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This is Maria Jose, better known as Miss Cote at St. Margaret's. Getting to know her in my first few weeks was a true blessing, as on our drives to school she clued me in to things like how to get photocopies done, shared her stories about getting lost in the giant school (more than once when I've gone up one too many set of stairs and found myself in the "out of bounds" area, I've thanked her in my mind for her story of doing the same thing), spoke of her own feelings of being overwhelmed with so many new faces and names. She also drove Bill and I around so that we found our first place here in Concon. I appreciate Cote's devotion to recycling, her cheerfulness, her love of teaching English, and envy her ability with languages (she speaks French, as well as English and Spanish).



When we moved to the place Cote helped us find, I thought I was in paradise for the first six weeks. The weather was still warm, and though we were in one room, we felt it was grand because the Pacific was just outside our window. We had a bed, dining table, and small kitchen, though I hesitate to use that word for it. We've discovered that a tiny stove, refrigerator and sink is called an American Kitchen, for some reason. The sink was so low, Bill had to do dishes on his knees. He's 5'8" and says that there are times in Chile he feels tall. The bathroom technically counted for a second room, I guess, though it was matchbox size. I loved writing looking out at the waves and watching the surfers at the beach. We'd sit on the roof and drink piscolas, made from pisco,a type of brandy made from grapes and cola,on Friday afternoons. Sunsets were . . . hmm . . . sitting here trying not to think of a cliche to describe them . . . so I won't. I'll just show a picture:



I'm grateful for having lived there because teaching in a new place, being the only non-Spanish speaking person on campus, wanting to prove I was worth the risk the school took hiring me . . . what can I say? It was stressful. I'd open our gate, walk down the steps and around the corner of our dueno's vacation house, step onto their patio which led to our place, and the sea would be there. The sound of the waves and the expanse of water was just what I needed to keep myself together.

Then winter came. The roof leaked. We'd have periodic floods underneath the door, the toilet started acting up. We'd often get rained on when we were using it, too. We were buffeted by wind and it got cold, despite the propane heater we bought. We kept the shades down because it kept the place warmer, so there wasn't much light.

Thanks to Rosemary, one of the inspectors at the school (an inspector is the assistant to the head teacher and someone who acts like a vice principal and takes care of a lot of the discipline issues), we found our new casita.



We were tempted to move to Valparaiso. We found a cool tri-level condo we almost took. The trip to work for me would be long, an hour on the bus each way during rush hour, but we thought having the chance to live surrounded by great atmosphere, living in a real city for the first time ever, might be worth it. Rosemary was dead set against it and started an Internet search for houses for rent. Valpo has a reputation of being un poco peligroso. The cerro that the condo was on could be viewed two ways: seedy or having a whole lot of character.

We were told by neighbors things would be fine as long as we weren't out late at night, but while we were walking around before the real estate lady came to let us view the place, a man spotted us from a hundred feet away; he could see we were norteamericanos from that distance. He was un poco boracho and started talking to us in English. "My f . . . name is Nixon Jimmy, and if you don't f. . . believe it, here's my identity card. My mother named me after your f . . . presidents because she wanted me to be strong. I used to live in f . . . New Jersey. Welcome to f . . . Chile." We told the lady we'd take the apartment, but the bus ride back to Concon seemed even longer and we both woke up the next morning with some anxiety.

We got up early, walked here (to Calle Magdelena Paz . . . I love the name of my street), saw it, fell in love, and called Rosemary to thank her. Had it not been for the bus ride and my having to come home latish on some nights from work, we still may have taken the apartment. New Canadian friends, Norm and Charlene, have found an apartment in Valpo in an area which they describe as "interesting;" a part of me still wanted to do the more Bohemian thing when I read their email last night.

