“How to start a war with your host dog”, or “My relationship with Ino, a memoir in progress”

A war with one’s host dog requires careful time and preparation. It is not, I repeat not, anything to be taken lightly. First, one must decide if said war is to be just or unjust. As a matter of policy, just wars are usually preferable for intra-familial relations, however if a goal of the war is to disrupt that fragile peace that is crashing a foreigner’s house as a source of income for several months, then an unjust war has many benefits. Because this latter situation should only be undertaken in extreme circumstances, and because this author desires no responsibility in such a war, we’ll carry on assuming all anthro-canine wars are just.

Coming up with just cause for a war is generally not very difficult. Suspecting your dog of dragging fleas into your bed, for example, is certainly within the bounds of just cause. Discovering that your dog has a certain fondness for emptying your trashcan all over your floor and bed a few times every week also qualifies. And, while slightly less definite of an example, discovering dog hair and clods of dirt on your bed daily is considered by most to be within limits as well. The most important thing to remember is that “just”, like “beauty” is often in the eyes of the beholder. Public perception of justice is much more essential than your own piece of mind. If you’re unleashing a war on your host dog, chances are you’ve thrown conscience to the wind at this point. As a result of this fact, one should also be sure to always consider one’s audience. If you want to be thought just in the eyes of your peers, your hatred for your dog’s little red sweater may be sufficient, however if you seek the approval of your host family, I’d steer clear of declaring a war on their dog because of a bad canine fashion choice that they themselves made.

After that first step, things can be a bit trickier, but this is where creativity comes into play. Much of the battle details will certainly depend on the battlefield (host home), troops (you, the dog, any other pets and humans in the home that happen to become involved), allies (this can get interesting…), etc. In my own experience, tactics have ranged from simply shutting the door in host dog’s face and not allowing him in the room to engaging in a growling match. Obviously, things get more complicated the more people become involved. For example, after I started closing the door more often, my host sister put the dog outside my door at one point and seemed to be waiting to see if I would let him in when I walked into my room. Being as I am not one to upset the delicate host family balance, I lost that battle, and Ino happily entered and leapt to his favorite spot by the window. My next move however, is one to be well noted: faking concern and care for the enemy to others is always a good method. “I’m keeping my door closed while I’m in class today because the window is open, and I’m afraid Ino might try to sit there and then fall.” Remember, it’s all about perception. And if all else fails, a good growling match never hurt anyone. It may sound crazy, but most dogs will think twice about coming to your chair at the dinner table after you’ve barked back. Just make sure nobody else sees.

Study Abroad In Chile, Kent State Style

I don’t really feel I have the right to be telling this story, since it didn’t happen to me, but I also don’t think an account of my Chilean experience would be complete without it. Ashley came over to my house Thursday night for a study and knitting party, despite the fact that neither of us had classes on Friday. I’m in “force myself to stay home sometimes” mode, even when it is a weekend night, trying not to get overwhelmed with homework, which is easy to do in my classes. As soon as we took a break from my family, Ashley broke out into English because, as she said, some things are just too hard to tell about in Spanish.

Ashley and I attend different universities on opposite sides of the same Chilean city. My university is the private public school, hers is the public university. My classmates wear fairly simple clothing for the most part, hers have forgotten how to bathe properly and dress in a sort of punk grunge fusion. My school is very calm and go with the flow, hers misses several weeks of class every semester for strikes. And the most popular time to strike for young militant communists like them? Right around September 11, the date of Pinochet’s military takeover of Allende’s Communist-run government.

This year the strikes started on Thursday, which is what Ashley had to tell me about. Earlier in the week, the school had been turned into a Communist’s playground with pictures of Allende and hammer-and-sickle’s everywhere. It was obvious the strikes were beginning soon, but Ashley had no idea when or how big of a deal they would be. On Thursday, during a break in her class, her professor and some students went to the window and started speaking quickly. Then, they looked at her and said, “What do we do about her?” She was told that, because she was a US citizen, it was more dangerous for her to be there and that she should probably go home. Most of the people here have been pretty good about separating the things they don’t like about the US from us students, but you never know what excited militant communists might be moved to.

So classes ended and Ashley went outside to discover that the strikes had in fact started. She told me it was insane: people everywhere, roadblocks, everyone basically going crazy. She wanted to stay a few minutes and observe, but realized things were starting to get a big rowdy, and started heading down the hill, away from the university. And who do you think was coming up the hill in hummers and trucks but the Chilean police, the carabineros. They busted through the roadblock, and just started spraying tear gas into the crowd. Because that’s a calm response to a half-an-hour old protest. Ashley, a block away from where the gas was spraying, did the natural and intelligent thing and booked it out of there, walked the several miles to her house, and stopped for ice cream along the way.

