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To those of you who check this daily wondering, "hey man, what the heck is up, why doesn't Kelly ever tell us what she's doing in Chile?" (I know you exist), try going here:

http://chillinginchile.tumblr.com/

I update it more often with fun stories, pictures and facts about my trip! Yay! Enjoy!

English as a Foreign Language

I was leaving the Metro when I heard it. There was a group of three friends in front of me who were going opposite directions to their houses. One started to go right, and said to the others "I'm going this way." This caught my attention, but at first I couldn't figure out why. All I knew was that it was out of place. It wasn't until the others responded "Okay, we'll see you tomorrow," that it hit me. They were speaking English. Not the broken English that the vendors on the street spoke in, trying to get you to buy their things. Not the accented English you heard businessmen speaking, trying to communicate with their international business partners. This was English that I would have heard in the Metro at home, on campus, or from my friends. This was my English.

Of course, my friends and I spoke English between ourselves while we were here. It was just easier and more natural. It wasn't like I hadn't heard the language since I left the US. Yet here, coming from strangers, in the middle of the Francisco Bilbao metro station, in la Región Metropolitana de Chile, it sounded all wrong.

It's a strange feelings to have something so familiar feel so foreign. It's like something you have known forever, something that has always been a part of your life without consciously knowing it, has been tweaked. Not changed on a massive scale, just...set one millimeter off. It's a similar feeling to coming home for the first time your freshman year of college, and realizing that it's not the home you have known for the past 18 years; because your friends aren't there, or your room has been cleaned, or worse-- converted into a guest room. It's the feeling of putting on your favorite sweater, and although it still fits for the most part, the left sleeve is now just slightly too short. It's not that big of a deal, because you know that after a few wears and a little stretching, it'll be back to normal, but in that moment, it's not the same as you remembered.

I associate inanimate objects in my mind,--with colors, feelings-- it's how I think. For example, 4 is a green number. 5 is red, as is 2, while 6 screams purple. Volkswagon Beetles exude excitement, while Passats are a smoother, more tranquil feel. In this way, I imagine Spanish as water flowing over pebbles, in a stream, or at the bottom of a waterfall. It flows, it gurgles, it is peaceful. I never really thought about English in this way, until I had something against which to juxtapose it. Now, English is the sound of two rocks being rubbed together. It's loud, it's rough, it has no rhythm. It often gets stuck on harsh sounds and jagged word endings.

In the United States, English is seen as the norm. While many people speak other languages as well, it is assumed that citizens and residents of the US speak at least some English. When I speak English here, I see myself through the eyes of the Chileans. I see myself as a foreigner, an extranjera, and it's not just the reactions of Chileans when they hear English-- seriously, some of these people could get whiplash with how quick they are to turn and see where the English is coming from. It's the environment, the ambiance, the way of life here, that just makes it more natural to speak Spanish. And often, our conversations are more bilingual than monolingual, as it's so easy to slip into Spanish sin darse cuenta, y cuando terminas el idea, o cuando no tienes nada más de decir, you switch back into English. It's that easy.

Es tan fácil.

Let's be real...

In our Orientational Spanish class-- the same one that has been teaching 15 students who have studied Spanish for at least 4 years how to use the present tense-- we received a booklet. It is called "Dificultades del español para hablantes de inglés."

Translation: Shit white people don't get.

Estas son unas de mis cosas favoritas

The best parts about today:

1. I slept for 13 hours. 'Nuff said.

2. In the afternoon, I set out to meet up with some people in my program to sight see and such. My host mother accompanied me to the spot in which we had decided to meet, so that she could show me around the Metro. We got there about 10 minutes early, and realizing we hadn't decided on an exact spot to meet, waited near the exit. Not knowing that I knew the people we were looking for, she proceeded to point out each person who she identified as a non-Chilean and ask if that was one of my classmates. "I have an eye for picking out gringos," she said. "I can just tell." She pointed to one guy, around my age, and simply made a face. I thought she meant that that could be one of them, so I shook my head. "No," she said. "I know he is not a gringo, but maybe you want to join up with him anyway?" Wink wink. Looks like Cecilia has still got it.

3. After finally finding those I was looking for, we went to el Parque Metropolitano de Santiago -- yes, it's initials are PMS. And yes, it says that one the uniforms there. After taking a ride on the funicular, the lovechild of a ski lift and a trolley, we checked out the breathtaking views of the city (no really, you didn't want to breathe because the layer of smog over the city gave you cancer just looking at it). It was also there that I tried mote con huesillo for the first time; a sweet tea-like drink, with dried peaches (whole) and some kind of oat at the bottom--think bubble tea. Absolutely delicious

4. I saw a local wearing a Red Sox shirt! Granted, Renteria hasn't been on the team in years, but it's the thought that counts! I might have stared at it excitedly just a liiitle too long, which led to...

