Patagonia: My Last Chilean Adventure

Last week, our group finally went on the adventure we'd been waiting all semester for. Having purchased flights to the south of the country back at the beginning of September, we were ready to hike through Torres del Paine National Park in Patagonia, Chile. One of the most popular destinations in the world for hikers as well as outdoor and nature enthusiasts, the park offers two main trails: You can hike the "W", which is the most popular hike because it offers the majority of available scenic views in around 3-6 days, or you can follow the end of the W all the way around for a total of 7-11 days (called the Circuit, or the "O"). Though hiking the whole circuit would have been a blast, both time and money were running short and many of us had other post travel plans ahead of us. So, we decided to tackle the W.

Two possible routes. We started at the lake below the left V, up the left side, back down and to the rest of the W

Although thousands of people make this hike each year, it is by no means a walk in the park. Well, technically, that's exactly what it is (National Park and all). But, it's not easy! Roughly 80 kilometers, the terrain of the trails is never desirable whether it's extreme uphill or downhill and/or lathered in loose rocks and rubble. And when the trail does appear to be a leisurely stroll, you're hit with gale force winds racing across the plains that you have to lean into to avoid loosing your footing and landing in one of the many numerous thorn bushes that line the way. With less than six months separating my knee from a nasty scalpel or three, I knew this trek was going to be a challenge; a test on it's progress. Sounds crazy, no? (<In Tevye’s voice) But it held up better that I could have imagined, mostly thanks to the trekking poles we rented. Seriously, if you're going to hike this park or any other, use trekking poles. They are a knee/calf/quad saver.

Patagonia was incredible. I put some photos up here as well as on Facebook, but neither they nor a string of adjectives or metaphors can truly describe how amazed and awestruck I was whenever I looked up from my careful foot placement on the trail and took in just how impressive this place is.

The Torres of Torres National Park

See what I mean? Pretty early on in our journey, I simply started taking video panoramas of where I was standing since a picture (or five) couldn't do any sort of justice to landscapes so breathtaking.

Apart from the views, one of the most interesting components to hiking in a park comprised mostly of foreign visitors is the variety of people you meet. On the ferry across Lake Pehoé south of the W to Refugio Paine Grande where we began, we shared glances with the rest of our crewmates, not knowing that we would see all of their faces again and again over the next 5 days. There was the Swiss couple that offered us food when they heard us discussing our near failure in rationing towards the end of the trail, the British gentlemanly duo who travel the world together and who I got to take a picture of me in front of the Torres, a guy from Cork, Ireland (where my brother studied abroad a thousand years ago) who quit his job and has been in South America ever since, a group of Israeli students on vacation (making my half-Israeli friend, Ari, feel like Balto watching the wolves howl), other Minnesotans(!), a couple from Washington who were travelling before tackling the real world and who ran up to our bus with my alien green shoes after I had left them (on purpose) at the end of the trail, as well as friends from both our group and school and other study abroad groups from other schools.

As many differences as there are between the hikers, there is just as much variety in the climate, meaning one could start the day in a fleece, shed to a T-shirt by lunch, and be in a parka by afternoon to protect from the snow (yes it snowed). Quick changes in harsh climates meant that there’s very little wildlife in the park, leading to probably a better conservation effort but potentially lonely trails if all you see is the occasional bird. Such varying climate also gives hikers a kaleidoscope of landscapes we were on. The first day we started on a ferry across a turquoise blue lake and ended at a massive glacier (Glacier Grey). On day 2 we walked through rolling hills covered in brush, through a small forest stripped of bark and most branches by a recent fire, and ended in a valley (the middle of the W). Day three we went further up the valley into view of mountaintops and rocky outcroppings (like the view of the Torres from the back) and ended at a rocky beach similar to those found in Duluth (Los Cuernos). On the fourth day we hiked up more prairie into a huge river ravine that we followed to the camp below the Torres. Day five we beat the sunrise to the top of the Torres before ending at the end of the trail. After that we spent a sixth in nearby Puerto Natales and on the seventh day, we rested (back in Viña).

As previously stated, it’s difficult to wrestle onto a page exactly how incredible Patagonia is. It didn’t take us long to question Peter Jackson on where he filmed his trilogy as our whole trip was filled with Lord of the Rings quotes. I also felt like the age of this place was palpable. The lack of wildlife as a marker of time gave the mountains an ominous I’ve-been-here-forever-and-will-be-long-after-you-leave vibe. And the preservation of all these landscapes made me wonder if we were going to turn a corner and see the not-too-distant cousin of a dinosaur or two.