And apparently this is normal. Ashley’s host mother had about the same reaction mine did to the flea news: uh-huh. Tear gas and parasites, these are the things we’re used to here. Ashley was terrified, but says that, since she got out unharmed, it was definitely one of those top memorable experiences. Is it wrong that I think it’s awesome that she witnessed a Chilean Militant protest and lived to tell about it? Well, never fear, Comrades, I won’t be marching over to join in but will be content to watch on the news.

“This is how I imagined Chile: strange men offering me avocados on the bus.”

Ashley and I took off for a day trip yesterday to the small town of La Ligua, about 3 hours from Valparaíso. Towns in Chile have a odd tendency to specialize in one thing, and everyone in the town takes up that trade. Last week we went to Polmeire, the pottery town, this week was the town of sweaters and sweets. Unlike Polmeire, where every store seemed to have the exact same things, the sweaters of the Valle Hermoso in La Ligua were often distinct. Unfortunately for the sweater lover in me, but luckily for the cheap college student in me, a lot of the sweaters were more thinly woven, light sweaters since it’s spring, and I had more interest in warmer winter sweaters. Still, that didn’t stop me from buying several Christmas presents and two items for myself, along with several dulces, sweets, the main ingredient of which is manjar – Chilean dulce de leche, or a caramel type spread.

The whole thing was a really awesome experience, and another fun cultural glimpse. Ashley commented on how she couldn’t imagine living in a small house and knitting her whole life, and a certain spoiled someone responded, “I know, I bet there’s practically no internet.” (Meaghan, maybe I’m starting to understand your fear of boats.) The waiter at the restaurant (and when I say the restaurant, I really mean that it was one of only two restaurants on the street), rather than handing us a menu, asked if we wanted the stew or the chicken. I had chicken breast – white meat! – for the first time since being here. The food was amazing, but the two-item menu definitely threw me.

The most insane experience of the day, though, was the trip home. Ashley and I chose the cleanest looking seats on our bus, about 5 rows from the back. Spread out throughout the bus were about 10 children, all dressed in school uniforms (not a shock since public and private schools wear them here, so uniforms are the natural and expected attire of all kids everywhere in Chile), and all between the ages of 6 and 14. Gradually, these kids began making their ways toward us until Ashley and I were literally surrounded on all sides by children. There was a man sitting in one of the seats in front of us, but besides him, every seat remotely adjoining ours, plus the aisle, was filled with kids, standing and staring at us.

Finally, Ashley took the first step and said hello to one of them, and gradually the questions began. The most interesting were about transportation to and from the US: How did you get here? How long did it take? Can I take a bus if I want to go to the United States? It was about then that we realized that not only had these kids never been anywhere near an airplane, but telling them 9 hours on a plane meant absolutely nothing to them in terms of distance. The kid sitting behind me kept touching my hair in amazement, and one of the kids sitting near Ashley smelled distinctly of urine. In the midst of the cultural drill session (the questions didn’t stop, which was fine because it was better than them staring at us), the man in the seat in front of us turned around to face us as well. I thought he was going to offer some words of encouragement, but instead, he just handed each of us an avocado and turned around again. Talk about the bizarre express.

Luckily, the students got off in about 20 minutes. I was willing to answer questions for that long, but certainly not 3 hours worth. Somewhere during all that time, the man turned to us again and instructed us to eat our avocados. Because that was exactly what I wanted: raw avocado on a bus in rural Chile. Not knowing what else to do, we dug in, and Ashley turned to me and said, “Somehow, this is exactly how I imagined Chile: strange men offering me avocados on the bus.”

