fresh, whole beans from one of my favorite olymia coffee joints. they were an unexpected package from a friend back home — not a really close friend, but a friend for whom i have a deep respect and admiration. a young, successful entrepreneur, coffee afficianado — a great gift from a great person.

there’s just one problem — i’ve no way to grind the capitol blend.

in some ways, then, santiago certainly wasn’t what i expected. when i first imagined myself in santiago over two years ago, i imagined grading tests while taking in a cup of south american coffee. this dream realized, however, left me wholly surprised and confused at finding only instant nescafe — a bitter, disgusting, barely drinkable concoction with a fraction of the caffeine needed to give me a jolt large enough to last through the day.

sure, i’m an addict. and santiago offers little in the way of getting a fix.

the real coffee is muy caro, and the coffee makers and french presses, and bean grinders, and other various accouterments necessary for any coffee snob are hard to find and many pesos above their american value. it’s an expensive habit to keep here.

just another misconception. when you dream, it’s hard to imagine what reality will be like.

i never pictured missing home. i never imagined that problems that could affect me so deeply would arise in the place i left behind. i didn’t see missing a boyfriend. i couldn’t fathom missing some of the best friends a girl could ask for. it never occurred to me that it would be cold, and that indoor heating would be a luxury left  in the states.

all i saw was something different. something that didn’t involve cleaning up dresssing rooms, doorbelling, crazy constituents, an unhappy relationship, and people i didn’t know or even really like.

of course, i didn’t expect all of that to change — i didn’t expect the great job that i mostly loved, the job offers that i turned down, or the loves that i left behind.

and, then i didn’t expect half of the joy i found here in reality. the friendships that might just last a lifetime, the students who bring smiles to my face every day, the joy i get when a struggling student finally comes to grasp what i’m saying — i had no idea that it would be so gratifying.

things aren’t always what we expect. they’re seldom as picturesque and pretty as we see them in our minds, and when we expect one thing to go wrong, it’s usually another.

such is life, and such is the nature of living out your dreams. while it’s nothing that i imagined, it’s everything that i imagined. it’s not a finely ground percolator, simple and left to its own devices — it’s a coarse ground french press. the beans need to be ground by hand, and the coffee timed for optimal strength, acidity, and flavor. it required a slow hand to separate the ground beans from the hot liquid. constant care, constant vigilance.

so what to do about my whole beans? a hammer might work. a swift series of whacks to release the flavor, aroma, and sweetness of the beans.

sometimes such subtle flavors can only be achieved by something as extreme as that.

UPDATE: hammering beans into something worthy of being drinkable seems to have failed. boo coffee tinted water

I was told about you. In my first week of absolute joy here in Chile, a friend who’d studied here before warned me about you. “You’re happy now,” she told me. “But for us last year, it was the three month mark. At three months we were all really homesick.”

And now, at three months to the day, I find myself aching a bit more than before. I’m thinking about home, and my friends there, my family there, the life that is sitting in wait for my return. I miss my dog, and hugs from the arms of those who mean the most to me. I miss shopping at Target with my mom, judging awful clothes with my best friends, grabbinaburr and laughing the night away with my friends.

A part of me even misses my work back home — my work that I claim to abhor back when I’m in the thick of it. I miss driving and meeting new people, strategizing and criticizing the idiocy of our government with people who understand what’s happening in the same way I do. I miss feeling like I’m good at something, or at the very least, like I’m learning to be good at something.

And, God, I miss being able to understand people. In the words of Kate Nash, I hate not being able to articulate precisely what I want to say, it drives me crazy. Every single day is a struggle to be understood and to understand the world around me. In this struggle, there is no eavesdropping, there’s no chatting up random strangers, and there´s the fear that I’ll get stuck in a pickle with no way to explain the problem or talk myself out of it. That’s a seriously scary idea.

It’s not that I’m not learning the language — I definitely am. However, really learning, absorbing, and understanding the language requires a bit more than simply being around it or learning vocabulary. Well, knock me over. I really thought it would be that simple.

A couple of weeks ago, I was telling someone a story. I was taking a ferry from Seattle to the Tacoma area, but had accidentally boarded the wrong ferry. I ended up on Vashon Island. My friend asked me what I did about it. Simple: I told the man who sold tickets my dilemma. He told me to wait for 25 minutes and the ferry I needed would take me the rest of the way.

