Kyle Hepp

September 30, 2007

As promised here are days 25 and 26 respectively. This is the third time I’ve updated the blog today…what can I say, it’s a great escape from the stress of what I should be working on.

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Brought to you by Sunday Scribblings: Write about a powerful feeling.

S. and I had just gotten married in a low key ceremony in a beautiful outdoor patio of a restaurant. We had just 35 people attend the wedding, so we were surrounded by the people we truly loved and knew loved us. After the (extremely short) ceremony, we all headed back to another restaurant for the reception. In Chile, it’s customary to do a “champagnazo,” which is a toast with champagne that gives all the wedding guests a chance to say something to the bride and groom if they’d like. My best friend from high school took her turn, my mom spoke, S.’s dad gave a quick speech.

And then my brother stepped into the middle of the circle. He’s a big guy, 6′ and muscular. He commanded the room’s attention. At first he pulled a couple of note cards out of his pocket but as he looked at them and cleared his throat, he quickly crumpled them up and said, “Well, I had a whole speech written down but I’m just going to wing it.” A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. And then he began in earnest:

“When I first heard that my sister had a boyfriend in Chile I wasn’t too happy, especially when I found out his name was Sebastian like in the Little Mermaid. I worried that he’d take Kyle away from us and we’d never get a chance to see her. I already missed her when she moved away from college and then she even left the country. But, as soon as I met Seba I figured out that he’s a good guy and he makes her happy, so it’s alright if they stay in Chile.

Kyle, I’ve looked up to you since I can remember. I guess since the day I was born. You’ve always been able to do everything you want to do. I know that Seba is the right guy for you because he’s going to help you achieve your dreams. Together you two can do anything.”

His voice cracked and his eyes were bright. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Even my brother was about to cry, but right at that moment the wedding organizers brought the band out. The band started playing typical Chilean music, and everyone clapped along. My brother just went right to the center of the circle and started doing his own imitation of typical latin dances-so basically he was just doing the grapevine but with some hip movement action thrown in there for good measure. Everyone was cracking up!

That was a powerful moment to me for a few reasons. First of all, I never realized that my brother really had looked up to me for his whole life. And I’m glad I didn’t know that before because I could’ve used my power for evil and not for good And the second thing about that part of our wedding that felt so powerful to me, was the fact that even though my brother was speaking in English and half the room were Spanish speakers only, even they were crying and laughing along with him. Power is emotions transcending language barriers.

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This weekend, unfortunately, has been all work and no play…aside from one gloriously bicycle outing. Yesterday, I decided that I needed a break from the endless hours spent in front of the computer. The day was beautiful so Seba and I headed out on our bikes. We hadn’t been out bike riding for a while (winter just ended here)…and I had totally forgotten how dangerous the Santiago city streets can be!

In neighborhoods like mine (a.k.a. poor) the sidewalks are so full of ginormous holes or places where the concrete has buckled and rises up in huge, uneven bumps, that it’s physically impossible to ride over them. It’d be like mountain biking on paths made of cement. This means in many places we have to ride in the street. Have I mentioned that Santiago drivers are crazy? Though they are quite orderly compared to many of their South American counterparts. Once while in Argentina, my taxi driver turned down a street into oncoming traffic. When I shouted “You’re going the wrong way down a one way street!” he didn’t respond like I thought he would. Instead of turning down a side street, or reversing the short distance to be back on the street we had just turned off of, he accelerated to dodge in and out of the cars coming at us, “Well then we better get out of here quick!”

No, things in Chile aren’t that bad…but there’s still the little issues of lanes. Now, I see the white lines on the street, but the drivers don’t appear to know what they mean. The general rule seems to be that there are as many lanes as there are cars that can fit in the road. So if you’re riding your bike out there in that jungle it can be terrifying. Autos don’t exactly give you a wide berth when they fly by so close that you get hit with gravel from their spinning tires.

But, let’s talk about signage. That’s what really gets me. Even being on a lane specially marked for bicycles, with a crosswalk sign that actually has a little green and red stick figure riding his bike, you’re still in danger. When the bicycle crosswalk turned green, we started crossing…but ooooooh, wait! Somebody else has a green light too! The truck that has a left hand turn arrow directly into our bike path. It’s seriously like a death trap for cyclists, set up to warn Santiago bikers that they shouldn’t dare go any farther.

