Piscola

Erin says my spanish is improving. I'm very proud. On Sunday we had big plans to go see one of the Museos, because most local museums have free admission on Sunday. We decided, however, to take a different walking route towards the center of the city than we have in past, and we ended up running into about 100 people all dressed in the most flamboyant costumes either of us had ever seen. The women were all completely barelegged, which was impressive, because we were both freezing cold in our heavy jackets. The Museum plan was quickly forgotten, and we followed the costumed people to a small park beside a church. We never really managed to figure out what was going on, but we did learn that it was some sort of Bolivian festival, although every one of the performers was Chilean. It was great to watch, and Erin and I were able to pick up some dancing tips. It turns out that to be a good dancer you need to move your feet. Who knew?!


The next day we woke up ready to complete our quest to see a Chilean museum. We walked all the way down to the center of the city, only to discover that all Chilean museums are closed on Mondays. Erin says she had read that in one of our guidebooks, but had forgotten. Thwarted once again, we went instead to the Plaza de las Armas, which is home to most of Santiago's pickpockets, starving artists, and mediocre street performers. As far as I can tell, almost no one in Chile works on Mondays, because at least half the population of the country was out walking around the plaza and the surrounding areas. We ate lunch in a sandwich shop where I managed to make a bottle of Aji (the favorite condiment in Chile, so we're told) explode all over me, the table, my food, and a wall. The waitress didn't seem to notice.



We returned to our house to once again bump into Diego, the friendly Chilean whose dancing I had accidentally insulted two nights before. He didn't seem to mind, though, and invited us to go to a bar for some drinks. Happy hour in Chile, it turns out, runs up until about 10 or sometimes 11 at night. The Chileans then return home for their evening meal and go out dancing or drinking about midnight or one o'clock. I have no idea when they get home, because neither of us has been awake that long. This does not keep them from getting up before us, although we do have some excuse, because we're both unemployed. Anyway, Diego took us to a little bar near our house, where he apparently plays saxaphone some nights. Afterwards, we went for the national food of Chile, the hot dog. That's right. The hot dog. Chileans love hot dogs, especially covered in avacado, diced tomatoes, and a couple other salsa-type substances whose contents remain a mystery. They're called completos, as if a slab of meat and a bun with various toppings are all you need for a complete, nutritious meal. Afterwards, Diego took us to a liquor store to buy the national beverage of Chile, Pisco and Coke. Together, they call it a Piscola. It's delicious. Back at the house, armed with Piscolas, we ran into a few of the other people who live in the house who were making chili and cornbread and butter cookies in the kitchen. (Yes, making chili in Chile: all the terrible jokes were already made.) We swapped piscolas for food, and had a great time. The Chilenos mostly thought that the chili was pretty gross, although they ate it anyway, and they couldn't understand why anyone would eat "cake" mixed in with their dinner.