New Morning, New Day

It is with great optimism that I greet 2015.  The tumult of 2014 appears to be satisfied with staying in 2014.  Like a dog who nips at your heels until it gets to the end of its territory.   With the filing of divorce papers on January 2, the county clerk's stamp will be the 2015 coda on the slow 2014 funeral march of our marriage.

Soon enough, February 22, 2015 will mark the one-year anniversary of my move from my gracious four-bedroom, three-bath house that I do not miss with even one grain of sentimentality.

That was both a hasty retreat and one that was overdue.  It was with such a sigh of relief to retreat to a modest, one-bedroom apartment in the student ghetto near campus.

My favorite contemporary poet, the deceptively accessible Billy Collins, has a little poem in his volume Ballistics entitled "Divorce":

         Once, two spoons in bed,

         now tined forks

          across a granite table

          and the knives they have hired.

Well, thankfully that does not describe our divorce, at least from my perspective (and I have been reminded of the importance of perspective through all of this).

My lawyer immediately recommended mediation and though it took a long time to set it up, a date was set for us (sporks?) and our lawyers (sheathed knives?) to meet at the mediator's office in one  of those weird office parks designed to look like townhouses and that provide space for a hodgepodge of businesses: soulless suburban places.  No granite table. Rather, me and my knife were in one room stocked with a mini-fridge of drinks and a bowl of Hersey Nuggets (the least the mediator could supply for $275/hour--that's for each of us), and she and her banker-looking knife in another.  The mediator bounced back and forth.  It was all so ordinary for him (a spatula?) and the knives. Extraordinary for me.  Don't know what she thought of it.  Probably never will.

The date of the mediation?  September 4, which just so happened to be our wedding anniversary. Our 21st wedding anniversary.  Divorce mediation scheduled for our last wedding anniversary.  Our marriage was now legal to drink and here we were engaged in its dissipation.  

After that, the divorce was a process of document exchanges.  The most challenging issue was the custody schedule.  Z's choice was two-week cycles with each parent, something my lawyer had never heard of.  The devil is in the details, however, and my lawyer found it impossible to find language that would adequately lay out how the two-week cycle functioned within the complicated framework of holiday visitation that her lawyer put forth.  I offered my lawyer language . . . for free.  In the end, he trusts we will remain sporks.

So 2014 was the year of the divorce.  It started with incredible fireworks over the frigid Pacific waters of Chile seen from the thirteenth floor of our apartment in Viña del Mar on New Year's--January 1.  It saw our departure from Chile on January 2 and our return to the United States on January 3.  February 22's evacuation from the premises.  The sale of our house later that spring for too little money. September 4's mediation.  Full circle to January 2, 2015, submission of papers to an Athens Judge who, as a lowly attorney 12 years ago, helped us adopt Z. A judge in Athens will put asunder what a minister united in Charlotte in 1993.  In the words of Jesus on the cross, "tetelestai."

Travels with Pablo?  You bet.  Because the journey has begun again.  And after a year of traveling in the valley of the shadow of divorce, I see the sun.  And it is warm and bright and beckoning me:  "Look around," it seems to be saying, "isn't it beautiful?"

Stayed tuned for more adventures--on bike and on foot, professional and personal, physical and spiritual, domestic and international.   Carpe fucking diem. 

Santiago

Santiago: yes, with smog but also a great public transportation
system, parks, museums, the tallest building in South America,
the Andes towering over all.  From the top of San Cristobal park.

Lots of songs list cities;  immediately (before my wi-fi disappears!) I'm thinking of  "Dancing in the Streets" (I grew up with Van Halen's version) and Melissa Ferrick's "Welcome to my Life,"  but the song I'm thinking of in terms of Santiago is Steve Earle's "Fort Worth Blues," because it has the line "Houston ain't that bad a town."  Well, I don't think Santiago is either.  Ok, I'm not an authority on the capital of six million souls, but I've been back and forth enough to know that it has as many redeeming factors about it as Atlanta or Detroit do (which presupposes that I don't think they are that bad either).