My conclusion-Santiago is not for lovers on romantic bike rides. Santiago is for lovers who have made a ride to their deaths suicide pact.

Pictures for today and yesterday to follow, I can’t get them off my camera!

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September 27, 2007

Day 24: Blurry picture, don’t care, want to sleep.

Gems from my husband:

Me: My knees are really swollen, they hurt.
S: Maybe you should go to a doctor.
Me: I don’t want to, they’re just going to do tests and never figure out what’s wrong, I’ve been through this before.
S: Actually they’ll probably just cut everything off from the waist down.
Me: But my thighs and my vagina don’t hurt, just my knees.
S: We do things different down here in Chile, mi amor.

Me: How come you didn’t bring me a chocolate today?
S: Because I got dropped off in front of the house. I didn’t want to walk a whole block away just for your stupid chocolate.
Me: I see. So romance is all about convenience for you?
S (who is a Construction Project Manager): No, if that were true I’d bring you home gifts of bags of dry concrete, jackhammers and workboots.

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Day 22 and 23: Yes, that’s me on the crapper. And the second picture is me with my new temporary residence visa, valid for one year, wooohoo!

So that’s what I was doing all day yesterday. Crapping and getting my visa. Remember how I waited four hours the last time I was at the immigration offices? This time it was five. My experience was as follows:

11:00am: Arrive at immigration offices (Ministerio Interior)
11:00-11:30: Wait in line to get a number for another line.
11:30-11:35: Argue with the lady handing about the numbers which was next pass. The debate was whether I needed to be in the line for Visas or Stamps. She said Visas, I said, I already have a visa, I need a stamp on my passport now. Then she proceeded to notify me that I had to wait in the Visa line because they would give me an “Orden de Pago,” or payment order. I would need to take that payment order to the special bank that works with immigration offices and stand in line there to pay for my visa. Once I had proof of payment, only then could I get the stamp on my visa.
11:30-1:45: Wait outside on the grass outside of La Moneda reading Newsweeks that my mom sent me. This is where I was, it’s quite nice especially now that it’s spring:

1:50: Sprint back to the immigration offices so they don’t lock me out. The doors close at 2.
1:50-3:30: Still waiting
3:35-3:45: I finally had my turn with the lady at the Visas window. She told me that since I was a U.S. citizen we didn’t have to pay for the visa (hallelujah, no waiting in line at the bank and no $80 dollar charge!). But, WTF, why didn’t the lady handing out the numbers know that?!? She’s supposed to send people to the right line, it’s HER JOB. I showed her my U.S. passport and my visa papers and she still thought I needed to pay. Anyways, I conversed with the Visa lady who told me that now I could get my passport stamped and I’d be kosher, as long as I had a few pertinent documents…ummm, what documents? I needed proof of activities to be performed in Chile and documents that stated I was able to financially maintain myself. I had the financial documents, of my husband’s salary, because we had needed those to apply for the first part of the visa way back in May, but I carry all my important visa papers around in the same folder. So they just happened to be in there. BUT, I had nothing stating what I do here in Chile. Was I supposed to have my bosses write emails stating that I’m online all day long writing stories and answer emails? I wasn’t quite sure what the woman meant. Think fast Kyle!

“Ummm, I don’t do anything here in Chile. I’m a housewife. So do I need papers to prove that?” Little white lie. What the government doesn’t know doesn’t hurt them. I’m strong believer in tax evasion.

I felt like I’m not a very believable liar, but she bought it. I guess it’s not a stretch. I’ve had lots of people assume that if I married a Chilean, he obviously must be a rich Chilean. I mean, of course, it’s logical…every gringo has boatloads of money and of course we would never marry below us. That is why I married Seba and we now live in this beautiful mansion in the nicest neighborhood in all of Santiago, Estacion Central:

By the way, that’s my mom, Seba’s family’s car, outside our house, with the neighborhood delinquents’ graffiti that we don’t bother painting over because we know they’ll just re-do their handiwork another night.

So anyways, the woman then tells me that I’ll need a notarized document signed by my husband saying that he plans to support me. But she gets a very grave, scared look on her face when she tells me I’ll have to get that and come back tomorrow to wait in the Stamp line to finish up the rest of the paperwork I need. I supposed she seemed frightened because a lot of people probably go ballistic when she tells them that. Then with a conspiratorial beckoning of her finger, she motions me closer.

government lady:”Do you have a baby?”

me, confused: “Perdon???”

government lady:”Bring a baby with you, that may help you jump to the front of the line.”