Chilean Phenomenon #2: Confort

A reconsideration of the inelasticity of demand of toilet paper

In many places in Chile, one will not only find, but rather come to expect toilet paper not to be a luxury accompanying bathroom services. The industry, overcome by a Kleenex-like marvel in which the entire country calls the product by a brand name - “Confort” -, is also not graced with a Charmin-style quality level perhaps implied by the name (Comfort in English), but comes in a more which-grain-of-sand-paper-would-you-like variety? Nice bathrooms do generally have toilet paper in the stalls, however the majority of bathrooms just have one roll outside of all the stalls, which has a 3 to 1 chance of being empty. Some bathrooms employ people to hand out a few squares Soviet Union-allowance-style to those willing to pay. And then there’s the approximately 14.5% of bathrooms that just don’t have toilet paper. Coming from a country where toilet paper is so taken for granted that we have full Seinfeld episodes devoted to “sparing a square”, it can be hard for Americans to get used to the frequent lack of toilet paper. Most begin carrying a roll with them in their backpacks, some take up what we experts like to call the “drip-dry” method. Some of us with very small blathers have developed somewhat of a complex and wake up in the middle of the night, desperately having to run to the bathroom after nightmares of TP-less bathrooms. It very much depends on the person. Discovering that your own home, in fact, is out of toilet paper, is a rather special situation, but one that I gather from my friends is not as common as I might think. I’m just the one with all the luck. And if you think it’s amazing that I just managed to easily turn out 300 words on toilets in Chile, you’re only beginning to understand the obsession that overcomes you when living here.

Just another night with Chilean transvestites...

I’ve been thinking for a while that maybe I should write about a different Chilean phenomenon each week. You know, familiarize my friends and family at home with the wonder that is Chilean culture. After last week, now seems like an appropriate time to write about the Chilean phenomenon that is “machismo”. The large majority of the visible, Chilean male population is desperate and outspoken cowards. If you have of remotely light-colored hair, they’ll say just about anything and everything to you and give you looks that actually do make your skin crawl. As Lucy Alta pointed out, the guys with their heads hanging out their car windows make you want to scream, “You are going to crash. Why don’t you look where you are driving??” In the end however, these men won’t actually do a thing. You can glare at most of them and they cower. My biggest problem is that I’ll probably get accustomed to being honked at while running here and will go home to the states and give one of my friends the finger when they try to honk a friendly hello. Still, although most men would never do anything, sometimes I get freaked out. Especially when returning from a dance club at five in the morning.

Lucy Alta, Katie, and I, had all been at the discotheque at the casino, a place where those who can afford to gather to dance poorly to (as Katie put it) all the 80s music you want to forget. We’re talking lots of men with glasses (the dorky, not the cute kind) who are slightly too old trying far too hard to look like they have any idea what they’re doing. Lucy and I walked Katie to her apartment, and then began walking down Libertad, one of the safest streets in Viña, to find a colectivo together, a sort of taxi that drives along certain lines. While walking along Libertad, two men passed us, glared in that way, slowed down, allowed us to pass, and began following us. Which was odd, but unfortunately not totally unusual, and we weren’t exactly positive they were following us. So we just kept looking for a colectivo, with perhaps a slightly hastened pace. Fate then provided us with what would soon be a much-needed bit of comic relief. Lucy and I definitely passed by two Chilean transvestites. Working the corner in a country where homosexuality and confused gender roles alike are less accepted than at a Christian Right tea party. Chilean transvestites, I applaud you.

Like I said, it proved itself much needed when, in the middle of the next block, a shady looking man in a large jacket and a skull cap walking toward us on the sidewalk did not move aside as he came closer to us, but rather, came right up next to us and began whispering sketchily under his breath before passing us by. It’s amazing how even a word like “beautiful” can make you shiver when said in a certain way. That wasn’t what made the humor necessary though. It was when I turned around to check on our two followers and noticed that the shady, skull-capped man had also turned around and was following closely. We once again picked up our pace, dashing toward the Plaza where the colectivos wait for passengers. We noticed that at this point, the first two men had positioned themselves on either side of us, which, while I was trying to stay calm, really did freak me out. We hopped in a colectivo, not bothering to argue much when the driver told us she was going to charge us double the usual (it’s still a $1.50 cab ride), and took off.

Sure, it’s possible that the two original guys slowed down because they wanted to watch two blondes go down the street and were actually going their separate ways and not trying to surround us when they split to either side of us. Not terribly harmful. And the man in the huge coat who muttered under his breath at us could have just turned around because he forgot something wherever he was coming from. In fact, that’s the worst part of all of it is that a girl feels like she can’t trust men here because they’re men, which seems so stupid. Like the fact that I can’t offer my seat to a tired-looking man on the bus because he “can’t” take it. The gender relations, as I’ve often said here, are the one thing I could never get used to. But things have to be changing, which is good news…here’s to Chilean transvestites everywhere!