Needless to say, this hike was one of the coolest things I've experienced, and my face practically hurt each night from my eyes wanting to stay open and my mouth agape all day. It was highly indicative of how I've felt this whole semester, and a fitting end to the greatest four months of my life.

JJ 

On Molding Chilean Youth

One of the requirements as part of our curriculum here in Chile is some volunteer work, or as the university likes to call it, experiential learning. Some of our choices included Habitat for Humanity type construction work, teaching and/or coaching at a local elementary school, visiting the homeless at a local shelter, and other various volunteer opportunities. Never claiming to be good with people, and certainly not with children (as I am the youngest sibling and almost youngest cousin, I have very little experience in the child department), I originally chose the construction type option. As fate would have it, since the choices were so lopsided in favor of one or two options we were placed at random, and I was one of five chosen to help assistant teach at St. Peter's School. When classes were all doled out, I was given a first and third grade class, both helping the same teacher.

I was more nervous on my first day of school as a glorified assistant teacher than I ever was as a student. Sure, it was a bilingual school, but should I talk to the children in English or Spanish? Should I let this student go to the bathroom if there are two already there? Man, it's hot in here, I'm sweating. Why are you thinking about sweating? Why is my handwriting so awful? And so on. It wasn't until the end of that first class that I realized something: these kids don't care about any of the things I was worried about, so why should I. They don't care what I look like or how I talk, although Noshavember has gathered the 'beard' (I use the term loosely) many a teasing and my accent has been known to confuse frequently.

Before I go further, I feel the need to explain my official title when I teach. On day one, the teacher I help had the students all stand to greet their other teacher. She realized she hadn't caught my name yet, and after I told her 'JJ' she turned to the class and said, "Class, can we say good afternoon to Mr. JJ?" Which was then followed by "GOOD AFTERNOOOON MEESTER JJ!!" And all I could think was how much fun this semester was going to be.

Other things made my first days better. On my first day, a first grade girl came up to me with a tissue. At first, I thought she had used it and intended for me to throw it away for her. However, I noticed the tissue was clean and still folded. I glanced over at the teacher who was observing and smiled saying, "it's a gift, dear!" And later, in the third grade class, a girl who sits at the back came up and showed me a bracelet she had made out of pipe cleaners. I told her it was very pretty and handed it back to her, only for her to give it back saying it was for me. It's difficult to describe the combination of pride, joy, and acceptance that came with such small gifts. But, suffice it to say that both of them are on the shelf next to my bed as I type this. 

So, what do I actually do? Really not a whole lot, further contributing to my relatively stress free volunteering. I cut and hand out things the teacher didn't have time to earlier and I walk around when the children are doing their activities in their books, the latter of which has exposed how hesitant I am to punish disobedience and maintain a quiet room. I guess I'm just a softie, and by now they've caught on! I also do most of the reading out loud as my teacher wants them to hear a native speaker, something I wish I could see the results of if twenty Chileans grow up speaking with long Minnesota "o's" (Hoooola).

Just doing my civic duties. That and failing in my attempts to bring back the ruler

Also, there is a small rivalry between the two first grade classes that are taught in neighboring classrooms. Every few classes, the teacher indulges the kids' competitiveness and lets them come up to the board and tease the other class through the wall. This link shows one such instance, and I crack up every time. If that link doesn't work, try copying and pasting this link into your browser: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VN_rl1WgwgI&feature=youtu.be

No blog post is truly complete without some ill-informed and biased analysis, and so it is almost out of necessity that I try to wrap mine and your heads around what seems to be an unhelpful education system, or at least parts of it. From a broad historical sense, thousands of students and families have been protesting for years about improving the educational system. It's been a factor in the last who knows how many elections (as well as this years) and I'd like to think I've gotten a glimpse into it's inefficiency, ineffectiveness, etc. For starters, it's mandatory that the class makes it through the whole textbook during the year, otherwise the school loses funding. This makes for some hectic classes, as we often rush through 10 pages of filling in blanks in just one class and is made even more difficult by my next issue: the country expects these kids to be geniuses. Just the other day we were talking about differences between ancient Greek and Roman cultures, social issues about rights of women and well as differences in the educational system of today. I don't know about you, but I didn't learn most of that until half way through high school (you might jab that the key operating word there was 'learn' instead of 'was taught', but my point still stands nonetheless!) Let me also remind you that this is all in their second language. The books are all in English and often translated badly or laid out and designed horribly and not intuitively at all. I will sometimes be reading a paragraph out loud only to pause and think about what I just said because it made no sense. And I'd like think I to know, my grammar and sentence structure. 

