moving!

I have moved over to wordpress. Find my new posts here: http://sunbyrain.wordpress.com/

there and back again

New York feels like love on crack. I had forgotten the dizziness, the loudness, the intensity, the indifference of this city. It's comforting to discover that my feet still know the well worn paths through the subway systems, onto the M104, through Columbia's campus. I'm actually sitting in Butler library, where I spent many, many caffeinated hours reaching for academic coherence, reading and writing. It's strange that everything is the same.

I feel almost like I've folded my life now--from last year's graduation here in NYC, I traveled to the great plains of South Dakota, to the incredible complexity of Chilean geography, to the rowhouses and urban gardens of DC, and back again here to the Upper West Side. A neat little packaged year, but not, really. I think sometimes I want to assure myself that places still exist, not just in my memory.

Anyways, stay posted for upcoming updates on my new adventures as a labor organizer for the SEIU--who knows what corners of the US I'll find myself in next.

where the heart is

Yesterday, I worked serving champagne and chocolates on a moonlit tour of Washington, D.C., which took place mainly on three large tour buses. I was listening to the very old tour guide recite the names of the museums as we drove by, thinking about how slaves built the Capitol and the White House, thinking about how different northwest is from southeast and Shaw from Dupont Circle, etc., and what kind of "tour" of DC these older white folks were getting, and I realized that at the end of the day I'm always going to reluctantly love DC, with all its idiosyncrasies and hypocrisies and absurd segregations and tame nightlife.

I also think that Maryland will always feel like home. If not the manicured suburbs and ridiculously competitive schools, at least the word, the name, knowing I'm in Maryland. I guess I have bought into this myth of home, that hearing about the Chesapeake and seeing the Maryland flag and looking for black eyed susans has rubbed off on me. And why shouldn't it? I think often immigrants and the children and even the grandchildren of immigrants don't get involved in local politics partly because they haven't seen themselves in the story of the place they live. Why should we take charge of something that we have never been a part of, and that often tokenizes minority participation and fundamentally silences alternate histories? But listen, even if I'm not a waterman living on an island, making my living off crabs and poling through small rivers, I still live in Maryland, and what I do is part of the life of Maryland, too. (Does re-writing a national/state story become part of writing it?)

Unless I get this job in Atlanta, and then perhaps I'll have to re-orient myself to Southern culture? Oh dear.

delusion/disillusion

Definitely going from the almost absolute freedom of traveling alone with no real agenda but see cool things and meet new people and learn Spanish etc. to wearing a tuxedo+timbs (haha I can still rebel in little ways... kind of...), serving very rich people prosecco and prosciutto and oysters and crabcakes while trying to politely convince some organization to give me a lot of money if I show up to their office every day has depressed me a little. Nevertheless, some things, like having a real running partner (yay Pin-Yi!) and discovering the cheapness of Montgomery County liquor stores (six packs of good beer for $5!!!!) and sleeping in in my own bed are still happy. As are some of the ridiculous things I overhear while catering.

A few highlights:

1. "Number one rule in business school--always be prepared to wear a tie." This coming from a man whose being and pin-stripe suit exuded pretentiousness. I'm also hoping that he was wrong, that business schools are teaching people more than just how to wear expensive, conformist clothing.
2. "This is the best Asian in the whole world." Directed at a South Asian. Um. What? Really? What?

So tonight I worked at a fundraiser for the Children's Memorial Hospital, put on by the Board of Visitors. This is the second fundraiser I've worked at this part month. At both, I was astounded by the amount of (expensive!!) alcohol that was consumed and the amounts that people were throwing down. Granted, some were luxury items (I guess $6000 for a lunch for 30 catered by Susan Gage is reasonable in the ludicrous standards of today), but some were just extraordinary. For example, $500 for handprints made by small children.

