...such a dreamer, but i'm not the only one.

Top 3 Cuckolds of Cinema

2010-04-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

Since jamming to Courtney Love a couple of weeks ago at SXSW, I've been on a 90s binge. The moshing and crowd-surfing I witnessed that night have pushed me to nostalgia's edge. Now, as I watch Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo and Juliet" I feel that this film, along with my impending birthday out of my 20s, will surely connive to do me in.

Before that comes to pass, I need to confess that I was over the moon when Paul Rudd appeared on the screen. Not only did I forget that he was in this movie but I forgot about this "Clueless"-era, endearing version of Rudd that completely lacks any irony. Amazing.

Which brings me to the matter at hand. The top three cuckolds of cinema:

3. Colin Firth---Notable because he's actually been a cuckold twice: "The English Patient" and "Shakespeare in Love." It's poignant to think that Mr. Darcy, the man who single-handedly revived "Pride and Prejudice" and whose sex appeal spawned an industry of Prejudice fandom ("Bridget Jones' Diary"; "Lost in Austen", etc.), could ever be a cuckold. But he was. Twice. Which cuckold was the most pathetic? It's a tough call since we're comparing a dramatic film to a comedic one. But since at the heart of cuckoldry is another man, let's compare the competition (who are actually brothers)--Joseph and Ralph Fiennes. Obviously, there's no question. Though Joseph Fiennes has some sort of boy on the subway appeal, Ralph smolders. Even as a Nazi. Even as J.Lo's love interest. There is no diminishing his potency, therefore I grant the cuckold award to Firth in "The English Patient." Sorry it ended so badly for you in the desert.

2. Daniel Day-Lewis---Full disclosure, DDL is my favorite actor. He is a true character chameleon and married to "Abigail Weld" from "Wind," one of my favorite films of all time. And if you can handle it, DDL smolders even more than Ralph Fiennes. That's because DDL smolders even as a cripple.Yet he is on this list. Because even DDL has been cuckolded, as Helena Bonham-Carter's fiance in "A Room with a View." DDL is in this film for maybe 7 minutes, but he's a scene stealer even when we're supposed to be swooning over Julian Sands. What makes his performance more amazing is when you compare it to his work in "The Age of Innocence" released only two years before "ARV." Newland Archer was just the type of man you'd leave Cecil Vyse for. But in the end you're still with DDL.

1. Paul Rudd---As Dave Paris in "Romeo and Juliet" he was nice to the point of being obnoxious and perfect to the point of being dull. At the party he claps like a rabid monkey at the balloons and confetti, without a hint of irony. He deserves to be the cuckold in a way that neither Firth nor DDL ever inspired. And perhaps what makes this performance most poignant is that he abandoned Mr. Perfection for the string of dude flicks from the mid-00s. Gone was Mr. Immaculate Grooming. Hello Mr. Gross-Out, Stoner, Loser. Despite being the cuckold, Firth and DDL never flew off the handle to the other end of the spectrum like Rudd did. We've all seen his bare ass for crying out loud. And because of that, his portrayal of the cuckold to Leonardo Dicaprio's Romeo is the top-top-top.

The Trials of Semi-Adulthood

2010-01-08T15:41:00.001-08:00

I "left" home over ten years ago. Let's define "left" loosely as the majority of my earthly belongings would from that point on be held in suitcases, trunks, and boxes flying from various points in the world, with Florida as their final destination.

This all changed about eighteen months ago when I really left home. This time not only did everything come with me but I left behind the bittersweet implication that I would not live there again. This was most likely harder for me to accept than my parents given my raging and seemingly incurable Peter Pan syndrome. I could blame this fear of growing up on my father, whose own mortality was tragically stung to the core when his father passed away before his twentieth birthday, but I'll try to be an adult about it and blame it on myself. Not surprisingly I have chosen a career path, or rather have paid for a career path, where I can push adulthood and true responsibility further back. Being a professional graduate student is a drawn-out exercise in immortality and vanity. We revel in the limits our mind can reach at the end of a semester as we print out an obscure twenty-page paper that only a few people will ever read but that we know will live on forever.

As much as this seems like a perfect union, my syndrome and a profession that celebrates it, there is something missing. I am at the Diane Keaton-point in my film where I am juggling a baby and my career. And I feel myself leaning towards moving to Vermont, so to speak. There is no question in my mind that the most important thing for me is my family. Which is why living the way I do is so difficult. Peter Pan did not have a family. And nor do the grad students you see on any college campus. It's as if we all just appeared one day, autonomous and ready to lend our minds to the greater good of research. But I have a family. And they are living their lives without me. And even though there are occasional guest appearances, that isn't enough for me. I thought this feeling would go away but it hasn't. I've been told this feeling never goes away.

Am I coward if I duck out? Is it time to finally face the question I've been dodging since the spring of 2003 when I was supposed to get a job? Has seven years been enough time to put off true adulthood?

Am I ready to leave my Neverland?

Obstacles to my Francophilia

2009-09-29T05:32:00.000-07:00

Though my rants are usually dedicated to issues facing Latinos and Latin Americans, a recent event has provoked me to bare my American teeth.

How can the French support Roman Polanski?

In response to his recent arrest in Switzerland, the French are horrified about the U.S.'s intentions to have Polanski extradited so he may face charges of drugging and raping a minor. A crime mind you that he admitted to committing over three decades ago but fled to Europe to avoid trial.

Polanski's wife is calling on film directors to support Polanski. Yes, let's appeal to the dubious moral fiber of the entertainment industry.

This event, coupled with Zidane's head butt at the 2006 World Cup final, really creases my love for the French. Perhaps the Puritanical brainwashing I've received during my youth in the American public school system has inoculated me against ever really "getting" the French. But they seduce me with their scenic films and mind-altering food.

However, I can never really embrace the French. That part of my heart, the space carved out exclusively for Western European culture, is reserved for the English.

What's up Emanuella?

2009-06-17T15:54:00.000-07:00

Man, what country our we living in?

The trial of two teenagers who participated in a beating that led to a man's death is over. The kids in question will most likely serve only a handful of months for their barbaric, racist actions. And the deceased, an illegal immigrant from Mexico, died a brutal death.

