A Tale of Two 'Tinas: Part One

Ayayay...These posts are getting fewer and farther between, and in the process, mucho mas laaaargo. Therefore, chapters are back. Also, this post is about an adventure that happened almost a month ago. I'm in a bit of a blog-backlog.


I. The Jet Set

In this world of haves and have-nots, there exists only one truly privileged class. On a whim they take to the skies. One day in Hamburg, the next in Tokyo. "Oh, I'm off to Istanbul this weekend, see you Monday," one of them gloats. Around the water cooler another boasts, "I had the best steak in Buenos Aires yesterday."

They are the Jet Set, and if you've ever known a jet setter, then you know what contempt is. Their tales of first class pampering are enough to make even the most hardened aero-phobe, such as myself, rage with jealousy and dream of carefree globe-trotting. The consequence of having a jet setter for a friend is that these feelings of envy are nearly constant, but as I've learned recently, benefits do exist.

After two months of living in Chile, I was in crisis. A Pizza-Hut binge at the mall had rekindled an all too familiar feeling. Heartburn. As acid crept up my esophagus, I reached for my jumbo pack of Tums, only to find an empty bottle. My trusted antacids were gone. I headed for one of the thousands of drug stores that grace this fair country (I swear the ratio is one farmacia to every 100 Chileans). "Necesito antiacidos!" I demanded, hoping that antiacidos was in fact a word. The pharmacist handed me a small generic white box. "Perfecto, cuanto cuesta?" I queried the cost.

"3,000 pesos," she replied. While the burn raged, my heart sank. "Six dollars?" I thought to myself in disbelief, "for only 8 measly tablets?" I was doomed. A voracious antacid addict, I can consume 8 a day. I realized that this was a burden that would prove far more costly in Chile than at home, so I searched for alternatives. The first thing that came to my mind was a Spanish-language movie by the name of "Maria, Full of Grace." The premise: a desperate Colombian woman swallows balloons of heroin in order to smuggle them into the U.S. on a New-York bound jet. That got me thinking...

Of course, my shipment would be legal, non-swallowed, and carried by no desperate immigrant. My little Tums-mule would be Chrissy, the Pikachu from previous posts. A Jet Setter.


II. "Bienvenidos a Chile. Vamos a Argentina!"

I don't want to give the impression that I used Christine. She is a dear friend and trusted neighbor, and our bickering-sibling-like-friendship has spanned a decade. The true benefit of knowing jet setters is that when you're lonely and homesick in another country, they can visit you. And that's exactly what Chrissy did.

One day after presenting her thesis, and a week before graduating, Christine (a.k.a. Chrissy/Chrizzler/Chrizzalus Magrizzalus/Gristle...the list goes on) boarded an overnight Delta flight, first class of course. The next morning I met her at Arturo Merino Benetiz International Airport in Santiago. First things first, I received my all-important 'shipment,' and then we embarked on "24 hours in Chile."

From the beginning, the plan had been to spend the majority of Chrissy's four day visit in Argentina. "This is my vacation too," I explained, and I needed a holiday from the Chilean accent, if nothing else. Chrissy still wanted to experience the country she had flown into, however, so I took her on a whirlwind tour. First Santiago, in the eerie silence of the Chilean Labor Day morn. People were at home with their families, and nary a Starbucks had opened its doors. With nothing to do in the capital--and my hopes of real coffee dashed--I resigned, "Whatever, I'm getting cheese fries." Luckily, cheese fry central was only an hour away.

When a Chilean wants cheese fries, he goes to Valparaiso. Downtrodden, unique, and undeniably beautiful, like a giant work of wilting urban art, Valpo is ground zero for Chilean chorrillana culture. It is also one of my favorite places in the country and easily tops the list of "what to do with 24-hours in Chile." With its vibrant pink, yellow, and blue hillside shacks, Valpo is a pastel assault on the drab color spectrum of Chile's built environment. And deep within this colorful labyrinth a Santa Claus doppelganger cooks up the best french fries ever made by a man.