But, both events were honoring children. One for a private school that apparently was considered by the Obamas, and the other for sick children at Children's Memorial Hospital. I still can't help but wonder at this trickle down method of redistribution. So, these very rich people who obviously have exceeding amounts of wealth beyond what is necessary for a basic or even luxurious lifestyle, attend an extravagant event--$100 bottles of wine from every inhabited continent, endless buffets featuring fresh seafood, premium beef/lamb/everything, 109825098109 kinds of dessert--and donate lots of money to the hospital. Ok, great. But how much damage has been done; and I'm not just talking about the waste, or the environmental expense of shipping and storing and preparing all of these foods, but about people's mentalities. That is, many people who no doubt are in positions of power will go home tonight thinking they did a good deed by diverting some of their preposterous incomes to a good cause, and never take a moment to think about the failures plaguing our health care system that will not be solved merely by providing some cash for continuing existing programs.

All right, I may be a little cynical after working a lot these past few weeks, but honestly, this lucrative business is clearly far from sustainable and yet persists, and I'm still part of it, because it still pays me well. God, I hate these cycles.

Anyways, to end on a positive note, at least I got to participate in the 2010 Runamuck DC, and ran through mud dressed as Dora the Explorer with three co-conspirators, amongst many other happily costumed runners. Good to know that there are people still willing to be crazy and muddy in this area.

in between

While the spring air here is nostalgically reminding me of the spring air above Puerto Montt at Camping Anderson, a spot I stumbled across through the recommendation of a traveling friend which was absolutely gorgeous, perched above the bay, with the clearest air and a view of three volcanoes, I am still in Maryland and still looking for a job.

Yesterday, I saw a posting for a managerial position in Akron, Pennsylvania, and couldn't help but think only about the Office, picturing myself in an awkward small town with a delusional boss and absurd co-workers. Which might happen anywhere, but at least in DC or New York I could escape to an even more dysfunctional urban environment.

I swing between wonderfully optimistic at all the possibilities that Idealist.org and LionShare display so tantalizingly, to terribly depressed that I have to submit my entire life on a piece of ivory-colored (eco-friendly, ancient forest friendly, 100% recycled and recyclable, will actually produce more trees, magically) resume paper to random strangers who will determine my professional fate. So, it's been good to discover all the cool gardens and people talking about food access, but I just want someone to call me back already.

city dreaming

Yesterday, on the way to CVS from my house, I was driving behind a Chevrolet Tahoe (for those who don't know, a large SUV) that had three lovely bumper stickers: 1. "Nope" in the Obama "hope" style; 2. MoM, on fire. Yes, with flames; and 3. "Socialism: A good idea until you run out of other people's money." (And the capitalism we have today is a great idea, until we run out of other people's cheap labor and lives.) I am definitively back in the suburbs.

To console myself, I will put up more pictures. These are pictures I actually took, as my family in Buenos Aires kindly lent me a camera for my week there. Oh, to walk city streets and hear Spanish again.



La Boca, a strange mix of extreme touristiness and somewhat sketchy neighborhood.



A work at the Proa Foundation in La Boca, where Jorge and I watched a storm descend on the port, and then had to take a bus that literally swam through flooded streets back.



Centro Cultural de Borges--which we originally entered this building to find... it was slightly confusing because the center is actually in the top levels of a massive shopping gallery, filled with Upper East Side style stores.



Cafe Tortoni, where Melody taught us how to conjugate vos, and where apparently famous people go. Many men in tuxes serving excellent coffee. (strange how high end places seem to always have men as servers instead of women.)



The Museo de Armas, a somewhat unsettling testament to the devices of war from all over the world. These are all the different ways we can kill each other.

Still working on the film pics...

más imágenes

Chiloé, home of bruhas (witches), lots of rain, and myself for a month and a half--though I lived in Ancud, about an hour north of Castro, shown below (also from Dan and Clare):



This photo I stole from Gisselle, my roommate in Valpo last fall; it's from the beach in the Chiloé national park, where I felt like I had reached the edge of the world.



When I was sitting on the side of a gravel road in a small drizzle, a red truck picked me up on the way to Coyhaique. I ended up spending the whole day with Magdalena (what a name!), who actually knew my host in Coyhaique, her niece Daniela, and their friend Mimi. These photos are from Dani, and don't even begin to capture the enormity of Patagonian nature.





