http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2366922&l=0db01&id=1241186
1. Manola totally dominating me at the teeter-totter.
2. Manola, Jackie, Jorge, Allison and I at beautiful day in the park.
3. Chilean child, totally stoked for fiestas patrias.
4. Bearing the Chilean flag like a true gringo.
5. Trying to jump higher than the snowy volcano, and failing.
http://www.goodmagazine.com/section/Features/adventure_playgrounds
"Over a two-day period this summer, 700 children came through the Adventure Playground. The injury total was two fingers hit by hammers."
Is it bad that this sentence made me crack up laughing? Probably so. But regardless, this is a pretty cool article about Adventure Playground in Berkeley, California, where I go to college. Woot woot Berkeley!
Alright, now to discuss things not involving hammers....
First I need you to go through a little exercise with me. I'd like you to say the word "Chicha" over and over again until you have fully appreciated the word. It's prounounced sort of like a Brooklyn-ite might pronounce the word "teacher" (teacha) except with the "c" instead of the "t."
Thank you.
Chicha is an alcoholic fermented drink derived from corn and other rice cereals. It's old school, which you can tell, cuz it comes in an unassuming unmarked glass bottle with a shady cork. Normally I wouldn't accept such a bottle filled with a suspiciously smelling drink, but as they say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when in Chile, drink 1.5 liters of Chicha...
Let me back up just a bit. The last four days, beginning at midnight on Sept. 18, were the "fiestas patrias," the Chilean version of the U.S. 4th of July celebrations, except that the Chileans get way more stoked and party it up for 3 or 4 days instead of 1. Chile also has a still very alive and vibrant culture and traditions, which come into full bloom during the fiestas. Coolest traditions, in order...
1. Cueca, an old school rural flirting dance involving a man waving a napkin-like thing over his head and a woman with a poofy enough dress to clothe a whole room of naked Chilean babies.
2. Empanadas, fried.
3. Emapanadas, oven baked.
4. Chicha chicha chicha CHIIIIIICHA!!!
There are more, but I've covered the important ones. So back to the recurring theme of Chiccha. Wednesday night, the 17th, kicked off the fiestas in Valdivia, so we went to a park with a bunch of different rooms which all appeared to be doing the exact same thing...playing loud loud salsa-y music too loud for anyone to have a conversation, some people dancing, many people gorging themselves on fried mini empanadas. At around 2 in the morning, my friend Luis and I decided to buy 2 liters of Chicha for the whole table. Friendly gesture, right? 9 people, 2 Liters, enough, right?
Well, when we returned triumphantly to the tables with our 2 liters of chiccha, everyone declined. Even the 3 friendly Chech Republican kids! Man! But I've never believed in letting things go to waste, so Luis and I decided as good citizens of our respective nations, we had to finish the bottle. I think chicha has the same alcohol content as wine. By the end of our chicha escapade, I was officially drunk for my first time in Chile. It was fun. I fell asleep on an uncomfortable chair at 3:30 (damn they do party late here in Chile). We got home at around 4:30 in the morning, and from 3:30 to 4:30 our conversation revolved around floss, because I discovered the Spanish has NO verb for floss, at least that anyone knew of. Outrage, I know. As a favor to Chile, I invented the word "flosear," so they won't have to go around saying, "voy a usar el hilo dental," wasting precious time they could have used to dislodge fried mini empanadas from their teeth.
Four hours letter, Thursday morning, I was ungraciously woken up by Jorge (fellow housemate) and Chicha, my faithful friend who had decided to play a morning rock concert in my brain. Jorge and I had plans to take a bus 3 hours north to Temuco, where he has a lot of family. This almost didn't happen, as we arrived 2 minutes late to the bus terminal, the one thing in Chile which leaves frightenly on time. A dead sprint to the top of the street to intercept Señor Bus got us on, and allowed me and my friend chicha to finally sleep in peace.
Temuco is the fourth-biggest city in Chile. Once we arrived we briefly stopped by the city parade before taking a one hour bus to Cunco, a 6,000 person rural pueblo which I'm convinced is made up of about 3,000 members of Jorge's family. Aunts, cousins, abuelitas (affectionate term for grandmother), they're literally on every corner of the town. As the joke goes, you can't throw an empanada in Cunco in any direction without hitting someone in Jorge's family. Alright, I just made that joke up, but it's totally true.
So the weekend consisted of us meeting different members of his family, celebrating the fiestas patrias with homemade empanadas and gigantic pieces of varied types of meat, and trying not to burst (Chileans are known for their hospitality, part of which is to consistently offer you food, and a slightly offended look if you turn it down). Friday night we went to another fiesta for the Fiestas Patrias, where my dancing spirit was finally awakened. It's true, I was weaned on Cole family bar mitzvah celebrations, so I've had plenty of practice, but a high school experience full of hip-hop school dances with gyrating "freaking" held back my true creative dancing spirit. But something about this Chilean fiesta, with its cigarette smoke creating a thicker haze than an Andes morning fog (there was a 'no smoking' sign inside, but you can't stop a room full of Chileans from smokin', no way no how!), made the dance spirit to come alive. I spun like a rural Chilean woman making her wool yarn. Jorge called me a trompito, which is a Chilean game very similar to the spinning dreidle of yore. I'm inspired now, and plan to take some salsa and meringue classes, to convince my hips and butt that they should also move when I'm dancing (a classic guy problem, I believe).
I also posted a couple of pictures from the sweet national park we visited, which featured a snow-covered mountain burping out lava like it had a serious case of indigestion.
That's about it. Enjoying life down here...send word if you have time!
Love,
Ryan
"We don't stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing." --Storefront window, College Avenue, Berkeley, CA.
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