5. "Aca! aca!" the wearer yelled. "here, here!" Think of it as... a polite cat call. This triggered something in on of the guys I was with, and about 5 minutes later, he said to another girl and I, "You know, I didn't notice it until that guy said something, and now that I'm looking for it, so many people are checking you out." Life is rough as a gringa ;)

6. I HEARD DANZA KUDURO PLAYING IN A STAND AS I WALKED BY. The happiness with which this filled me is inconceivable. Honduras por vida <3

7. This probably isn't one of the best things, it was just bizarre...

8. And of course, knowing that perhaps I am not so far from home, because wherever Hogwarts is, is home.

Santiago: Día Uno.

Day 1 in Santiago: Peculiarities and notable moments.

1. My first flight was from New York to Lima, Peru. We left around midnight and were scheduled to get in around 6 am. Now I'm all for airline hospitality, but dinner at 2 am seems a little unnecessary. At breakfast at 5 am? I'll take a rain check. However, the worst part was not that the attendants insisted on waking me up each time to ask if I wanted anything (no, I am SLEEPING!), but they then expected me to speak Spanish! Excuse me. It is 2 in the morning, you have just woken me up, and you expect me to be coherent enough to whip out even a simple "no, nada para mí, gracias"? rude.

2. After I mumbled some jibberish in no language known to man in response to what I wanted for breakfast (see above scenario), the flight attendant asked me (in Spanish), "what language do you speak, Portuguese?"

1. If I did, would I understand you?

2. NO YOU HAVE JUST WOKEN ME UP. i can't even speak english right now! rude.

However, going through customs (now alive and awake for a good two hours), the man asked where I was coming from. New York, I told him. "Ahh, New Jork," he said. He then told me I spoke beautiful Spanish. Take that, flight attendant lady. Portuguese my ass.

3. On the way home, my host mother told me about her dog, Lupe, and how she is a mix of a few breeds. Upon further examination of said canine, I have determined her race. She is a perfect mix of a chihuahua and Dobby.

4. Why did my computer just change the website into Spanish?! How does it knoooowwwww??

5. The whole purpose of a homestay is to immerse the students in the language, and we are advised to speak Spanish amongst each other as well, to practice, as so as to not attract attention as tourists. So, why is it, that when I was Facebook chatting a friend this morning, did I feel like I was cheating by speaking--no not even speaking, TYPING-- in English? Whenever I talk to the dog, since I have yet to master dog commands in Spanish, I whisper so that no one can hear me speak in English. Overall an odd sentiment.

Little Monsters, senza Lady Gaga

In a small area of northern Honduras aptly named Villa Soleada, Sunny Village, in house #34, there lives a little boy. Hundreds of volunteers had come before me, and hundreds had come after me. But out of all of those people, all the shoveling and cementing and brick-laying and baleada-making, he remembered the Monster.

I first visited Honduras over Winter Break of my freshman year. I remember wandering around my house looking for things I had forgotten to pack, feeling the tears well up in my eyes as I tried to prepare myself for a trip to a foreign country, alone, that would ultimately end in my having to return to school, which I dreaded more than the trip itself. However, I should have known I had nothing to worry about. The minute I arrived at Hotel La Cascada, I was greeted by my cabin mate, who took me to meet the other volunteers I would be working with.

Our first day at the school in El Progreso, we were told to pair up with a student, and do an activity that involved drawing our homes and families in an attempt to get to know each other better. I knew the choice of student I made would be a critical one. I tend to get along better with little boys than girls (not weird, I swear), so I chose the one right in front of me, dressed in an oversized red Hawaiian print shirt. He was very quiet, and I had no idea what his name was until he wrote it on our sheet. David.

While the other groups worked on drawing their siblings, their pets and other momentos from home, David and I worked on Bovi. Bovi was a monster with three eyes, five legs and green skin. And, most unfortunately, he was in the process of consuming his mother (I can only wonder the argument that must have gone down in the Cruz household before school that day to lead to such a projection).

Throughout the entire week, David and I were inseparable. When we picked up the kids from the village to take them to school every day, he would walk down the aisles, passing by everyone until he found my seat, and would make himself comfortable by my side. When he got cold, he had no problem demanding my sweatshirt. During the work day, I often found myself being shown up by a skinny little 8-year old as David would pick up a pala and start shoveling next to me. The travel bear my cousin had sent with me set up camp in David's arms for the week, and he would proudly show it off as he sat upon my shoulders. My heart would melt every time he looked up at me and blinked those amazingly long pestañas at me. He taught me the word hormiga, and laughed when they bit me and not him.

At the end of the week, I dreaded having to say goodbye. On our last day, as the bus was getting ready to leave, I searched all around the homes trying to find my little friend. Mi hermanito. I found him hiding under the eves of one of the houses, and knelt down to be on his level. David, I told him, I have something for you. He put out his hand, and I opened mine. It was empty. He looked at me confused. Es una pieza de mi corazón, I told him. It's a piece of my heart. And I want you to keep it until I return. He looked at me, smiled, and nodded. I gave him one last hug, told him te quiero y te extrañaré; I love you and I'll miss you. I walked away, with tears in my eyes.

When I got home, I knew I had to return to Honduras. Not only because the trip had been life-changing, or because I had met such amazing people, or because I felt like I had been a part of something that was actually doing something to make the world a better place, but because I had made a promise to a little boy. And whether or not he remembered it, I would not let him down.

