En serio, po?

Mushroom omelet? So good!

I realize that in the past few weeks, I've found myself in downtown Santiago being accidentally tear gassed in a protest, on a floating island in Lake Titicaca, and at the top of Machu Picchu, and haven't taken the time to write about any of that, but man, that mushroom omelet. So good. It had to be recorded.

Carmen Sandiego was not this cheesy

The bus is taking us to Peru tomorrow,
Peru tomorrow,
Peru tomorrow,
Actually we're going to Bolivia first but that doesn't rhyme tomorrow,
And we're gonna stay for 10 days.

We're going to Peru, ru, ru
How about you, you, you?
You can come too, too, too,
We're going to Peru, ru, ru!

Eye of the beholder

It's a strange source of comfort in my life that even at my sleepiest, ugliest, city-life-sure-has-taken-its-toll-iest, just-ate-a-family-lunch- of-potato-soup-with-a-side-of-mashed-potatoes-iest, there are still creepy old men who sit down next to me on the bus and tell me I have the cara de un ángel and ask me why I've never been in un concurso de belleza.

Also, I am currently embracing my heritage this afternoon by studying for my upcoming theology test and writing a poorly-researched Chilean politics paper (as well as a poorly-thought-out blog entry) in a local Starbucks. There are these two American girls at the corner table talking in obscenely loud English about last night's alcohol-induced exploits. Instead of allowing them to make me embarrassed about being from the United States (which will probably happen in at least a half-dozen other ways before the day ends anyway), I'm instead looking up from my books once every ten minutes or so to shoot them a subtle, mildly-appalled glance and looking around at my fellow Chileans with an "am I right?" look on my face, and they nod in concealed-laugh agreement, and I smile a little bit, because until I open my mouth, which I haven't, or until they look over at the English I'm currently typing in, I'm as good as latina. And if all it takes to qualify as Chilean is humiliation at the behavior of dizty American exchange students, then I mind's well apply for a change of citizenship. Or dual, at least. Maybe it was the potato-on-potato lunch.

My blog has freckles now. The old one suddenly seemed a little surgical.

Escándalo

You know that famous photograph of Marilyn Monroe from "The Seven Year Itch"? She accidentally steps onto a subway vent just as the train passes underground, and her white crepe dress goes soaring. She giggles, probably, gasps, bends to cover just enough of what needs covering, and then stands there for entirely too long.

In a nation that raises its collective eyebrows at women in shorts, on whose every lamppost and public bulletin board hang public service posters that read "MACHISMO MATA," on a crowded street during rush hour, I committed the number one error of city skirt-wearing.

And for the record, it's not sexy in real life.


Maybe if it had been a white crepe haltar dress and not a green Target skirt with pockets.