V is for Vendimia

While living in Chile I became great friends with twin brothers, Esteban and Luis. We have kept in close touch since I left over 10 years ago now.  I visited Esteban in Canada when he went there to study, returned once to Chile and traveled around with him a bit and showed Luis around when he trained around the United States and spent a week in Colorado with me.

The brothers and their family have a farm in Cauquenes, Chile. In the ten years I have know them, I have listened in awe to the stories they tell of Vendimia.  On their farm, they grow grapes. Once a year, around this time, family and friends from all over, meet on the farm and harvest the grapes. 

During the days, they hoist baskets up and down the rows of grapes collecting the delicate fruit from the vines.  In the afternoon, they put the grapes in giant barrels and stomp them. Just like in I Love Lucy. Really! In the evenings, they have huge asados with all the Chilean foods I miss. And at night, they sit around a huge campfire drinking wine and pisco enjoying the company of each other. When it is time to go to bed, everyone retires to the various tents set up around the farm.

The boys invite me every year, and it has been a dream of mine since I first heard about it, to go. I really cannot imagine anything more amazing than being back in Chile with my old friends and their family, picking grapes and stomping them, sleeping under the southern sky, soaking it all in.

The way my terms work at my teaching job, and in order to keep my health insurance, I’ve never really been able to go when it takes place.  But we are soon moving to semesters which may allow me to take a semester off while teaching shorter four week terms upon my return. Thus making it very possible.

I have set a time limit for this one contingent upon the length of my visa for Chile which expires in 2018. I will take a term off. I will return to Chile, the only country I will allow myself to return to. I will spend a couple of weeks there, one on the farm fulfilling a dream, the other around Chile visiting old friends. I will then visit Paraguay and Bolivia for two weeks or so and finally see all of southern South America.

My eyes tear up as I write this, thinking of how long I have been dreaming of doing this, returning to Chile, seeing my friends, doing something I’ve only ever seen in pictures.  So Esteban and Luis, watch out. I’m heading your way. 

H is for Honduras

The problem with the first place you ever live abroad is the fact that you will forever be comparing everywhere else to it. Now, if your experience wasn’t particularly satisfying, this is not a problem. It’s easy to surpass unsatisfying. But if it happens to be the type of place that you fall madly in love with and which keeps getting bigger and better and more magical in your head as your time away from it grows longer, this is a problem.

That’s what happened to me in Honduras, and I will never know if things had been different if it might have been my Chile. But it was not, it was my second foreign country to live in after Chile. After Chile, enough said, I feel like.

I moved to Comayagua, Hondurasone year after I had moved back to the states from Chile. It was a year of confusion and longing and wondering and I was determined to be abroad again as soon as possible.  I just had to get this pesky master’s degree out of the way. 

The day I was meant to sign my contract renewal at the alternative school I had just completed my first year of teaching at, I received notice that a school in Hondo had invited me to come teach with them.  My decision was hasty, but easy to make.  I wanted back out. I left two months later.

This was not my first rodeo, and I am sure I let all the other teachers for whom it was their first rodeo, know this.  There was simply no way I couldn’t acknowledge their naiveté, or innocence.  One girl, from Canada, had never left her country before. Seriously?

And yet, I think, a bit of the reason I called out their inexperience was because I envied it.  I envied that ability not to compare, the ability to see everything as new and fresh. I would never have that again. And I dearly missed it.

So instead, Honduraslived in constant comparison to Chileand always, always paled in it. The food wasn’t as good, the city was dirtier, my friendships in Chilewere closer.  My time in Hondurasleft me leery of ever living abroad again. Would I ever experience something new without comparing it now to two different experiences? Would any other place I might move live up to the expectations that have been building and building in my head? Could any place ever be better than the ChileI created in my mind?

The truth is, I don’t even think Chilecould live up to the Chilein my head. You can’t go home again, they say. You can simply return and hope that a little bit of what you remember remains, and a lot is even better than you dreamed.

H is for Honduras

The problem with the first place you ever live abroad is the fact that you will forever be comparing everywhere else to it. Now, if your experience wasn’t particularly satisfying, this is not a problem. It’s easy to surpass unsatisfying. But if it happens to be the type of place that you fall madly in love with and which keeps getting bigger and better and more magical in your head as your time away from it grows longer, this is a problem.

That’s what happened to me in Honduras, and I will never know if things had been different if it might have been my Chile. But it was not, it was my second foreign country to live in after Chile. After Chile, enough said, I feel like.

I moved to Comayagua, Honduras one year after I had moved back to the states from Chile. It was a year of confusion and longing and wondering and I was determined to be abroad again as soon as possible.  I just had to get this pesky master’s degree out of the way. 

The day I was meant to sign my contract renewal at the alternative school I had just completed my first year of teaching at, I received notice that a school in Hondo had invited me to come teach with them.  My decision was hasty, but easy to make.  I wanted back out. I left two months later.

This was not my first rodeo, and I am sure I let all the other teachers for whom it was their first rodeo, know this.  There was simply no way I couldn’t acknowledge their naiveté, or innocence.  One girl, from Canada, had never left her country before. Seriously?

And yet, I think, a bit of the reason I called out their inexperience was because I envied it.  I envied that ability not to compare, the ability to see everything as new and fresh. I would never have that again. And I dearly missed it.

So instead, Honduras lived in constant comparison to Chile and always, always paled in it. The food wasn’t as good, the city was dirtier, my friendships in Chile were closer.  My time in Honduras left me leery of ever living abroad again. Would I ever experience something new without comparing it now to two different experiences? Would any other place I might move live up to the expectations that have been building and building in my head? Could any place ever be better than the Chile I created in my mind?

