It all started back in high school. I was the six foot nine, skinny, big eared and big nosed basketball player trying to become accepted and make it to the next level. I lived and breathed basketball. I did all the right things and avoided all the wrong things. Usually, about the second year of high school is when experimenting with the wrong things start for most teenagers. Maybe in the beginning it was only a drag of a cigarette or a sip of alcohol. A few years after the initial taste and usage, it seemed to always lead to more powerful things; weed, pain pills, etc. For me, basketball was my drug all I needed to get by. Having height and basketball talent, I knew I could possibly earn a scholarship for college. Only the wrong things would stop me. So I did my best: studied hard, worked hard, put in extra time to give myself the best chances of succeeding. While being quite shy as a 16 year old, I avoided the weekend partying and drinking. I saw on television and the news that it could only have a negative effect on my life. I had a few good friends and we instead chose computer games and soda. This was my first year on Varsity, our team was top 24 in the nation. I was being seen as a talented young prospect. Yet, I wanted more out of life and to somehow break out of my shell. Meeting new friends and becoming a little more less pussified came with the success of basketball. Then, about halfway through my sophomore year in high school, I was to do the unthinkable. I would get a little risky and attend my first high school party. If you think back to your first high school party, it must still be one of your fondest memories. It’s a big step for anyone’s teenage livelihood, we all seem to grow up on that day. There was just one funny twist to popping my party cherry. I wasn’t going to a party, instead I was going to host and throw the party at my parents house. You got it right…I’ve never even been to a party and I expect to throw one. How would I even know what to do, what to provide, who to tell. Your guess was as good as mine. This one single party would start the monster we’ve all come to call, “The Villa.”

This idea to throw a party was a process in the making. In a few weeks time, I did all the work possible for allowing my parents to let me throw a party. You must understand that throwing a party involves many universes colliding. There was no other hurdle harder to tackle then asking my parents if they would allow me to have this party. This was always step one and the toughest step to get by. You can’t make all the plans and have everyone show up and just hope they say, “OK, let them in.” That wasn’t the way to go. So as I fought off each “NO!” and begged beyond belief, eventually I broke them down. They understood that I was getting good grades, doing well with basketball and fully focused. Why not let their boy have “one” party with a “few” friends for a “few” hours. It was my best acting job yet! You must understand, 99.9% parents would keep that, “No!” till the end. Step one was now complete. I was glad I didn’t have to go with the contingency plan: Wait for the parents to leave town for the weekend and the do what all other teenagers would do, Rage it up! Since they never left town, I was glad they agreed to be there on this glorious occasion. With my parents present during this party, I was sure nothing could get crazy enough to make the night end abruptly. Of course this was the biggest “Yes!” I’ve ever received from my parents. Even bigger then the “Yes” they gave me for when I wanted this huge Lego set (That was accompanied with dramatic crying). Yet, the serious questions would then follow this significant, “Yes.” “Will there be drinking involved?” “Whose coming?” “When is the party over?” and again, “Will there be drinking involved?” Such questions were irrelevant to someone just given permission to throw a party in their parents house. I would just promise it would be a good time and no problems would ensue. I had no clue. They eventually put full trust and control with me. Now what? I was this 16 year old given permission by his parents to invite some friends over and have a great time. With no party experience, I was thinking the possibilities of the night? Would I take my first sip of alcohol or maybe even go as far as to get laid? The curiosity was killing me. I couldn’t just google “How to have a high school party,” as Google was non-existent. Nor could I ask my close friends because I doubted they’ve ever been to any high school party. So I did the next best thing; told the other basketball players. Being the youngest player on the basketball team, I felt the elder guys knew something about parties. I was trying to fit in and thought throwing a party would make me look good. You know the extent people go through to impress. Well I was trying to do such a thing. This was my chance to break out of my pussified shell and maybe earn some respect. After a Thursday practice I daringly told my teammates, “My parents are letting me have a party this weekend after our game. Do you want to come and bring some friends?” A few chuckles quickly turned into a few smiles and a sense of excitement, as they told me, “Yeah of course we’ll be there!” My eyes lit up as this weekend was to be the start of something new inside me. I was only imagining it like the movies: shy basketball player has his first party, people come, people party, everyone talks about it all week…something legendary! Now I’d have to find some more friends to join the festivities. I was wondering who to invite besides the basketball players. Luke was one of my closest friends. He knew of the computer LAN parties we already had. Multiply this by 20 and replace the computers with women and alcohol, sounds like a good time to both of us. Something we both felt could shift our well being. I told a couple of my other friends to invite their friends and figured this was enough needed for a party. The following day at school, I had numerous random students asking when and where my party was. Not to mention some cute older girls who I was always scared to approach, but instead approached me. My own excitement could only be negated by the fact that this was starting to sound like it was to be one of those wild parties. I didn’t even know these people asking about my party. If I tell them about my party, are they going to tell others? My thoughts and emotions flooded. The last thing I wanted to do was piss my parents off. I just told myself, “parents said yes, basketball players said yes, just tell everyone yes!” I thought most that asked would not come anyways. Most of these people would just chicken out anyways. Right? Sounding like plenty of people would end up coming, I let the party plans take care of itself. There was one day and one basketball game standing in my way before the big Friday night. I went to sleep focused on the game, but overpowering thoughts of a wild and crazy night plagued my mind.