As I told the story, I thought inwardly, “How on earth was I able to communicate with this man? How was I able to tell him my dilemma and understand his solution? I don’t even know the word ‘ferry’ in Spanish!”

And then I remember: right, he was speaking English. Because in the US, everyone speaks the same language that I do. In the US, if my doorman were to call and tell me my door was open, I would close my door, rather than simply hang up the phone and stare at it in confusion. Why did he keep saying “door” and “open”? It wouldn’t take two minutes for that simple sentence to click back home.

It’s easy for me to write all of these problems off and focus on the good I’ve built for myself here. I have a great apartment with an awesome, totally agreeable roommate. I have a bunch of really great friends. I have fun and laughter and learning around me every single day.

But the honest truth is that I´m starting to really miss my home. The heartache is becoming a bit more nagging and a bit more steady with each day. I miss it every single day and I think about it every single day.

I’m not sad, though. Not at all. I’m not sad to be here and I’m not sad to have this experience. It’s an odd thing, really — to miss everything at home even though I’m genuinely happy where I am. I have a beautiful life at home. And I have a beautiful life here in Santiago.

Yesterday, one of the TIPS that I work with asked me, as I watched her pack up her things from her last class, “Are you in a slump? I’m in a slump.” We proceeded to talk for a bit and she mentioned that the three-month slump is universal with the people in her program. And then she said, “But it has me thinking a lot about my purpose here. You know, like, what the hell am I doing here?”

And I couldn’t have said it any more clearly. What the hell am I doing here?

When I first left, I claimed to have no purpose. I claimed that I simply wanted to come here because my favorite writers inspired the idea.

I’m not saying that isn’t true, not by a long shot. Isabel Allende and Mark Twain definitely lit the spark. But they didn’t start the fire.

What did? What on earth made me abandon my family and friends during some of the most exciting times in their lives so that I could live in this little ribbon of a country? What the hell am I doing here?

Despite my constantly running mind, I haven’t yet figured it out. Maybe I will tomorrow. Or next week. Maybe it won’t become clear until I leave here, seven months from now. Maybe it’ll be a couple of years after that.

Or, maybe, despite my thinking about it and writing about it and obsessing about it — maybe it’ll never become clear. And maybe that’s okay, too.

My friend said something else. “By the time we got to five months in, all we could think was ‘why the hell did we spend so much time being homesick three months in?’”

I’m sure I’ll get to that point. For now, I just gotta ride out the slump. Shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve been ready for it, after all.

There’s been a lot of crying on my end this week, making an incredibly off one in contrast to my usually very content, rarely over-emotional self.

We’re past the honeymoon stage in out stay here in Chile. The thrill of living abroad has officially faded into a fairly dull routine reality. I’m starting to miss little luxuries from home — Target, tacos, free refills. I’m forgetting what a world is like where I can communicate with everyone, rather than a tiny percentage. Then there’s the family thing — missing Mother’s Day and my niece’s first birthday in the same week, in addition to missing my friends and boyfriend back home — it’s all left a dull ache that I’m simply not familiar with.

But it was really not enough to cry about. I mean, I deal with little sadnesses easily enough. I’m tough.

Then I had my first teaching observation. As far as I know, it came out of nowhere — no one else I knew had been observed, and I didn’t even know they were doing observations. I had a boring, really lame lesson planned for my advanced class. Only half the class showed up. None of them did their homework.

So when it came time for the meeting with my director afterward, I wasn’t expecting a glowing lovefest with champagne and praise.

But I wasn’t exactly expecting the number he gave me: 61/130. Like, that’s my score.

As he started down the checklist, all I could think was, if I suck at my job, then why the fuck am I here? Seriously? I have a family and a lot of friends who love me back at home. I have so many connections that I could easily find a job that I’m good at, even if I hate it.

So then I started crying. In out meeting. I just started sobbing as he took me down the checklist, explaining things that I had done wrong, or badly. And of course, when someone points out that you’re crying, the embarrassment makes it that much harder to stop. He asked me if I was happy here in Chile.