Today started out as a hope-that’s-shower-condensation-on-the-toiled-seat kind of day. I had to wake up at 6:45 to travel into a poorer area of urban Chile (after several nights of very little sleep and very much studying), and I was not in the mood to play guessing games with the sanitation of my bathroom. But I was going to said area to teach English to 5th graders, and besides, Pame had just taken a shower, it probably was just condensation on the toilet seat.

I feel like anyone who’s spent time in a place where his or her second language is spoken will agree with me when I say it’s hard to speak that language in the morning, especially after waking up from a very short amount of sleep. I had the misfortune of arriving at the school on the same day as several education students who are doing their student teacher assignments at the school. Practicing the Jessie’s Travel Rule #2: English speakers Non-Disclosure Rule, I walked into the school yard a little bewildered and nodded or said “Gracias” with my best Chilean accent as teachers pointed me toward where they thought I was supposed to be: the school director’s office where the education students were introducing themselves. I popped into the room, obviously realized that I was interrupting, and continued my attempt to appear intelligent in the ways of Spanish by simply nodding while the director explained to me that these were pedagogy students and to the students that I was an exchange student. Then he of course turned to me and said something that involved several female names. Of course, I understand everything but the question I have to answer. Looking a bit confused, I answered (in Spanish of course), “I’m Caitlin.” He gave me a pathetic look and nodded, saying, in English, “Yes. Come with me,” and lead me to the teachers lounge.

Well, one blunder isn’t terrible, and one blunder it was, because the rest of the time was amazing. Can I just teach Chilean children my whole time here? Okay, maybe I don’t want to do that, but it was a great hour and a half, and I get to do it every week, what luck! The teacher I was helping left me alone with the students every now and then, at which point they all burst with excitement and would run up to me, begging me to tell them what the English versions of their names are and pleading for my autograph. And I thought REACH skits at the elementary schools of Main Line Pennsylvania were crazy. That’s right, I’m now a star in the Achupallas neighborhood of Viña del Mar, Chile. Pretty exciting. Of course, there were a couple awkward questions I had to field with the grace and charm we all know I possess, like when two boys asked me what it meant when someone said “son of a bitch”. I wasn’t ready to start out my first day with letting the teacher overhear me saying “hijo de puta” to the students. Even during those times, though, I was on a high. When I left, the students closest to the door came to kiss me goodbye and everyone else shouted their own happy goodbyes. I now know the recipe to instant mood boost: be an American around young students who as of yet are not disenchanted with the United States and just admire it’s movies and music. And be the person in charge who’s not giving them homework; that always helps too.

The Newes From Chile

Tales of the Chilean Ski Bunny

This weekend I decided to try out the more “cuico” side of Chilean life…that is, snobby. I went to the Andes with eight of my friends to ski. I had to keep saying it to myself to believe it: we’re skiing in the Andes. It was Lucy Alta (tall), Lucy Baja (short), Jenn, Jeff, Rob, Lauren, Ashley, Byron, and myself. We started out with a trip to Santiago on Friday. Renting ski stuff on the mountain, which is about an hour from Santiago, is really expensive, so you have to go to the rich area of Santiago to rent it, and hire a van to pick you and your ski gear up and then take you up. Which you can only do during certain hours of the day, because, to better handle traffic, it’s been mandated that you can only drive up in the morning and down at night. If it sounds like a lot of work, it is. But in the end, it really wasn’t any more work than skiing in the states (I’ve been told, since we all know I’m no real ski bunny), and tons of fun. After trying on sizes at the ritzy ski shop in Santiago, we left our stuff to be picked up the next day (because who really wants to ride the bus and metro with skis?) and headed to Jumbo, a Cosco like store in Chile, to pick up cooking supplies for the weekend. We then headed back to our adorable Hostel Indiana, which the owner described to us as our second home, for the night. I must confess hostels aren’t exactly my thing when you’re in Chile, the land of no heating, and the windows of your room don’t fully close and there aren’t exactly sheets on top of the hard mattress on which your sleeping. But really, for about $5, I was happy to have a place to rest before sleeping, and since we were all crammed into our rooms in little bunk beds, it was very much like summer camp in a fun way.

