Tag: AY1617

The following blog post was written by Abby Brook, a sophomore in the Elliott School studying international affairs, the Middle East, international development, and music. You can find out more about Abby here.
On about my fourth week in Valparaíso, Chile, something happened that could have happened anywhere in the world: I slept through my alarm. Now normally, this would not have been a big deal, but today was unique. Today, I was waking up at 5 am to go on a beautiful hike in La Campana National Park with a group of friends from my program. This hike is special because when you got to the top, you can see all the way from the Pacific Ocean to the Andes that are splayed across Chile’s beautiful landscape. This was also my last weekend in Chile, and possibly my only chance to ever experience this truly incredible beauty.
As I double-checked my phone clock to make sure I hadn’t read it wrong, a thousand thoughts zoomed through my head. It was 7 am, my host family was asleep, my friends were long gone, and none of them had cell service here towards the tip of the earth. More than missing a hike, I felt like I had let a simple mistake allow an experience slip through my fingers. This was by no means a serious activity to miss, but I was disappointed in myself and frustrated. I sat on my couch, befuddled.

But then, I realized something, something I had always known in my heart but now had the chance to act on. I had done so many new and challenging things in the past year: moved across the country by myself, had to figure out how to adapt to East Coast culture, made new friends, lost new friends, tried new things, and given up old things. Now here I was, in a new country with a different language, culture, and way of life. I had come this far and decided I would not let an alarm dictate my day.

I was strong, independent, and capable. I could go alone.

I knew that I needed to catch two buses, called micros. Micros are one of the main ways to get around in Valparaíso. To take the micro, you have to raise your hand on the sidewalk so the bus will stop and you have to know where you need to get off so you can alert the driver–not an easy task for a gringa like myself, even with my proficient Spanish skills. I threw together a sack lunch consisting of pan y banana and ran out the door. Once I reached the corner where I had been told the bus would come, I waited several minutes with many micros passing, all going other places. Soon, however, the bus, whose existence I had become skeptical of, appeared.
The experience on the micro captures a snap shot into what being thrown into Chilean culture feels like: at times overwhelming, but always saturated with incredibly kind people. There are some unspoken rules about riding in the micro. Whenever an elderly person or someone with children gets on and there are no seats, someone immediately offers their seat to them. This kind of kindness to strangers was something I witnessed by Chileans every day. People of every shape and size filed in and out of the crowded bus, on the way to their daily routines.
Given that I had never been to La Campana before, I had no way of knowing when to get off. I eventually got the courage to chat with a couple and ask if they knew where my stop was, and they said they were going to La Campana as well. I relaxed knowing I would get there just fine. I began reflecting on what I had done: taken transportation that I would have never imagined being able to use, spoken easily to Chileans in Spanish, and most importantly realized that I had chosen to go to a completely strange place by myself and I had complete confidence in myself to do all those things.