Last weekend, I took a work/play combo-trip to Bogota, Colombia, during which I was not-so-gently reminded how painfully awkward it can be to navigate a new place. Albeit I was somewhat arrogant when I boarded the plane in Santiago, assuming that any other Spanish-speaking city in South America wouldn't be that big of a deal since I'd been living in one full time for over two years. I didn't have on running shoes. I wasn't carrying a backpack. And most importantly of all, I didn't have running shoes dangling from my backpack by their knotted laces. (I've seen this in airports more times than I care to count and have often thought about snatching the gringos' shoes myself, if for nothing more than to teach them a lesson. I digress)
Well, as per usual with 99.9% of my assumptions over the past 26 months, I was wrong. Naturally. First was the airport. I was thrown off not only by the stray dog that rode the escalator with me to baggage claim but also by the number of uninterested security guards taking their smoke breaks inside the building. That, and when I couldn't find an ATM without having to ask for directions, I started to feel that familiar bubble of distinct panic, one that stems oh so specifically from Feeling Like A Foreigner. "Everyone knows I'm different!" I shrieked internally as I hurried red-faced towards the authorized taxis. "They're all looking at me!" And of course, as I crouched down in the back of a cab, praying the driver wouldn't rip me off, "I want to go home."
It's incredible, really, the number of stereotypes about a particular world region or people that can rush in and overtake an otherwise rational and unbiased thought process during moments of uncertainty. Left to my own devices for a few hours, I uncomfortably wandered the downtown streets in broad daylight, feeling with absolutely certainty I was going to get robbed or kidnapped. I didn't. I also didn't see much worth reporting that day apart from the plate of chicken and rice I ordered and stared intently into so as to avoid the looks of everyone. You'd think I was wearing an I Love New York t-shirt for how poorly I perceived myself to blend in. Don't get me wrong. We gringos stick out. Especially while traveling. But for all the nervous fluster I was putting forth, my 2 years of learning to adapt sailed right out the window.
The friend I was meeting arrived a few hours later and immediately prompted me to put my jittery antics aside. Something about interacting with another human made me feel foolish for having been reluctant to run across the street and purchase a bottle of water alone. (I mean, really, Caira?) Funny to think that sort of discomfort once applied to Santiago and things like purchasing a metro card without a native speaker around. At the end of the trip, which, I might add, was completely safe and incident free, I realized I still wanted to go "home." To Chile- where, despite all initial adverse reactions, has morphed into somewhere I associate with comfort and, as my friend so wisely put it, "where I mostly understand what's going on."
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Retrospect
When in doubt, I have the rather uncanny ability to disregard all decisions I've made leading up to present circumstances. I think as though I've never battled uncertainty before and will never find resolution again. This is foolish.
Just under a month ago, I was told very politely by a certain Ivy League university that I would not, in fact, be welcomed into their upcoming fall pool of matriculants. Brusquely ignoring all previously learned life-lessons, I took this quite personally and assumed that not only would I never figure out what I was doing, ever, but that with one fell swoop, the University's Admissions Committee had undone 2+ years of work towards....something.
Once upon a time, I thought moving abroad to "see the world" and "find myself "(cue the laughter) was the last decision of its kind I'd have to make. "So what are you going to be doing in Chile?" I'd hear from various coworkers, friends, family members. "Oh. Well. First I'm going to teach but then I'm going to figure it out," I'd respond. Maybe I should have done a better job of defining for myself what exactly "figuring it out" would entail. Would it mean finding employment once my original teaching contract had expired? Would it include fluency in Spanish? Making local friends? Doing all the things that constitute a normal existence regardless of where it's being held? Perhaps. What I do know for certain is that that "something" I claim so fervently to work towards is probably a much greater source of self-produced perplexity than it is anything else. In other words, I hold it against myself for not having reached said undefined point of destination the moment some other seemingly stable idea wavers. Sigh.
Funnily enough, this most recent "movement" of plans so to speak, coincided with a far more significant wavering of the entire country, otherwise known as the 8.8 earthquake. It was an odd time. I and everyone I know were completely safe and sound though parts of the country and portions of its population were absolutely not. I sent an email to aforementioned University, hoping that my offering of a first-person's account might be of some interest but received no response until 5 days later, when I was simply told that my application for admission had been declined. Nevertheless I wrote down what I'd observed, believing that even if it wasn't of use for someone else, I may eventually look back to see what I had to say. The very fact that I could do so was interesting to me-that I'd witnessed something historic and terrible and in the midst of it all, felt privileged to a greater insight on the social and economic workings of this once foreign country- that even though the tree-lined sidewalks of my Santiago neighborhood were just as they had been at 3:39am on February 27th, there were streets in Concepcion lined with body bags. There was footage of civillians looting the stores for water and toilet paper, while my grocery store was overcrowded with tanned Chileans just returned from summer vacation, coming home to empty cabinets and overturned terraza furniture. It was all at once a mix of shame and guilt and gratitude for the way things had turned out, for whatever reasons they had unfolded as such.