I nodded. I managed to stammer out a string of words: “Yes…I have…a lot of great…friendsssssssssssss here.”

To which he told me that some teachers have come up to him with concern for me — I just look sad all the time apparently.

Untrue, I think. I mean, I’m one of the TIPS that is constantly happy. It just didn’t make sense to me. But of course, it’s hard to really refute that rumor when I’m sobbing over your desk over a routine observation.

After I left, I Skyped Jeremy and then my mom, which made me feel a lot better about everything — even the mountain of paperwork I had left to do because it had been “neglected” (read: I never received the paperwork in the first place) over the entire semester.

The next day, I received an e-mail from my TIPS coordinator — she wanted to meet with me and talk about how she could “support” me. At first, I rolled my eyes, wanting to shout at her through the screen that I am not depressed! I scheduled a meeting anyway.

So last night, I trudged on over to Providencia to meet with my coordinator. I wasn’t really nervous having met her before — she was one of the nicest people I’ve met here in Chile. As we sipped beers in the cool night, she explained to me that my observation shouldn’t have been conducted in that kind of way — it should have been more constructive and numbers shouldn’t have even been involved. In turn, I explained to her that I’m actually very happy here.

All fixed.

So I went home, turned on the TV to see that Ghostbusters was playing, and in English at that. I was getting absorbed in it when Jenna told me to come over. Sure, there were protests happening outside her house, but the party was going to start soonish and she wanted to borrow a shirt.

I looked out my window when I heard chanting to see a march of people a block over. Protesters. They’d been out all week. On Monday, I had walked into the aftermath of some tear gas on Alameda — nothing serious, just slightly stinging eyes and nose. Thursday, I heard rumors of fires on Alameda and ruckus demonstrations.

Chileans love to protest. There are demonstrations for schools (school systems are terribly underfunded here), prices for the Metro (which are disproportionately high here, to be fair) and just about everything in between.

Right now, Chileans are up in arms about the vote to install hydroelectric dams in the last remaining wilderness — Patagonia. Despite the fact that more than 60% of the population disapproves of their installation, and there are other options for renewable energy sources, the government decided to put ‘em in anyway.

On a sidenote — funny how politics are the same fucking everywhere. The say-one-thing-do-another-once-elected shenanigans are rampant in all parts of the world. As much as I’ve tried to keep my nose out of the politics here, I’m drawn in anyway. But I guess that’s just the story of my life.

Anyway, finally dressed, looking adorable, I walk to Jenna’s using a different street than the one I usually take — as that one was filled with protesters. I stopped to pick up some liquor a block away from her house. The botilleria was at the corner where protesters were turning from Portugal to Curico. I was walking in the opposite direction when I noticed that people had their shirts and scarves pulled up over their faces. Figuring they were just being precautionary, since it seemed like a fairly tame march, I marched on.

Soon, I smelled it. And seconds later, I felt it. My eyes stung and every breath in burned terribly. It wasn’t unbearable at first. I walked on at my same pace, trying to hold my breath.

It got worse. My entire face started to hurt, and I broke into a run. Jenna’s apartment building wasn’t even a block away, but it felt like a mile. Tears — actual tears! — started falling. When I finally got to Jenna’s building, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I shook on the gate, begging to be let in.

When I finally got up to her apartment on the 15th floor, I yelled “I REALLY LIVE IN CHILE NOWWW.” I found Jenna and Mel in the same state as myself — mascara running everywhere, red puffy faces. Well, for Mel. Jenna was fine.

They had me breathe into a cotton towel, which helped immensely. It took several minutes, but soon I was able to keep my eyes open for a picture.

All recovered, and eye makeup reapplied, we were able to continue the party. That’s just life in Chile, I guess. And really — I’m not sad about that.

Pop quiz. One of these photos was taken last July on a camping trip in Winthrop, Washington. The other was taken this past weekend in Pucon, Chile. The distance between these two points is 6,750 miles. So which one was taken in Washington, and which was taken in Chile?

This question bothered me the whole weekend of my first excursion out of Santiago since my arrival over two months ago. Pucon is a small town about eight hours south of Santiago. Nestled between Lake Villarrica and Volcan Villarrica, it’s an obvious attraction for tourists since it’s rife with activities to keep you occupied for days.

