I only had to cross the equator and then some to discover que mi vida entera has been a sham. In the lugar that is the mirror image of my own home, in that it is roughly equidistant from the equator, I have allergies. I remember as a child feeling less than special for not having mis propios sneezes, watering eyes, hives etc. I couldn't reject peanuts, chocolate, flowers, or anything for any reason other than my own trivial nature. I am sure now that I was driven to be so fussy by my lack of allergies. God mandated that the other kids should avoid certain things at all costs, or suffer the consequences. Sure, no locusts were involved, but a throat that swells shut has always seemed like a hefty punishment to me. I, on the other hand, demanded my own special status, and decided for myself what I would and would not eat.
Now when I am finally beginning to grow a voice, higher than the one I remember, a little more prone to wide flux of tone, I am being robbed of it. La brisa ha cambiado, el polvo blanco de lo orgánico (lo que existe en esta puta ciudad) vaga en el aire - y me siento el cosquilleo de su presencia en la garganta. I have walked around for days with hardly a voice to share, even though I finally have things to say. I became less picky around the time I became allergic to cats, now that I finally have another allergy to my name I wonder what else I will deign to eat: bananas… peas… meat? Until I find out where the blessing part of this disguise comes in, I will continue to shake my fist in anger at the white bits of fluff. Perhaps they are the culprits, although they may just be a scapegoat. Nonetheless, I would wipe them all out with one swift kick if I could.
Living in another country, or I suppose even just a new neighborhood, means solving all of life's mysteries over again. What gives me allergies? The white fluffs of course. A man on the street was selling two pens, two swords and a pair of binoculars. He sells these things a lot, maybe he has a lot of them and likes the symmetry of this particular configuration, or maybe everyone else is, like me, unwilling to distort the strange sense of balance this implies, even if it means passing up the opportunity to own their very own lethal weapon. I don't know what it means, but it almost pleases me more than the wheelbarrows brimming with strawberries, and the strange way that other vendors chant "palta" so quickly that it almost becomes something entirely different - a sound not quite human.
I wondered for some time why so many beautiful, friendly stray cats live in this park like lot on my way to the metro. One day, I came home at the right time of day, and discovered that at that exact hour, every day of the week, a kind looking eccentric man wheels a large burgundy suitcase to the fence, unzips it, and scoops cat food directly out of the bag. This suitcase does not contain boxes of cat food, nor even bags, it itself is absolutely filled with cat food. I felt a little like Nico discovering the secret of the photo booth man.
I puzzled for months about why every night there is a show of lights on the building down the street, the corner of McIver and the Alameda, turns out all along it has been the flash of the times square monstrosity TV screen flashing against the building directly in front of it.
Another day my heart was warmed when I observed that my favorite neighborhood street dog is not only fed by that restaurant on the corner, but has her nails clipped by the man who runs the adjacent kiosk.
I have recently learned that springtime in Santiago signifies not an upsurge in human coupling, necessarily, but certainly the appearance of more and more kittens and puppies on campus. In the arms of students, lugged into classes and computer labs alike. I enjoy that so much of my experience in a concrete jungle relies upon creatures with four legs. Thank you Santiago for making the unexpected expected, and vice versa; for turning the ugliness into beauty; for reminding me that even though I live here doesn't mean that I am obliged to start taking everything for granted.
School is a little overwhelming, but somehow I am getting it all taken care of. When I have a stolen free moment, I tinker - it beats sleep, that's for certain. Me siento el orgullo de productividad en vez de la culpabilidad de no hacer nada cuando hay demasiado que debo hacer. I move tomato plants from here to there in my makeshift garden, killing a few while the others grow every day more magnificent. I knit; I read stories about places further away from home than even I am. I enjoy my time in my makeshift garden, I tomar a bit of sol. More than anything else, preferiría quedarme en casa, con un libro, cómoda en la terraza, rodeada por el olor verde de cosas creciendo; sintiendo el cariño de sol sin ozono lo que no besa el piel sino lo quema y esperando el recuerdo rosado de un sábado pasado bien. I have also been honing my culinary skills; I am starting slow, but dreaming of pairing watermelon with ginger and sweet potatoes with lime. I know it sounds strange, but trust me.