I was drenched in sweat as we headed back to my house after the game. The pressure of the game was off my shoulders as we smashed one of our rivals by 30. I had a solid game with a rafter roaring big dunk at the end of the game. The emotions slowly faded away as I remembered the best part of the night was to come. I could only turn my focus back to party mode. After settling down and removing some of the valuables and items that could be damaged due to partying, I cleaned up and put my best outfit on. Black Basketball shorts, white t-shirt and sandals. Cali style of course, but it also told everyone, I was laid back and had done this before. Anticipation grew as time ticked by slowly. A few of my friends were already there and helped setup all the necessary party items: chips, dip, soda, cups. Of course my parents supplied some nice “munchies” for all to eat. We were too young to drink alcohol, so that obviously wasn’t provided. I’d never drank alcohol, but also didn’t care if it was there or not. I was sure it would be present and very prevalent. I just wanted a good and safe time, but didn’t know what to expect. With many confused lights driving down the street, it was only obvious this was the start of the party train. Standing outside with my Dad, we watched the fighting for parking as the first guests arrived; my basketball teammates. They entered my home and began to munch on the chips and drinks provided. A conversation ensued about the night’s game which calmed my nerves. I began to be less worried about the night and it being so perfect. Only a few moments later, the door bell rang. The first few friends of my teammates showed up. We greeted them with handshakes and I offered them into my house. I ran over to crank the music louder and the party was off and running.

It was a tick past Midnight. The smell of booze covered the whole house. The music had reached it’s maximum volume. Every couch was full with strangers I’d never seen in my life. In fact, the whole house was full with people I’ve never seen before. To this day, I’d never seen that many people in our house at one time. As soon as the first door bell rang, the tsunami of people seemed to not stop. Luckily, it was a spring day and we had very tolerable weather at night. The backyard was an escape from the sound, smells and overcrowding of the house. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. There had to have been about 120 people there. My parents had the most confused look on their face. I didn’t know if they were enjoying this or wondering if their house was going to collapse. With the river of people between us, I could only step outside for some fresh air. I was then confronted by a few of my older brother’s friends. Them being over 21, they had all the access to alcohol they wanted. They made about 4 runs to the liquor store up the street for everybody and profited a few dollars from the under-aged teens. Nothing was more exciting to them then watching teenagers get wasted and make fools of themselves. They asked me if I wanted one, then quickly shoved it in my face, “Just taste it.” Until this point in the party, I was drug-free in my life. What also crossed my mind at this exact moment was the time I won the D.A.R.E. award for an essay I once wrote in the 6th grade pledging to lead a drug-free life. I never said I promised! They knew I hadn’t drank before and this was their chance to put the pressure on. Scared of my parents seeing, I got out of their sight grabbed the beer and took a swig. My face cringed with bitterness. They assured me that the more I drank, the better it tasted. After a few laughs they handed me two bottles of Bud Ice and carried on. I walked away from them knowing I just took a step into the dark side. Something I was so curious about, had now become reality. I tasted my first alcoholic beverage. I didn’t think much of it, but it also tasted horrible. As big of a thing it was for some, I thought there was more to life then beer. I knew my time would come when it would be as refreshing and relaxing as they marketed it on television.