I guess growing up in Detroit then traveling to other cities, and reading about New Urbanism has lead me to experiencing cities and thinking how they function.  I've always liked thinking about the "syntax" of streets--how the different properties and the building/landscaping on them work together or not.  I have come to understand that mixed-used development was the organic pattern of cities until the proliferation of the private automobile.  I have no delusions about cities:  I know they are magnets for the economically disenfranchised as well as the entrepreneurs, and I know that those two groups aren't mutually exclusive, but that great poverty prevails in huge cities.

Santiago has a few major factors working against it besides it being the hub of this ridiculously elongated country.  The first is that it is in a bowl, like L.A.  Sitting in the bottom of a valley between the coastal mountains and the Andes, pollution is generated in Santiago and stays there. And then there are the earthquakes that periodically erase things.  Still, it has the bones of an exceptional place.  The Mapocho River runs through the city and provides for various bridges that cross the admittedly unappealing channel.  The river also has provided for ample boulevards lined with continuous parks.  San Cristobal is an impressive urban park that gives panoramic views of the city and offers the super ascensor/funicular as well as a running and cycling haven.  Santa Lucia is also an incredible park wedged into the most interesting part of the city.

Skirting Santa Lucia is my favorite street in Santiago--Calle Lastarria.  It is short and meandering.  From La Alameda (properly called O'Higgins), it is easy to miss Lastarria as a minor side street across from Pontificia Universidad Católica, but turn the corner and you are in a European-flavored Latin America neighborhood street of shops, restaurants, pedestrians, calm traffic, bikes, and funky buildings.

The cousin-It building on Calle Lastarria

Co-workers speak of Santiago as I speak of Atlanta (I know I contradict myself), but I think that my repeated trips to it have provided me for a case to appreciate a real city that functions in a difficult location and for a country that has very different circumstances than those that are home to the world's great capitals.

There's a gringo in the house tonight . . .

Zachary's experience in Chile, I think, has been as rich as mine and Erica's.  He's attending St. Paul's School, a Chilean school with a British connection, an English-Spanish emphasis, and an ecumenical orientation. This is a pretty common combination of attributes for the private schools in this area (and perhaps for Chile in general).  Yes, private.

We were told by almost everyone that we needed to send Zachary to a private school because the public school system is underfunded and lacks "an environment conducive to learning." We took the advice and now we have a son who says he wishes he could transplant his Chilean school back home (Yes, we feel a bit guilty about the decision, and I've met one other Fulbrighter who decided to send his kids to public school.  We erred on the side of caution, thinking that for Zachary the adjustments he was going to face didn't necessarily need the variable of a challenging school environment.  Still . . . ).  

Before Erica and Zachary arrived, I toured St. Paul's and Mackay, a school in Reñaca, the town up the coast a bit but the opposite direction from Valparaíso.  Mackay is prestigious and very British.  The three pillars of the institution are academics, English, and Rugby . . . ok, ok, the website says "deporte" (sport), but adds "especially Rugby.

On the wall at Mackay: the scrummag

Old Mackay in the foreground.  The Cranbrook of Chile?

St. Paul's is on the southern side of the Marca Marca--away from the more tourist/beach section we live in, but an easy commute in the morning.

Colegio St. Paul's, Merced Oriente near Aqua Santa.  Vina del Mar

For a lot of reasons, including the fact that Mackay's is all boys, we chose St. Paul's.  And I think that the fact that St. Paul's is co-ed has been an important part of Zachary's experience because Zachary is very, very popular with las chicas.

Erica tells the tale of them visiting St. Paul's soon after their arrival.

They were sitting on the steps by the covered basketball/soccer/handball/cueca court.  A bell rang and kids swarmed out.  Zachary was instantly surrounded by Chilean school girls asking him a range of questions--"Who are you?" "Where are you from?" "Are you going to attend this school?"  "What grade are you in?"  "Do you know One Direction?" Zachary:  deer in headlights.

