Conmocion

Click, click. La la lalala la. It was midnight on Saturday and I was procrastinating. For what; I did not know. I had just gotten back from a delicious dinner at El Huerto, one of Santiago’s finest vegetarian restaurants and was now flipping through my iTunes, trying to find that song. The song that would ease my restlessness; my sense that the night wasn’t really over.

And then my phone rang. Jacqueline!

“Hey girl, where are you? We’re on Avenida Providencia and heading to the Conmocion concert. You comin’?” she said.

Avenida Providencia. Only two blocks from my apartment...

“I’m there. See ya in two minutes,” I replied.

I leapt off the shiny chrome barstool, grabbed my luscious leather purse and flew out the door of our 14th floor apartment. Something had kept me from following the bed-bound fate of my roommates when we got home from dinner. I certainly would have silenced Jacqueline’s call if I was nestled under my three billowy blankets counting Mary’s lambs and awaiting slumber. A Conmocion concert (falling more or less into the Ska genre) is the exact opposite of the inner peace and tranquility one feels when surrendering to dream land.


Rewind several months.

Jacqueline and I went to a concert at La Universidad Catolica’s “Festival de Bienvenida” soon after I arrived. Think sweaty bodies jumping up and down, twirling, swaying and singing along to the 19-person musical ensemble onstage. Trumpets blare, drums slither, cymbals clatter and the warm, velvety, buttery voice of the lead singer envelopes its way into the very pores of the enthusiastic listeners in the packed outdoor courtyard. It was slightly overwhelming, having just arrived in Santiago and still adjusting to the passionate culture.

But I was ready tonight; ready to rock ‘n roll with the best of ‘em.

I met Jacqueline, Adam and John on Avenida Providencia and we hopped into one of the many yellow-topped black cabs that scour Santiago’s streets looking for customers. Down, down, down to the other end of the city the driver took us. We hopped out at Barrio Brazil, which coincidentally was where I stayed in the hostel with the group for the first month. Following the crowd seemed to be the best bet. They took us down a dark street milling with unsavory looking characters and then suddenly stopped outside of ominous-looking warehouse doors.

Welcome to Galpon Victor Jarra, one of Santiago’s underground concert venues. Two burly, scraggly men stood proud at the entrance, arms stretched out for the 3,000 pesos (about US $5) we had to fork over to get inside. Quiet outside; music suddenly burst from the now open doors as the men beckoned for us to enter. John, already well on his way to la la land, headed straight for the bar, which greeted its patrons with hand-written signs boasting Chilean bar basics. Piscola (Pisco and Coca Cola), Pisco Sour (Chile’s go-to drink) and Cristal (beer). Jacqueline, Adam and I stood back and breathed in the chaotic but rhythmic scene of a hundred or so Chileans bouncing and swaying to tropical melodies blaring from loudspeakers above.

It was dark, dirty and hot. You could smell the sweat dripping from the brows of the fervent dancers. Laughter and whoops of delight punctured the upbeat, melodious music. We looked at each other in unspoken agreement and plunged ahead. It was go time.

With a hop, skip and a jump; we were just as quickly part of the flailing crowd. We may have been the only gringos there but none of that mattered once we joined the rest of them. A few minutes more and the opening band, Dulce de Guayaba, started rattling their instruments behind the closed stage curtain. A deep but caramel-sweet voice rose above the crowd as the curtain snapped open.

The handsome singer, wearing a green and white flower-patterned shirt, must have been all but 18. Behind him, 6 others wearing the same shirt in different colors, stood behind their instruments, a steel drum, xylophone, and maracas among others. They danced and swayed as they sang and played. The chaos that once was the warehouse-turned-concert venue became a methodically moving mass of people. People loved the 18-year-old. Jacqueline and I decided to be obnoxious and yell things in English, which the grand majority of the crowd there was certain not to understand.

“Take it off!” I shouted.

“I want to have your babies!” she roared.

Yes, when it comes down to it, we’re Americans and prone to yelling inappropriate things during crowded, passionate events. Think football, baseball, soccer, track competitions, heck, even ice-skating.

They played and played, working the crowd into a frenzy. And just as quickly as they had started, they stopped. The loudspeakers once again blared music conducive to swaying hips and fancy footwork. We danced until 3 AM when suddenly, everything went quiet.