CNN's reporting of this incident is shocking. The headline, "2 teens get jail time in Mexican's beating death", is, to put it mildly, strangely worded. At first I thought it was a spring break trip to Cancun gone wrong. But no, this happened in Pennsylvania. There is something off with the title that implies that these kids getting jail time is news-worthy. Should they not be getting jail time because the victim was Mexican? Why does the victim's nationality matter while the perpetrators' does not? Is it because Mexican, for many Americans, is a race rather than a nationality? Why did Emanuella Grinberg lead with the teens? Why are they the subjects of the headline rather than the victim? In our youth-obsessed culture could it be that there is nothing more tragic than attractive young middle-class white boys going to jail?

Unfortunately, the article becomes more cringe-worthy once you get past the headline. How can these two teens receive as little as six months in jail? I am not sure how involved Grinberg was in the layout of this article but it is pretty reprehensible to have such a smug photo of Brandon Piekarsky and Derrick Donchak next to the paragraphs that detail their sentence lengths, the terribly unnecessary anecdote of them having played high school football, and their unfortunate acquittal of felony counts.

Judge William Baldwin seems like a good guy and I would hate to have been in his position, knowing that I am sending two deplorable so-called men back into society. I wonder what kind of "potential" these children will realize as adults. I hope I do not see them trolling Calle Ocho in Miami next March.

Grinberg's major error with this piece was of course her gross oversight of the victim, Luis Ramirez. I understand that in the journalistic sphere it is necessary to have variety in one's writing. You cannot constantly repeat, Piekarsky or Ramirez. But why is it that Piekarsky is referred to as a "teen" and "football player" and never as a "perpetrator" while Ramirez is referred to as "undocumented" and "illegal" rather than "the deceased victim?" Why does Ramirez's photograph come after the pseudo-Abercrombie & Fitch ad? Is it too graphic to see what a man, whose "brain tissue oozed out of his skull during surgery", looks like unconscious?

I am obviously partial. I spent a significant part of my life as an illegal immigrant. Even as a child I lived in fear, often never admitting that I had not been born in this country. I was not present at the night of the brawl and I do not know who was the true instigator. However I do know this. However "fair" the fight was Piekarsky and Donchak walked away alive. And now they have gotten a slap on the wrists. As most illegal immigrants know, the law is not on their side. And even in death, justice on this side of the border eludes them.

my soapbox

2009-06-06T21:53:00.001-07:00

Summer has been on for about three weeks now and suddenly all my back-burner tasks are surfacing. Namely an impending wedding. I was conducting a google search for a potential venue in Chile when I randomly found a Mormon missionary's blog. Apparently this kid is in central Chile trying to convert my relatives.

In addition to the severe spelling and grammatical errors, this blog really annoys me. Obviously I am no Chicago Manual of Style master given my penchant for using lower-case letters with wild abandon. However this kid cannot even spell Chilean. To be fair he is not teaching English to his acquaintances and, ten years after my high school graduation, I am still toting around a backpack. I admit that I am a nerd. However, I find these mistakes unforgivable since for starters blogger.com has spell check. And secondly, these errors form the foundation of a superficial cultural critique of my birth country. I am not aware of what historical, social, and/or cultural preparation missionaries are exposed to but it seems to me that this blogger did not bring much knowledge, let alone cultural sensitivity, to Chile.

He complains that Chileans are unreceptive to his teachings. Let us go back five hundred years and trace the history of mission work and colonization in Latin America. I am sure we would not begrudge a bit of wariness on the part of Latin Americans when it comes to outsiders. Especially white men. God help you if you come in sporting a red beard as you sit on a horse.

The blogger goes on to summarize the reason why Chile is an undeveloped country: Chileans are lazy. Which is, as he readily admits, in stark contrast to his active, idealist ambition to go into the world, meet people, and share his religion. I am sure anyone who spent most of their time in rural Chile, overwhelmed by the poverty and lack of education of the people they met, would try to find the origins of this miserable situation. However, this does not define the entire nation. Chile has a strong middle class and an elite that would rival the wealthy of any Western, first-world country. Even during this worldwide recession, Chile's economy continues to grow and serve as a model for the rest of Latin America. (Thank you, Chicago Boys). The laziness this blogger perceives is a complex front that, despite translation, cannot be grasped so easily. Especially if your ambition blinds you to understanding the true secular social forces at play.

I was tempted to write this response on the Mormon blogger's blog, but felt that as sparring partners we were not a fair fit. We have experienced Chile in such distinct ways and have such diverging agendas, that our communication would be like trying to discuss race in America on the Tyra show. A hot mess that in the end achieved nothing. Moreover, the passive aggressive narcissist in me enjoys the idea of having the last (and only) word on this matter.

I'm back...

2009-03-11T20:33:00.001-07:00

Hello world,

I couldn't bear to reach the three year mark of blog abandonment so I decided to revive my external (though silent) monologue. I think today I hit the wall of reality, familiar to my graduate school peers. The recession has sunk in. The long, unsettling road of a graduate career has revealed its questionable engineering. I get it, this sucks. Not graduate school itself, but all the theatrics we daily perform to stay in the game. I'm also turning 28 in one month. Am I still in the range of a quarter-life crisis?

But maybe before I talk about now I should do a quick review of the past 3ish years:

1. The World Cup was a multi-linguistic, multi-sensory, multi-jersey circus. Three weeks of beer, sausages, soccer, contemporary art, Birkenstocks and dudes. My dudes. The Earworks German was very helpful and I'm still conspiring to get back to Germany.

2. RH and I had a blow-out despedida on a friend's roof. Then we travelled for almost 4 weeks, starting at Santiago and moving in a counter-clockwise direction to the tip of the continent, through Patagonia, Buenos Aires and then due west. Mostly by bus. No more ham and cheese sandwiches with salsa golf. Salsa what?

3. Started 2007 back in south Florida. Felt weirded out by everything for a few months. Picked up where I left off when I graduated in August 2004: where am I going? Thought about the last time I was really happy with my work; remembered the Norton internship; and locked in my goal: graduate school in art history. Spent the next eighteen months preparing for grad school by taking lots of art history courses, German courses and working at the FAU University Galleries, one of the best gigs I've ever had. Applied to lots of schools, got stressed out, realized that at this stage of the game graduate school is not the means but the end. Hello, my name is Doris, and I am professional student. Had this epiphany at UT and felt it was a sign. Started practicing my "hook 'em Longhorns" finger salute. But I'm still all about the U.