The point of all this is that I now know why it's called experiential learning. The kids might be the students in this situation, but I'd argue that I might be learning just as much. Not only am I relearning some (un)necessary schooling, but I'm also learning more about myself. For instance, I find it very difficult to reprimand a child who either doesn't yet know wrong from right, or is just seeking attention they don't get from those who should give it like family. Like my parents, I find a stern word or face to be just as effective, if not more so (also, laps around the school would be difficult and dangerous, just as they were around the house circa '98-'08). I'm also learning about the mind of a child, though some would say I'm already an expert firsthand. Like when someone looks hurt and dejected when I do eventually tell someone off for being consistently too noisy, all I have to do is laugh at something they do later and all is forgiven. Every day is filled with fragile relationships, and I'd like to think I'm having an impact on their lives. But two hours a week for each grade probably isn't affecting them much, so I'll take solace in the tremendous amount of learning I've gained through them.

I've also gained a new level of respect for any educator. My sister Michaela teaches Spanish to kids back home, and I always knew she worked hard (as her first years teaching were when I first started honing my cutting, gluing and grading skills when she brought work over to watch Viking's games). But the pressure to teach well and to encourage students to learn comes from everywhere including parents, educational systems, as well as peers. You have to be always attentive to the needs and/or complaints of the kids, and your answers to questions have to be simple yet conclusive as well as as politically correct as possible. I only work four hours a week and never have to form a lesson plan, can you imagine what actual teachers go through?? Even so, I get some of the benefits of teaching, as I literally walk out of the school with a smile on my face every day. I'm fairly certain I don't want to be an educator, at least not in a school setting. But, who knows? Mr. JJ does have a nice ring to it. 

On the Move

For those of you who don't know who the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda is, here's a quick summary: Nobel Laureate for literature, very wealthy, and former senator and diplomat with three houses. You know, like all poets. Our group had already visited one of his eccentric houses in Valparaiso a few months ago. But this past weekend we headed to Isla Negra, arguably the most famous of the three (although you probably still haven't heard of it). It wasn't as exciting as I had hoped, and we couldn't take pictures inside the house, though practically everyone else did. I merely bring it up because he did have some insane views of the ocean.

View from the beach below Neruda's house

Chiseled Neruda with his large house in the background

It does, however, provides an awful(ly seamless) transition into what I was actually excited about.Where Neruda had a plethora of housing options (he should try signing up for housing at St. John's), my host family and I were about ready to abandon our solitary abode. This isn't to say we were living in the street, but it was definitely time to move since it was clear that any repairs would require a process I've found to be common here: seemingly very inefficient while at the same time not being very thorough, and taking forever to accomplish. Multiple light fixtures were broken, cupboards were falling apart, electrical shortages were common, and our faucet was leaking from the handle so badly that we needed to weigh it down with cartons of milk to stop the flow.

When I first arrived in Chile back in August, my host family informed me that we would be moving at the end of the month. When that date came and went, I was told it was because the sellers hadn't yet found or finalized their next home. Even later, in October, it took a few weeks for my host mom to sign all the documents necessary to move. I found the whole delaying process very indicative my previously mentioned revelation.

Finally, on the November first we moved, and it apparently took all the saints to do so (holiday joke bonus). So I did what any good son, biological or hosted, would do: I packed all my things, grabbed my backpack and went off to hike La Campana (see previous post). And thus, my last steps from that humble two story closet were taken, tearfully and longingly I assure you. After our hike, I returned the next day to an apartment complex having to explain to the doorman that I did indeed temporarily reside in said establishment and was not merely a backpacking vagrant-gringo trying to score a comfy nights sleep. Although, to be honest, that's all I had my mind on at the time.

View into my glorified new closet

Worth the view, I think. You can see where we simply knocked out the balcony separator to create more living space

I found out that, although things like clothing, cars and many groceries can be comparable in price or even more expensive here in Chile, rent seems to veer towards the cheaper end of the spectrum. This 3 bedroom, two bathroom apartment with separate storage and underground parking comes in at around $770. Now, I'm no real estate expert, but that's less than what two Johnnies pay to share a 10 x 15 foot dorm for their first two years. I guess nothing says community living like a concrete cell!