My exit from the Aisén region was a prolonged one--my journey on a boat was beautiful but ridiculously long. Fjords, etc., were pretty cool--something about mountains in mist gets me every time.

sneak preview

I am officially home, where the streets are wide, I have more than three pairs of pants (the wonders of opening my closet this morning, I can't even describe), and people ask me about employment (o.O what! no not yet!). I can just walk outside to mail a letter, people don't look at me funny when I speak in English, and I can still make my way around New York!

Anyways, I also have been reunited with my laptop, which means I am again able to steal photos and post them. These are from Dan and Clare, whom I met at the end of January in Puerto Tranquilo. They're motorbiking across the world, as you can see from their many other pictures--check them out, I went to most places in this album.



Imagine coming around a bend in the car of a stranger after winding through impossible scenery (rushing rivers, waterfalls in the road, etc.), to see this gorgeous lake spread beneath a sunset. Yes, the water is emerald. This is the second largest lake in South America, and also has ridiculous caves made out of marble:



All decked out and ready for a Patagonian adventure:



More to come.

santiago--bogota--newyorkcity

Bogota, where I had a 12-hour layover, may be the most confusing city I've tried to navigate on my own. Colombia seems to be promoting tourism, with some bombass videos and really helpful tourism centers that even provide free tours of the city, but unfortunately, the strange arrangement of numbered streets (sin street signs) plus indicaciones malas from many friendly but wrong people together made for a bad situation. I couldn't find the pickup location and just winged it on my own.

One thing I realized--at the Museo de Arte Moderno Bogota, there was an exhibit about political cartoons from all over the world, and included artists from Bogota; similarly, in Buenos Aires, we always found exhibits that featured pretty piercing commentaries on life and politics all over South America, including Argentina. Whereas in New York, the political art in the big institutional museums like the Met or the MoMA is at least 30 years old, unless it's hidden away in Queens at PS1. We're still so careful. Or at the whim of large donors, perhaps.

Anyways, Bogota was pretty sweet, for the ten hours I was there. Of the four major cities where I've taken micros (or collectivos, as they're called in Peru and Argentina--small buses that go all over the city), Bogota was definitely the most interesting. First of all, there are buses that look like a cross between a school bus and a tank, which is a little unsettling especially given the large numbers of uniformed men carrying large guns in the city center. Second, when you get on the bus, you have to squeeze yourself through this tiny space, turn the turnstile, and hand your 1300pesos to the driver, who has already started driving and will simultaneously shift while counting your money and finding change. Then, standing on the bus is like riding a bull--I swear there were times when if I hadn't been desperately hanging out to the seat backs (designed for absolutely no grip), I would have been flung probably all the way through the windshield. And finally, somehow the seats are too small even for me, making for some creative sitting positions--most people's legs were bent in some strange configuration.

But I survived, took the micro all the way back to the airport, and after a surprisingly pleasant flight on Avianca am BACK IN NEW YORK CITY! Which doesn't seem to have changed much, besides this ridiculous rain and wind and also wtf why is a subway ride $2.25?

It's strange to be back in the States again, and I have to train myself to both speak in English and to expect to hear English--I accidentally said "gracias" to my waitress today and still assume that English speakers I hear are gringo travelers who don't know Spanish. Which may be true, metaphorically, in some way, I suppose. But oh! New York! I don't understand it either, but the loudness of the metro, the endless stretches of pavement, the familiarity of this campus, are comforting to my soul.

on the other side

I think this city knows me. Valparaíso has greeted me again, with an exhibit of Pablo Neruda's shells, cazuela, and the ocean, which is still enormous. As for aftermath, there were three tremors today, only two of which I felt (and one just now!). In older parts of town, there are piles of rubble in the streets and lots of taped off sections; rumor has it the city is cutting off water for 72 hours starting tomorrow, I'm not sure why. We'll see how that goes...

Recap... Buenos Aires feels European with a Latin American twist. It is large. Tango is enrapturing. I think I only scratched the surface of a city to rival New York. I visited the mausoleum (I don't even know what the right word is in English) of San Martin, liberator of Argentina, Chile, and Peru, ensconced in very classical looking sculptures, and am thinking about what it means to inherit a tradition of revolution, from the continent of colonization. If the people embrace cultural colonization, that is, continued heritage, are they still creating an identity? (But who are "the people" making the identity?) What does it even mean to have a national identity in a world that has been "globalized," that is, interconnected, for centuries?