The night was rolling out as imagined. The taste of beer made me curious. I didn’t like the taste but knew it had some powerful effects unknown to me. Only a few minutes later, after my beer tasting, I would run into one of our statisticians from our basketball team. Both of our “stat girls” were two of the more sexier and popular girls on campus. I knew this one had a thing for bad boys, alcohol and partying. Her being two years older and taken, she was definitely out of my league. I was still too shy to hold a full conversation with a girl without getting nervous. Nonetheless, we shared one common fact; we had the same birthday. She approached me and said, “Hey Dustin! Crazy party, you want a shot of vodka with me birthday buddy?” I was excited that she remembered me as her birthday buddy, but not excited for the vodka. I just had a sip of beer for the first time ever, now ten minutes later I was stepping up to vodka. How could I resist her dimples and popularity? Everything was happening so fast that I told her quickly and confidently, “Sure!” As we clinked our shot glasses, I noticed that this time I was in the vision of my parents. Not letting anything stop this moment, I took the shot down and immediately gagged. My throat was on fire. I could feel the McDonalds in my stomach start to churn. She handed me some Orange Juice and I quickly recovered. With a look of struggle on my face, I thanked her for the shot. My parents barged over and reprimanded me for taking the shot. “Dustin, you are too young for alcohol…” The cute “stat girl” interrupted them abruptly and introduced herself. We all then talked about the amount of alcohol, people and the noise our party was creating outside. I figured that my parents were surprised at how full the house was and not so enthused with the amount of under-aged drinking. I had a feeling this was the peak of the party and it would all calm down. Already satisfied with the way things have turned out. I was willing to let this fun end, but the vodka was slowly kicking into my body. As my parents retreated upstairs for a few minutes. I was introduced to another shot of vodka. This was all the fuel my fire would need to let it all hang out. Time and thoughts all started to slow down as I was feeling drunk for the first time. As the crowds started to thin out, I could only see intoxicated smiles and drunken inhibitions. Everything still seemed under control as I continued my drunken chatter with the only thing that mattered at that moment, the “stat girl.”

Yelling, screaming and bottles flying. The floods of people seemed to get sucked out of the front door in one quick motion. In this commotion I heard the worst words you’d want to hear at a party, “FIGHT!” My senses quickly arose as I needed to find out who, what, where and why. I heard pots shatter as the masses rushed out the door trying to see the action. Two drunken guys seemed to want to duke it out on my front lawn over a girl. I quickly yelled to my parents and brother’s friends to help out in this situation. The fight cascaded onto the neighbors lawn. With all the yelling and screaming from the hundred people still in attendance, the fight eventually came to a halt. The two were separated, both still arguing and bleeding from the face. In the background can be heard, “Everyone get the fuck out of my house now!” These words would be forever echoed throughout the numerous parties that would be held in our home. My Dad had spoken! As the crowds suddenly dispersed. You could see that some of party goers didn’t want this all to end. The sounds of sirens could be heard in the distance. Once the flashing lights turned onto our street, teenagers scattered like cockroaches in the light. Unfortunately, about 30-40 people ran into our house frightened. Two cop cars stopped in front of our house to inspect the scene. They approached my Dad and I and told us they got a disturbance call from the neighbors. We told them we had a party and it turned into a fight in the street, but most of the party goers had left. One of the officers worked on our high school campus and recognized who I was. We spoke about basketball for a few minutes and they suddenly overheard something on their radios. The police told us to keep it down and not to have them come back. After we complied to pick up the bottles and cans left behind in the street, they wished me luck on the season and carried on. I was beyond frightened and nervous because of the numerous under-aged drinkers known by the cops. I would come to learn that what stays inside was our business and anything outside was theirs. The party was now cut down to a few of my teammates, my close friends, and a handful of other wasted girls and guys scared to leave. Without the masses of people inside you could closely see the dirty floors and trash everywhere. My parents felt as if their house was destroyed. With my Dad being a carpet/upholstery cleaner, the floors and furniture could always be restored to their original shine. Otherwise, it would just take an hour of cleaning the trash and putting everything back in its original place. With a promise to keep the rest of the people quiet and to clean up, my parents resigned for the night. As they seemed disappointed with the outcome of the party, I could only relish in the events of this night. I accomplished partying for the first time. While it was one I was hosting, I felt as if I had done this before. Yet, this was my first time and I was changed forever. I made new friends, tried beer, had shots of vodka, a conversation with a pretty girl, saw a fight and felt the drunk tiredness that comes with being up until 4 a.m. As friends filled the couches and floors passed out, I could only go to sleep knowing that this party was a success and a night to remember.