Smile and nod, slowly back away. She’s crazy; she may blow a fuse at any minute. Ok, now where can I steal a baby? No, stealing is unnecessary. Seba’s friend’s Opus Dei virgin girlfriend is pregnant. This baby is the next messiah; he/she would definitely get me to the front of the line. Can I wait six months to complete my visa? Nope, I’d be an illegal alien in this country. Again. It’s not the danger/risk of being deported that comes from being illegal that worries me. It’s the fact that to un-illegal yourself you have to stand in all these damn lines again. Alright, bringing a baby is out.

WAIT! I was about to walk out the door when I remembered that I had cajoled the number doler outer into giving me a number for the Stamps line! Would they have passed that number already? Go back and check…nope. There’s still another hundred numbers before they get to 337. Would these people turn me down because I don’t have the right documents notarized? Oh well, only a hundred numbers is worth waiting to find out if it means I won’t have to come back and wait another five hours the next day.

3:45-4:30: Wait, while the numbers before me get called…and skipped over. By this time too many people have either given up and left or thrown themselves out of the window out of desperation.

4:30: It’s my turn. I need to get my visa stamped, I have all the papers I need, I lie nervously. I hand her my envelope full of documents and pray she doesn’t realize that there’s nothing notarized inside.

government lady dos: “What do you do in Chile?”

me: “Nothing, I’m married.”

government lady dos, looks over my papers: “Ok, we don’t need proof of that.”

How convenient! She rifles through all the paperwork again, gives them a second glance again and looks up at me. Oh no! She’s discovered my secret…I’m not notarized!

government lady dos: “Who are you married to?”

me: “ummm, Senor S.N.L.L.”

government lady dos impatiently: “Well what’s his nationality?”

me: “He’s Chilean.”

goverment lady dos with eyes widening: “REALLY? How did you two meet?!?”

I tell her the story and suddenly she’s calling over her supervisor asking him to quick run my name through his computer and check. Yep, everything’s good, STAMP, STAMP, sign here, another stamp, sign again. Ok thank you so much, here’s the documentation you need, you can now leave and entry the country freely as well as work if you’d like.

These people take care of their own. I bet you twenty bucks if I had told her I was married to any other nationality she would have told me to come back tomorrow and the next day….and the next day…until I eventually left the country out of hatred for the Chilean immigration system.

4:45: I practically skipped out the door! I was so happy to be done with paperwork and waiting and long lines and government employees! I got everything over with and I didn’t even need a baby to do it. Then I glanced at the documents she had handed to me on my way out.

YOU HAVE THIRTY DAYS TO:
1. Register with the International Police. You will then be given documentation to apply for Chilean ID.
2. Apply for your Chilean ID at the Registro Civil.

FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN BLAH BLAH BLAH LOTS OF BAD STUFF.

So I have to go wait in line at Policia Internacional which is not as bad as immigration services but it’s still horrible. There they’ll give me more paperwork in order to permit me to get my Chilean ID and I’ll need to go stand in line at the Registro Civil, which is even worse than Immigration Services. OMG, by the time I’m done with all this crap we’ll be ready to leave for our trip around the world.

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September 25, 2007

Day 21:

Do I look tired? Good, because I am. Actually tired is an understatement. The bags under my eyes make me look like I’m on drugs. I’m not. Those purple beauties were a gift passed down to me by a caring father.

I have been running on 6 hours of sleep a night, plus a 30 minute nap in the middle of the day when I take my “lunch break.” Oddly enough I used to do the same thing when I worked an office job. During my lunch hour I’d go out to my car, set my phone as an alarm, and pass out. The best part is that I worked at United Soccer Leagues, located in FL, right above a social security office. My Jeep Wrangler was the oldest, crappiest (hottest) car in the world and it didn’t have air conditioning. So I’d nap with all the windows down praying for the cool breeze that never came, just waiting for the day when I woke up next to random old man who’d left the S.S. offices and gotten into my car by mistake. I’m telling you, there were some characters walking around that parking lot!

Anyways, back to my lack of sleep. I know for some of you that’s a good night’s rest! I’m not like you people. Six hours is a nap for me. I need at least 10 consecutive hours to feel well-rested. And considering the fact that just three months ago I was sleeping an average of probably 14 hours a night…this is sheer madness! I hope I get used to this whole waking up early thing, it’s kind of a foreign concept to me. But I do like being busy and I like what I’m doing. It’s just hard to keep my eyes open while I’m doing it.