Anyways. What a trip to hang out with my cousins who speak perfect Argentinian Spanish but who are clearly Taiwanese. My week in Buenos Aires was filled with good food (my aunt is a fabulous cook, and how I missed Chinese food), huge trees, and random connections--Melody randomly appears in Buenos Aires and we have a South American RMHS reunion! Also I learned how to conjugate vos, though it still doesn't make sense to me why it even exists.

Mirá! (courtesy of Melody)

On a whim, I decided to visit Mendoza before returning to Chile, and I am enchanted. I haven't felt as at home in a city as I felt walking the shady open spaces in the desert air of this oasis, and how absurd that within a half hour's drive from the city you can surround yourself not just with tall, luminous, dusty peaks but also with a distant view of the snow capped Andes.

From Mendoza I took my last solitary journey into this naturaleza, and walked to the edge of a mountain lake that is home to flamingos, somewhere near Malargüe, plus curved pathways made by volcanic eruptions at Volcan Malacara. Wtf!

And now, me quedan less than four days in Chile. Speaking to Matt in English today was actually a little strange. I'm going to have to find some Spanish speaking people in the States, though I assume that won't be a problem at all.

still ok

8.8 is a hell of a big earthquake. I was in Mendoza, Argentina, at the time, probably 800 to 1000 km away from the epicenter, and we could feel it in the house!

So, luckily I was not in Chile, but it was a bit nerve-wracking trying to get through to my friends in Chile. Cell phone service was completely off, but somehow everyone was able to update facebook within two days. (Hey, this is what the internet was made for! Except, more along the lines of an anti-Communist communications attack severing connections.)

There's a lot I'd like to sit in my mind for a while, that I don't want to process yet, so I'll just say that Buenos Aires is huge (but not big enough that I wasn't able to hang out with Melody whom I hadn't seen since high school), me encanta la cafe en Argentina, I played in a murga in Mendoza, and this is my last little jump off the city grid as I type sitting in Malarguë, a pleasant pueblo that I feel like I could have grown up in.

And, the final days look like they will be Mendoza, Olmue, Valpo, Santiago, NYC, home!!!

buenos dìas, buenos aires

This marking my fourth crossing into Argentina from Chile, I have now arrived with Jorge, a friend from Santiago, at the lovely apartment of my dad's cousin, his wife, and their two kids in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I can't express how comforting it is to hear Chinese, to drink real coffee (none of this Chilean instant coffee crap), and to be in a home where people wear these ubiquitous house shoes that Chinese people always have. Also, this city is BIG, New York City-sized, with huge bookstores, a Chinatown, homemade pasta, a metro, woohoo! I'm looking forward to navigating a new city, as well as both Chinese and Spanish at once--which seems to spark an impulse to speak English, for some reason.

These past two weeks have dislodged my sense of place once again--from Coyhaique, I took what should have been a 36-hour but turned into a 48-hour boat ride (with seats less comfortable than the buses) with a fellow traveler, Roser, from Spain, to Quellon, a southern city in Chiloé. Speaking to Roser (who has planted a small seed in my mind of the possibility of working with Chinese immigrants in Barcelona) was like speaking in English--the clarity of her Spanish is unbelievable compared to Chilenos. Though there is something comforting to me now about the rhythms of Chilean Spanish, too, which have started cropping up in my own version of Castellano.

On this boat, I randomly and fortunately ran into none other than Britain Hopkins, who had just finished a month at a WWOOF farm on a nature reserve, which was doubly fortunate because she was on her way to Santiago to fly home. Both Meg and Britain have left, leaving me as the only pseudo-Barnard representative in Chile from 616.

From Quellon, I rushed back up to Ancud, where I met Margaret from Olmué and Paula from my work there, and proceeded to have an absurd weekend of sickness and hanging out at Margaret's new work place, the bar Clandestino's, which resulted in me having no voice and another absurd hitchhiking journey where we were joined by Margaret's new roommate, Edison, and a random Mendozan named Federico, all the way to Bariloche, Argentine chocolate capital. Then back to Osorno, Santiago, to Valpo for a brief visit, Santiago, and now in Buenos Aires, where the aire isn't really that bueno but where I've encountered maybe the most generous family members ever.

