Every morning I wake at little after 8:00 a.m., assemble the various elements of my daily composure and walk two blocks to the Avenida Grecia bus stop across the street from Estadio Nacional. If Gabriela is already awake, she microwaves a travel-mug of the Quaker oatmeal I bought to stop her preparing more elaborate breakfasts for me (I cannot palate guilt so early in the morning). Lately, the mug has been accompanied by the end of a package of cookies. Under her supervision, I never attempt to leave the house without some manifestation of breakfast, and if unforeseen developments inhibit her oversight, I always lie that I made it for myself when she asks in the evening.
Bus 508 carries me north 10 minutes to the metro, which I ride west 10 minutes to Estacion Republica, from which I walk five minutes south to Universidad Andres Bello. Anywhere on the last two legs of my journey I may encounter classmates, in which case we will talk together for the rest of the trip, carefully weighing the cost-benefit ratio of buying a cup of coffee before class, or offering or requesting homework aid.
Spanish Track 1 begins somewhere between 9:35 and 9:45 a.m. when a quorum is present and has settled into desks. The class is ten strong on its best days, but students are often shed in favor of the easily-had thrills of the Santiago night life. Catalina Tocornal, a 30s-ish paper doll of a woman, teaches us the fundaments of Spanish directly from "Gente," Segunda edición, Pearson Prentice Hall, 2007.
Class breaks at 11:30, and on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays returns for another hour after fifteen or twenty minutes of fried empanadas, cigarettes, second coffee runs and congregating with the other classes also on break. Tuesdays and Thursdays, many kill the hours before their 2:00 or 4:00 p.m. courses. I might use the time for a nap in the USAC offices or to catch up on reading, but there is never any shortage of classmates willing to knock back a few Escudos for lunch to "stretch out your learning muscles," as Britt says. There is also an abundance of diversion in the neighborhood, from an abandoned, century-old house filled with artisanal graffiti to the Parque O'Higgins, a nearby horse track.
I usually sit in on nonfiction of Latin America at 2:00, puzzling over globalization and the abuse of natural resources in the continent and getting good and down on humanity, and on these days I invariably nap at my desk for the fifteen minutes between its end and the beginning of travel writing at 4:00. In travel writing, taught by the same professor as its predecessor, we may investigate marketing techniques, venture out to Palacio de la Moneda to experience first hand the mourning of Salvador Allende, or have a native Chilean guest speaker suggest ideal locations for traditional "Dieciocho de Septiembre" celebrations (Chile's independence day).
Classes are reliably laid-back, starting times are flexible, and attendance is meekly enforced at best. The student body is tight-knit, and there are numerous daily occasions of classmates picking up slack for one another. In many ways, it is a utopian learning environment: study locations vary from the reverently hushed university library to the serene street benches in the company of friendly stray dogs, to bars and restaurants with endlessly delicious variations of food and drink.
I know little of Universidad Andrés Bello proper- the USAC offices, two blocks south, house the nonfiction and travel writing class, so I only have one classroom among those of Chilean students. UAB has eight or so buildings within two blocks, some connected by walkways along the top floors. From what I understand, the university was founded by a breakaway faction of Universidad de Chile, or maybe de Santiago, I'm not sure, but whichever it was, it was founded by Bello, whose statue rests in at least two spots around the city. Unconfirmed reports (friends of friends) have said that we go to "the rich school," but having nothing to compare it to, I can't say.
The rest of the week is the independence day vacation, which I abruptly decided to spend in Pichilemu, on the coast south of Valparaiso. Accommodations and activities are TBD. Guy and Murph spent the afternoon ogling the forecasts at surfreport.com, so I may try my hand at "hanging ten," whatever that means.
Stay tuned.
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