A week has passed since my return from Patagonia and I am no less overwhelmed than when I first flew into the barren, pink mist at the end of the world. The four hour flight crossed volcanoes, endless blue lakes, snow dusted tundra and silver glaciers. When Jill and I arrived to Puerto Natales, (the gateway to National Park Torres del Paine), it was a cold and blustery day. Not a good premonition for the weather to come.

We spent a warm, but dodgy evening in a family-run hostel there. Lumpy stuffed bobcats, rotting armadillos and fake braided hair adorned the halls and bathrooms. When our drafty van arrived at 7 am the next morning, I can't say I was disappointed to leave... three frigid hours later, our van dropped us at the ranger station to begin the trip. It was there we discovered that the park closed the next day, shutting down access to refugios (warm delightful huts that prevent hypothermia for insane winter trekkers like ourselves), and ensuring we would not be seeing anyone on the trail. Let it not be forgotten that violent winds were picking up in the valley and a blizzard had just begun on the mountain.

It was in that fateful moment that we happened upon the boatmen's cabin on Lago Pehoe. As we waited for the passenger boat to transport us across the lake where the trail began, we followed the thin snake of smoke to the doorway of the tiny house. The Chilean boatmen and van drivers were warming themselves inside, and invited us to join them. They offered us a free night's stay so we could begin the trail the following day, hopefully with improved weather conditions. A steaming loaf of bread sealed the deal, and we signed up for 24 hours of Southern Chilean hospitality.

It was a special crowd, to be sure. Three boatmen (ages 30 - late 40s) and a lanky 18-year-old house slave named "Flaco." We drank instant coffee, listened to cumbia, drank pisco sours beneath the light of a homemade disco ball hanging from the rafters, and coddled the house pet (a wild skunk who ate her own bowl of chicken soup) until noon the following day. We caught the last boat ride of the season to the trailhead and began the trek. It was just me and Wehn, two gringas deemed locas by our Santiaguino friends and merely entretenidas by our newly aquired Torres boatmen. Given the lack of daylight (it's pitch black until 8 am and the sun sets at 5:30 pm), we essentially ran through the park to reach camp before nightfall.

The aftermath of the snowstorm made for a striking and eerily lonely hike. No one was on the trail. The goal was to camp beneth the sharp "cuernos" (the defining glacial peaks of Torres del Paine). Matted underbrush, tinged by the cold breath of fall, gave way to heavy snowfall upon steep mountain faces, which eventually poured into the green lake that marked our campsite. In the four hour race against the sun, we made it to the frozen base camp. Condors loomed above the clearing, swooping behind the saddle of the cuernos and reminding us that we were quite alone on this sacred ground. Fortunately, the last stragglers at the refugio welcomed us to cook our instant rice inside and we dried our socks and jackets before returning to what may have been the coldest night of my life. My mama's advice to bring whiskey seemed wise, indeed.

Accordingly, we shaved a few nights from our five day plan, and hustled through the remainder of the park. We arrived to the final outpost, "Torres," supremely chilled and ready to receive the warmth of civilization. We decided to change the original plan and spend a day each in Puerto Natales, the tiny seaside town at the foot of the Andes, and Punta Arenas, the bustling capital of the south. Perhaps my favorite "urban" experience was at the shores of Natales, where flocks of flamingos (yes, the enormous pink, gangly legged birds) grazed the glacial sea. Very few penguins remained, as we had apparently arrived exactly when the last birds plunge into the ocean to migrate north. Those languid days were spent wandering the quiet streets, followed by packs of stray dogs and contemplating our symbolic journey to the fringes of the continent.

Quite nostalgically, I found my way home to Santiago. Perhaps it took traveling to the far reaches of the world to realize it, but I have found my place here. I felt grateful to dive back into that blanket of smog, cradled by the stagnant heat of the valley. Santiago, its desperate micro buses, intrepid street performers and crumbling colonial walls, tasted glorious to me.

The Strayer clan has been gloriously reunited in an Andean adventure (sadly, minus Forbie), which nearly resulted in a fatal downpour deep in the central mountains of Siete Tazas. Linda, Ricardo and Alisa arrived early Saturday morning for a six day visit. Here's what happened:

Easter was celebrated with a large feast of fish and wine. We spent several hours dining with my Chilean mom and sister at Azul Profundo in the quaint, colorful neighborhood of Bellavista. Linda was laughing gregariously and "Ricardo" chimed in with "yo entiendo todo," every few minutes. Post-dinner, I headed to Plaza Italia with my two moms, to attend a midnight Easter Vigil.

Now, to give a bit of context, the only Easter service I've ever attended was last year in Wisconsin with the joyous Moerke family. I recall three (or so) hours of burning myself with dripping candle wax, writing secret messages with the crispy wick, and generally misbehaving. This year's gathering was a slight modification of the only proper Easter I've ever known... It was outdoors, for one, "performed" on a large stage downtown with several thousand attendees. To get things started, the former Miss Chile strutted on stage, accompanied by a priest and several scantily clad dancers. The following mayhem included nothing of silence, prayer or sermon. It was, instead, a three hour brouhaha of dancing, confetti throwing and screaming -- rather like a northamerican New Year.

Alisa, Mom, Dad and I packed up the little white rental car the next morning to hike the high mountains of Siete Tazas (literally, seven teacups, which are the famous waterfalls of the park)... the clouds became more ominous and as we pulled up to our cabaña (after 2 hours on a pockmarked, craterlike path/road, getting directions from an amicable young Chilean who jumped in our car to accompany us, and being laughed out of town for requesting coffee to go), a good 5 miles from any settlement, it began to pour. It rained continuously for the next 15 hours, and by morning, we had to forge a washed away mudslide of a road, across a treacherous popsicle stick bridge over the raging gorge below. The sedan barely hauled through the four foot deep puddles, and we fishtailed most of the way down the mountain, but we finally arrived to a much more tranquil Santa Cruz.