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September 24, 2007

Day 20: Do you like my wedding ring?

This past weekend S. and I were out on a walk. On our way home we have to pass two Chinese restaurants, and outside one of them was an old man. Let me be clear about one thing. We smelled him before we saw him. He was hunched and frail looking, his layer upon layer of clothes all hung off as if he were nothing more than a human hanger. His face was black and dirty but his eyes were piercing. They were hungry. With a beer tucked under one arm he stood at the doorway of the Chinese restaurant looking in. As people walked past him, he made eye contact but he didn’t beg for spare change. The smell of fried wontons and Mongolian beef was so strong in the air that my stomach rumbled. I could only imagine what the odors were doing to this gentleman who hadn’t eaten in days.

I asked my husband for change. He didn’t have any, neither did I. We were both in workout clothes that didn’t even have pockets. The only item we carried between the two of us were the house keys.

I felt my eyes welling up with tears. He looked so hungry. S. trying to make me feel better said, “He would’ve just spent your money on more alcohol anyways.” I didn’t care. S. then pointed out, “You’d just be fueling the habit that put him on the streets to begin with.”

At first I thought he was right. Maybe I would’ve just been wasting my money in trying to help the old man. But after arriving home I came to a conclusion…

Who are we to judge???

If I were living out on the streets, in the cold, with no walls to protect me from the wind, I too might opt for a strong drink to warm me up and make me forget for a while, rather than a bite to eat that would only leave me feeling hungry again in just a few short hours. If I give him money does that mean he’s obligated to do with it what I want him to? Of course not. People always judge the homeless or the needy for what they spend their money on. When I was younger, at Christmas time, my brother and I used to choose wish lists from families that were bad off and had registered with the Santa Claus Girls to be “adopted” by someone who would buy some of the presents they had asked for. One year I showed the list I had chosen to a friend. She asked me with outrage, “Why would a poor kid ask for Nike tennis shoes? He should be asking for food and clothes that he actually needs!”

Maybe that little boy wanted shoes that would make him feel like the rest of his classmates. Maybe he looked up to Michael Jordan and wanted to be like his idol. Maybe having new shoes would give him a new dignity.

You really can not possibly know the motivations behind people’s desires unless you have walked a mile in their shoes. The saying is cliché, but it always rings true.

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September 23, 2007

Day 19: I am SO tired and busy. I was very tempted to not write a “real,” post because I really don’t have the time. But, I don’t want to get into that habit. So I decided to draw inspiration from Sunday Scribblings, Hi, My Name Is theme.

“Hi, my name is Kyle. No, no, not pronounced Kylie, just Kyle. Yes, like the boy’s name. No, I’m not joking.”

That, my friends, is how I have started too many conversations in my lifetime. People are constantly getting confused by name. I don’t really understand the confusion, to be honest. In this day and age there are all kinds of girls with boys names and vice versa. The world really shouldn’t be so shocked by an unconventional name anymore!

I guess it throws most people off even more that my brother’s name is Kelsey. Hahaha. NO, we were not switched at birth, nor were our parents confused when they christianed us Kyle and Kelsey.

When I was little I hated being a girl Kyle. As I’m sure you can imagine, the teasing was merciless. I remember when I got a short haircut (a bowl cut, THANKS MOM!). My mother will tell you I begged for the haircut. I think she just got sick of trying to brush my ratty hair into a ponytail every morning while I screamed, “Get the lumps oooooooout!” Yes, only slicked back hair, without a bump in sight, completely plastered to my head was acceptable to my third grade fashion sense. Anyways, the first day I went to class with my new short haircut I have vivid memories of a girl named Melody walking up and saying, “Oh, we have a new boy in our class,” and then laughing evilly. When I protested, she replied, “Well, you have short hair and a guy’s name, you probably have a THINGY too.” Thingy was code for penis.

Those were the moments that made me long to be named something like Sarah Smith, Jane Doe, or Jessica Nobody.