Now that the end of my journey is in sight, I feel this weird mixture of nostalgia for everything in the States and sadness to be leaving not just South America and all the people I've met here but this self-directed, open way of living. But, what comes will come.

do you know why the trees are so enormous in patagonia?

RAIN. And lots of it.

I have somehow managed to hitchhike all the way to Puyuhuapi, some 250km from Coyhaique, in my quest to see this hanging glaciar (ventisquero colgante) that's only 20km from here, but apparently hidden behind this neverending clouds. Que lástima, since I have to be back in Coyhaique tomorrow, but I have hope still.

There's too much to tell in this short time... I've found yet another welcoming group of friends in Coyhaique, thanks to the wonder that is Couchsurfing, with whom I've shared two whole roasted goats, windy sleeping places, fresh cherries off the tree, a rainy ride in the bed of a truck, and a fiesta linda with live music and a screen projected onto trees (what!). Javier, my very friendly host, also received three more couchsurfers my last night there, and what an evening of speaking Spanish with people from Chile, France, Italy, and Spain--with homemade noodles and clam sauce...!

Last week, I took off for Puerto Tranquilo, along perhaps the most beautiful road I've ever been on (waterfalls on every side, this strangely emerald green río flowing in every form, and the enormity of mountains everywhere--plus a magnificent view of Cerro Castillo, snow covered peaks resembling a castle), and encountered CAVES MADE OUT OF MARBLE IN A LAKE. Que ridiculo!! And got to meet two Canadians motorcycling across the world plus three Swiss folks doing the same in South America, who graciously welcomed me into their tents as the hostels were full of Israeli tour groups. I even got to take my first motorcycle ride--through PATAGONIA, for God's sake, can my luck get any better? Under the shadow of a massive glaciar and again next to a beautiful river, incredibly clean and powerful.

Now I'm spending some time with a bunch of Israelis, though I've given up trying to understand Hebrew, and we'll see what happens with this glaciar. Strangely, now that I finally feel like I can be in a large group of Chileans and actually understand most of what is going on, I'm feeling more homesick... I want my groups of friends again, as fabulous as temporary families are.

Also, a lot to think about: 80% of Chile's energy going to mines, the building of 12 dams by Spanish and other international companies, the fact that all the cell phone services and many of the banks are owned by Spain, the changing of culture through tourism, transitory relationships... but I need more time to ruminate, perhaps the rain will grow my thoughts as well.

i think i've reached paradise.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any more beautiful (Chiloé: sheep and cows grazing on incredibly green fields above penguins and the sea!!), Chile astounds once again. Who knew that all it took was a 24-hr bus ride to get to the most gorgeous countryside I've seen. Imagine if someone stretched the idyllic pastureland of Chiloé over impossible expanses of land and then decided to place these massive, snow-topped mountains and cliffs in the background, all beneath the clearest blue sky filled with swiftly moving clouds. what? I can't wait to explore the parks near here.

Here being Coyhaique, where I have just arrived, after a nice final evening in Ancud with Paula and Juan (co-workers at Turismo Cahuel), Carla and Lorena (Ancuditanas), and surprise guest Meg. Ack! This town is not as pretty as Ancud, but what the town lacks I think the surrounding countryside makes up for. Now I must go find a place for my own massive companion, that is, my backpack, and orient myself. I've done it, I've reached Patagonia, I'm heree!! :)

The Terminal

...sin Tom Hanks. Though it'd be cool if he walked in.

I do sort of feel like him, though, as I am passing pretty much my entire day at a bus terminal these days. I took a temporary job working for a tourism company, selling tours and promoting a hostel to the ubiquitous gringo/European/Israeli traveler, almost always carrying a Lonely Planet and a large backpack. There are quite a few, even in little Ancud, coming here for penguins and kuranto, bewildered by the rain and speaking poor Spanish. English really does seem like the international language--I've talked to people from Israel, Germany, France, Holland, and even Santiago in English.