15 months later, I prepared myself for my second trip. For months, I had been telling my friends of my excitement to return, and to see David again. As the departure date grew nearer, I started getting very anxious that David would not remember me. I didn't know what I would do if he didn't, but I knew it would be devastating. I tried rationalizing it in my mind, that so many people had come after me and if I had been that child, I probably wouldn't remember just another volunteer either. All of these thoughts were going through my mind when I saw him for the first time, biking across the soccer field. I took a deep breath and started towards him.

I felt a little ridiculous, like I was going to confront an ex. I had imagined this moment for so long, a heartfelt reunion between two friends. Or my heart dropping if he looked at me with a blank stare, clearly having forgotten the week we had spent together over a year ago. It was now or never. David! I yelled. Me recuerdas? Do you remember me? He stopped his bike, and asif he had known this moment was coming, yelled "El Monstruo!" The monster! He remembered. I dropped to my knees and scooped him into my arm. This was the moment I had been waiting for for so long, and I could not have imagined it proceeding any more perfectly. He came over to sit with the group of us, and everything he did, he told me to watch. He slipped his hand in mine wherever we went, just as if it had never left.

Like the year before, the week went by too fast. On the night of our final goodbye, I am sitting on the bus, waiting for everyone to finishing bidding adieu, when I hear my name being called. I look around, but see nothing. I go to the other side of the bus and look out, and there is David, running up and down the side of the bus, looking for me. I get his attention and his face lights up. "Kelly!" he cries. "Te extraño mucho!" I miss you so much! "Te extraño también, hermanito! Te quiero!"

Once again, I was left with tears in my eyes as the bus pulled away, but one thing was different. This time I didn't worry that I would be the only one to remember my week in paradise. I knew I had mi hermanito for life.

David and Bovi, December 2009

A happy reunion, March 2011

http://www.studentshelpinghonduras.org/

Club MENtality

Things Flo Rida and I have in common: ...well not much, except for the club's inability to handle us. Tonight, this was proved to me. The decision to go out (instead of watching shutter island, which I'd been looking forward to for weeks... not that i'm bitter) was made around 9, so we rounded up the troops, "snookitized" ourselves, put our glad rags on and got ready to have some fun when the clock strikes one. (But really. 12:00 arrival time + 10 minute bathroom trip + 20 minute position establishment + 30 minute warm up/find rhythm time = 1:00 party time. its elementary.)

When we walked in, gone were the familiar faces of our classmates that we had seen there only two nights before. Gone were the 19-22 year olds looking for a good time on a Tuesday. Gone was the middle-aged man in the yellow shirt disco-dancing all night... okay to that one, I say good riddance. In their places were business men, entrepreneurs, and recent college graduates. In their place was the entire population of Southeast Asia and the Middle East combined. Obviously, we were in for a treat.

Having just previously completed a sociology project, my mind must have been in the analyzing mood, because I couldn't help but categorize every type of person I saw. And I find that in clubs in any areas, these characters will arise.

1. The Target: the man you spot when you get into the club and zone in on. Usually, he just ends up being an object of dance move inspiration and you move on to find other partners, but no matter when you see him throughout the night, those hips start to tell the truth a liiittle bit more.

2. The Magnet: You know how if you hold a magnet above iron pieces and you move the magnet, the iron goes wherever the magnet goes? Yeah. This applies to two types of men; he, who for some unfortunate reason, has chosen you as a target (see number 1), or the one who you're dancing with and his head goes wherever yours goes. You turn to the left to avoid his awkward gaze, he juts his head to the left thinking you're playing hard to get with your lips and this is a test for how far he will go to find your love. HINT: it's not. i just don't want to kiss you.

3: The Dead Fish: There's a version of this for every potentially awkward social situation. The limp handshake, the bad kisser, the ...you know. In the dance club, the Dead Fish is your dance partner who no matter how much you shake it like a Polaroid picture, he doesn't move. He just stands there, maybe bouncing a little bit or doing some other pre-teen dance move. Now, I know I'm a bangin' dancer, so if I'm getting no response, I'ma pull a Jay-Z and move on to the next one.

4. The Wallflower: You know those cool wall decorations that every club seems to have that look like dudes just standing there? Let me let you in on a secret-- you're not gonna find that wall paper at Sherwin-Williams. That's what they are. And somehow, despite their lack of social prowess, these guys seem to get girls to dance with them. But they don't move from the wall. They just stand there being grinded on, admiring the view from the back.

5. The Conversationalist: I must have missed the memo where a club with 80 decibel music was the perfect place to ask someone how their day has been. Oh wait. It's not. So shut up and dance. Okay, you ask me my name. Fair enough. Where I go to school? I'll give it to you. But then once you find out I'm studying Spanish and proceed to have the same conversation we just had in Spanish, that's where I draw the line.

6. The Cinematographer: Son, put yo' camera phone away. I'm just trying to dance up here on the stage (hypothetically, mom), so leave me the duck alone. Please.