Anyways, this new place has (almost) got it all. Yes, my room is smaller, but hey I have a bathroom, which means no waiting for the unpredictable morning schedule of my host brother every day. Yes, many of the light fixtures still don't work, but with the sunset over the skyline a nightly occurrence I think I'll live. Sure, water leaked from the toilet in my room from day one, but I find delight in testing the plumbing at the university instead. And no, I don't have a mirror, but what with the growth of my hair (dare I say, mullet) and my failing Noshavember, that's probably for the best.

Does a Butt-kicking 6000 Feet Get Me Into the Mile High Club?

In an effort to seek out some aspects of Minnesota life, a few friends and I decided to go camping this last weekend. We’d heard of a National Park about an hour east called La Campana and decided to give it a shot. Assembling the troops was a task on its own as what started out as three of us turned into nine overnight, without anyone truly knowing what to bring or to expect. But I felt we were decently prepared after having purchased necessary camping gear such as 4 boxes of cookies, 3 kilos of clementines, 2 pounds of hotdogs, and bottle of whiskey that cost more than the tent. And besides sounding like a verse in 12 days of Christmas, this list surprisingly sufficed.

We hopped on the metro out of town, graced by troubadours who should probably be recognized more than they are. After a half hour or so we caught a bus from Limanche to the small town of Olmue, all the while having this adorable little Chilean girl show off her English skills by counting to ten. We then waved the little girl goodbye and trekked to the campground. As I was drenched in sweat before the mile hike was over (it was uphill and I was wearing a pack, okay!), I knew this whole mountain adventure was about to kick some serious jota booty.

At the park entrance we were stopped and told there were no more sites available, but that we could wait for one to open up. We waited with another group of gringos who we found went to a university in Viña’s neighboring town, Valparaíso. One campsite opened up, and the four of them generously shared their space for the night. We stood the whole night, as there was nothing to sit on, an unfortunate happenstance which I took to be a cruel trick on the part of the park rangers in order to tire our legs before the hike even began. So, after a weenie roast dinner over the fire we decided to hit the hay. But not before discovering that three guys from our group brought a tent bag that did not in fact contain a tent, simply the rain fly, and we ended up squeezing five guys into our humble 6x6 abode.

We broke it out of camp at 9:30 to begin the hike. The beginning wasn’t terribly exhausting, and we made it to the halfway point—some old mines—in a couple of hours.

But the mountain showed its teeth soon enough, and we were mostly crawling rather than walking the last hour or two over angles of loose rock that one would be crazy to call an established path. We reached the top in less than four hours, but my heartbeat pounding through my eardrums let me know that I wasn’t in the physical shape I once was.

We also saw a bull

The second half of the path: sure footing and safety

When one normally has a good view, it’s usually only when looking in a particular direction. Rarely do we have the chance to be above everything and be able to turn in a complete circle and examine everything below for miles. It was in this collective moment of awe that I noticed a palpable silence come over the group. This was then replaced by a noisy call for some lunch, and we proceeded to throw ourselves over the rocks strewn about the peak and feast.

View of the Andes mountains to the east

View from the top looking down at the town of Olmue

Ecstatic and energetic me

Scaling La Campana back down proved to be harder than climbing it, as every knee in the group was being tested. Since I had a knee that had been held back a few grades, that test was hard. I had a welcome walking stick on the ascent to reduce the stress on my old man joints, but offered it to a fellow gringo who had somehow injured his knee to the point where he could barely bend it. What made the descent even more unbearable was that our crew mainly talked about the different kinds of food we were going to eat when we get home to the states including Buffalo Wild Wings, Chipotle, popcorn, and everyone’s favorite home meal.

All in all, I’m fairly certain my attitude that day spanned the full breadth of possible human emotion and it became much more of an accomplishment than I previously thought it would be. That being said, for how long it took and arduous an ordeal it turned out to be, that long day already feels like it happened months ago. Like most of my dwindling adventures in Chile, the reminders are fading. Some, like pictures, can stay forever, while there are others I hope would fade faster like the seeming inability to move my legs

Atacama Desert and How I Floated Like Jesus

Blasphemy, you say? Most likely.

Last weekend our group headed north to the Atacama desert, both the driest and oldest desert on the planet. The humidity level in Atacama is around 5%, which is a far cry from what we're used to in Minnesota, where humidity rarely drops below 50% in our driest months. The aridity was felt right away because when you breathe it feels like your breathing in sand and the air seems to cut your throat on its way into your lungs, a metaphor that is barely even that, since after just one night some of us were coughing up blood in the morning.