4. Of course I still had a life. Besides academics, I went to two weddings, hung out with family and friends and fell in love again with Florida. Not the hardest thing to do, she's kind of slutty. RH moved to Miami and started culinary school. Score! No more cooking for me. Got engaged a few days before we left paradise. But someone is holding our spot.

5. Fall semester starts at UT. The heat, classes and throngs of students was a heady experience at first. Fear what an actual fire drill would look like with everyone in the streets at once. Got a bike and feel like I'm crossing the finish line in "Breaking Away" everytime I make it to the campus. OD on Tex-Mex on a weekly basis. Try to connect with the Austin swing, but mostly feel like Steve Martin in "My Blue Heaven." Actually, my first few months in Texas can be expressed in several obscure 80s movies.

6. Winter break is 6 weeks long. The U of C would give us 10 days off if we were good kids. Went to San Antonio and visited the Alamo. Had some more Tex-Mex. Started Spring semester with a heavier load but I'm happy to carry it. The specter of post-MA life haunts me everywhere. It's hard to keep things loose. Maybe I should take it all in 2 hours at a time. When will the stimulus stimualte? Where's my bailout?

Corporate Rebellion

2006-05-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

This past weekend on a BBC World interview titled “50 Cent: Money Machine” the eloquent 50 Cent was able to summarize his career in one sentence: “On an artist level, the musician is a marketing tool.” Great. I’m not sure if this makes him a genius or an idiot. I could care less about making that distinction, he’s obviously been in many a record company meeting about how to reach out to the 18-34 year-old male demographic. It’s reflected in his use of the word “artist.” I can’t deny anyone the use of the third person. Doris likes to do it every now and then, too. However, where, when, why, and how (most importantly) can 50 Cent get away with calling himself an “artist”? I most definitely will not accept that. Perhaps my definition of artist is too narrow. For me in the music world, an “artist” is someone who doesn’t need a music video to be successful. True, I lean towards independent music regardless of genre. But I can and do appreciate a well-done pop song. Thanks Hillary Duff.

I see 50 cent as a corporate rebel, a term Courtney Love used to describe Eminem, coincidentally 50 Cent’s maker. Eminem has managed to fool many people into believing he is a rebel. He’s on glossy magazine covers, topless, buff, and stone-faced whilst showing off his two middle fingers. He takes easy shots at homosexuals to reinforce his masculinity. But he’s not really rebelling. He’s not questioning the corporate label supporting him. Or taking shots at real issues like insecurity among rappers that’s manifested in homophobia. He’s rebelling in a way that makes him cool and sexy for the youth. Exactly the type of cookie-cutter rebellion that makes music corporations wealthy. So it’s no surprise that 50 Cent was cast in the same mold: starring in 3-minute music videos, which are really 50 second commercials for his merchandise as he stated himself. He’s dumbing down his audience by speaking grammatically incorrect English. He objectifies women and men. He promotes a shallow and expensive club lifestyle that lacks accountability and true social change. He has shackled the minds of my generation by making them slaves to his lame consumerism. When I hear people like 50 Cent and his vulture-ilk of marketers so eager to understand my purchasing practices and get my money, I shrink away and spend nothing. It’s a game of control and it’s unfortunate that given an international forum, 50 Cent appears as nothing more than a “money machine”, a puppet, a boring corporate rebel.

So what can appease these sour grapes? Why, some compassionate grapes, of course.

In the past two months...

2006-05-18T09:55:00.000-07:00

...I saw Manu Chao in concert and was sadly disappointed. Can such elaborate and layered studio albums translate into a live act? March 24th was not going to be the day to find out. Manu was too stoned. The audience was too stoned. Songs began in reggae and ended in punk; though none of these genres apply to Manu Chao's music. No worries. Seeing U2 was enough of a live act experience for a lifetime.

...I celebrated my 25th birthday over a period of 5 days. A night out at my favorite pub, followed by wild dancing to American pop in a Chilean club called "Boomerang." I bought myself pearl earrings, wore a pink/glittery crown all day, and enjoyed a barrage of emails from my friends.

...I traveled to Bariloche, on the outer edge of Argentina's Patagonia, with my RH. We ate yummy food, drank artesanal beers, and slept in late. I was outfitted like I never thought I'd be in my life: hiking boots, a fleece, and a rain jacket. I loved every minute.

...I bummed around May, waiting for my work life to start. Came face-to-face with the self-esteem crusher that is being an English teacher abroad and I triumphed. I worked on my special "grad school project" and watched the Immigration issues in the U.S. with intellectual interest; I emailed Mel Martinez again.

...right now I'm listening to "Rapid German: Part One." Basic German phrases put to techno music. All in preparation for my trip to the World Cup in Germany. So exciting! The closest I'll ever be to Michael Owen.

Dating a reformed hipster (RH)

2006-03-16T07:04:00.000-08:00

With the help of Patrick (a RH), I've reconnected with my most favorite aspect of American culture. The life-force that will one day call me back so loudly and hardly, I'll fly the plane back myself. Witty, subversive, and snarky commentary about pop culture.

All of my life I've been fidgety. I've never left my bedroom without portable music (physical or the sounds in my head). At one point I subscribed to five magazines and would buy at least two on a weekly basis. I can watch an episode of "I Love the 80's" on VH-1 at least 5 times before it gets old. One of the highlights of grad school was when MTV brought together "The Real World" and "Road Rules" in a wry yet completely endearing spectacle. I read the label of my saltshaker while I boil eggs. I always knew I had an inexhaustible capacity and need for information. But today I was able, with the help of the good people at Vice, to name my poison.

I'm a culture junkie, whose life has been greatly touched by American Airlines' in-flight magazine.

Let's hear it for the girls!

2006-03-08T12:37:00.000-08:00

Happy International Woman's Day to all my sistahs out there. Here's an article by Clementina Cantoni, an aid worker from Italy (friend of a friend) who was kidnapped in Afghanistan and mercifully released almost a year ago.

Give your mom thanks. Blow grandma a kiss, wherever she may be. Make peace with your sister. And tell all the women in your lives, "You're awesome. I love you." Let's pray for all women who suffer in public and in silence.

Unbecoming Sunblock Insulation

2006-02-14T07:33:00.000-08:00

In the wake of a spectacular snowstorm in the East Coast, spectacular for someone watching it on tv in a sweltering living room, I've decided to post my summer experience. In three words: sunblock, unbecoming, and insulation. Or for those mad-hatters out there, always trying to come up with cool band names: Unbecoming Sunblock Insulation. Rcknrll.