Ahh...chorrillana. It's difficult to describe. Oh wait, that's not true. It's french fries smothered in scrambled eggs, fried onions, steak, and cheese. Pretty straight forward--glorified Aussie Cheese Fries, to me a culinary dream, and the only thing on the menu at J-Cruz, the recommended go-to spot for Chilean chorrillana.

We feasted, then emerged, heavy with french fry, left to wander the streets until we could find Kacy, another Fulbrighter, who had had offered to let us stay at her apartment for the night. Long story short--we eventually found our way to her swanky penthouse, made merry, and watched Chrissy get drunk off of a single glass of wine (silly Asians) and start speaking at a speed and pitch that, unlike chorillana, I really can't describe. The next morning we set off for 'Tina.


III. Crossing Over

The road from Chile to Mendoza, Argentina, has to be one of the most spectacular border crossings in the world. Climbing out of a fertile wine-growing valley, the ascent features limited guardrails, steep drop-offs, and 30 switchback curves. During these harrowing bus journeys, one can only pray that it's not time for Chile's next big earthquake. Earthquake-free as we neared the border, all this Lutheran praying seemed to be paying off, but it sure was making me hungry. Luckily each set of customs offered a chance for refreshment.

At the top of the world, culinary opposition has never been so apparent. On the Chilean side of the border, a modest confiteria was serving up the Chilean national cuisine: hot dogs. On the Argentine side: steak. It was a culinary divide more jagged than the Andean crest, with statistics to back it up. Argentines consume three times more meat per capita than any other country on earth. I'm pretty sure Chileans consume three times more hot dogs per capita than the rest of the earth combined. Needless to say, I was happy to be in the land of big beef, and the steak sandwiches at Argentine customs were an auspicious sign that life might just be a little sweeter, or tastier at least, on the east side of the Andes.

As we descended from the snowbound heights of the cordillera, the geography transitioned quickly from alpine vunderland to rugged desert. It was like passing into the Utah of IFP old, and hearkening back to those field study days, I was many a time tempted to pick up a rock and examine its geological worth.

A few hours later we were in Mendoza. In this tree-shaded city on the edge of Argentina's vast plain, Chrizzler and I wined, dined, and adjusted to the new culture, which included a number of key differences. For one thing, Argentine's don't eat dinner until well after ten o'clock at night (most Chileans don't eat dinner at all), so that took some getting used to. Perhaps the most pleasant adjustment, however, was the accent. Distinct certainly and hardly the easiest form of Spanish, the Argentine language is nevertheless alluring.

For years I had considered it off-putting. Back at the language school in Santiago, wayward gringos who had been studying in Buenos Aires would show off their flashy accents. They sounded ridiculous, with their "sh"s and "vos"s. Now that I was hearing actual Argentines, however, I found the accent far more pleasing to the ear.

Most importantly, I understood it. Listening comprehension had been a skill that eluded me in Chile, but now it suddenly clicked. No more, "Ok, i'll speak Spanish to you, but you speak English to me." I was free from the shackles of Chilenismos and dropped consonants. I was finally communicating in Spanish.


IV. Back to Chile, in style

Of course, these linguistic vacations are always too short, and after a couple days, it was time to return to Chile. UGA's graduation was nearing; I had some teaching to get back to; and the call of the jet set was drawing Chrizzler back to her first class digs. At the airport, I bid farewell to my friend. As she boarded her luxurious vessel to the United States, I splurged on a luxury of another kind: a salon cama bus back to Valdivia. With nearly fully reclining seats, and breakfast included, these buses are the only way to travel in style.

A few minutes into my overnight ride, I realized that though I would never share Chrissy's extravagant "oh my mummy works for Delta so I can fly anywhere I want first class for free" lifestyle, I had joined another set--the Bus Set. As the bus drifted away from the lights of Santiago into the dark Chilean night, I began to dream of future bus-bound journeys. I knew that another Argentine adventure wouldn't be far off.