Norm, Bill, me and Charlene


But, here I'm close to work, we still have a view of the sea, a beautiful garden area, nice neighbors. The main drawback is the cacophony of dogs that bark for hours from across the little canyon below us, but I think in time it'll just be background noise as I get used to it. Here's the garden:



Getting back to St. Margarets, it also took me some time to learn the British system, mixed with the requirements of the Chilean Department of Education. Grades are called "notes," they fall from 1 through 7, 7 being the highest grade, except no one is ever given a 1. The Infant School has playgroups for three-year olds, pre-kinder and kindergarten classes. Today the kindergarten girls did a tribute to Hollywood for an assembly for Teachers' Day. Six or seven of them were dressed as Charlie Chaplin, complete with canes and mustaches. They handed out caramel corn to the teachers before they did their dance. Some of the other girls did dances to Pretty Woman (which I thought was an interesting choice), Flashdance, and Footloose. The junior school is made up of grades 1-4, the middle school grades 5-8, and the senior school contains grades 9-12. Seniors are all the girls in senior school. First senior is equivalent to ninth grade, second senior is tenth, etc. Grades 1-8 are also called basicos, and the senior grades are also called medeos. The girls have 15 subjects with music, p.e., and religion teachers. Every day the schedule is different. I had to look at my time table (which is what they call the "schedule") every day for two months to figure out where I was going. There are playing fields for hockey below the school. Other British schools have their playing fields about ten miles north of Concon. And there are houses the students and teachers belong to, just like in Harry Potter. Ours are York, Lancaster, Stuart and Windsor. I haven't been officially told what house I'm in yet. During school week when there were competitions, I hung out with the Windsors.

Our hockey fields looking out to the ocean:

Okay, it's been months since I last blogged. In that time, I've worked at St. Margaret's, written the second half of STARVED, HUNGRY's sequel, found out that Hungry won't be reprinted as I was finishing it, made good friends, gone through various stages of culture shock, moved three times . . . excuses, excuses. It does feel good to be back here! I have two months left of school, then summer vacation comes.

The picture above was taken by my husband at the Mercado Central in Valparaiso, a large city about ten miles south of here. I haven't begun to think metric, I'm afraid. Valpo has a bit of an edge, is famous for the theft of purses and cameras, but it's a city Americans and Europeans love for its windy cobblestone streets, vistas of the sea, and architecture from the 18th century, the era when many British(and Germans) lived there. I know many of their descendents, including women in their 70s andd 80s who speak the Queen's English. They built the first acensors, elevators/trollies that carry people up the steep hillsides. There are also the Scottish Steps, named for the Scots who didn't want to spend their pesos for a ride.

We were in Valpo a few weeks ago, walking to a flea market. A crowd of people were walking across the street a block or so ahead of us. We heard a woman scream and then disappear. When we got to where she was, we saw that there was a huge hole in which her toddler had fallen in down to the sewer. She had jumped in after him. Baby had been pulled out and looked okay. People were getting a ladder to the woman. Times like this we realize that we are in a different world. I walk home from St. Margaret's. The first street I take is full of houses that would make the most upper middle class neighborhood proud in the United States, but on occasion, there will be horses grazing.

We find almost everyone wonderful and kind, although we're warned quite a bit that crime is on the rise here. We've never been in a place where we haven't felt safe, however. Public transportation is great. We find we can live easily (most days) without needing a car. The only days when it hasn't been easy has been when there have been big rains. The rain here is phenomenal when it comes. Not much drainage, so the streets fill up fast. The metro in Santiago, sardine-like during rush hour, is still a showcase. Very clean, nice art in some of the stations, and on time!

We have a bigger social life than we've ever had. We lived in the country, in a rural county where the sidewalks roll up by six or seven o'clock in the evening. One thing that we love because it's so different is that dinner parties don't start until 9:00 or 9:30 at night. We've been out until three or four in the morning. I'm a night owl when I don't have to work, so I really enjoy it. I have to admit, we often try to rest before hand (and we eat a little extra because we're still used to having dinner at 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening).

We love hearing about the customs here. Three weeks ago, there was the national holidays for the 18th of September. Barbecues were everywhere, little girls in floral dresses danced with boys in bolero outfits. There's a richness I don't sense back home. We had one of the music teachers from St. Margaret over yesterday for lunch, along with her daughter. She told us about songs from the south of Chile, sang a song that has haunted me since I heard it on our first visit here, a lullaby, as it turns out, called "Mira, Ninita," or "Look, Little Girl." With fear and trembling, I'll translate:

"Look, little girl, I'm going to take you
to see the brilliant moon on the sea,
Look toward the sky and
and forget this languid fear,
that is your permanent emotion.

Ay . . .this permantent emotion
for the daughter of a man
with crystal eyes
and stolen paper of the skin."