My Chilean friends kept teasing me about choosing a “Gringo Town” for my first trip out of Santiago. A friend of a friend who has been here for a while told us to avoid Pucon, as it was expensive for Chile. All of which is true — it was a very expensive weekend and there were plenty of tourists, gringo and otherwise.

But I contend that there is a reason that some places attract tourists. And again, Pucon was no exception.

Unfortunately, we came during a crappy weekend. Waking up on the bus a few hours outside Pucon, I watched the grey skies atop evergreen — EVERGREEN! — trees. I felt odd, knowing that I was driving south, south, south into South America, and yet the landscape so closely resembled my home so far north. When we finally got off the bus and made our way to the hostel, we avoided down branches and puddles of water. We were wading through the aftermath of a storm, that wasn’t a question.

And though the worst of it had been the night before, the rain continued, the wind continued, and the cold continued. This ruined the plan for hiking Volcan Villarrica, one of the main attractions to Pucon.

So on day one, we settled into the hostel recommended to us by our program. It was easy to see why it was recommended — not only were the beds very warm and comfortable, but the proprietor, Gloria, was incredibly helpful and gracious. At her suggestion, we went on a tour that took us to a few waterfalls and Lake Villarrica before ending at some hot springs.

The next day, we thought we’d be able to hike the volcano. We started up with our guides, looking extremely cute in our matching snowsuits. The van got stuck at some point, and we were told we’d have to turn around. That we did.

The rest of the day, we wandered Pucon, exploring the shops and weekend market. I was really happy to pick up a hat, some socks, and gloves all made from alpaca wool, for incredibly cheap. All three things were absolutely necessary for the wind chill that was a lot even for this northwest girl.

That night, some Argentinian guys were staying at the hostel. We hung out with them, taught them American drinking games, and went out to a bar. A mostly quiet, fun night for such a small town.

On day three, Kortnee and I braved the cold and rain and went rafting anyway down Trancura Rio. Rafting is absolutely one of my favorite things to do, and this river was no disappointment — there were some seriously fantastic rapids, and though I was absolutely freezing, it was definitely the most fun part of my trip. A great way to spend my “last day.”

Except that it wasn’t my last day. Amy and I missed our bus home.

The next day was boring. The others were finally able to climb the volcano, so Amy, who had been sick since Saturday, and I simply hung around the hostel, played on the Internet, and watched TV. Really boring, but at least we got to really see the volcano for the first time — that was worth it.

Honestly, as far as expectations went, this trip was a bit of a disaster. But those are always fun when you have the right people around. And I can at least say that I had that.

And here are some other gems from the trip. If it was a disaster, it was certainly a beautiful disaster.

Lago Azul

Lake Villarrica

Jenna, me, Amy, and Kortnee cooling off in the rain.

Jenna, me, and Kortnee showing off our alpaca hats.

With that out of the way, it’s worth noting that I’ve passed the two month mark now. It was almost an entire year ago that I decided to embark on this adventure, and now, here I am.

This past week, I’ve been a bit homesick. I miss certain parts of being home. I’m so desperately looking forward to all of the great things I have planned for when I get back that I was starting to ache for this experience to be over.

I’m not sure if being in a place the looked, smelled, and felt like home helped or hurt me in that. I was able to indulge a little in the feeling of being in the place I call home without actually leaving Chile. Maybe it helped. All I know is that, at the very least, I’m happy to be home in Santiago. The traffic is noisy outside, my room is cluttered, and I have lessons to plan. But it’s nice to have a home here in this world so far south of my real home.

A couple of weeks ago, I was hanging out at a hostel with one of Amy’s friends. We were chatting with a couple of girls who were travelling around South America by themselves. I mentioned something about TV here and they looked at me funny. “You watch TV here? You’re in South America!”

Yes, but I live here. I plan to travel as much as possible, but in the meantime, I have to teach. I have downtime. I have things I need to do, and I have time to kill. And honestly? I like it that way. It’s some semblance of normalcy in this upside down world.

Oh, and as for the pop quiz — the top picture was from Pucon, and the second was from Washington last summer.