Part of the desert oasis where we stayed, San Pedro

Our second day, after stopping for a break after biking for an hour in the desert, I realized I had never been to a desert before. The wilderness I'm used to includes lively lakes, rivers, and forests, and although the profound silence we felt whenever we stopped for a water break could have been meditative, I found it be practically unnerving.

Later that day we hiked Valle de la Muerte, a huge valley crowded with sharp rocky outcroppings and cliff edges. Hard on the knees, you ask? Yes, ma'am! But I'm still alive, so there's that. We also ran/rolled/fell/floated down the valley's hot sand dunes before catching our ride to the Valle de la Luna to watch the sunset.

Valle de la Muerte

Geysers in the sunrise

The next morning we were up before the sun even had the chance to hit the snooze button a few times, and at 5:30 we were on our way to the geyser field. Nestled between low mountains at over fourteen thousand feet above sea level, these geysers are more impressive for their quantity rather than quality and are more like bubbling rivulets or the occasional boiling water stream shot out of a rock than the Old Faithful we were expecting. What was impressive was the steam emanating form the ground all around us. But it was so cold since we had arrived so early in the morning and were so high in elevation that some (myself included) were getting headaches and other early symptoms of altitude sickness as we ascended. It's probably why Frodo and Sam had such a difficult time getting to the top of Mount Doom.

More geyser action

Our day got warmer when we found some hot springs to soak in. I say found not because it was an accident, but because I have no idea how one can find their way through the desert in a vehicle. Sure the sand and rocks might be packed harder on the main roadway, but there are infinite offshoots and paths leading to different sites. It was a navigational nightmare, and I was glad I could just zone out on the sand and rocks.

Later that day we had the option to go on an additional afternoon excursion, which I almost didn't go on because it had an additional cost and my head was still pounding from the morning sickness (the altitude kind, not the pregnant kind). But I'm glad I was able to throw frugality to the winds. Our smaller afternoon group visited three lakes within the desert. Lakes? In a desert? Exactly what we thought. But they're for real, and salty. Our first stop was this first lake pictured below, with a salt content so high we were easily floating without moving at all, a weird but welcome experience.

Lake #1: floating like Jesus

Next up was this lake that apparently is more like a filled crater, being that its depth reaches 300 feet. What's interesting about this one is that the surrounding landscape is composed of more clay than sand, and the compactness of the clay helps to sieve out a lot of the salt. So while it's not necessarily a fresh water lake and you can still taste the salt, it was still better than a mouthful of ocean water.

Lake #2: Clay crater

The third lake we visited might have been the most interesting. It was easily half a kilometer across, but never more than 6 inches deep. The reason it looks so white is because there was no sand under the water, it was all salt. You could scoop up handfuls of salt in your hand: yum. Or you could simply dip your hand in the saturated water and watch it turn white as the water evaporates in seconds.

Our afternoon crew on ubersalty Lake #3

All in all, a pretty amazing day full of things I had never experienced. The desert was exhausting, and I have no wishes to live near one. But I was glad I visited. Standing in a desert and gaping at the enormity of it as you look around you is something everyone should have to do as it reminds us of how insignificant we are in comparison to the rest of the world. My friend Craig had some incredible photos on his camera. But as his memory card decided to go kaput, I guess a lot of those memories were meant to be just that.

Pololos and Pololas

Yesterday we went to a Chile version of Oktoberfest, which consisted of dozens of beer vendors set up in what appeared to be an abandoned old train station complex. Complete with games, food, and live music, you could buy a beer or two and/or simply enjoy a small sample from every vendor, which is what this guy did. But this post isn't about Valpobier. It's about what I've learned about relationships between Chileans and an assuredly feeble attempt to connect that to my own host family.

Let's start out with the dating practices here in Chile. For the rest of the Spanish-speaking world, the words novio and novia mean boyfriend or girlfriend. But, in Chile, these words imply that you are engaged to be married while the words pololo or polola are used to reference boy or girlfriend status. Now, I don't pretend to be an expert on Chilean dating customs (or our own, for that matter. Just ask Addie) but to the two month trained eye, there seems to be less exclusivity in the average Chilean couple. Or rather, many relationships seem to be more along the fling side of things. To put it yet another way, when my host mom, Sandra, found out I already had a girlfriend, she said something along the lines of, "So? Just because the waiter just brought chocolate cake doesn't mean you can't order one with lime as well."

