I wouldn't go so far as to admit to being a biased cultural a**hole, but the past two weeks have proved it is rather impossible not to indulge in the "my country is better than your country" thought process, even if I do feel guilty when it happens. Technically, it's not so much a process as it is an inaudible hum I use after someone cuts in front of me in the third line at the Express Market, or when a bus driver purposely rips the wrong ticket so I have to pay for a whole new "return" portion of my trip. I'm not ready to silkscreen a t-shirt with the slogan or anything but there are a lot of things I don't "get". Like:
-The guy who rides his bicycle up and down Monjitas with a cart full of propane tanks attached to the back that he bangs on with a stick. I'm 96% positive he isn't selling anything, so I don't know what the stick noise is for. I don't know what the propane is for either.
-The garbage collectors who feel that 1am, 2 am, 4:30am and 4:55am are acceptable times to rifle through the glass bottles and metal cans outside on the street, cussing all the while and riling the stray dogs who have at last decided to cease fighting. Then again, if I had to collect glass bottles at 4:30am, I would probably cuss too. The real question is who deployed these hard working civillians to collect the damn garbage at multiple times during the same night in the first place?
-The line(s) at Casa Royale-a.k.a the place to buy voltage adapters and such. I'm reminded of the age-old question, "how many _ does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Except here, it's more like "how many cash registers does it take to buy a 2-prong outlet?" 3. At the first, you declare what you want and get a ticket. At the second, you give away your ticket and some of your money, but receive another ticket. At the third, you give away your second ticket and get what you ordered. And if you bought the wrong thing, which is probable if you're me and don't always know what you're saying or is being said to you, then you have to undo all of the above and re-wait in all 3 lines.
-Why C-list 80's pop is the rock of choice at a crowded bar on a Friday night. Or rather, why the DJ would choose to cut the Chilean dance music in favor of 2 sweaty guitarists who can play ACDC and not much else.
Illogisitics aside, I love this city. It's big and sprawling and dirty and I'm oddly fascinated with the way everything works because it defies every functional sense of working I've ever understood. Last week we visited the site of a former political prisoner camp that is now a memorial park honoring those who died in a context of deep and hideous illogic. Most notably, there was an empty pool that had not been filled since the memorial was erected. Our guide said there have been rumors that the pool was once full of human excrement. But only rumors. In truth, he explained, the pool was for family and friends of the military captors to come and sunbathe. One wonders what is worse: To wade in excrement, or listen to the voices of careless sunbathers from a locked 1Mx1M wooden cell? I imagine the real horror exists for those who had to make such a distinction.
So what now? I don't have the answers to my questions, nor do I expect to. At Villa Grimaldi, there is a rubix-cube-like building that balances perfectly on one of its side edges. Literally, its physical position defies the laws of scientific rationality, but for the very point of illustrating the un-sense of what happened in recent decades with Chile's political history. And if my time here thus far has taught me anything, it's to accept this country's inexplicable essence with the very ambiguity in which it delivers it. (I don't get it either, but I think that must be the point).
-The guy who rides his bicycle up and down Monjitas with a cart full of propane tanks attached to the back that he bangs on with a stick. I'm 96% positive he isn't selling anything, so I don't know what the stick noise is for. I don't know what the propane is for either.
-The garbage collectors who feel that 1am, 2 am, 4:30am and 4:55am are acceptable times to rifle through the glass bottles and metal cans outside on the street, cussing all the while and riling the stray dogs who have at last decided to cease fighting. Then again, if I had to collect glass bottles at 4:30am, I would probably cuss too. The real question is who deployed these hard working civillians to collect the damn garbage at multiple times during the same night in the first place?
-The line(s) at Casa Royale-a.k.a the place to buy voltage adapters and such. I'm reminded of the age-old question, "how many _ does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" Except here, it's more like "how many cash registers does it take to buy a 2-prong outlet?" 3. At the first, you declare what you want and get a ticket. At the second, you give away your ticket and some of your money, but receive another ticket. At the third, you give away your second ticket and get what you ordered. And if you bought the wrong thing, which is probable if you're me and don't always know what you're saying or is being said to you, then you have to undo all of the above and re-wait in all 3 lines.
-Why C-list 80's pop is the rock of choice at a crowded bar on a Friday night. Or rather, why the DJ would choose to cut the Chilean dance music in favor of 2 sweaty guitarists who can play ACDC and not much else.
Illogisitics aside, I love this city. It's big and sprawling and dirty and I'm oddly fascinated with the way everything works because it defies every functional sense of working I've ever understood. Last week we visited the site of a former political prisoner camp that is now a memorial park honoring those who died in a context of deep and hideous illogic. Most notably, there was an empty pool that had not been filled since the memorial was erected. Our guide said there have been rumors that the pool was once full of human excrement. But only rumors. In truth, he explained, the pool was for family and friends of the military captors to come and sunbathe. One wonders what is worse: To wade in excrement, or listen to the voices of careless sunbathers from a locked 1Mx1M wooden cell? I imagine the real horror exists for those who had to make such a distinction.
So what now? I don't have the answers to my questions, nor do I expect to. At Villa Grimaldi, there is a rubix-cube-like building that balances perfectly on one of its side edges. Literally, its physical position defies the laws of scientific rationality, but for the very point of illustrating the un-sense of what happened in recent decades with Chile's political history. And if my time here thus far has taught me anything, it's to accept this country's inexplicable essence with the very ambiguity in which it delivers it. (I don't get it either, but I think that must be the point).
1 comment:
this really struck a cord with me. i feel like i'm stuck in this country with you sister.
feel just like that.
blogs are for wicked hogs, like us.
your caira connor? like sara connor? story is OFFICIALLY on my blog.
palabra
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