I grew out of that pretty quickly though. By 8th grade I was working my guy’s name like a rock star. When the accusations of “You have a boy’s name,” would come flying, my response was, “Yeah, well. I’m gonna be famous. Famous people have cool names that aren’t the same as everyone else.” Obviously I had no idea what I was going to be famous for. I couldn’t (can’t) sing, act or dance to save my life. But that didn’t really matter. The movie star name is what counts. I’m now thinking that photography is what will save me from obscurity

My brother had it easier. He could just tell people he was named after Kelsey Grammer. It’s always easier to defend yourself if an actual famous person has already been down that road.

These days I love my name. Nobody can pronounce it in Spanish, the l gets swallowed and becomes an r. When introducing myself most people here think I’m saying Carol until I spell it out for them. Although that doesn’t always go too well either. But, I’m still happy to be unique.

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September 22, 2007

Day 18: I have had to work all day but I figured since it’s Saturday I deserve a glass of wine while I’m toiling away

My dad just got a new contract (he has a mystery shopping business and I work for him). It’s a huge job…which has meant a massive workload for the both of us in the past couple days. I’m not going to lie, I’m a bit stressed out. But, I’m SO excited, because with the total amount I’m making from him I’ll now be able to cover my entire student loan payment every month (yes, I have a MASSIVE monthly payment. I went to the most expensive damn school in the world).

And this month, S. and I will be out of debt (aside from the student loans but I don’t even count those anymore). Starting the last day of September we’ll be out of the red and will have enough left over to last us through the month of October. Which means we’ll be able to start saving…which means we’ll be leaving for a trip around the world that much sooner!

This is a boring entry, but I’m just happy to be a little more financially secure. Plus I don’t have the time or energy to write anything longer or more in depth. Sorry!

PS. Speaking of my dad’s mystery shopping business, we need people to do shops for us in Tampa, Florida and Manhattan, Kansas…so if any readers are from those areas, let me know!

PS. Caroline from Brussels, email me if you want to meet up while you’re in Chile! my email address is on my other website (www.lovetotravelchile.com) in the About section.

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September 21, 2007

Day 17: (Day 16 that I posted today was actually from yesterday)

Today S. and I started talking about why we want to travel. The discussion got started because last night we had friends over and everybody got to telling what their plans in life are. There were five guys and their five girlfriends and when asked where they saw themselves a few years down the road, every single answer was the same.

“I want to get married, have kids and be working as a successful ______.”

We rocked the boat a bit when we stated that we want to travel for at least a year, move to a different country, possibly in Europe, and not settle to have kids for another 10 years or so.

To me it is so unfathomable to want to start raising a family before you get out to see the world. And that’s not saying that I think people who do that don’t have fantastic lives, but it’s just never something I have wanted for myself. The day will probably arrive someday but for right now I can’t imagine thinking to myself, “buying a house and being ball and chained to one place is what I really want.” When we do have kids, I’d like for them to be true citizens of the world. Hopefully we can expose them to as many cultures and languages as possible while they’re young and have open minds.

This got me to thinking. What makes a person have that need? Travelers often speak of that “itch” that makes them want to pick up and explore new places. Is it because they were bitten by a wandering mosquito and didn’t happen to have any life stability ointment on hand? Is it because of the way they were raised? Or is it just in their genes? Nature vs. Nurture.

In my case, I completely blame my mom. She packed me up and shipped me off to Chile for a summer when I was only 14. I studied abroad for three months and after that I never felt satisfied staying in one place. My dad loves to travel as well. And in S.’s case, well, his parents are homebodies now, but waaaaay back in the day before they got to near retirement age, they actually met while studying abroad in France. S. and I must both have some strong travelers DNA if that’s what causes the need to globe trot! And our poor future kids…they’re doomed to a life of restlessness.

Of course, they say financial resources are also an issues. Money is a factor in everything these days. Not many people in Chile can afford to travel and even in the U.S. it’s not like every single middle class family is able to pay for a luxury backpacking trip through Europe and South America. But, I still wonder about that…because I know tons of people who have way more money than I do, yet they’d rather put a down payment on a house, buy a nice car and have a pair of Louboutin’s and a few Louis Vuitton handbags in their closet. It’s all about priorities.

I also know people who could also afford travel but have probably never even contemplated it because they’d rather spend their whole lives living inside their comfort zone. For me, that’s not easy to understand. My whole life I’ve spent wondering what else is out there in the big bad world.

Is it genes? Is it the way you were raised? Is it money? Maybe it’s a little of both. We’ll probably never know, I doubt that finding a cure for the travel bug is a high priority on scientists’ to do list. But, that’s certainly ok with me

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