Making plans for the weekend at the Hostel Indiana

Fast forward to Saturday morning, 6:30 a.m. when we have to get up to meet our ride. It’s amazing how little you care about how you look when it’s early in the morning, you’re about to get dressed to go skiing, and you have to walk outside to get to the more than shady looking bathrooms. Showers were definitely and unanimously vetoed, and we hopped into the van perhaps a little smelly, but not really caring anyway. A quick stop at Ski Arroho to pick up our ski stuff, and we were off, up a windy path to the mountain ski slopes, El Colorado. I definitely had never seen real mountains before coming to Chile. It was amazing to climb from Santiago, where it’s chilly but never below freezing, up above tree line in the matter of an hour. Because there were nine of us, we had the van to ourselves, and the diver was very helpful. As soon as we got up there, he helped us look for a place to stay on the mountain, since it would be a real hassle to have to go back down to Santiago for the night. Knowing that it might be expensive, Lucy and Byron set off with the driver to see what was possible. And lucky for us, somehow they found a crazy man who was for some reason willing to rent one of his apartment/hotel rooms out to nine college kids. Who would have guessed? It had a kitchen, cable TV, one and a half baths, two bedrooms (one with two bunk beds = sleeps 4 and one “matrimonial bed”, shared by Jenn and Lucy), and a living room with two day beds and a trundle. And most importantly, because it was in a place where the pipes could actually freeze, it had heat!


Ready to ski! My nickname for the trip was Edward the Turtle. Quite fitting, no?

We quickly got changed and hit the slopes. I, not having skied in about five years, somehow thought it would just come back to me and threw myself over the edge of the somewhat steep bunny slope, apparently with the notion that “turning” was out of the question. Sure, the first few times down the slopes consisted of nothing more than me rapidly gaining frightening amounts of speed and then just tipping over when I felt it was time to stop, but I persevered. As Lucy said, I fell a lot in the beginning, but every single time I hopped back up and started skiing (terribly) again. Of course, my spirits were broken a little when Lucy and I ended up mistakenly on a very steep, very windy Intermediate slope without really realizing it. I had made the error of following Jeff to what he thought would be an Easy slope. That it was not, and Lucy and I freaked out, and proceeded to make, what can only be called gallant but fruitless, attempts to walk back up the mountain. Two Chilean women stopped and, rightly, informed us that we simply could not do what we were attempting to do, and kindly helped us put our skis back on (a problem since in the mess of snow I was trying to do it backward) and make it down the hill safely. Of course, at the bottom of the hill, Lucy and I thought that the ski lift would take us to a point where there were easy hills, like we hadn’t learned our lesson at all. So we naively hopped on and found ourselves in aforementioned steep and windy situation. Nowhere to go but down, we began our descent, Lucy taking slow wide turns, and I alternately throwing myself down the hill and then falling. I know you’re wishing you had the video. At one particularly bad point, I threw myself off my skis, the action of which then threw my skis into random parts of the hill, difficult to encounter in the mess of wind. Upon finding both of them and trying to put them back on, several familiar faces whizzed by me on the mountain, shouting always encouraging words. It was, of course, my fellow gringos, one of whom was Ashley who, thank God, taught me how to turn and took the hill very slowly down with me, shouting things like “Looking good,” and “Don’t worry, I’ll pick up your poles!” I fell a couple of times, but luckily made it almost to the bottom of the hill without major event.

And I say almost, because despite my recently acquired turning abilities, I apparently had not yet mastered creating a stop from a turn. And decided that the best thing to bring me to a halt was an orange fence. Being the good sport that I am, I allowed pictures to be taken, and Lucy and Byron decided it needed to be captioned…


Crash, crash, crash into a fence!

(from the Outkast song Roses, which I only know from my nine-year-old sister Brianna, because yes, she is that much cooler than I am.) Ashley, after snapping the photo, helped me out of the fence, and from there I progressed to master my turning so that the next day I could progress from the Bunny Slopes to some intentionally skied Intermediates.


This is where we were skiing!

Before I could move on up the skiing chain of command however, I had to spend an awesome night in our mountain apartment. Definitely homier than our “second home” Hostel Indiana. It was one of those nights you always thought you should have in college, with everyone just hanging out, so happy to be there together. Everyone was able to take a hot shower as we watched the sunset over Santiago and the beautiful view of mountains that we had on all sides. While watching the Chilean tennis doubles at the same time. I have to say, I’m still American through and through, but it was routing for the Chileans. They’ve never had a gold medal, and the tennis player is from Viña del Mar! Plus you just can’t help getting sucked up into the excitement of the whole thing while here. When we drove back to Santiago Sunday night, the streets were literally filled with people and cars flying the Chilean flag and screaming/honking horns. It was outrageous. But don’t worry, I’m routing for home sweet United States in the rest of the games. My allegiance is true.




