly red hair. Although he couldn't swim until very late in his life, Neruda was obsessed with the sea, and the house was built to be as similar in design and feel to a boat as possible. The windows are circular, the floor intentionally creaky and slanted, and the staircases small and circular.
Unfortunately, during the 1970s with the military dictatorship, La Chascona was looted and all of the books in the home were burned and some of the valuables lost. Indeed, the quirky, playful feel of the house is underpinned by the dark reality that for much of his life, Neruda was considered an enemy of the state for his communist leanings. Somehow though, he managed to always stay an arm's length ahead of the authorities and was able to continue working as an artist and influential statesman.
A home, of course, reveals much about the person who lived in it--especially when it is a home with the incredible attention to detail of La Chascona. Without a doubt, I finished our visit convinced of the genius and truly unique spirit of Neruda (and excited to read more of his poetry!).
Monday, April 12, 2010
Santiago's Strays: A Real Problem
First of all, with a few exceptions, they are all pretty attractive, healthy looking dogs. You rarely see bones jutting out or mangy fur. On the contrary, I've seen a couple pups who's good looks would rival any purebred housepet. Just the other day I was running and, as often happens, a small pack started running along with me. Among the group was the most beautiful black lab I've ever seen, gorgeous light brown eyes and perfectly proportioned. It was all I could do not to lure her back to my apartment and keep her.
The second surprising thing is how street savvy they all are. No exaggeration, these dogs follow the crosswalk signals for pedestrians. And not just because they follow what the people do. I've seen a dog, alone at an intersection, patiently waiting for the green light so that he could cross safely.
With their apparent good health and clear mastery of city life, it's easy to shrug off Santiago's problem with strays. But really, it's just that: a big problem. For every dog that successfully crosses the street, another I'm sure gets hit by a car. Almost none of them are spayed or neutered, so they are constantly multiplying. And eating scraps off the streets and from garbage and other unseemly places is hardly a good diet for a dog.
So, as I was jogging along today, with my pals beside me--a mutt with one blue and one brown eye, and a coyote look alike--I started brainstorming what I could do about it. I definitely have some investigating to do, and being in a foreign country, I barely know where to start, but I'm going to try to ask around to some vets and friends in the know to see what kind of humane society exists here and whether there are any programs to help the strays. Let me know if you have any ideas!
Monday, April 5, 2010
Mendoza: Land of Steak and Wine
Last week was a short one (only one day of work for me) and it was off to Mendoza, Argentina for my first foray into another South American country. I crossed the Andes to spend the long Easter weekend there with ten of my fellow English teachers. Supposedly, it's a six-hour bus ride from Santiago to Mendoza, but with customs, traffic, and the windy, treacherous roads through the mountains, it was more like eight. But, the scenery was gorgeous (though I forgot my camera in Santiago), and the bus super comfy (I'm developing an obsession with South American bus travel) so it wasn't so bad as you might think.
We arrived in Mendoza hungry and raring to try the famed Argentinian asado (grilled meats), and we headed to Estancia la Florencia. I had a pretty good steak, though some of my fellow diners who ordered thicker cuts raved that theirs were the best steaks they'd ever had, and I suffered some serious food envy. We also had a delicious Malbec, one of the best known varieties of Argentinian red wine, and all for under US$15!
Mendoza is definitely a city built on its tourist industry, with over 100 vineyards in the surrounding valley, and myriad opportunities for adventure excursions like horseback riding, rafting, trekking, and skydiving. Of course, we wanted to get on all of these, and, of course, we didn't really take into consideration that it might be hard to organize excursions for 11 people the day of, and on a holiday weekend. Needless to say, we spent the entire morning Friday dealing with logistics. Unfortunately, the bike wine tour (yeah, sounds kind of treacherous right?) was totally booked, so we settled with booking some rafting-hiking-riding activities for Saturday, and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the Parque Independencia in the center of the city. Of course, it wouldn't be an afternoon in the park in Mendoza without a couple bottles of wine to share. We found a cute wine shop, grabbed a couple of great (and super reasonable) Malbecs, and asked the clerks to, por favor, open them for us. Naturally, they were infinitely amused by the gringos asking for three bottles of wine to be opened in shop at 4 in the afternoon, but hey, it's not every day you're in the heart of Argentinian wine country :)
Our sunny and gorgeous Friday gave way to a cloudy and chilly Saturday. For some reason though, we were all in denial about the uncooperative weather and, donning our bathing suits and shorts, headed out to the Andes for our adventure activities. Bad move.
Part of the group had signed up for trekking and rappelling in the morning and rafting in the afternoon, and some others had opted for horseback riding in the morning. Our "trek" consisted of walking across the highway to a hill and an 8 minute scramble up the side of it. Once we reached the top, there were thirty of us standing on a 10 x 10 foot patch of rock surrounded by cacti. I guess you could say it was good we were huddled together, because the wind was bitter cold and blowing hard. And then...we waited: about an hour and half, as each one of us rappelled down the 75 foot cliff.
Our guide, Gustavo, must have been mislead about our familiarity with rappelling, because he didn't feel the need to give any sort of instruction, briefing, safety tips...or say anything really. When it was finally my turn to go, Gustavo grabbed my harness and hooked me up, to my protests of "No sé como hacer esto!" (I don't know what I'm doing!"). I guess there's not that much to rappelling, because all he told me was hold one rope in one hand and the other in the other, and go. So...I did. Six minutes later I was back on solid ground, with a mild adrenaline rush, but nothing to write home about. Needless to say, I won't be taking up rappelling as a hobby.