The truth is, I don’t even think Chile could live up to the Chile in my head. You can’t go home again, they say. You can simply return and hope that a little bit of what you remember remains, and a lot is even better than you dreamed.

Chile

This month I am participation in a blog challenge. I will write 26 blogs. Each title will begin with each of the 26 letters of the alphabet. My idea is to write about different countries and cities I’ve visited and share a specific memory experienced there. Hope you enjoy!

 Chile

 Santiago de Chile was the first place I had lived abroad. I believe this was the reason friends and family did not truly grasp the fact that I was living abroad rather than simply traveling about.  I would get several questions about when I would be returning and what sites I had seen.  It didn’t seem to matter that I was receiving mail at an address or paying rent and bills. It was significant that I was working and cashing a pay check every month, friends and family still thought I was basically on vacation.

Because of their doubts I began to have them too. I wondered how long it would take me to truly feel like I was living in Chileand not just visiting for a very long time. I became obsessed with the ex-pat live and desired to be a part of it, yet I felt like a fraud.  How long does one have to live away from their country to be considered an ex- pat I asked myself?  Were there blogs back then I would have searched them tirelessly looking for an answer.

Months went by like this; me, wondering what it would take to feel like I was actually living in Chileand not simply being a tourist. I had a favorite bar where a fair share of the patrons knew my name. I rode the metro everywhere.  I passed people I knew on the street.  The same stray dog followed me home each evening from my metro stop.  I made friends with the man washing cars on the corner I walked by each day on the way to work.  My neighbor asked to borrow sugar.  I watched his cat when he left for a long weekend.  And still, I didn’t feel right saying I was living in Chile. I still felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t until one day, perhaps six or seven months into my time in Santiago, that I finally knew I was truly and surely living there.  Walking to one class or another, hands in my pockets, I was stopped by an older women. In Spanish, she asked me how to get to such and such street. I gave her directions, she thanked me, and I went on my way. It was moments later when I realized what had just happened. 

At the time, I was just learning Spanish, yet I understood and answered her question flawlessly and without hesitation.  I do not exactly blend well into Chile. There is no mistaking my 5’7 frame, and while usually tan, my brown instead of black hair did nothing to lead people to think I might be a local.  Yet this woman asked me for directions. Directions!  Tourists don’t know directions, they ask for directions.  I knew exactly where she was talking about and how to get there from where we were. Now, if you know me, this is even more shocking as I am horrible with directions in the states or abroad. 

A smile crept onto my face that lasted the entire day and into the next.  I never doubted whether I lived in or was simply visiting Chilefrom that point on. A Chilean had asked me for directions and I was able to give them to her.   There are moments in your life, giant significant moments, where something happens and you forever mark time as starting before or after that event. After that moment on the street, my life as an ex- pat began.

Chile

This month I am participation in a blog challenge. I will write 26 blogs. Each title will begin with each of the 26 letters of the alphabet. My idea is to write about different countries and cities I’ve visited and share a specific memory experienced there. Hope you enjoy!

 Chile

 Santiago de Chile was the first place I had lived abroad. I believe this was the reason friends and family did not truly grasp the fact that I was living abroad rather than simply traveling about.  I would get several questions about when I would be returning and what sites I had seen.  It didn’t seem to matter that I was receiving mail at an address or paying rent and bills. It was significant that I was working and cashing a pay check every month, friends and family still thought I was basically on vacation.

Because of their doubts I began to have them too. I wondered how long it would take me to truly feel like I was living in Chile and not just visiting for a very long time. I became obsessed with the ex-pat live and desired to be a part of it, yet I felt like a fraud.  How long does one have to live away from their country to be considered an ex- pat I asked myself?  Were there blogs back then I would have searched them tirelessly looking for an answer.

Months went by like this; me, wondering what it would take to feel like I was actually living in Chile and not simply being a tourist. I had a favorite bar where a fair share of the patrons knew my name. I rode the metro everywhere.  I passed people I knew on the street.  The same stray dog followed me home each evening from my metro stop.  I made friends with the man washing cars on the corner I walked by each day on the way to work.  My neighbor asked to borrow sugar.  I watched his cat when he left for a long weekend.  And still, I didn’t feel right saying I was living in Chile. I still felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t until one day, perhaps six or seven months into my time in Santiago, that I finally knew I was truly and surely living there.  Walking to one class or another, hands in my pockets, I was stopped by an older women. In Spanish, she asked me how to get to such and such street. I gave her directions, she thanked me, and I went on my way. It was moments later when I realized what had just happened. 

At the time, I was just learning Spanish, yet I understood and answered her question flawlessly and without hesitation.  I do not exactly blend well into Chile. There is no mistaking my 5’7 frame, and while usually tan, my brown instead of black hair did nothing to lead people to think I might be a local.  Yet this woman asked me for directions. Directions!  Tourists don’t know directions, they ask for directions.  I knew exactly where she was talking about and how to get there from where we were. Now, if you know me, this is even more shocking as I am horrible with directions in the states or abroad. 

A smile crept onto my face that lasted the entire day and into the next.  I never doubted whether I lived in or was simply visiting Chile from that point on. A Chilean had asked me for directions and I was able to give them to her.   There are moments in your life, giant significant moments, where something happens and you forever mark time as starting before or after that event. After that moment on the street, my life as an ex- pat began.