So, last night was a fundraiser party.  A dance.  From 8pm-midnight for 6th-12th graders at the school.  Zachary was nervous (in his own "it's cool.  I'm not nervous" way).  He wanted to know how he looked.  He wanted to know exactly what Erica had heard about what kids could and couldn't wear.  He wanted me to smell his face . . . .

Z in his new, self-selected shirt

 When we got to St. Paul's, he chattered away and we heard Iyaz's "Replay." I told him that Erica and I had decided to go to the party too and that we were going to dance in the middle of the room.  He said that wasn't even funny.  Nor was my question of whether he wanted me to sing "Replay."  We started up the stairs with him, but he was greeted by a bouncing young lady who said his name and who was soon joined by other young ladies.  Zachary was enveloped in a ring of lovely Chilean girls and led into the festivities.  He did not look back.  He did not say good-bye.  He was gone.  A picture posted on Instragram shows him as the social animal that he is.

He wanted to have us on-call in case he wanted to bail during the night, but we didn't hear anything.  We headed back up Aqua Santa in time to pick him up at midnight.  When we met him coming down the stairs, he didn't have anything to say.  He was a bit flushed.  He was also wiped out from a long day.  A long, very good day of growing into his own skin.  Of having a life apart from us and somewhat unknown to us, though an innocent enough life given the nature of the school.  He's a kid whom other kids, not just girls but also boys, like and respect.  He's a cool kid.  And I think this experience in Chile will prepare him to face new and unfamiliar situations with a confidence in who he is and how to communicate with others.  That's worth the stay down here all by itself.

Chile's 9/11

This week Chile celebrates independence from Spain with three days of Fiestas Patrias, though there was evidence late last week that lots of folks got an early start.  Chilean flags are everywhere, and activities abound.  There was a little cognitive dissonance the week before because Fiestas Patrias comes right after the commemoration of their own 9/11.  In fact, Chile just commemorated the 40th anniversary of the overthrown of the Allende government by the Chilean military.

Poster for 9/11/13 Demonstration in Valparaíso

What followed was 17 years of the Pinochet dictatorship that was characterized by well-known oppression and less talked-about economic development.  That dichotomy marks the ambivalence that of the 9/11 commemoration.  As explained to me by the one person I go for explaining all thing Chilean, the Allende government was trying to do too much too fast without enough support.  While the overthrow was unjustified, there were serious issues that led to coup, so says my friend.  What happened as a result of the coup was unequivocally horrible: general oppression, detentions, torture, disappearances, and . . .  killings.  Then, in 1989, there was a vote, yes a VOTE ("forced" by  international pressure), which compelled Pinochet to step down even though he stayed in the government.

Photo from an exhibit at PUC-V on 9/10/13 showing
a  demonstration to encourage people tovote "NO"
on whether the Pinochet regime should be
given more years in power.  

Chile went the path of South Africa, and decided not to pursue war crimes perpetrators. Amnesty. And some of those "forgiven" are still in the government.  My friend, with evident pain on his face, asked me to imagine a grandfather sitting with his grandchild at a restaurant and seeing the man who detained and tortured him at the table across the room with his grandchild.  That's the residual pain that is at the heart, it seems to me, of the Chilean commendation of September 11, 1973.

Chileans are confronting their past.  As I have already mentioned, there is a very fine Museum of Memory in Santiago that is dedicated not only to the coup and its aftermath but also, more generally, to the topic of international human rights.  This balance of the general and the particular is just one of the things about the museum that it truly striking.  Another is the use of video from that day showing the coverage of the coup. Most inconceivable, at least to me, is the video of Chilean jets bombing the Chilean presidential building, La Moneda, in the center of Santiago.

Another picture from PUC-V exhibit.  The coup was televised.

At another station, a visitor can hear Salvador Allende's final message to the Chilean people as heard on the radio.  

One small detail from that day that I have since learned is that Allende ultimately shot himself with a gun that was a gift from Fidel Castro.  