From the far back of the warehouse, the pitter-patter of drums began. A trumpet bellowed. Cymbals went clatter-clatter. And men dressed as devils led the long entourage across the room and through the crowd, up to the stage, pausing every minute or so to coax the eager audience into a worked-up bed of emotion. The 19-person group was primarily male but the four women that had worked their way in wore gypsy dresses and hundreds of bangles, their faces jeweled and painted in exotic swirls.

When Conmocion got on stage, they simultaneously stopped and then broke right into their first song. What sounded to us like a bunch of musical instruments intertwining and short, choppy song lyrics was comfort to the Chileans in the crowd. They knew all the words and shouted them right back to the performers onstage. We followed their lead and jumped up and down; scattering in a few upward arm throws as well. I hummed along loudly, trying to pass off that I, too, knew what was going on.

In addition to clanging cymbals, the devils would act out the songs, often jumping on each other and pummeling each other’s behinds. They would fight over the elegant woman who held front and center on the stage and attempt to entice her to leave with them. Others in costumes would jump on top of the large speakers to the side of the stage and dance, then just as slyly crawl down and resume playing. The handsome trumpet player often knelt at the stage’s edge, reaching for the out-flung hands of adoring female fans. Every once in awhile, each member would pause briefly to take a large gulp of the alcoholic beverage that never left their side.

We jumped up and down and pretended to know the words for an hour and a half. In that time; a shorter, rather round middle-aged man had been making his way around the venue, hitting on men and women alike. He was clearly intoxicated. His pink, knitted beanie fit loosely on his bald head and his black nylon fanny-pack was slung over the bottom of his cherry-red hooded sweatshirt. Jacqueline, Adam and I were each approached separately. We also witnessed the little man accosting our neighbors.

As the night wore on, he became increasingly incoherent. He would fold in half, appearing to be sleeping on his feet while swaying back and forth violently. Realizing the man’s predicament, many of the concert go-ers joined forces and dragged/carried him out the door. We quickly forgot the whole scenario and resumed our chaotic bobbing.

At 5 AM, with the concert still going strong and the Chileans showing no signs of tiring, we called it a night. We hovered near the grand, steel doors for a minute, soaking in the last drops of the grungy, sweaty and loud crowd thrashing to Conmocion. And there, as we walked out and away from the warehouse, we came upon the man. He was directly across the street, slumped at the waist sleeping, his hat-clad head resting firmly on the forest green bench in Plaza Brazil and his feet planted solidly on the ground.

As we watched and observed, feeling mixed emotions of pity and compassion for him, a group of people in their mid-20’s clad in black and metal spikes stopped in front of him. Their breath rose in frosty, grey curls as they contemplated the man’s future on this chilly, Saturday night.

“El gorro! …el gorro! …el gorro!” they chanted, prodding the leader to snag the rosy knit hat off his bare head.

They swiped it, flexed in mid-position, waiting to see if he would arouse from his unconscious state. He remained as he was. The group started to walk away, then stopped and simultaneously glanced at the fanny-pack suspended around his waist. The leader thrust forward, unzipped the pack with an experienced swoop and pulled out the man’s wallet. He stashed it in his front pocket, and the pack walked away as if nothing had happened.

I wanted to interfere; to tell them that they can’t take advantage of a man so clearly out of it. But the world has its pecking order. And people that have no qualms about stealing in plain view probably don’t have qualms about doing things I don’t care to think about.

We plunged into the next cab we saw; warm, safe and curled into each other to fight the cold of the night. The cab shuttled us across town and to our spotless, modern 19-story apartment building, where we picked a snack from our full cabinets, changed into a fresh pair of pajamas and fell asleep under our down comforters.

Pierre

Pierre. Pluto. Papi. Pickle. Podgekins. Pops. Pookie Bear.

All of these names have three things in common:

1. I have no idea where they came from.
2. They all start with 'P'.
3. They're my father's nicknames.

HAPPY FATHERS DAY to all you Dads out there!!

If only all the children in the world could be so blessed as to have a father as sincere, genuine, hilarious (usually when he doesn't mean to be...), hard-working and entrepreneurial as mine.

I've learned many a things from my old man. The one I'm most grateful for, however; is that of independence and saaviness. My father is my grounding factor; the rock I turn when I need to be brought back down to reality. He's my foundation and my support, my knowledge of wealth and my safe spot. I'm 21 (almost 22!!!), going on 30 in many aspects and I think I owe a lot of this to my father. He taught me to be a self-starter, to be proactive, to go after my dreams but to be practical when I want to float above the clouds. He's the fatherly yin to my daughterly yang.