For the past twelve years, I've been coming to Chile in the summer with my family. Within two days of each visit, I'd break out into a gnarly rash. Everyone laughed it off as my sensitive American-First-World-skin (what?) reacting to fleas. Since living in Chile this past year I've broken out at least once a month. My latest outbreak was on a sticky day, where my knee swelled up in a panic trying to escape the constrictive fibers of my teacher pants. I was promptly taken to the dermatologist by my motherly-cousin-roommate, who laughed it off as "la pica de los extranjeros" or what First-Worlders get when they come into contact with Third World bugs. Had my mind not been consumed with fantasies of calamine lotion, I would've wimpered "But the First and Third worlds no longer exist. The Cold War is over. THEY...ARE...CONSTRUCTS!" Instead he gave me an ointment and an allergy pill and sent me on my way, complimenting me on my white wide-brimmed churchlady hat.

I wear a white wide-brimmed churchlady hat everyday in Santiago because we're all being fried by the small hellbanger UVA and UVB rays. Growing up in South Florida I had a complex, Margaret Mead-worthy tanning ritual. A bottle of SPF 4 tanning oil, applied for the first 90 minutes; a bottle of orange glitter gel applied for the final 90 minutes; and a bottle of tea dumped on my hair for good measure. I now wear SPF 60. Everywhere. Even under my white, wide-brimmed churchlady hat. On my toe knuckles. On my palms.

The thick white chalk of my exposed limbs would be bearable, if edifices only had insulation. There's no insulation in Chile. No lovely Pink Panther rolls of fluffy, yummy insulation. The cool of the evening disappears into the hole in the ozone at daybreak. Air conditioners run all day, foolishly cooling Swiss cheese walls. Punches in the wall will have no padded savior.

So what's unbecoming? The clothes people wear in the summer. All the beautiful people have gone to the beach. What remains is a painful parade of lycra and panty lines; neon on neon; hammer toes. What's the point of summer if no one dresses for it.

All this is temporary. In March it will be fall. People will be forced to wear more clothing, which will hopefully translate into layers of lycra, thus no panty lines; dreary grays in place of neon; and no hammer toes. But insulation remains elusive. And for those of us skiing in July, SPF 60 is there to chalk us up.

Sra. Presidenta

2006-01-20T05:17:00.000-08:00

5 days later, I've come to terms with it: Michelle Bachelet is president of Chile. There will be no recalls, no chads. Once again I bet on the losing horse. Lucky for Chile, I'm a Floridian from Broward County prone to absentee voting who couldn't vote in this election, thus I couldn't screw it up. Had I grown up here, gone to public school, suffered through the college entrance exam only to wind up as one of a million unemployed Psych majors without health care, I may have been swayed. However my day to day contact with foreign (i.e. English-speaking) companies who want their Chilean employees to learn English has pulled me to the right. "Investment potential." "He just looks like a president." "Lack of clingy advisors." These were all swimming through my mind. As I walked home through a cheering downtown Sunday evening, underneath a shower of confetti and swaths of flags with a bespectacled woman, all I felt was fear. Fear of Latin America's turn to the left. True, this is all probably a response to the right turn the region took in the 70's and 80's. But one turn doesn't necessarily deserve another. The world's greatest miseries have been caused by absolutism. What Latin America needs is diversity, people on the left, right, center, everywhere.

But it's still all pretty spectacular. I thought I'd be picking out my daughter's prom dress when a woman would be elected president of Chile. I'll probably be soaking my dentures when an Agnostic single doctor/mother of three becomes president of the U.S. Until then, these lists keep me steady.

choices

2005-12-02T19:06:00.000-08:00

If my life were an 80's song, would it be Duran Duran's Rio or Toto's Africa?

Scenario 1: So I'm a yuppie. Hard core, beamer-driving, Reagan-loving, Gekko-worshipping, over-sized shoulder padded yuppie. I don't do cocaine, because just like cigarettes and coffee, it'll stunt my growth. I have a job that made going to college a glorified cocktail party, utterly useless but entertaining. I wear pearls and a perfect Princess Diana hair flip. I've wasted cans of starch on my collars and have yet to fold one down. I harbor dreams of becoming a third-grade teacher to mentally challenged kids but instead I drink a highball and play squash. Feminists makes me giggle, but I'm glad they got me this far. I'm going to marry an important person so I can quit my fake life and become part of a larger one. As long as I live in LA or NYC, I'm fine. Everywhere else, just like everyone else, is useless, boring, and sad. I'm never sad. Nor am I ever very happy. I do get a special stomach flip every time I listen to Rio. I'd like to be Rio one day, as long as I get the keyboardist.

Scenario 2: I'm a librarian in the suburbs. I was cool in the 70's, which I spent wasting away, high and numb in my rec room. I was cool at the time. I don't know what it's like to be cool now. I woke up one day and everyone wanted money, fame, and beauty. I have none of these and I'm not sure I could get them even if I wanted to. I need to go somewhere where people will think I'm cool and maybe along the way I can help people or something. Then I'll come back and everyone here will be smaller and stupid in the light of my incredibly philosophical and altruistic journey. I wish I could put people on mute or at least screen them, edit all vapid thoughts they verbalize, and allow them only to speak about deep things. "Maybe none of us have deep thoughts", I think sometimes. Which is why it's imperative I go somewhere far away and exotic, so I can develop some deep thoughts. That's why I'm going to Africa. I love Africa, which was totally written for me. To long for a place I've never seen, this is so perfect. I'll learn to play a tribal flute and maybe meet a safari guide or someone like Robert Redford.

Dear Mel,

2005-12-01T06:49:00.000-08:00

I was reading the last pages of the Miami Herald yesterday over breakfast when I came across a call to arms. A nice woman in South Dade let it be known that the DREAM Act had been reintroduced.

