Summer Postcards
Chile's Got Talent
Entering mid-episode, I quickly realized we were in the first round—auditions. Senor Germán Perez looked a little anxious when he walked out on stage, but relaxed quickly after one of the judges gave him a kiss and a quick shoulder massage. A former performer on the Santiago bus circuit, he sang a medley of “Over the Rainbow” and songs in his native tongue, crooning all the while in a thick Chilean accent. The judges suggested he stick to Spanish lyrics, but the decision was a resounding, unanimous “sí.”
For Princesses or Presidents
When we arrived we didn’t find the anticipated signs and ticket booth. In their place was a conspicuously open wrought iron gate. This must be the Chilean Tourist Bureau’s indication that the castle was ours to explore, we guessed gleefully. Shrugging off the eerie emptiness of the place, we filled the silence with snapping—first photos of ourselves on the steps leading up to the bay windows, then standing in front of the stone wall overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
The Yorkshire Blues
It’s also climbable. A series of steps are hacked into the stone on its western lip, where the grade is gentler. The view from the top is breathtaking, but the ascent’s much more earnestly so. By the time I reached the cliff above, I was panting profusely. The English octogenarians in tweed and flat caps passing me without a care, waving merrily, were having the same effect on my ego that the climb was having on my lungs.
A Night at the Station: A Timeline
Rather, the intention was to be more spontaneous than usual—to get out of my comfort zone and go into Munich, without a meticulously detailed agenda in hand.
Waiting as a Way of Life
I realized this during my third hour of waiting at the municipal office. I need the mayor’s permission to enter each public health center. I go to the end of the hall on the second floor, announce myself to the secretaries behind the glass, and take a seat in the row of velvet chairs in the hallway outside the office. I don’t sit in the first seat, because if I invest that much in getting seen quickly my will to wait will surely be broken. I take the third or fourth to last seat. Then the hallway turns into my library. The first time I went to the office, I finished J. M. Coetzee’s autobiography. The second time, I finished “Mountains Beyond Mountains.” The third time, I finished “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.” I laugh at the funny parts and tear up at the sad ones, and my neighbors eye me nervously; I am not taking the government seriously enough.