Ten years after this momentous occasion. The house we’ve come to know as “The Villa”  has continued on in its glory. Through high school and college the parties would continue. How my parents let these parties rage, I have no clue. It all began from that single “Yes!” which granted me permission to throw my first house party. Ever since then, I found a way to convince my parents the next party wouldn’t be as out of hand as the previous one. Those of you who are frequent visitors to The Villa can attest that they did get more wild with age, but we learned something new from every “gathering.” I think the ego of The Villa got the better side of every person that passed through there and it became its own monster. The parties became so popular and frequent that one night in high school, after a basketball game, we went to eat a family dinner. As we drove home and approached our house, we saw numerous cars parked on our street. Only to see a usual Saturday night party happening in our own house. The problem was I had no plans for a party that night and some how a friend managed to let himself inside and start one. I can tell you that one ended quickly. Just one of the many things to happen at The Villa. We came to call my house, “The Villa” as to trick others into thinking we weren’t partying at my infamous house. Instead of saying let’s go to Dustin’s, it became, “The Villa.” It worked most of the time, but otherwise became just a funny thing between my group of friends. “Let’s go to the Villa!” Always after a busted high school party in our city, the heads turned to me as if I was going to continue the post party at my house. Cars would always follow us in a train-like fashion hoping we were going to my house. We would drive to a fast-food joint and wait for them to stop tailing us and continue on. My friends and I eventually understood that less was actually more. As the years went by, mass parties slowed down and were saved for only big occasions: birthdays, special holidays, and my surprise visits home from college. The Villa rather turned into just a daily gathering of all my friends to play video games, talk, laugh and later on drink and get faded. My parents allowed it knowing we were safe in the comfortability of their own home. With my parents being deep sleepers, my friends knew that the more quiet we were the longer the night. Without my parents this wouldn’t have been possible, but my friends helped build The Villa into the getaway and hangout spot for my friends. Since I’ve been living in Europe playing professional basketball, The Villa has been recently retired from mass parties and gatherings. The Villa is always welcome to a few good friends to have a fun time and relax. As long as my parents live there, I’m sure it will forever be that one house that we’ve all shared memories at. We all understand one thing: The Villa is the place where memories will never be forgotten and laughs will always continue! I’m sure it has a place in many of our hearts!

(Authors Note: Catalina makes you do funny things. Things you would never do elsewhere. To that end, I will be using fake names to protect the alternate identities that may be featured in this tale.)

The Island

The Preparation

We always reserve anywhere from one to three campsites. You are supposed to have no more than four people

Arriving into Town

per campsite. We arrive with 30 or more people always. This makes for an interesting arrival on the island when you are talking to the ranger who remembers you from last year. The trip is always supposed to cost less than $100 and that includes the boat ride there and back. This $100 gets you a campsite, boat, food, drink, and random supplies. It is never enough for four days. I like to pack light and here is what I (or someone) will bring:

The Arrival

The boat ride is usually really rough. There is not much to look at except the smog dome of Los Angeles slowly fading away in the distance and the occasional whale or dolphin siting. Drinks are unusually expensive and I enjoy this time to prepare mentally for the weekend to come with deep breathing and deep meditation. When you hear the motors drop in tempo, you know you have arrived. You can run to the front of the boat and see a

That peak was the start of extreme cacti jumping

magnificent white cliff. In reality, it is not magnificent because it is a giant rock that has been covered in bird shit. There has always been talk to swim to the rock, and know its majestic properties, but no one has ever done it. We have been told if you jump off the boat, you will be arrested. By who? No one really knows what jurisdiction Catalina falls under. The boat arrives and the people disembark. Our pile of things will be about four meters high and 10 meters wide and require five sherpas to help us load the truck. When a boat arrives in Catalina, it is greeted by the analyzing stares of the people who have already arrived. Catalina is very contained and isolated, like a Bio Dome. You know what comes in, and you know what goes out. Although we would like to think so, we do not go unnoticed. The casual traveller to Catalina can sit down at the bar and easily converse with the locals. It wont be too long before they start hearing stories of us. I have heard these stories first hand when I was detached from the group. Stories of a whirlwind landing in Catalina, consuming everything, taking over benches, terrorizing the small boat dogs, harassing every female that doesn’t have huggies, infiltrating the camp fire chats, challenging everyone to a tug-of-war, sinking ships, burning the landscape, etc, etc. Like any myth, there is some foundation to be found in these tales, but rest assured that we all care deeply about this island and would never do anything to hurt her.