The views from our apartment.


Lucy Baja, Rob, and I, Post-skiing

We cooked pasta and soup, alternated hydration with pisco, and played a little MASH (you know you remember the fortune-telling game of 3rd grade fame, don’t pretend you don’t) and never-have-I-ever Chambers-style (absolutely no pressure to drink) because you can always get to know people better. After a full day though, we were pretty exhausted and went to bed by 10:30. Which still didn’t make it any easier to wake up to ski at 9:00 the next morning, but we did it. The second day was equally amazing, especially since I managed to make it over to some Intermediate slopes. Ashley even tricked me into going on a Red Diamond, which here is in between Intermediate and Expert, with the label of “Difficult”. The best part of the whole trip was just how positive everyone was. Despite the fact that we were all different levels of skiing, from Lauren who had never skied to Lucy who’s a Coloradoan expert, we were all skiing our hardest and being incredibly supportive of each other. Laughing with others and at oneself is always a must! I must say, after the CIEE Learn to Ski in a Day program, I feel quite confident in my skiing abilities and can’t wait to show them off in the states! Ski trip anyone?


Reentry

Unfortunately, our amazing weekend made reentry into daily life a little difficult. I returned Sunday night to find my room rearranged because my family had cleaned the house while I was gone. Which shouldn’t be too big of a deal, but it’s still weird. Especially the fact that the bedside lamp that I moved to the desk so I could use it while working had been replaced on the bedside table. I love my family, but sometimes I get a little frustrated. There was also something wrong with our calefont, so I was unable to shower Sunday night or Monday morning. After a pretty bad knee bust-up from skiing, I could have really used a nice warm shower. On top of it all, I had a lot of homework that I probably should have been working on over the weekend. Luckily, I had my crucial Wednesday night pick-me-up with Ashley. Our Wednesday night outings are starting to become a routine since neither one of us has morning classes on Thursday, and we both have busy days on Wednesday. Wednesday is so the new Thursday. Every week, we go to the gym that I just joined with Ashley for our Pilates class (did anyone say Yogalates?!). After, we’ve been going out for a little bit to some local bar or another. This week we went to J. Cruz (not sure I spelled that right), a whole in the wall restaurant that looks super shady. You may ask why on earth we chose to wander down the back alley to such a place, but the food’s reputation had preceded it. Now, when I write “food”, you may imagine several options, however it’s important to emphasize that at J. Cruz, you order one thing, and that is a huge plate of french fries with cooked onions and bites of steak on top. This does not necessarily sound like it should be Ashley and my kind of place, but it is awesome. Hands down the best french fries I’ve ever had, I desperately wish I could share them with all of you. Save money. Buy plane tickets to Chile. The fries’ll be on me.



Queer Eye anyone?

I also had a change of attitude toward my room yesterday that I’m incredibly excited about. When I first moved in, I wasn’t exactly enthralled with my room, but, like several things here, I told myself it was only five months, and that I would just live with it. Finally, a month and a half into my stay, I was getting a bit weary of the stained comforter on my bed and the mildewed walls. Constantly complaining to myself in my head, my frustration was growing. Finally, Tuesday night, I snapped to it. “Am I not an American?” I asked myself. “Was I not born in the land of Trading Spaces and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy? Surely I can make something of this situation. It’s the American thing to do.” So today began my quest to remake my room. Granted I can’t do much with it seeing as my family doesn’t even like me to move my lamp around, but what can be done, will be done. (P.S. Mom and Dad, perhaps this would be a good time to tell you that the credit card bill that will be coming to the house this month includes a few house making items such as pillows and throws to cover up aforementioned stained comforter. I figured this would not be something to which you would object.) Perhaps not the most exciting thing to be happening in a foreign land, but for the home decorator in all of us, I will post some before and after pictures in a couple weeks. And if anyone has suggestions of how to remake a somewhat barren room (with a large and unidentified object sitting in the corner), I would be in your debt!

Finally, a quick apology is in order for my especially poor writing quality of late. I’m always writing blog entries late at night, the only time I really have the opportunity to, saving them to my computer, and then posting them when I’m able to sneak online. My family loves the internet, and there’s almost always someone who’s not really willing to give it up. Also, the constant switch between Spanish and English means I really don’t speak either language well. What all this amounts to is me constantly writing entries in a semi-drugged state of exhaustion. Hopefully the grammatical errors aren’t great and the interest-level of posted material isn’t completely miniscule!