Chile has come a long way since those dark days of 9/11/73 and the 17 years of Pinochet's facism, and they have come out the other side with a distinct and palpable national pride.   There seems to be a more clear-eyed and nuanced understanding of their past than we have in the States, but that may be because I admire the hard-working but graciously modest people whom I have encountered since arriving in mid-July.

From PUC-V exhibit, a poster reminding people of
the "disappeared" during Pinochet's reign. I learned
of Pinochet from the Sting song "The Dance Alone"

I hope I have not misrepresented Chile's past in this post, but I have found it very moving to be here during this time.  While the events of 9/11/73 and its aftermath still affect Chile, I find Chileans deeply proud of their country as evidenced by the preponderance of tri-color flags adorning the country.  So I end by saying "¡Vive Chile!"  y "Felices Fiestas Patrias!"

Tempus fugit!

Time indeed flees.

I could feel guilty about not posting more, though "guilty" isn't the right word.  Perhaps "undisciplined" is a better one.  But, I've decided that blogging is something that I do when I have time.  As Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his essay "The American Scholar," "Books are for the scholar's idle times."  Perhaps blogging is too. Because during the last few weeks there has been precious few idle times.

So many things have happened that I feel like this is kind of a "catch-up" posting, but so many things have happened that I feel such an entry would be merely listing.

For instance, one man that I encountered on the street in Viña de Mar deserves his own blog post.  I encountered him on my walk from the hospital (more on that later) to work on Avenida Libertad.  He was a too common type on the street:  a scraggly charismatic type who seemed to be hawking something for a meager payout, like many of the "independent entrepreneurs" who sell random things off a blanket on the sidewalk or who entertain drivers stopped at traffic lights with juggling or break dancing.  Because Chilean "Español de la calle" is still a mystery to me, I couldn't quite understand what his intention was when he held up two long, galvanized nails in his hands in front of any random person he encountered.  Being the good gringo that I was, I didn't stop to find out or much less make eye contact.  But fate brought him to me.  Stopped at the light on the corner of Libertad and 1 Norte, I felt a person brush pass me and stand in front of the unsuspecting young couple next to me.  The man in question held up the two nails, one in each hand, and said something.  He then proceeded to insert one of the nails into his nostril in a perpendicular fashion.  He wasn't so much inserting the nail up his nose as into his skull.  This is the sort of thing from which I can't ignore nor turn away.  But he still had the other nail, right?  That one followed the first one.  There stands the man, two nails sticking out of his nostril while a wide grin spreads below them.  I felt like the best thing for me to do at that point was simply to hand him a 500 peso coin and proceed across the bridge.

That's what I mean.  That was just a random episode.  While more colorful than most, it is representative of the surprise that I encounter every day.   Fortunately, the vast majority of those surprises are delightful and edifying.

Such was the case of the the four days I had in Santiago meeting with and getting to know the other 11 Fulbright Scholars in Chile for this semester.

Fulbright Scholars with some family and Fulbright Chile staff at Concho y Toro Vineyards

 After having the pleasure of sitting on a selection committee with Fulbright Chile Executive Director, Antionio Campaña (first row, furthest left) and Cultural Agregada from the US Embassy, Mary Sue Fields (not pictured), I got to enjoy hearing what the other Fulbrighters are doing in Chile this term.  Humbling, as in "how in the hell did I get in a group like this?" Then there was a family day where folks joined together for a trip the Maipo Valley to visit the Concho y Toro vineyards and to eat at a traditional restaurant.  Great experience and so interesting to return to Santiago after a few weeks in Viña.  I think this is the first time in my travels that I've ever returned to a city that I had visited before;  unlike Copenhagen or Amsterdam or any of the other cool places I've had the privilege of visiting once and not yet returning, I re-entered Santiago with a confidence that made the trip relaxing.

As it turns out, the week that I was in Santiago was the same time that some of Erica's family had planned to visit in order to go skiing, so Zachary and Erica were up in the Andes while I was in Santiago.