The Campgrounds

The campgrounds are connected to Two Harbors by a long and perilous dirt path that goes up and down and winds around. I always feel like I am putting in the code to Contra. There are no lights on this trail and it is rumored to have claimed the lives of three boy scouts. It has also been used as an inspirational masturbating

Just asking for the sea gulls to attack

point for a few of my friends. Although I have not partaken in the inspiration that Catalina provides for this activity, I do sympathize. Please read Laughter Across the Lake. Personally I like walking real fast to the point that the people I am with cannot keep up, then I hide in a bush, and I leap out at them as they walk by. My inspirational moment came one year after a frustrating night with a girl named Jessica. After she returned to her boat, I walked back to the campgrounds but on my way I stopped at the highest point overlooking all of the harbor. From here I bellowed at the top of my lungs “JESSICA!! JESSICAAA!!” and then continued back to camp. What she or her parents were thinking I do not know.

Each campsite is no more than a flat piece of dirt with a bench, fire pit, stove, and a plastic canopy. Each campsite amongst the 50 or so has its benefits and drawbacks. Naveen has an ordered list of the top 15 sites with a break down of their pros and cons. (Maybe he could provide this list?) Personally, I never gave a shit,

Right before we descended the mountain for extreme cacti jumping

and was happy as long as we did not have young children within visible range of our debauchery. The campsites were arranged on the side of a hill and at the bottom was the communal beach. To walk to the beach meant walking in the middle of other campsites. It was usually really easy to know if you were welcome in a campsite or not. Apparently if you scream and cuss bad words all night, sometimes you are not well received the next day by random families trying to enjoy their vacation.

The Snorkeling

Extreme Downhill Cacti Jumping

The Benches and Town

The benches are placed on the beach, but we drag them onto the main walking area to ensure that we are in

When I had muscles and no hair

the middle of everyones way. For those too young to drink at the bar, it is a place to sit, pound a very expensive can of bad tasting beer, and people watch, people heckle, or cry, or be angry. For those people who can enter the bar, it is a resting point to evacuate to when the bar situation is getting too out of control because Bald Doctor is sleeping at someones table with his arms and legs in his shirt, Axe is hitting on the wife of a fat sailor, Naveen is trying to dance with moonshoes, and Roaring is making out with the help.

Eventually the night will wind down and each individual will have their own way back to camp. I can remember one evening walking back to camp and encountering Carmat, the best saxophonist in the world. He was unusually sober, and I chided him for being so. I decided I would make him feel stupid by challenging him to a game of chess and making sure we put money on the game. I was a mess and could barely stand up. He beat me senseless in the game and took my money. I am pretty sure I wasn’t even moving the pieces in the correct places. None the less he took my money. I was infuriated and demanded he honorably give me my money back since the game was not held under sanctioned conditions. He refused. The following night, I walked back to camp to find Carmat once again. Only this time, the tables were turned and I was the unusually sober one and he was stumbling drunk. He decided his best option was to pass out on the bench in a most undesirable way. He had his stomach on the seat with his forehead resting face down. His arms and legs were hanging over the sides very limply. He was not a well shaped human being and was rather hairy. His ass crack was a disgusting site to say the least. Time to get even. We had purchased a 10 liter jug of peanut butter to be used by the group which was hardly used. I decided to use the entire jug to cover every inch of Carmat. Using sticks and other objects, he was completely covered. His face was absolutely featureless except for three straws I had placed in his mouth and nostrils. His ears did not exist. His hair was missing, it was like a blueman group guy but with peanut butter. Down his ass crack, his arms, his legs, his shoes, his socks, anywhere and everywhere. I left him that way and went to bed. The next morning I encountered Carmat completely cleaned up. The effort involved in that cleaning process I cannot imagine. We looked at each other and we had nothing to say. I felt I had gotten

beer die

even and he knew exactly why he got what he got. You don’t FUCK with me when it comes to chess. I am 1500+ on Yahoo if you want to challenge me.

My Attempt at Organizing Catalina

But Alas…

The Climate

When I arrived in February, it was hot. Real hot. A muggy hot which can only be produced by in a valley with enormous 3000 meter mountains completely covered in a 800 meter thick canopy of smog.

Now, in July, it is cold, real cold. The sort of cold that can only be created in a place that does not believe in insulation. I do not mind cold, I just do not like to live in the cold. I now wear my clothes into the bathroom to take a shower instead of just using a towel. I get completely dressed to go from the bathroom back to my room. (I hate this part because my life long selection of

Old Spice white stick deodorant gets on my shirt as I try to apply it without removing my shirt.) Socks are mandatory in the bed. My bed has six layers of blankets. I am currently writing this blog with an electric heater about 10 centimeters from my arm.

But after a cleansing rain and a light breeze in the early morning hours, the snow capped Andes are a captivating view that will never leave my brain.