The tourist office is also a confitería, or sweet shop. I remember passing the guy in the kiosk at the 1 station at 116th and wondering how he could possibly stand to be there all day, every day. Apparently, I can do it, too, though it's different with two other young people here and internet access. Plus, yesterday I got a free ride to the penguin beach and on the boat, where I got to practice my fledging translation skills. I'm also getting really good at saying numbers and interpreting the ridiculously rapid mumbles that Chileans use when at a store.

I thought being at a bus terminal would make me restless for travel again, but I actually really enjoy being stationary at the moment. I'm living in a little cabaña next to San Jose Hostel, with my own stove and living space, which has been pretty wonderful. I don't have too much envy of these travelers who have six countries on their list of place to go; I'm excited about going to Argentina next week (San Carlos de Bariloche is my next stop) but equally excited about returning to Chile afterwards.

Also, I'm realizing more the reality of living here in Chile... the hostel is run by a family and I work for the father and with the daughter. This is maybe as close to a homestay as I've gotten in Chile, and it's even more interesting because I've been inserted into a familial workplace as well. I'm learning to appreciate my ability to choose a career path (such as one with weekends and mobility) very, very much.

Though it's been nice to meet friendly backpackers, I shared a kuranto and Kuntsman (at the restaurant Kuranton, ah ha!) last night with John from Rhode Island, who farms in Rhode Island on a cool cooperative-type farm situation. I'm slowly building a map for my next U.S. travels, too, though first I have to get myself back into the States... which won't be for a while yet. Looking at tickets for March, we'll see.

holidays

Hello 2010! I am in Chile still!

I've officially been in South America now for over four months. How do I feel about this? I don't think I'll ever be able to answer that question in words.

These past two weeks have been a wonder of travel and friends and food. I went up to Puerto Montt to meet Britain, who had been making her way down from Valparaíso, where we stayed in a beautiful cabaña overlooking the harbor and explored Los Alerces Andinos national park, famous for its preservation of these awesome, gigantic trees with curving roots that split off above ground. We found our way back to Ancud for Christmas, where I felt like I was collecting travelers and friends I have met over time--Margaret from Olmué, Roberto from Valpo, and Meg from New York! all came to celebrate Christmas, and Jerson and his brother Diego showed up the next day, in time for our adventure at the discotheque across the street. Christmas was full of fresh salmon, shellfish, wonderful amounts of homemade desserts, and wine, of course.

Since then, I've been winding through Chiloé, going on a wayward journey to lackluster Chepu which turned out to be not worth the incredible effort it took to get there (though the views were more than spectacular--who knew that one day I'd be walking through the most picturesque farmland ever, complete with baaing sheep...if Jefferson's utopia exists anywhere, it's here), all the way down to Quellon, and now back in Chiloé's capital, Castro, where I am now.

These two weeks have also been full of absurd and unexpected situations. On Christmas eve, I got a phone call from Juan Ignacio saying that the family who lives on the property would be coming to the house for a memorial service. Apparently, a 23-year-old worker at the farm had died that day, and everyone was coming to view the body and comfort the family. It was strange to be planning a festive Christmas with such grief present just two rooms away.

Also, we've had tons of luck hitchhiking to and through the island (with the exception of Chepu, where apparently no one goes, ever.). Riding in the backs of trucks through gorgeous Chilean countryside has got to be one of my favorite things in Chile so far. We've caught rides from all kinds of people, from a family blasting the Beatles all the way back to Puerto Montt, to a truck driver who yelled out the window at an old lady crossing the street in Castro, to sheep farmers transporting sheep who share our space atrás. It's taken a while for me to get used to standing on the side of the road waiting for a ride, but it also seems much more accepted here to take even foreign passengers.

Now I'm heading back to Ancud, having said goodbye to everyone who came down for the holidays (I still find it amazing that this somewhat rash decision to come to South America could have influenced peoples' lives so that they actually get into vehicles and come onto an island to see me), and have to figure out where I'm headed next... south south south or where? Quién sabe, the uncertainty is delicious.