That's when things took a turn.  Erica got a nasty infection, cellulitus, and had to be hospitalized.  Our first foray was into the Urgenia at Universidad Catolica in Santiago followed by an admission to Clinica Cuidad del Mar in Viña.   Despite the sunny disposition evident in this photo:

this was a very hard week for Erica.  Z and I had to step up and find a way to function without our fearless leader.    All is well and Erica is back at home recovering nicely, but, damn, what a week.

So I close with a picture from before the whirlwind of the last couple of weeks.  Before Santiago and our adventures in the Chilean health care system (which was excellent, by the way), we had a great day exploring Valparaiso with Erica's family.  This is probably going to be the family Christmas picture, but I also hope that it is a positive harbinger of good times to come for us as we enter our second month of our sojourn in this great country. 

PUC-V: A Variation on a Theme

Art on the interior wall of main entrance of PUC-V off of Avenida Brasil

The Casa Central of PUC-Valparaiso bears more than a passing resemblance to its big sibling in Santiago, though--like Valpo itself--it is a little more rough around the edges and more interesting.  I can't claim any sort of authority on the matter, but there seems to be a bit less smugness at PUC-V and a more welcoming spirit.  Regardless of the accuracy of that judgment, I really, really like working here.

Situated on the corner of Avenida Argentina and Avenida Brasil, Casa Central is an imposing and dignified anchor to the flat Plan of southern Valpo, far away from the much-praised Cerros or hills that make Valparaiso a draw. 


Like its more-renowned older brother in the capital, PUC-V's interior has a hushed, cloistered atmosphere that blocks out the measured chaos of local buses--collectivas or micros--vendors and the ubiquitous street dogs just beyond the threshold.

Just like any college in the States, student enthusiasm generates a lot of energy.  The bulletin boards are covered in fliers for organizational meetings and events, concerts, and apartment rentals.  On Wednesday, a collection of Vegan groups set up in the central coffee and snack area.  Squint really hard and it could be just another day in the Tate Center court.

Tucked away on the third floor, off of an inauspicious foyer, are the offices of Curriculum and Formative Development of which the Unit for the Improvement of University Teaching is a part.  The folks in these offices will be my colleagues for the next five months, and I feel very fortunate to be able to call them such.  On my first Monday, there was reception for me that featured a home-made confection lovingly prepared by one of my new friends, and today they treated me and my family to lunch, fellowship, and general hospitality.

While the teaching issues and faculty development work are very familiar to me, the unique circumstances, culture, and challenges make this a novel and exciting opportunity.  One unexpected perk is free lunch in the University's casino.  Every day around noon, gracious Lorena comes around to pass out tickets for almuerzo, and around 1:30, folks from the office who can make it head down to the basement for a lunch of basic Chilean fare:  cazuelo, pasteles de papas, sopas, ensaladas composed of highly segregated vegetables, pan, and a postre--today was flan.

The day starts at 9.  Lunch at 1:30.  Work until 6 after which the streets feels a bit like New York City with people rushing to catch buses or the Metro.

I work in a office with three other people that looks out on the Chilean Congress building, which is housed in Valpo while the other seats of government are in Santiago, a legacy of Pinochet. 

Today was a big day: my first faculty development session, a four-hour workshop that kicked off a module on teaching for learning for 22 faculty working on their diplomas in University teaching.   Tomorrow, I'm looking forward to a fun-weekend exploring the Valpo hills with E and Z who arrived last Sunday.  It will be a nice breather from a packed week.

Portillo para esquiar

Two years ago, I had the great good fortune to consult in Chile.  Once in a lifetime, right?  In the past, I had been asked to consult in places like Charlotte or Atlanta.  In an attempt to make the most of this unique opportunity, I tried to fit in as much as I could, including short trips to Viña del Mar and Valparaiso, a wine tour in  the Maipo Valley, a hike up La Campaña--a mountain in the coastal range that Darwin visited, and trekking up to the lake below El Moradao--a natural monument in the Andes.  That day, just me and a guide, was one of the finest days of my life.  In "mindfulness" terms, it was a day when I felt fully "present," fully aware of what I was experiencing, not thinking of much of anything else except the landscape and the feeling gratitude to be in it.  In the "being" mode.  

