Pastel de Choclo

"Our typical cuisine is simple because earth and sea are generous; there is no fruit or seafood more delicious than ours - that I can assure you. The more difficult it is to put food on the table, the more elaborate and spicy it becomes, witness the examples of India and Mexico, where there are three hundred ways to cook rice. We have one, and that seems more than sufficient to us." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

Chile is not known for its culinary triumphs. Thirty cents will buy you a freshly fried corn patty called a sopaipilla that you can top with your share of spicy mustard and even spicier salsa. For a little more, you might run into an empanada shop that delivers what you think it will, but tastes only half as good as you are expecting. And for about a dollar, you can hit the late night bar crowd's jackpot called a completo - which is just a glorified hot dog dressed in enough mayonnaise to cause a coronary. And although the fruit and vegetable markets are divine and it seems like there are all the makings for deliciousness to abound, something simply misses the mark. I am not alone in this opinion - my most sophisticated foodie friend to date who lives in Santiago remains totally discouraged by Chilean cuisine.

And so, expectations low and criticism quelled, I ventured into the nearest lonely planet option once my cold and walking threshold reached its breaking point. Un Cristal por supesto, y... ummm uhhh... un momento porfa. Chilean food, Carrie, keep going for traditional chilean food. My eyes scanned over everything until I caught something I recognized - Pastel de Choclo! Yes, I'll try the pastel de choclo. Less than five minutes later, this is what was placed in front of me:

It was so hot, the steam could not stop pouring out of it. But once I coaxed it down to a manageable temperature, it was sweet corn and onions and succulent pieces of chicken and... an olive! what? how could an olive be so harmonious with these flavors?... and a hard boiled egg?? so unexpected. It was soulful and crusty and soft and balanced. This is a terrible analogy, but do you remember those candles you bought as a tween that promised to melt down and reveal little treasures? It was like that in a way. Just layer after layer of flavor and warmth and perfection. I felt like Rachael Ray on $40 a day (another bad example but you catch my drift) discovering the best kept cheap secret in the land. In one well ordered serendipitous meal, Chile proved it is not a total international culinary loss. Call me a glutton if you must, but I can think of worse things than death by pastel de choclo.

Jorge

"The first thing you can say about Chileans is that we are friendly and hospitable; at the first hint we throw open our arms and the doors of our homes. I've often heard foreigners say that if they ask directions, the people they approach accompany them personally, and if they seem to be lost, their informant is capable of inviting them home for dinner, even offering a bed if they're in difficulty." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

There is much to say of Sweeting's roommate Jorge, but I suppose it is really all best summarized by the first two hours I was in his apartment. I already spoke of my traveling woes - the lost luggage and the summer clothes in winter weather and the forced Spanish use so early on. I showed up at Sweeting and Jorge's apartment a little - a lot - battle weary. I arrived just in time for Sweeting to let me in and then duck out for one of his evening classes, leaving me shivering under the covers and fretting about my suitcase loss with a promise he'd be back in a few hours and things would be better. One hour gone: cold... no call from the airline... not getting out of bed... might as well nap. Hour two: Why won't they call? Why can't I call out of Sweeting's stupid phone? My whole vacation is going to be ruined! Hour two and three quarters: The phone rings. THE PHONE RINGS!!! Hello? Spanish. Lots of fast phone Spanish. In a panic I manage a "espere senora, por favor!! espere!" and run out to the common room in a frenzy, throwing the phone to the still unfamiliar Jorge telling him to figure this out for me!

Sweet Jorge. He patiently, calmly, cooperatively converses with his countrymen on the phone. Confirming to me nonverbally with intermittent eyebrow raises and head nods that my luggage is en route while giving verbal directions to the airline. He handles everything and that moment made every single worry wrinkle that I will be cursing myself for in 20 years to subside. I sink into the dining room chair next to Jorge's work station, pick out two cigarettes from his carton on the table, and light them simultaneously before handing him one and exhaling out a weighty mixture of stress and smoke.

Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet, Jorge, I say in Spanish. Although very willing to help, he seemed a little tentative about the sudden intrusion into what was clearly HIS space. HIS dining room table turned office desk. HIS cigarettes. HIS tranquilo. I'm taking this all in when I also realize that the Beatles are playing softly in the background. And there is a bunch of photography equipment strewn about. And there are about 15 huge pieces of funky artwork hanging around on the walls. And a Spanish-English dictionary on the shelf. And so I start asking him about everything... and the discomfort melts into engaging conversation. About his fiancee and his artwork and how the flatware on one of the canvasses represents that he needs her like he needs food. About his photography and how people have to eat spinach like Popeye in order to get strong and how he thinks that Sweeting has done quite well for himself in Chile. About the funny English/Spanish translation mistakes like "embarazada" being used by gringas to express embarrassment but actually means pregnant and the importance of differentiating between "relaciones" and "MIS relaciones."