Just weeks before I had clumsily put together a policy proposal for this very issue during a heated argument about the American dream, immigrants, and minority students. What these senators are proposing is definitely better. This issue is real and will become a frustrating burden for all citizens to bear in the next fifty years, when Hispanics become a quarter of the population. The way I see it, the government is already spending money on Hispanics be it on welfare, housing, or loan assistance. This is a preventative measure that will generate educated and capable leaders in communities that desperately need them. Which is why I emailed Mel and Bill after I finished my cereal. I had participated in democracy all before 10am.

day of wow

2005-11-18T10:32:00.000-08:00

still reeling from michael owen's stunning and clutch goals last weekend, i've finally emerged to meet my fellow americans.

these next two weeks i'll be home for thanksgiving. home to sleep, home to eat normal food, home to become stupid again watching mtv, and home to see the bravos, of course. being out of the country for almost 11 months now, i always thought i was missing out on "life." i kept up with adult life on-line, reading newspapers and such. pop culture life was another matter entirely. so after flipping through the december issue of "vanity fair", forty minutes at my local bagel shop, and less than an hour's fill of gossip tv, i passed out from commercial exhaustion. having been out of the cycle for so long, i had forgotten how seductive and easy it was to believe in all of it.

i'm not sure this makes sense. i've capped off two weeks of "long days at the office" with an 8-hour flight of nodding off with my body at a 110 degree angle. maybe this is first-day jitters and tomorrow i'll be inoculated. maybe michael owen's redemption last weekend has made me nostalgic for france 1998, when he shook up the world and made us all believe he was magic. i'm off to drive into the everglades and see if there's still some beauty left in this corner of the world.

best love stories

2005-10-11T08:39:00.000-07:00

"cousins" --ted danson at his finest; lovely score; adultery at its purest

"l.a. story" --wonderful, wonderful, wonderful

"hedwig and the angry inch" --clever; heartbreaking; bursting with hope

"a little romance" --soft and european with laurence olivier as an unlikely chaperone

"wind" --all blue skies and crisp sails... i'd have taken modine back, too

"beautiful girls" --michael rapaport, enough said

"breaking away" --a serenade in italian followed by a bike ride

"before sunrise" --no gimmicks, no explosions, no violence, just conversation

"the graduate" --what happens after they get on the bus, who cares!

"pride and prejudice" --showing generations of headstrong chicks to hold out for number one

Mall Hangover

2005-10-04T07:43:00.000-07:00

What began as an innocent attempt at a casual stroll through the mall this past Sunday afternoon turned into mayhem the likes that take three months off of your life. I almost kicked a five year-old in the shins as he tried to squeeze his baby brother's stroller behind me in the mega-supermarket check-out line. What this mall trip provoked, however, is the consolidation of some ideas I've had about adverse effects of mall-ing in Chile.

Santiago has a grip of malls. I've been coming here every two years since I was twelve and there's at least a new mall everytime. And these aren't you're typical "walk it in 20" malls. These are mega-malls that would make even the Sawgrass Mall (the largest outdoor mall in the South), tuck tail and run off into the Everglades. I count at least six mega-malls in the metropolitan area alone.

From the outside it may seem, damn, Chile's economy is doing pretty well to support these malls. They're filled with people during the week and impossible to walk around in on the weekends. And people aren't just walking, they're buying as if the rent were due the next day (in some cases it is, but there's no money to pay for it). Unfortunately, the majority of shoppers buy on credit that they don't have. Some Chileans will say that this is progress. Thirty years ago, the poorest people had no food. At least now they can buy pasta and veggies at the supermarket on credit. True. But what concerns me is the greater problem.

The ten months that I've been here have shown me that Chileans have loads of energy and dedication. They work twelve hour days everyday, they bleed for fandom in the soccer stadiums, they will go out and buy neon orange bracelets in droves as a sign of solidarity. This energy and dedication is also channeled into consumerism. Which is to the delight of the Chicago Boys but to my chagrin. How is it possible that a people, who only thirty years ago freely and democratically elected the first Socialist president in the world, are now completely bonkers over the latest sock sale at Almacenes Paris?

I think the Chilean characteristics of energy and dedications are a factor. But I also think it's the fundamental difference between capitalism and socialism. The former exploits the worst in people, while the latter expects the best. And for this reason they can't co-exist. Successful malls transform the nicest people into rabid assholes, clawing their way through a bin to acquire the last spatula. For capitalism to work, the masses need to be passive and completely indifferent to the fact that everything dear to them (hopes, lifestyle, individuality) will be exploited for commercial use. Whereas for socialism to work, the masses need to be active and committed to always being righteous, fair, and noble.

I'm not an economist, but a humble social scientist. I could care less what flavor of government flies its banner in foreign countries, as long as its citizens can be free to live their lives as they wish (and not die in inner tubes a stone's toss from Key Largo, thanks Fidel). I don't know what the solution is at the moment, all I know is that mall trips will now be scheduled early-early on Sunday mornings.

"Si, mi coronel"

2005-09-23T16:00:00.000-07:00

Right on the heels of my ra-ra Chile's Independence entry I thought it'd be nice to acknowledge an important event that happened pre-chicha festivities. President Ricardo Lagos has loosened the military grip on Chilean government.

Even though I'm a Latin Americanist by trade, my knowledge of Chilean-anything has been acquired not learned (thank you U of C "Mexico rules, all others drool" LatAm dept.). So what I know about Chile I gather from the news, books, mags, but most importantly (and entertainingly) from my fam.

My cousin Pedro, who let me shack up at his place the first five months of my "time off", is a chemist at the military hospital in Stgo. I have had the opportunity to see the place in action and at one point have my blood tested on the same floor where Pinochet was no doubt having his pillows fluffed. Now, you should all know that Pedro belongs to the "subversive-leftist-white-collar" element of my family. This would explain why on many occasions he's been on review, to the point where he might lose his job, because he wouldn't be a sycophant, revering every member dressed in blues with a "si, mi colonel." Being someone who harbors good feelings towards foot soldiers, but not necessarily to high-ranking officers I asked him to elaborate. Most of the officers he works with don't have medical backgrounds, they just needed a place to go once the wars ended and their trigger fingers became plagued with arthritis.

I'm not a voter nor a citizen of Chile, so I can't comment on this reform. But being a borderline libertarian, I want my goverment smaller and dedicated to protecting my country. And a machine gun, be it in a hospital, on the street, or in my supermarket, is quite uncomfortable.

Fulfilling wishes from '93

2005-09-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

Chile will be celebrating its Independence Day this Sunday, the 18th. But being Chileans, the festivities will start tomorrow at 1pm and end when I pass out late Monday night. Of course, this is much more than a party weekend.