Me with my guide hiking to El Morado in 2011.

I assumed that I would never return to the Andes.  No way.  As Wordsworth says about the memory of the landscape in "Tinturn Abbey," that day in the Andes was a signature day that would pass "into my purer mind / With tranquil restoration," that I would remember when I was "in lonely rooms, and mid the din / Of towns and cities . . . [and] / In hours of weariness."  

Not only have I returned to Chile, but I have returned to the Andes.  I joined three other leftovers from the conference to ski at Portillo. 
Portillo is at the end of an incredibly engineered road that reminds me of Alp d'Huez from the Tour de France.  One yellow hotel looks out at Inca lake at the base of mountains that loom very large.  

We lucked out in terms of weather.  The day before was cold and windy with very poor visibility.  We had, well, the opposite.

The last time I had skied was before I was a parent.  Zachary is now 11.  I was by far the worst skier of the four that included an almost 70-year-old emeritus Harvard professor.  The two Johns, one from Denmark and one from South Carolina, were good enough to try even the most difficult runs and the virgin powder accessible from the main "pistas." 

You've got some good human figures to provide perspective in this shot.  The group of three skiers, two from our party, are about to be catapulted up to the top of this hill using a very fast pulley lift.  Midway up, between the diverging line that mark the skiers' path up the hill, there's a speck that is a person.  This was very steep and very powdery.  I watched.  

What none of us could figure out was why there were so few skiers.  It was Sunday during the high season, and yet we never waited for a lift.  We returned to Santiago with the delightful weariness of a day well-spent moving outside with congenial companions.  In the best possible way, it was as ideal a Hemingway day as I've had.

Far from the Madding Crowd

Known more as a summer destination for Santiguinos seeking sun and sand, Viña del Mar is a busy place even in the dead of winter when the beaches are largely empty. Even though it is Chile's fourth largest city, with around 300,000 residents, Viña feels smaller than that, probably because it is geographically compact and densely populated.  Our apartment is in a somewhat newer part of town along some darn-nice beach and equidistance from the 1930s-era casino and the 2012 cluster of mid-rise malls--ten-minutes walk either way.   Here's the view from the apartment:

The Marca Marca creek separates the more tourist-oriented side of Viña from the old Centro.  Avenida Valparaiso is the main drag through the Centro, and it has a mix of shops and restaurants that stretch away from the coast to Plaza Vergara.  I imagine that before the new commercial developments to the south, this was the principal shopping district, but tucked away just north of this node of activity is the biggest surprise that Viña has so far revealed: Parque Quinta Vergara--a quiet escape from the Manhattan-like pedestrian and vehicle traffic of the Centro.

The Italianate mansion was the home of one of the rich Vergaras who eventually ceded it to the city for an arts facility.  It is under renovation now but that doesn't diminish the grand architecture situated in a mature, manicured garden.  Around an adjacent topiary garden, there are poems by Latin American poets engraved on marble slabs including, por supuesto, a good sampling of Gabriela Mistral and Pablo Neruda.   Here's one that includes a fragment of Miguel Luis Rocuant's "The Tree's Dream":

And here is my tortured attempt to translate just the first stanza.  This is should be pretty funny to any Spanish-speaking readers.  I tried to put these four lines into a little more harmonious English than my initial literal translation. Anybody out there is more than welcome to correct my butchering of what I'm sure is a beautiful image.  Here goes:

The Spring Tree, stiff and light

Shimmering with Autumn's frost,

Awakes and stirs,

Believing is some flowering return.

I'm not going to tell you how long it took me come up with that!

Off in the trees were swarms of these squeaky hummingbirds with blazes of red on their heads.  As I watched a creek tumble over some rocks, they would swoop in and hover to drink and dart away again.   Going to Parque Quinta Vergara after the whirlwind of this week in Viña provided me with a little respite to remind myself how damn fortunate I am to be here and to have this opportunity.