Another hour passed before Brian got back from class, and it was obvious he was happy to see I had clearly settled right in and made myself at home. And for the two weeks I was there, it was a lot of Brian at work and Jorge and I at the table chatting. To revisit the original quote, it was two weeks of Jorge throwing open his arms and his door at the first hint of my arrival. Giving me directions. Making me dinner. Always glad to discuss Beatles or post-Beatles songbooks. Being patient with my fear of the gas heating system. Teaching me about Spanish and about Chile. Teaching me that I was in his world... and was welcome in it.

The Mechanics of Cold

"We Chileans are enchanted by states of emergency... In summer we die of the heat and in winter of the cold, but no one has air conditioning or decent heating, because that would be tantamount to admitting that the climate isn't as good as they say it is." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

Sweeting warned me weeks ago that he could see his breath in his apartment and apologized in advance. Frankly, I only half believed him. I had been monitoring Santiago weather for weeks and as far as I was concerned it looked to be about like San Francisco weather is right now; 60 something during the day, maybe 40 something at worst by night. Well. That has turned out to be true. But what I did not take seriously enough was the fact that INSIDE the buildings would be colder than OUTSIDE the buildings. Literally the temperature drops about 10 degrees from the time I get the first door unlocked to the time I get inside and up one flight of stairs to the apartment. After an inevitable five to ten minutes of wrestling with the three locks on the door, one of which is particularly tricky, my hands are freezing, goosebumps invade my body, and I can see my breath with every sigh of frustration at my inability to figure out something as simple as how to open a door.

Inside the apartment is no refuge. We sleep with five layers of blankets and comforters and a "hot water bottle" in the form of a nalgene that is now better used as a heat source than a water source. I realize what a gringa I am every time I turn on the water faucet to wash my face, sure I will coax hot water from the red side of the handle. Alas, for a few seconds of hot water, one must cross the apartment into the laundry room, ensure the gas switch is flipped to "on", double back into the kitchen to punch the nozzle of the beast of a contraption in until it snaps on and a few flames begin to light up in the little window, then go back to the bathroom and turn the faucet on with enough gusto to incite the hot water to flow enough to please the waiting beneficiary. Then, everything back to the off positions. How are there not more gas explosions in this country?

I am sure I sound spoiled and complaining. But actually I am more fascinated than anything else. The Chileans are all so comfortable with the process and I'm near-terrified to even flip the gas switch. As I write this now, I can see my breath in the air and know it is time to get out of bed and get outside... I'll warm up out there.

Chilenos

"Being so far from everything gives us Chileans an insular mentality, and the majestic beauty of the land makes us take on airs. We believe we are the center of the world - in our view, Greenwich should have been set in Santiago - and we turn our backs on Latin America, always comparing ourselves instead to Europe. We are very self-centered: the rest of the universe exists only to consume our wines and produce soccer teams we can beat." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

I have never traveled so far away only to find myself as comfortable with the culture as I do here in Chile. On one of the first nights I was here, I met Marie and Francisco - a girl from Milwaukee married to a boy from Santiago. Marie explained to me that there is just something about Americans and Chilenos that mixes wonderfully. I now know a number of people in Chilean-American relationships and am aware of even more.

I can't quite put my finger on what makes us so similar. Maybe it is difficult because I can't fully believe our similarities given our completely different histories. The academic in me is always looking for the affects of Pinochet's still-very-recent reign of terror over this country. Every old man with a missing leg or arm... every woman with some kind of deformity... hell, anyone I see who looks 40+... makes me wonder what they've seen; what they've felt. I will say that I notice a palpable hesitance in all Chilenos. They are more reserved, more shy, more quiet, more tranquilo than any other latin american nation I have encountered before. I myself feel incredibly hesitant to broach the subject of las desaparecidas or anything related to those years and events. It's too soon, I've decided. Too soon.

Politics aside, the similarities are endless. Movies premiere here almost immediately after they do in the States. Chilenos love flash mobs (who doesn't love a good flash mob!?) and the popularity of Glee has soared to equal if not greater heights than ours. Chilenos are quick to exchange greetings in passing, throw a few luca in the hat of someone in need on the streets, live in a society where they can trust their policemen, and frequent their Saturday morning farmers markets. We share an arrogance about our countries - that we are (or should be) the center of the universe, as Isabel Allende writes in her memoir. And even though I already digressed from the history/politics side of things and labeled them as completely different, September 11th is a date on our calendars we both mourn; for Pinochet's coup and Al Qaeda's attacks. Chilenos love to barbeque, spend long weekends at the beach with their families, and of course their reputation for winter sports precedes itself.

To travel so far and feel so at home is not something I am used to feeling in my journeys. But I think I like it.

