Orientations in Santiago

Avianca 097 from Bogota, Colombia brought me to Santiago Intl. at about 4:00 a.m. on the 27th.  After fumbling Dick Van Dyke style through immigracion, dropping my papers then my glasses while bending over to retrieve them, I sailed through customs without so much as a peep.  My doe-eyed expression of wonderment served as a magnet to aggressive cabdrivers, one of whom asked as he followed me past the crowds how I expected to get wherever I was going without a cab.  Apparently, I didn't have enough conviction when I told him I was meeting a group.

"There's no group, nobody's coming for you," he said without malice or sincerity.  I assured him there was, and tried to explain that I was very early, but was bogged down in nervousness.  Finally, in a desperate attempt to satisfy his curiosity, I told him I was going to the chapel, which was the first sign I saw.  He replied in Spanish, asking, I think, if I was Catholic (he crossed himself as he spoke, looking at me with eyebrows raised.  The communication deteriorated from there.  Finally, repeating "no, gracias" seven times assuaged him.

I relocated to a cabdriver free hallway, sat on my suitcase and killed the remaining time with my book.  When the P.A. announced the arrival of American Airlines fight 957, I moved back to the congress of cabbies, where I was to expect the USAC staff, "holding some sort of sign."

Instead, I found Gina, pictured here with a flower of some kind.  Like a hatchling is imprinted with the image of its mother, I equated my first Santiago friend with security and assistance.  Her Spanish expertise came in handy, too.

Gina and I got in touch with the USAC staff, who were waiting in a cafe nearby.  They deposited us on a bus to wait for the rest of the kids that came on the group flight.

After everyone was accounted for, we set off for the hotel.

Far too classy for the misfits abroad, the Hotel Acacias de Vitacura, 45 minutes north- east of Santiago "Centro," supplied me and three roommates with the largest suite of any of the students.  Jon and Guy Erikson, brothers from Reno, shared the master bedroom.  Murphy, also from Reno, took the other twin in ours.

The Reno three represented only a fraction of the lively Reno bunch, most of whom knew each other.  Among them was Brit (last initial B, which led, naturally, to a great affinity to me, a fellow B.B.).  Easily the most vibrant and bawdy girl in the history of tomboys, Brit was often reciting elaborate and raucous stories of gnarly skiing accidents and wicked climbing injuries, laced with expletives that would make a sailor blush.

(Jon, Guy, and Murphy's skateboards, 

arranged in order of "rad-ness")

The majority of the USAC students filled our suite after dinner that night, all as pleasant as you please and eager to forge friendships.

I, having been awake for some 40 hours (23 of them in in planes and airports), slept.

The next day offered me many opportunities to make up for lost fraternizing time.  I went on several walks around Vitacura with different groups of students in between short bouts of registration and paperwork, most of which I was exempt from (they don't make you take the placement test if you're going for Spanish I)

That afternoon, I met my madre-pro-tem, Gabriela.  We hauled my bags to her house on Avenida de Republica de Israel.

And Here I am.                                                             

Stay tuned.

Andes from the Land of Long and Skinny

Stay tuned.

Welcome to Bogota: Scenic Gateway To South America!

I'm about four and a half degrees north of the equator, the closest I've ever been, and I'll be danged if that wasn't Cuba we flew right over.

The fire extinguishers are a little different here, there are fire-axes in glass cases on the walls, and police wear green uniforms.  Also, you get a half-hearted frisking even if you don't go through customs.  Because of this, Colombia may forever live on in my mind as the country of generous frisking.

Otherwise, differences are few and far between.  The condition of the facility itself is pretty run-of-the-mill.  The furnishings look no more recent than O'Hare's or Miami International's, and the bathrooms, if they can serve as a microcosm of a building as a whole, suggest a pretty well-kempt airport.  I'd love to have been able to see Bogota in the daylight, especially considering the strange arrangements of lights off in what I think is the west.  They looked as though they were slowly climbing the base of a mountain: my first Andes of the trip?

I'm disappointed to find that my English-speaking seems not only forgivable, but expected.  Flight attendants and security personnel readily accommodate my foreign language, and I'm almost too embarrassed to try Spanish.  I did, however, manage to ask for a glass of orange juice on the plane without insulting anyone's mother, eliciting a smirk from both the flight attendant and the nine-year-old sitting next to me.  It would have been a flawless victory if I hadn't nodded idiotically to her reply, "yellow?," which was not a reference to the color of the drink but in fact the Spanish word for ice.  Lesson one, F-.

They're airing coverage of the Democratic National Convention on Noticias, the local news network.  Hillary was there?

It's a compact international terminal here in Bogota, and very detached from the rest of the airport, so my exploring is abrupt.  I'm content to wait patiently for my connection though, and I should get into Santiago International a little before dawn.

Although, it is the other side of the planet here, so dawn might not be as early as I've gotten used to in the Northern hemisphere sun...

One-Half Fortnight

Only a week remains before my fateful trip 'cross the 'quator.  Traditionally, males of the Algonquin tribe are not considered men until they have flown on the "Steel Bird" to a "Different Continent" to "Study Spanish."  Mazel tovs all around.

All of my belongings are neatly splayed out on the dresser and floor.  My shower time continues to shrink.  Thousands and thousands of dollars fill my electronic coffers, bankrupting my parents and imbuing me with a sense of invulnerability.  Absolutely nothing can possibly go wrong, and households down the block are spontaneously combusting as I siphon off their good fortune.  This must be how Freddie Mercury felt when he was on stage.

In another demonstration of universal favor, USAC said I can hitch a ride with them from the airport to Santiago.  I will be able to identify them because, according to USAC Special Agent Melissa Coyle, they will "probably be holding some sort of sign that says "USAC" on it."  Hopefully, I'll learn the esoteric "sign holding" ability during my studies.

More to come as the days dwindle to my departure.