Apparently many Americans are moving into motel rooms, indefinitely, because of foreclosures and the recession. That sounds somewhat tiresome, but in a way cinematic and inspiring. Right now I am in Santiago, Chile, exploring the Almodovarian aesthetic and encountering the friendliest and most endearing people. They are so willing to assist whenever it becomes apparent that I speak only three words of Spanish.

People are much freer here with their bodies than the Northeasterners to whom I am accustomed: Chileans often take their shoes off while eating at restaurants, and put their feet up on chairs in public. Today I saw a man washing his face in the outburst of water from a fire hydrant. Last night in the middle of dinner I did a dance for the restaurant guests to the lovley guitar music. The specialty drink here is the pisco sour, and it is delicious with “pamello” (like grapefruit). This morning I noticed a cute Spanish guy wearing a neon-colored t-shirt of Abraham Lincoln. He sat on a picturesque cafe terrace with his barefoot friends, and one of them took my pen and notebook and sketched some primitive portraits of my sister and me. He offered us a midday whiskey and the t-shirt off his back that I had admired.

We also became friends with a French man from Marseilles who was selling crepes in the middle of Santiago and wearing a t-shirt that said “Boston” on it. He was a charmer, having fun all day and strumming his spatula like a violin.

The above picture is of me back home in Beacon Hill with an owl from my neighborhood antique shop.

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