A year ago I came to a point in my life where I didn't have to be anywhere, do anything, or answer to anyone. Except for Cynthia Gonzalez, my loan officer, natch. The feeling was tremendous, the possibilities were overwhelming. Being a normal girl from the suburbs who up til then had done everything by "the young adult guidebook to adult happiness", I realized that I didn't have dreams. Given a handful of freedom, a key to the world, a new prescription to see the universe if you will, I realized all I could do was analyze it and give it back. And then she came back to me. Doris at 12. About to buy "Siamese Dream", about to have her life changed; still painting her toes blue and defiantly covering her walls with high fashion photo spreads. It was the me I had forgotten about on my way to becoming one of you. The me I thought I'd always be. The me who would pass this girl on the street without a second look.

Doris at 12 came to Chile for the first time and met 40 people who in later years filled out the spaces of aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandmother. Doris at 12 wanted to bury herself in her grandmother's vineyard. Doris at 12 promised that one day, when everything she was supposed to do was completed, she'd come back. And live her life like she'd always dreamed.

Which is why, this week in this year is so awesome. 12 years, a lifetime, a second in the making this weekend I will be exactly where I'm supposed to be and dance cueca and drink chicha for my old man, sitting on a couch in a darkened living room in Florida.

They made a movie about Nilay

2005-08-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

It's become clear, and I say this with great pride, that Adrian Grenier has become part of my karass. There I was talking about underwear-couch-time and Regina dropped me a note on the television series, "Entourage". Then this past Friday night when I was feigning illness to watch "The West Wing" instead of going out I caught "The Adventures of Sebastian Cole." With the delicious Adrian Grenier.

Not many movies make me want to revisit high school and be an anarchist-bicycle rider with random highlights. Especially since I liked the last 10 minutes of high school due to the fact that most of the people around me were dumb and boring. The same thing a certain Nilay Patel would say. The similarities between Adrian and Nilay are astounding and creepy --blond streak parting black locks, delivering clever comments at critical moments ("This Prom is nothing like what they show in movies. There are no more virgins, so there's no one to lose their virginity") , and constantly becoming involved with women by accident (ha!). The music alone makes me want to reschedule my reincarnation for 1983 instead of 1972.

Dutch C***-Block

2005-07-29T15:44:00.000-07:00

The little bro and I made a trip to Pablo Neruda's house, La Chascona, during his visit a week ago. It was on that day that I would be on the receiving end of an unexpected and incredibly powerful Dutch cock-block. From earlier experiences I should've known that strange things go down at La Chascona. This time I was praying my English-speaking guide would be moderate, if not uber-guidy. Fernando was all these things and more. I've been in Stgo going on 7 months now and must say that Fernando is the most attractive dude I've seen yet. An attendant led us down some steps, opened a door, and from the mystical portal of the "Guide´s Lounge" Fernando emerged, resplendant yet understated in the museum fleece and Manu Chao-esque scarf. I took it all in quite straight-faced as if I saw this type of male beauty all of the time. The two Dutch chicks that rounded out the tour group turned all types of burgundy and mauve.

What followed were 45 minutes of gushing, drooling, and bouncing. Fernando would start pointing out furniture and the Dutch chicks would giggle uncontrollably while asking personal questions. One highlight was the response a panther painting produced. "What's so funny" Fernando asked. "Oh, he looks like he's smiling! With his lips, so very happy!" Dutchies responded. Maybe they were high, maybe it's just their European-ness, or maybe the space wasn't big enough for their sloppy game to be thrown around. By the time the tour was over Eric and I took a courtesy picture with some outdoor rocks and bolted for the door. Fernando squirmed away from the Dutch chicks to show us the exit. But with my brother towering over me like a chaperone and the Dutchies quick on Fernando's heels, all I could do was say thanks, leave, and marvel at the potency of the Dutch cock-block I had just been served.

Guess I wasn't just shouting at the rain

2005-07-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

Four years spent "majoring" in Spanish have left a definite salt in my mouth for the written Spanish word. This coming from the same person whose skin crawls when people admit they find reading boring. For those that know me recognize that I'd rather debate my side to death rather than admit defeat. In this case I say it's one thing to dislike reading in your native, which-language-do-you-prefer-Homer-Simpson-to-speak-in versus reading in a "studied" language with all that sangria it took to finish "El poema del Mio Cid." Anyways, my point is that I rarely read anything in Spanish these days. Gossip, soccer results, an occasional horoscope.

I read Chile's "Paula" with the same pseudo-feminist-Cosmo-bashin' fervor I read EEUU's "Jane". I received my latest copy of "Paula" on Sunday and was delighted by their reprinting of Grande Reportagem's flag ad campaign. As a side, EEUU and Colombia are also quite clever. When I submitted my MA thesis this past August (11 months ago, whatever), I walked away feeling that maybe the world wasn't ready for my style of social commentary via national flags. True, my delivery was abstract at best and I was reaching here and there for something resembling a point. But the Portuguese, god love 'em, they got me all along.

The Cult of My Narcolepsy

2005-07-13T08:09:00.000-07:00

Best place to catch a nap: Reading room, Reynold's Club, University of Chicago. Couch by the fireplace, stretched out, shoes off, my toes in between the cushions, and my face buried in The Onion.

Best prohibited sleep: Mid-afternoon nod-off in "Theories of Media", stadium-seating, dimmed lights, talking about the philosophy of Keanu Reeves in "The Matrix."

Longest recorded sleep: 1986, five years-old. Fall asleep Friday night and wake up Sunday afternoon in the backseat of the wagon, on the way to dinner.

Best music to drift away to: Last two tracks on Coldplay's "A Rush of Blood to the Head."

Warm milk substitute: Cold beer.

Tom Cruise movies I never made it through: "Magnolia" and "Eyes Wide Shut."

Worst type of cruelty: Getting on the wrong plane, flying to Newark, and having to stay awake all night.

Proof it's in the genes: My mom's probably sleeping right now.

MTV plays music!!!

2005-07-04T06:53:00.000-07:00

I've just emerged from the world-youth-rock-media-cable frenzy of Live 8. I enjoyed it for the most part, but there were some cringe-inducing moments I'd like to share. Anybody that was around me during the past election knows my mind when it comes to meddling celebrities. Celebrities at this convention, on the arm of this candidate, telling me to do this, blah blah blah. My intial argument for loathing them was the fact that they´re celebrities, not political analysts, so let's keep the two camps divided, k? But they're Americans, they pay taxes, they claim they vote, so they should be allowed to use their voice.