I'm missing out on celebrating Fathers Day with you this year, Dad, but know that I will be thinking about you constantly throughout the day and wishing you all the best in Vancouver!

I love you.

Hot showers, sing-a-longs and sushi

I am alive and well. Just a little behind on the posting. La culpa mia ... lo siento.


I received four new night classes a week, so in addition to teaching all day, I come home and teach more! It makes life considerably busier but also that much more fulfilling and enriching. Being busy makes off-time that much the sweeter. One of my new students, Patricio, is the head economist of the government´s banking and financial institution branch. Twice a week, I head downtown to his office, which is right next to Chile´s "White House" (La Moneda). It´s a refreshing change of pace. I always leave for the class early so I can wander through the downtown paseos drenched with people pouring out of their offices after work.


Life in the new apartment is wonderful. It feels like home, por fin. I never knew how much I took hot showers for granted until they weren't there. The two balconies on our 14th floor apartment look out onto Cerro San Cristobal, Santiago's largest public park that I wrote about earlier. However, the city smog is so bad that the mountain (which is about a 20 minute walk from our apartment) is often a blurry outline. The cool, winter air pushes the pollution down into Santiago Valley and creates a perpetual foggy haze. Not the most desirable living conditions but I can handle it for a year. I don't know how the Chileans deal with it for a lifetime.


I´ve gone to my colegio on Saturday for various musical events and celebrations for the last two weeks. Two Saturdays ago, my favorite senior class hosted El Festival de La Voz. After belting out their favorite songs (some in English!), they handed the microphones over to the middle schoolers for a battle of the bands. My colegio celebrated their 50th anniversary this past Saturday with music, food, dancing and games. The fiesta began at 12 pm and lasted until 3 am... if that gives you any idea of how Latin-American parties at pre-K to 12th grade schools go down.


I've discovered how to make learning English fun...... singing songs. English popular culture saturates Chile; the grand majority of my students listen to songs in English (even though they don't know what most of them mean), watch TV and movies in English with Spanish subtitles and buy food products from the United States (the biggest chain of grocery stores here, Lider, sells Safeway products). Singing songs in our conversation groups is a grand success. If I thought my students were excited about leaving the classroom before, I was wrong. They now practically fall out of their seats when raising their hand to leave the room and then maul each other on the way out the door to be the first to make it to La Sala de Inglés.


It makes sense to teach them English through popular music. Not only are mis alumnos able to practice their pronunciaton while singing along but they also learn everyday slang and modismos (sayings). And it makes me happy to see them so excited about learning English. I can't even count by now the number of times I've sang I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing by Aerosmith but I will gladly sing it a million times more just to see my students singing at the top of their lungs and swaying back and forth with their arms around each other's shoulders. I have 3 conversation groups for each of the 22 classes I work with and they often request to listen to the song twice ... so the song is definitely working its way into the 200's for me.

Chileans have quite the sense of humor. They are always joking, often in a sexual context. I enjoy the constant bromas; they keep me on my toes. It's pretty easy to make my students laugh and there's nothing better than having the whole class react to a joke with a simultaneous "OooooOoooooooooooh!", knee-slapping and laughter. They enjoy calling each other out and don't hesitate to dig for the dirty. This is probably a poor teaching move on my part, but maaaan, it is really hard to not laugh at times. As a teacher, you certainly don't want to encourage immaturity nor picking on others but since when did high-schoolers get so witty, quirky and quick!? I often fail at trying to hold my laughter in or keep my amusement to myself.

We also have our "own" restaurant now ... a Peruvian and Japonese culinary delight. An odd combination, you might ask. However, it makes perfect sense. In Chile, sushi and Peruvian ceviche/carne fall a close second to its own national cuisine. By chance, Steph and I stumbled upon Muelle Montt and now make a weekly trek to the discreet, classy and deliciously fresh restaurant located about three blocks from our apartment. The owners often shower our table with free appetizers and profusely express their gratitude at our loyal service. I always order the Menú del Día Japonese, which starts with an appetizer of gyoza and panko-crusted salmon, a pisco sour and finishes with 12 artfully crafted and freshly rolled peices of sushi. Que rico!

There is so much to contar. This is a good start but as its been two action-packed weeks since I've last written, I have many more tales and funny stories. All in good time, my friends. Thanks for your loyal readership. Can't wait to see ya'll back in the States in December (most likely...). Mucho amor!