Santiago

"In Chile everything is centralized in the capital... If it doesn't happen in Santiago, it may as well not happen at all." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

Depending on the route of your flight from the States, you can count on it taking about 24 hours to land you a birds eye view of the Andes - snow capped and endless - before your descent into Santiago de Chile. I arrived without my bags which had not made the connecting flight in Buenos Aires, and was therefore thrown back to the Spanish 3 unit on travel vocabulary. One thing I will say that has come through loud and clear on this trip is thank GOD for Lola Danielli. That woman is an absolute saint for being so wonderfully stubborn and demanding about the three uses of "ser", five uses of "estar" and all the differences between "por" y "para" to a bunch of entitled high school brats who wouldn't try hard enough to meet her standards. Well when they lose their baggage somewhere in Latin America, the joke is on them and the few of us who stuck it out with her will have enough to draw from to explain "the plane was late, the baggage didn't make it, it's not checked through to SCL, it was on a different airline, I'm wearing sandals in the middle of winter and really need my bags, here is the address and phone number where I can be reached now please please find my bags." (And indeed they were found and arrived at 268 Merced, Santiago Centro only a few hours later much to my satisfaction and relief.)

And Santiago... I think much of Latin America can best be described as Europe-like but with grit. And I like me some grit, so it suits me quite nicely. Of course the United States has weaseled its way into some of the infrastructure here - McDonalds and Starbucks are a universal certainty now I think. But they are not so omnipresent as in other countries and are in fact difficult to find amongst the cafes, churrasco/completo shops, and of course the bookstores which are more plentiful than any other commercial venture. A country whose bookstores outnumber anything else is my kind of heaven.

Santiago is remarkably centralized for the tourist and although the metro system is fantastic, I prefer to walk through the bohemian graffitied streets of Bellavista, the curved refined Lastarria, the crazed Huerfanos, the distinctly Spanish-style Plaza de Armas. I'm surprised by the number of street dogs in such a progressive, modern city but they don't seem to bother anyone else so I am trying to withhold my judgement. I'm confused by the main drag being named "Avenida O'Higgins" instead of something more "latin" sounding, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone else so I am trying to withhold my judgement. But the parks, the plazas, the occasional cathedral and old ornate buildings make Santiago feel like somewhere people go to live.

#9 Fly First Class

Ahhh the luxuries of First Class flight. Special priority check-in, luggage, security lines, and boarding - breezing past the sweaty, travel-weary, long-line-waiting, jockeying-for-boarding-position peons. Excuse me sir, could you step OFF the red carpet so these PRIORITY passengers could get through? Music to my ears.

Preflight beverage service - in a glass! A real glass! Huge seats, ample overhead storage space, coats hung up for you. A reminder to all passengers to please use the bathrooms in their ticketed cabins.

A menu detailing your many on-board dining options, a little bowl of mixed nuts while you mull them over, and of course... an open bar, which was taken full advantage of by my five-bloody-marys-in neighbor and myself, to a lesser extent.

Since when is the SFO - IAD flight so short!?

But I digress...

Oh wait, no I don't. Domestic first class flights on mediocre aircrafts are really nothing at all compared to International Business. I had experienced the unparalleled deliciousness of United's lay flat seats on a Rome-DC flight about a year and a half ago, so when the email confirming my upgrade came through, the outlook for the next 11 hours of my life improved dramatically. Comforter-style blankets, fluffy pillows, personal on-demand entertainment systems with hours and hours of movies and tv and games and map-watching. A courtesy amenity pack complete with little sockys for your cold feet, Murad lotion, toothpaste and toothbrush, an eyemask, and a pen (for your customs forms of course). I board, I eat dinner, and I push the lay flat button. A full 8 hours later, I wake up to the smell of coffee and breakfast and the announcement we will be landing in an hour. My neighbor asks me how I slept? Beautifully, I say. Never better.

Now people... I know what all of this sounds like. I realize how indulgent and ridiculous it is to pursue such creature comforts. I understand your disapproval. And to you I say... too bad :)

And to my status-loving, travel-savvy, miles-obsessed friends, I say... you know JUST what I'm talking about :). (Oh and by the way, my flight was delayed so they gave us apology gifts of $200 off domestic flights, 10% off international, or 9000 bonus miles... which would you have chosen?)

Admittedly I am still intrigued by the International First Class cabins... especially the ones that are upstairs on huge aircrafts that the peons don't even get to feast their eyes on (myself included in the peonery). First item on my 40 before 40?

Omnivore's Dilemma

30 days of vegetarianism has come and gone and yet still no meat. Under no more obligation to follow through on a self-imposed challenge, the omnivore's dilemma is more relevant than ever.

As was likely apparent in my previous posts, I have above all actually enjoyed this! I ordered things on menus I never would have, I made recipes I would not typically have prioritized, and surprised myself by how little I missed meat. To be fair, I live in Northern California... land of year-round produce and lots and lots of vegetarians. Whole Foods in Oakland became a weekday lunch haven for me... and cost-wise that is probably not a very sustainable plan.

Now I am in South America for three weeks and am certainly not intending to deprive myself of any quintessential local cuisine (read: argentinian beef or empanadas de carne), but neither am I in any rush to reincorporate meat into my diet. Perhaps it will slowly creep its way back onto my plate, and my intention was never to be authoritarian about this in the first place. But for now... I like vegetarian me. So maybe there is no dilemma at all.