The Level of Civilization

Many a philosopher has attempted to define and analyze civilization but in all my reading, I never encountered a very fundamental marker of society that I see almost everyday here in Chile. So here is my very refined and soon to be published genreal theory of “How to Measure South American Societal Development”:

The paramount marker to indicate the level of a society is to take notice if the wild dogs in the city are wearing clothes.

Chile is Developed

Having said that, I have also seen three separate instances of a homeless guy taking a dump on the sidewalk. So there are some holes in my theory.

Class War

In Chile, you have the Cuicos, the rich people, and the Fleites, the poor people. The fleite are a dangerous breed who will rob you of your pants and underwear in an instant. They will frequently ask you what time it is just to see what kind of watch you have. They like their reggae-tone loud and if a song sounds exactly like the song before it, the crazier they get. There language is fast and slurred and depends on phrases and sayings that would offend a sailor. They will burn a bus down to celebrate the victory of the Colo Colo football team. A Cuico is hard to find because no one will ever admit they are a Cuico for fear of being robbed by the Fleite. Cuicos like their American music and brag about the large selection of khakis they have in their new apartment. Their language is clear and precise and littered with English. If the University of Chile football team wins, they might read about it the next day.

Now, I am generalizing a little here and my sincerest apologies to both classes if I have offended you, but the point is that at the drop of a hat, a Cuico would bite the ear off a Fleite if given the chance and a Fleite would kick a Cuico in the shins if they got close enough to one. The hatred and fear of one another reminds me of 1840′s South Carolina.

The Cycling

The fastest way around the city, of course, is by bicycle. You can ride from one edge of the valley to the other in about an hour. You can ride on the highways even though there are numerous signs saying that you should not ride on the highways. There are cycle paths on the large streets and they have a monthly Critical Mass they call Ciclistas Furiosas. Sounds like a cyclists haven huh? On the contrary, Santiago is maybe the worst city I have had the pleasure of riding in. (Strictly riding for transportation, not training.)

The Ciclistas Furiosas is the most police orientated critical mass I have been a part of. They directed our group of 200 down a very quiet and out of the way path. The total length was about 38 minutes going six kilometers. We frequently stopped at red lights. The cycle paths are way too thin and are lined with big 15 centimeter concrete blocks ensuring you destroy a wheel if you think you can squeeze past the baby stroller using the cycle path. The roads are resurfaced cobblestone if you are not on a major road and many times, are cobblestone. Cars hate you. Taxis want to hit you. Busses want to murder you. The busses are the very long articulated kind which sound like a star wars jet fighter as they storm pass you glancing you with their mirror. They will gas it to make sure they are in front of you before the next stop even though that means everyone in the bus is slammed to the front after he applies his brakes heavily, just to piss me off. They will always look at you in disgust as they pass. A shoulder does not exist on the roads here and the side of the roads are generally in worse shape than the inside.

Having said all that, I enjoy dangerous cycling and squeezing myself between two wavering articulated busses at 50km/h, hanging on to the back of large lorrie trucks to take a breather, boring down on an intersection full of people trying to sneak across only to be missed by me and my Fuji by fractions of a second, sprinting down a two kilometer tunnel with the police behind me telling me that I cannot be in the tunnel, acting like I dont understand Spanish after two motorcycle cops pulled me over for riding too aggressively, racing a single bus across town to finally receive some sort of respect form the driver after I won… are good times and I am glad to be a cyclist.

The Night Life

The nights can be long and it is very possible to party your nights away until 6am. A good place will ahve multiple dance areas. One area for the mandatory reggae-tone and cumbia, and another for more of the type of music you would get back in the United States. There is one library of music that is shared by every location in Chile so get used to hearing the same thing a lot. It is acceptable to play the same song three times in an evening. Drinks are made strong and should cost you around four dollars. Taxis are relatively cheap although drunk driving has the consequences equivalent to jay walking so many people drive intoxicated. There seems to be a lot of options … everywhere. You are never far from a place to inbibe or sing karaoke. But many of these places are empty. You must dance, no more hanging out on the side sipping a drink. You arrive, and you dance, then drink a little, then sweat a lot, then dance. It seems my dancing style is acceptable here althoguh very gringo-ish.