So here I was this past weekend watching celebs, mostly musicians I respect, eloquently discussing the issues at hand. Chris Martin, in particular, is a hero. Then I saw the "finger snap" campaign. I've been spared the "finger snap" commercials while I've been in Chile so this is all pretty new to me. Susan Sarandon --not surprised. Tom Hanks --um, sure, whatever. Justin Timberlake--wha!? The same guy who pays about $200 for a trucker hat is now snapping for poverty. However, what sent me into a rage was Madonna. Snapping and preaching with huge diamond earrings and highlights (and some lowlights).

Now, I think the spirit and mission of Live 8 is great. Bobby Geldolf is using his celebrity to promote awareness. But there's still a blinding element of condescension in this whole scheme. Of the nine concert sites, only one was actually in Africa. Nevermind that Latin America was completely shut out. It seems as though the third world can't help itself or each other. That the concerts were almost exclusively in the province of the first world, the West, what have you, reflects how these issues are still kept at arms length. "Over there" they have problems...True, but what about the first world? What about our own destructive addiction to consumerism? Where are the concerts outlining what's wrong with us? I don't want to take anything away from the gravity of Africa's problems. But I think that recognizing our own faults would make giving and having others receive charity easier.

I agree that third world poverty is severe, but maybe it only appears as such because our wealth is so great. Which is why when I see Madonna snapping at me I wonder how such hypocrisy seems invisible to so many. In what universe can I take her attempts at charity seriously? She lectures me about children dying of hunger every three seconds yet can supply her own child with a credit card with a $10,000 spending limit in the same week. Many would say she's earned her money, she could spend it how she wishes. My dad would say that if people didn't buy a fifth yellow Porsche then all the people who work to build them would eventually lose their jobs. I get it, I'm not calling for anarchy. I just feel that if we showed "the unfortunate others" celeb-activists claim to help any tv footage from E! illustrating their ridiculously extravagant lifestlyes, they might not accept their charity.

This is the type of hypocrisy that loses elections. Celeb-activists, limousine liberals, what have you, should never forget that though people may be poor, uneducated, and/or uninformed they have integrity. In times of corruption and hypocrisy all we have left is our integrity. And if that is disrespected in any way, then you've screwed us all.

On a lighter note, Live 8 Canada heralded the glorious return of Bryan Adams. All of my repressed pre-teen emotions came out in a riot of giggles once he started an acoustic (and solo) version of "All for Love." All in all when the music speaks for itself, it's all good.

Gringo Men

2005-07-01T07:04:00.000-07:00

I have a private class with the most adorable children in the hemisphere who crack me up on a weekly basis. This past week V. mentioned her encounters with gringo men on her school trip, while C. impressed me with his knowledge of WWII. When he dropped the "Battle of Midway" in conversation I was stunned and immediately transported back to 9th grade Honors World History with Mrs. Dietrich. In retrospect, Mrs. Dietrich was something of an aging-Warhol-muse-hipster who tried to expand our minds with weirdo films. "Battle of Midway" was obviously part of the curriculum sent down from the School Board of Broward County to make students grateful for technicolor. However "Rapaccini's Daughter" and an ironic animated film about cathedral-making were obviously a ploy to shock our conservative suburban high school selves. Though most of my smaller-minded classmates wrote Mrs. Dietrich off for being a Nazi (okay, so showing pics of her sons in lederhosen raised one of my eyebrows), I dug her. I walked away from that class with this caveat: "Not all Germans were Nazis and not all Nazis were German."

After WWII, Chile and others in the Southern Cone-ish area seized an opportunity to populate the desolate south with Germans (and some Nazis). One in particular, Paul Schafer, set up a little commune called "Colonia Dignidad." Fast forward about 50 years and Paulie is in deep --pedophilia, cars at the bottom of rivers, underground tunnel systems. And, to add to the collection of conspiracy theories, a bag of bullets tagged "JFK." Now if I were Paulie I wouldn`t have made such an obvious tag. Something in the neighborhood of "Norma J's Revenge Pellets" or "Killer Back Relief Pills." But then again there's a reason they lost the war.

However, channeling Mrs. Dietrich, not all Germans were Nazis. At the end of the 19th century, the Chilean government gave land grants to many lovely Germans in the south of Chile. They came, made babies, and built quaint cottages. Of course in that era the south of Chile was booming. I caught "Subterra" the other day, a great film about a late-19th century coal mine in southern Chile. Misfits, anarchists, bougie girls with skipping rope, and dead canaries. The development of Chile since Independence in 1810 is linked with the development of mining throughout the country. Back in the day nitrate made northern Chile prosperous. Once a synthetic fertilizer was developed, the mines were closed and the north was re-embraced by the desert. Many of the small towns devastated by the recent earthquake represented most of the leftovers. My private student V. was touring these deserts, ghost towns, and random 5-star resorts when she happened upon some lovely gringo men.

...so in response to my fans, I have emerged from my silence to blog about Germans, the counter-culture, and Chile; and of course as Mrs. D loved to do, come full circle.

Hearts around the world are breaking...

2005-06-29T08:12:00.000-07:00

I call upon Manuela and other fans to take a moment to grieve for the bachelorhood of Michael Owen. My blog, today, is silent.

Your LatAm News Update

2005-06-07T12:49:00.000-07:00

The further I get along in age, the more I become like Emily Post. And if she were alive I am sure she would agree that someone needs to say something about subway etiquette. Example. The train is full, a chick with questionably red frizzy hair squeezes in and leans against the stripper pole that I am holding onto. I could continue to hold on, but the red frizzy hair starts getting tangled in my fingers as I am trying to skip that one techno song I hate on my I-pod that is in my pocket. So I let go of the stripper pole and find something more soothing to listen to since I am obviously ready to tear some shit up.

Speaking of tearing shit up, yes, Bolivia is going under. I think the complaint this time has something to with the nationalization of all the energy-related reserves. As if turning over uber-lucrative gas mines to "the people" blocking all roads with burning tires is what naturally happens when the president threatens a second resignation in three months. For all of you lovely blog-reading potential tourists, Chile is safe. The kids are all up in arms about having their loans privatized, but they still go home at night to pre-game and do bong hits. It seems like Pinochet`s bong hits may be numbered. With all the economic geniuses around him (from the U of C, natch) you would think someone would have made the money trail a little murkier. I guess one way or another, the big man will come down, though I cannot imagine the historians getting all excited about having their last chapter titled "...all because of unsexy bookkeeping."

boys

2005-05-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

I caught "Star Wars"(finally) on Monday. Hayden Christensen was adequately screwed up, what with almost being burned alive, ouch. Natalie Portman, clearly on a downward spiral since "Garden State" was annoying but luckily edited out of most of the film. The highlights --hearing the Darth start breathing after being "helmeted" and watching the two-sun sunset with Luke and his guardians. I caught "Kingdom of Heaven" a couple of weeks ago, just to see if it had the juice to be part of Dubya`s future "Peace with the A-rabs" PowerPoint presentation. Orlando Bloom once again coasts through an epic with an indifferent pout. Edward Norton as the King of Jerusalem makes it all worthwhile. Leave it up to Eddie to make silver masks and leprosy sexy. On the subject of boys, I thought it was about time in my "blog-life" to start a discussion on the greatness of Michael Owen.