Having frozen my butt off for the past two hours, the thought of getting splashed by frigid water made me want to cry, so I backed out of the rafting portion of the day.
With Saturday's extreme physical exertion as our excuse, a couple girls and I decided to book a spa treatment at the beautiful Hyatt hotel for Sunday morning before we headed back to Santiago. My Thai massage was wonderful, and, priced in Argentinian pesos, very reasonable. Though, I'll say, I've never had my masseuse climb onto my back and crawl on it before. (Don't worry, it was a woman). Must have been something to do with it being "Thai." Who knows?
One of my favorite things about the trip was that, after a month of feeling ashamed and defeated when I try to speak Spanish, I left Argentina with my confidence restored in my language abilities. (I knew my ten years of Spanish instruction wasn't completely in vain). They speak SO much more slowly and clearly there, and they didn't look at me like I was from Mars when I spoke to them in Spanish. Maybe they're just better than Chileans are at humoring gringos with bad accents, but I'm hoping it's more to do with the fact that my Spanish at least to a certain extent resembles their own. The "ll" sound and the use of "vos" aside, it certainly resembles their speech more closely than it does that of the speakers in my own South American hometown.
We arrived in Mendoza hungry and raring to try the famed Argentinian asado (grilled meats), and we headed to Estancia la Florencia. I had a pretty good steak, though some of my fellow diners who ordered thicker cuts raved that theirs were the best steaks they'd ever had, and I suffered some serious food envy. We also had a delicious Malbec, one of the best known varieties of Argentinian red wine, and all for under US$15!
Mendoza is definitely a city built on its tourist industry, with over 100 vineyards in the surrounding valley, and myriad opportunities for adventure excursions like horseback riding, rafting, trekking, and skydiving. Of course, we wanted to get on all of these, and, of course, we didn't really take into consideration that it might be hard to organize excursions for 11 people the day of, and on a holiday weekend. Needless to say, we spent the entire morning Friday dealing with logistics. Unfortunately, the bike wine tour (yeah, sounds kind of treacherous right?) was totally booked, so we settled with booking some rafting-hiking-riding activities for Saturday, and spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the Parque Independencia in the center of the city. Of course, it wouldn't be an afternoon in the park in Mendoza without a couple bottles of wine to share. We found a cute wine shop, grabbed a couple of great (and super reasonable) Malbecs, and asked the clerks to, por favor, open them for us. Naturally, they were infinitely amused by the gringos asking for three bottles of wine to be opened in shop at 4 in the afternoon, but hey, it's not every day you're in the heart of Argentinian wine country :)
Our sunny and gorgeous Friday gave way to a cloudy and chilly Saturday. For some reason though, we were all in denial about the uncooperative weather and, donning our bathing suits and shorts, headed out to the Andes for our adventure activities. Bad move.
Part of the group had signed up for trekking and rappelling in the morning and rafting in the afternoon, and some others had opted for horseback riding in the morning. Our "trek" consisted of walking across the highway to a hill and an 8 minute scramble up the side of it. Once we reached the top, there were thirty of us standing on a 10 x 10 foot patch of rock surrounded by cacti. I guess you could say it was good we were huddled together, because the wind was bitter cold and blowing hard. And then...we waited: about an hour and half, as each one of us rappelled down the 75 foot cliff.
Our guide, Gustavo, must have been mislead about our familiarity with rappelling, because he didn't feel the need to give any sort of instruction, briefing, safety tips...or say anything really. When it was finally my turn to go, Gustavo grabbed my harness and hooked me up, to my protests of "No sé como hacer esto!" (I don't know what I'm doing!"). I guess there's not that much to rappelling, because all he told me was hold one rope in one hand and the other in the other, and go. So...I did. Six minutes later I was back on solid ground, with a mild adrenaline rush, but nothing to write home about. Needless to say, I won't be taking up rappelling as a hobby.
Having frozen my butt off for the past two hours, the thought of getting splashed by frigid water made me want to cry, so I backed out of the rafting portion of the day.
With Saturday's extreme physical exertion as our excuse, a couple girls and I decided to book a spa treatment at the beautiful Hyatt hotel for Sunday morning before we headed back to Santiago. My Thai massage was wonderful, and, priced in Argentinian pesos, very reasonable. Though, I'll say, I've never had my masseuse climb onto my back and crawl on it before. (Don't worry, it was a woman). Must have been something to do with it being "Thai." Who knows?
One of my favorite things about the trip was that, after a month of feeling ashamed and defeated when I try to speak Spanish, I left Argentina with my confidence restored in my language abilities. (I knew my ten years of Spanish instruction wasn't completely in vain). They speak SO much more slowly and clearly there, and they didn't look at me like I was from Mars when I spoke to them in Spanish. Maybe they're just better than Chileans are at humoring gringos with bad accents, but I'm hoping it's more to do with the fact that my Spanish at least to a certain extent resembles their own. The "ll" sound and the use of "vos" aside, it certainly resembles their speech more closely than it does that of the speakers in my own South American hometown.
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