This shocked me as, at the time, Sandra had barely finished explaining to me that she divorced my host brother's father (thirteen years her senior) the year before because he had left her for the girl he was cheating on her with. This seems to happen far more frequently here in Chile, as the people I've met who are still on their first marriage are few. Granted, I realize I was privileged to be raised in private Catholic schools my whole life where you're probably not going to find as many single parents. But, all religion aside and despite my lack of knowledge or experience on the subject, I can't help but draw a connection between Chilean courting early on, or pololeando, as a precursor to a potentially unhealthy marriage.

Their divorce naturally brought my host brother, Elias, and Sandra much closer. But, I don't get to see a lot of the evidence of the strength of their relationship because at fourteen going on fifteen he's at the height of proving to the world that he's a man, and mere grunts or nods of approval make up the majority of his interactions. I'm sure there's also the fact that without a man in the house, he feels pressured into taking that role earlier than usual, but I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on him or these sorts of issues either.

What did surprise me was that when I got home last night, during the naturally appropriate hours of the morning, I noticed on my way to the bathroom that Elias and Sandra were huddled together in her bed, having fallen asleep to another late night movie. This wouldn't normally be that uncommon except for the aforementioned frequent distantness Elias tends to emit. That, and most of his time in the house is spent playing videogames with his door closed. In the morning, I found out why. Sadly, a fellow student of my host brother killed himself the other day, jumping from the twelfth floor of the apartment he lived in. And while he didn't know this particular student very well, one of Elias' close friends was friends with him, and my host brother is worried about his close friend because he knows he suffers from depression, too. It's not known exactly why the student jumped, but it's speculated that there were problems between the parents like shouting, fighting and other domestic issues.

Divorce was just made legal in 2004 in Chile, previously the only country in the western hemisphere without a legal divorce process. My host mother admits and laments that widespread divorce is hard on the children, as it is anywhere in the world, to be sure. But, after a tragedy like the one involving his classmate, I was struck by the fact that my host brother immediately became concerned for his friend. Not only do I feel it's a testament to how Sandra has raised him in arguably his most formative years, but their constant support for one another in troubling times is something I know I will never forget.

Shall we meet Halfway?

This week will mark the median of my life in Chile. Few things of note have happened since the holidays here besides our pottery attempt last week in Pomaire. Also, the weather is finally nicer here than it is back home. That only took two months. So, I'll need to squeeze this post in before I scoot off to the beach!

As I'm on the downhill in terms of my time here, I thought I'd take a minute to think about all the random things I miss that I can't get here in Chile. Obviously, I miss my family, girlfriend, dog, friends, and Collegeville in general really. But these are things I miss besides the obvious:

Job/income- I'm not dying for forty hours a week here. I just miss working a couple hours a day so that I'm not going into more of a financial hole than I already am. The occasional drink(s) at a bar or the compliance with "hey, let's check out that restaurant!" really add up. That doesn't even include the trips we make and the activities we do. All of my expenses have been absolutely worth it, I just wish there were more pesos making their way into my wallet instead of into others'.

Minnesota Nice- This isn't to say that Chileans are mean. In fact, I have heard of no assaults, gunshots or any violence aside from the occasional drunken disagreement, and you will often see teens giving up their seat on the bus for the elderly, for example. But I'm from an area where you smile, nod or greet someone (or some combination of the three) when you pass them on the street, whether you know them or not. Instead of these, you get averted glances, women tightening their grip on their purses, and parents toting their children closer. I thought I was just an innocent gringo, I didn't know I gave off the "I'm going to rob you or worse" vibe.

Milk- It's very different here. Apparently, because many might not have a refrigerator, the milk here is pasteurized at much higher temperatures than in the US and, without needing to be refrigerated, has a strangely long shelf life inside an insulated box. The extreme pasteurization makes most kinds thinner and gives them an almost condensed-milk taste that they cover with flavoring like strawberry, banana, and vanilla.

Free public bathrooms- Not that they break the bank or anything. But ranging from anywhere between 200-500 pesos (so .40-$1) means you have a lot of guys that simply drop trou and find a bush or, more commonly, a wall. All aesthetics aside, what this does is just make it really inconvenient for women, as the wait in their lines can easily exceed half an hour on busy days at the beach or at gas stations in traffic on the highway.

Green- my favorite color, and there's not nearly enough of it here. Sometimes, one just needs to take a nap in a meadow or go for a walk in the woods. And while this might have been possible two weeks ago in Chiloé, the only green areas in Viña are either private or covered in dog crap, but usually both.

Gary's Pizza. Enough said.