I`m off to look for a nightstand substitute. There are many things I`d pay forty bucks for --sushi, beer, eyeliner-- but the line has to be drawn.

...because I have an American passport

2005-05-17T13:08:00.000-07:00

For the sake of saving 10% from my paycheck, I embarked on a visa-stamping-wasting-hours-from-my-single-girl-life adventure yesterday.

It all started at 8:10am when I walked into the "Oficina de Extranjeria" right across "La Moneda", world-famous for being the target of several CIA helicopter bombs in 1973. The irony was not lost on me. Right, I walked in with my grown-up black teacher bag, suit jacket, and shades acting like a headband into a room full of estranged Ecuadoreans and Peruvians. Twenty minutes later all hell broke loose when one of the officials came to turn on the ticket machine (before you can be seen, you must get a numbered ticket a la supermarket deli). Said official`s response to the chaos was for everyone to get back in the line we had been in for the past half hour. When that didn`t work he started ranting about how "We (the people waiting) should act like civilized people and make a line." A Chilean saying this to Ecuadoreans and Peruvians is right up there with some dude asking a young black man fifty years ago to prove his capacity for reasoning before submitting a vote for president. Sensing a shift in tension like a good anthropologist I walked to the back of the line in silent protest to all the absurdity going down. My altruism was soon checked when I shoved two nuns to get to the counter when my number was called.

High on the rush of checking off errands from my Palm Pilot I went to the "Policia Internacional" to formally register myself. Like in Chile, or something. As I walked to my designated detective I passed by another who was railing at a Peruvian dude trying to register himself. As my detective asked me basic questions about my marital status and income, the asshole detective mocked the Peruvian for not understanding formal Spanish and not knowing his address. As I sat there I felt indignation but I also felt very grateful. Suddenly every humiliation my parents faced in the course of obtaining a US green card, residency, and finally citizenship was compensated. I, their daughter, was sitting across from a smug detective who couldn`t talk down to me for many reasons. The main one being I had an American passport. It`s stupid and lame but painfully true. I wish my Peruvian dude luck and will have a new message to write in my next father`s day card.

My next stop was the "Registro Civil" to take a photo for my ID card. After almost two hours standing in line I got a moment with an official, only to be told that Chile still considers me one of her citizens. Which probably makes my visa and police registration superfluous. In the end, I saved about fifty cents and got the Chilean ID card. I picked up two empanadas, went to my new apartment, and passed out in my empty room.

Chris Cornell´s luscious tan

2005-05-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

Last week I worked a month`s work of hours in four days. Lunch deprivation gave way to several epiphanies. Here are some highlights:
1. Each city you live in and/or visit must be christened with a solitary almost-drunk mid-week lunch. It started in Berkeley with a salad and a Golden Bear pint on a Thursday afternoon. It was resurrected with a sandwich and a Kunstmann pint (Das Gute Bier) last Wednesday at the Phone Box Pub.
2. Frank Sinatra sang everything.
3. Notwithstanding the fact that somewhere in the U.S. tomatoes are slang for an attractive woman, I love them because of the seeds. Eaten one by one, it`s a culinary art right up there with peeling off grape skins.
4. Los Bunkers are one of the first modern-era rock bands from Latin America that are truly original and aren`t imitating English-speaking bands.

Speaking of language domination in the rock world, it seems like Audioslave is giving a little concert on a little island in the Caribbean. In an open area called the "Anti-Imperialist Tribunal" of all places. I sure hope they load up on cigars on their way out, maybe give a lift to all the people dying to get off the island. Or it might just be that their rock music becomes the inspiration for Cubans to stay on and work at the type of swanky hotel where Mr. Cornell no doubt got that killer tan.

OD-ing on nostalgia...again

2005-04-27T08:48:00.000-07:00

I`m resigned to my fate. My life will forever be intertwined with "Beverly Hills, 90210." I remember watching the first episode back in 4th grade and have been haunted by re-runs ever since. The college and post-college years are lame and not worth considering. The high school years are just kickass. As a hardcore "My so-called-lifer" I recognize that not all high school experiences: 1. include such beautiful people, 2. contain such good lighting, 3. and are interjected with such hip music (anyone remember Jeremy Jordan?). Which is why I throw myself into marathons of Claire Danes` grungy angst with an almost religious fervor. However, sometimes you just want to be entertained. In English.

Speaking of the glorious early 90`s. Jarvis Cocker just sauntered into my life with a voice that at least eight other dudes share on my I-Pod. No worries, who knew that singing about distinct economic classes would get me humming along in public places. Don`t even get me started on The Pogues --another decade, another nostalgia trip.

Perspective

2005-04-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

While I`m trying to figure out how to make my teacher "wish it was full time, but pays like part-time" salary stretch to pay for an apartment and furniture, here`s something to chew on...

Another aimless Friday

2005-04-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

My student cancelled his class this morning, which allowed for another aimless Friday in Santiago. I met up with my American friend Mel at the metro and we went to Pablo Neruda`s house, La Chascona. We were greeted by a gaggle of schoolchildren wearing nametags and green baseball hats. After making our way through the kids we scored tickets to the English tour. Our guide was pretty normal at first, but I saw trouble coming when in the first 15 minutes he dropped the words "activist" and "political" more than "Pablo" or "Neruda". This wouldn`t have been so bad if it hadn`t been for the hippie girl from Pennsylvania who sighed in agreement with every one of Gonzalo`s non-house tour remarks. Mel and I left the tour realizing that the reason why Neruda is such a rock star, unlike Gabriela Mistral (the first woman and Latin American to the win the Nobel Prize), is that he collected lots of crap housed in several estates. Viva la revolucion!