I suppose then, that in the grand scheme of things, one non-acceptance is not so grand, particularly in light of recent events. I may even be so bold as to raise a glass to Uncertainty and its impartially dealt hands of equilibrium...because from what I hear, there are a few others out there in search of having it figured out. Cheers.
Just under a month ago, I was told very politely by a certain Ivy League university that I would not, in fact, be welcomed into their upcoming fall pool of matriculants. Brusquely ignoring all previously learned life-lessons, I took this quite personally and assumed that not only would I never figure out what I was doing, ever, but that with one fell swoop, the University's Admissions Committee had undone 2+ years of work towards....something.
Once upon a time, I thought moving abroad to "see the world" and "find myself "(cue the laughter) was the last decision of its kind I'd have to make. "So what are you going to be doing in Chile?" I'd hear from various coworkers, friends, family members. "Oh. Well. First I'm going to teach but then I'm going to figure it out," I'd respond. Maybe I should have done a better job of defining for myself what exactly "figuring it out" would entail. Would it mean finding employment once my original teaching contract had expired? Would it include fluency in Spanish? Making local friends? Doing all the things that constitute a normal existence regardless of where it's being held? Perhaps. What I do know for certain is that that "something" I claim so fervently to work towards is probably a much greater source of self-produced perplexity than it is anything else. In other words, I hold it against myself for not having reached said undefined point of destination the moment some other seemingly stable idea wavers. Sigh.
Funnily enough, this most recent "movement" of plans so to speak, coincided with a far more significant wavering of the entire country, otherwise known as the 8.8 earthquake. It was an odd time. I and everyone I know were completely safe and sound though parts of the country and portions of its population were absolutely not. I sent an email to aforementioned University, hoping that my offering of a first-person's account might be of some interest but received no response until 5 days later, when I was simply told that my application for admission had been declined. Nevertheless I wrote down what I'd observed, believing that even if it wasn't of use for someone else, I may eventually look back to see what I had to say. The very fact that I could do so was interesting to me-that I'd witnessed something historic and terrible and in the midst of it all, felt privileged to a greater insight on the social and economic workings of this once foreign country- that even though the tree-lined sidewalks of my Santiago neighborhood were just as they had been at 3:39am on February 27th, there were streets in Concepcion lined with body bags. There was footage of civillians looting the stores for water and toilet paper, while my grocery store was overcrowded with tanned Chileans just returned from summer vacation, coming home to empty cabinets and overturned terraza furniture. It was all at once a mix of shame and guilt and gratitude for the way things had turned out, for whatever reasons they had unfolded as such.
I suppose then, that in the grand scheme of things, one non-acceptance is not so grand, particularly in light of recent events. I may even be so bold as to raise a glass to Uncertainty and its impartially dealt hands of equilibrium...because from what I hear, there are a few others out there in search of having it figured out. Cheers.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Re-loaded
I admit, I'm a little nervous about "this", as "this" and all the words following, are in fact a calculated attempt to return to the world of public writing. I've been sheepishly hiding out behind my laptop for the past 14 months, hoping that a few half-hearted efforts to document my Chilean experience would magically transform into something cohesive. Turns out I actually have to write the words down for them to reflect any sort of anything I've experienced. Fancy that. And so, here we are, slightly over 2 years since my initial arrival to Chile and what is there to be said? It no longer seems appropriate to characterize this blog as a What Happens When You Travel Abroad sort of piece. The truth is, now I just live here, and the gamut of emotions and uncertainties I once pinpointed on my awkwardness as a foreigner in a strange land I currently blame on my mid 20s, geographical context aside.
Just under a year ago, a coworker of mine at the time uttered something I'll never forget. We were discussing the occasional strangeness of the lives we lived, and that from time to time we forgot we were the ones who had opted to to have them this way. He said, " I want to escape a lot and run away, but then I remember I already am away." The look on his face when he said it was a mix of perplexity and resolve, a contradictory combination matched only by the confusion of the realization itself. It's a peculiar sentiment in which to be encased, a bit of simultaneous contentment and longing as though there's something else out there to find even when you're smack in the middle of the something you once sought.
In the meanwhile, I'll at least be writing about it...
Just under a year ago, a coworker of mine at the time uttered something I'll never forget. We were discussing the occasional strangeness of the lives we lived, and that from time to time we forgot we were the ones who had opted to to have them this way. He said, " I want to escape a lot and run away, but then I remember I already am away." The look on his face when he said it was a mix of perplexity and resolve, a contradictory combination matched only by the confusion of the realization itself. It's a peculiar sentiment in which to be encased, a bit of simultaneous contentment and longing as though there's something else out there to find even when you're smack in the middle of the something you once sought.
In the meanwhile, I'll at least be writing about it...
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