The World Cup

Unfortunately Chile has been knocked out of the world cup. However, to live and feel the energy of a latin country engrossed by the fever of football is a magical experience. Win, lose, or draw, the people would gather in Plaza Italia to loiter, throw large bottles, jump and sing, and be generally violent. The police presence was imposing and very noticeable although they seemed to just let things go. The reason for that is they have this sneaky little inconspicuous truck everyone calls the skunk. When the party needs to be over, this truck sneaks up to groups of people, rolls down its windows as the people gaze at this weird looking truck, then gasses them with a high pressure gassing gun that can gas the hell out of a toddler from about 20 paces. The skunk is effective, albeit indiscriminate, and you can tell the police enjoy their job.

The People

Chilenos look like a mix of Native Indian and Oriental. Generally round faces with big dark eyes. At almost six feet, I am one of the tallest persons in the metro. Obesity does not exist but the men seem to develop a slightly pudgy build as they grow older. One of the first Chileans I spoke with was absolutely horrible to me and disrespected me badly due to my budding language. But since then, I have been fortunate and the people that I have come to know are all very beautiful people and day to day interactions are a joy.

The Language

Very fast and with a lot of slang. They regularly add “-po” to the end of sentences which can be distracting at first to a novice ear. Their “dude” is “weon(a)” but the problem is that if used incorrectly, you can sound extremely rude and risk a face slap or worse. The intonation of their voice will range from a subtle mumble to a “daaaammmmnnn” in almost every sentence. They love to inject sexual connotation into many phrases. Spanish is a lovely language and much more effective and eloquent than English. Thank you to everyone who has been patient with me and helped me along my way to conquer this new language.

The Money

In general, it is not cheap here. Most goods cost about the same and a trip to the supermarket seems to actually cost more than back in the US. But labor is really cheap. I can get my bike tuned up, cleaned, with wheel truing, for $10 bucks. I can get a four course meal for five bucks. You can buy very elaborate looking pottery for a dolalr making me think I want to have a party where everyone gets to break clay piggy banks that have prizes inside. As with every other country in the world, except the US, I regularly find a lot of coins in my pocket. ATMs need not to be trusted and if their is a sign that says it is not working, try anyways.

The Cajon del Maipo

About 50km outside of Santiago, you have a place that has stolen a part of my heart. Cajon del Maipo. It is a long slithering valley that pierces into the Andes. It is above the smog line and is accompanied with a fast moving river. I do most of my training here on the bicycle for visual inspiration. I hope one day to have a house here, I will make my front lawn a parking lot, and charge six dollars for people to use it.

The Viña and The Valpariso

The port of Santiago is about 120km due West. The port can be split into two main cities. Viña del Mar would be the equivalent of Newport Beach while Valpariso would be the equivalent of San Francisco. The beach is not for swimming, only for looking. The air is clear and breathable and the people are warm and inviting. I was literally booed off the stage singing “I Will Survive” in a karaoke bar where the DJ actually made the record screetch to a halt to emphasize the crowds point.

Style and Fashion

A chileno must have a jacket that has fur around the lining of the hood. Girls will always have black tights on. If you are Fleite your shirt has intentional splotches of paint strewn across it and your sweater has horizontal stripes with a dash of purple. If you are a girl and a frisky Fleite, you have painted your hair blonde to invite every cat call from every guy in the city.  If you are Cuico, you have a wool pullover covering a single color collared shirt. Your shoes are black or dark blue and your big jacket is the shiny poofy kind or a long trench coat. Girls love their boots here and are very good at walking and dancing in heels. In general, not very colorful, except for my girlfriend who has red, yellow, and green jeans.

The Culture Differences

It is not correct to call someone a friend if you just met them. It can be rude even to say someone is a friend if you just met them.

EVERYone knows every song and EVERYone knows special dances. It is in your blood.

Nothing can be purchased online and you must wait in long lines or go through very arduous processes to get anything done.

Like all latinos I assume, very family orientated. Although I do see a lot of “man does man things, the woman does woman things” which I do not really like. It was a big deal one time when I said I needed to clean the dishes because the ladies were doing way too much work.

A common vocation is to claim a road, and be its permanent parking escorter. If you park, someone WILL usher you out on to the street, even if there is no reason for it. And you WILL give that person a coin.

The Conclusion

I am really happy to be here and a giant Thank You to my girlfriend who has made this the best trip and best decision of my life.

Yesterday, June 28^th, Frank Lampard scored a goal for the English side that bounced off the cross bar down into the German goal. The ball continued to bounce – out of the goal to be recovered by the keeper and punted without a goal being called by the referee. Later that day, during a match with Mexico, Argentina’s Tevez received a clearly offsides pass from Messi to score early on. The goal stood.

Now, all sports have officiating blunders, but soccer has more than most. These are simply examples of all too common occurrences in international football. Bad calls change the pace of the game and the teams’ moral. Bad calls cost games. Bad calls give games away. Bad calls piss people off. The winners feel less good and the losers are irate. Furthermore, consider that the World Cup happens every four years and is enthusiastically, if not fanatically, followed by fans around the globe. It’s a source of national pride and international camaraderie. As far as sports go, it’s pretty important.

But it’s not only because the World Cup is important that the officiating should be top-quality, its also because it is so easy to make it better. In many other sports Video Instant Replay is used to sort out contentious calls. Giving each team a few challenges per game to review official calls with Instant Replay would avoid these kinds of unfair and reputation damaging calls.

I was watching Turkish television with my roommate Steve the other day. On one channel we saw oil wrestling, a traditional Turkish sport where two young men oil themselves up and wrestle in shorts, and I commented that it was funny that they were in an open field – no arena, no stands, no defined boundaries of any kind. After a minute of thinking, I continued by saying that all sports probably started in fields like this, but at some point you really need to embrace technology and chalk some out-of-bounds lines. I feel the same way about FIFA, stop ruining soccer.

-Charles P. Pearson

Here are a few articles on the subject:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2010/8768743.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2010/8771294.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2010/matches/match_52/default.stm

1. The Interests

Everybody likes music, and art, and traveling, and the outdoors, and sunshine, and having fun. These are not things that give any insight as to who you are as an individual. I wouldn’t even really describe them as interests but more just standard features that come with any human being. It’d be like shopping for a used car and coming across an ad that says “Great vehicle, runs on gasoline, tires are round, has matter and density.” I still don’t know the make, model, year, milage, accident history, horse power etc. If anything I view the vaugness as a trap into buying a lemon.

2. I’m shy but I’m not shy

A lot of girls can’t decide on what they are. “I’m shy but I can also be very outgoing.” “I’m just a jeans and t-shirt kinda girl that loves to get dressed up and go out too.” “I’m a realist but I have a bit of a hopeless romantic side. . .”       When filling out your “about me” section you should use a “Which of the following best describes me?” approach. Like an SAT question, choose the letter that best answers the problem, don’t fill in every bubble.

3. The Nerd

Some girls like to pick out one non-airhead thing they do and then call themselves a nerd. The degree they give themselves can vary from: full on nerd, half nerd, a bit of a nerd. It’s always juxtaposed with some characteristic indicating that they are still attractive. For example: “I’m a nerd that likes to play scrabble and do crossword puzzles, but I also love doing girly things like getting my hair and nails done. . so I guess that makes me 1/2 nerd and 1/2 beauty. . . .”    For the record, the occasional board game does not qualify you as a nerd, or as you are really trying to imply, smart. This would be like me playing a game of HORSE and then calling myself a jock.

4. “My friends describe me as . . .  ”

A jackass? There is nothing cute about having your friend write your profile for you. You are not being modest you are being pathetic. These always end up reading like a eulogy in the present tense. “Sarah is a fun loving, good spirited person who can always put a smile on  everyones face.”

5. The List

Many girls think they are being clever by making one word lists of arbitrary things they like. It usually comes in the format of : trivial, trivial, trivial, serious (repeat) .  . . Might look something like this: “I love rainy days, pringles, blue jeans, my family, Leonardo Di Caprio movies, orange tic tacs, diet pepsi, feeding the homeless . .  . ”

6. The Art Chic

Her taste is far more sophisticated than yours. She would list her favorite bands but you’ve probably never heard of them. She’s looking for a guy that can go on long rhetorical rants about how fucked up the system is. You can tell she is artistic and creative because she has art that other people created tattooed  on herself.

7. “I like a guy that can make me laugh. . .”

really?

8. “No Drama, No Bullshit”

I have come up with an easy way to find out who the biggest slut is in a group of girls without running the risk of contracting herpes. It’s whoever uses the word “slut” the most often. This algorithm can be applied to many other things. You feeling the need to address the issue of not wanting “drama” or “bullshit” leads me to believe that you are in fact a drama queen full of bull fucking shit.

9. The Smokin Hot Friend

Does not need to be in all the pictures you post on your dating profile. This is essentially shooting yourself in the foot. Your caption could say “Thats me on the left, next to the girl that looks like she could be a model.”  Beauty is relative and when guys see a 6 standing next to an 8 we’re going to go with the 8. Find yourself some uglier friends to take pictures with or learn how to work a little photoshop magic.

10 . All the aforementioned girls that never wrote me back!