This luxury hacienda was much more to Linda's liking, and we were rejuvenated with hot showers, food and the comfort of subtitled tv. Again, we devoured a fine spread of sea bass and scallops, roast pork, seaweed and crab salad, and carmelized bananas. Full and content, we strolled about the plaza, bought some raw wool from the market and spent the rest of the evening knitting (I learned from Alisa) and watching My Best Friend's Wedding in spanish.

We have finally returned to the smog haven of Santiago. Finished off the night with yet another hearty meal at Como Agua Para Chocolate, the mexican-inspired genuis of a restaurant. And now, tengo tuto. Me voy a la cama... ¡chao!

Salsa class never fails me. Tonight, of course, was no exception. The frenetic footwork, the interminable struggle against gringo shoulders, the mastery of hip swishing and ass shaking while still managing to look sexy... I must say those hours in the tiny studio (hidden inside the basement of an internet cafe) are some of the best I have spent in Chile.

There are two advanced classes that I attend: Colombian and Cuban. My Puerto Rican roots have magically carried me through the rough spots in both, but I definitely favor the Cuban style of dance. Tonight, I learned Colombian Salsa for the first time. It has an additional "marca" -- a tiny clip of the toe against the floor on the off beat. As if that was not enough to remember, I was paired with the smallest man in the class to practice. This tiny varon, who came up to my shoulders at best, certainly added a new level of challenge to my special salsa time. I won't even talk about the turns...

Thursdays are always best. My favorite memory will always be of dancing with a large, large man named Manuel. I cannot erase the image of this surprisingly agile hombre, dancing ever so suavecito on feet that could not have belonged to his body. He moved his immense self with such speed that even his fat did not have time to follow.

Other highlights of recent days and weeks...

1. I cooked dinner for the fam on Friday night with none other than the fabulous Jill Wehner. The menu was as follows:

first course -- curried lentil soup, topped with yogurt, coconut and raisins
second course -- ginger lemon stir fry of mushrooms and zucchini over couscous
third course -- asparagus and spinach salad, drizzled with an orange rind dressing
dessert -- an ever-so gluttonous molten brownie cake, topped with vanilla ice cream and raspberries

I trekked to the mercado central with my friend, Jenny, to collect the necessary ingredients. Though we gained the vauable experience of bargaining and selecting the most savory fresh produce with a 100% chilean crowd, it was not the most pleasant experience. It was a pure hour of being verbally harrassed, whistled at and thoroughly frightened. The Lider around the corner suits me much better. I think I will try wearing a large garbage bag next time and see what happens.

2. I spent the weekend in Valparaiso. There is an eerie breath of fog that sits between the brilliantly colored houses. The city is built around the port there. It is a tangled disaster of crooked streets and ascensores (cable drawn elevators) that tow tourists and locals alike up the impossibly steep hills.

I arrived with the group and received a thorough lecture on Valpo's history. I stayed the night with my friend, Melina, to dabble in the coastal nightlife... a midnight seafood extravaganza where we were joined by a nostalgic, tipsy old man who bought us wine and called us his daughters, a field trip to a club called Stockholmo (Dar, Lenny was there and he says hello), follow up at several other enjoyable locales, and a nice hearty breakfast of kuchen (german cake) and coffee.

3. I am preparing to trek to Pucon this Thursday with Jill. It is about two hours south, by plane, and is one of the adventure capitals of the world. The plan, so far, includes: climbing Volan Villarica with crampons, ice picks and heavy wind gear; bike riding or horseback riding around the rainforest and plentiful lakes; steaming in volcanic mineral termas (hot springs)... More to come upon my return.

¡Ay! Thursday marks the one month anniversary of my being here in Chile. Time passes on a different continuum here. And what a glorious way to live. Besos y abrazos a todos... les echo de menos.

Summer is lingering. It's been a good year. But fall is nearly upon us, and with that turn in season arrives a (slightly) more somber air in the city of Santiago: school has begun. Fewer bare, browned shoulders. More pleated skirts and leg warmers over black Mary Janes. Luckily, for an estudiante de intercambio, like myself, the start to a new school year is nothing short of joyous.

For example, my first class this week took place at the Macul campus of la Universidad de Chile. Known for its frequent protests, tear gassings and Che-inspired activity, it is the place to be. (Most students know to carry potatoes -- ready to be sliced open and placed over the eyes -- to counteract the burning effect of the gas) The course: "Historia del Rock." Most classes that day were canceled, since the teachers didn't show, and the lawns were blanketed with lounging students, throwing back a few beers, sleeping or discussing life. Of course, my class was one of the few actually in session, but as it turned out, the class was painfully easy and the flustered, sweaty teacher didn't quite fulfill my image of the Chilean educational excellence I had imagined.

I spent the rest of the week dabbling in various courses on Mapuche culture and art, the poetry of Pablo Neruda and Gabriela Mistral, and poverty in the news. I have created quite the dreamy schedule. My weekend begins at 1:30 pm on Thursdays.

Food has been another primary topic of interest. I can't say Chilean food is my favorite cuisine, but it certainly has some interesting dishes. My breakfasts usually consist of cheese or meat hidden in a thick layering of mayonnaise and butter on white bread or a thick roll. It's a small step from the South Beach diet that lost Mr. Dick Strayer almost 15 pounds, but I haven't become a gordita... yet. I can always expect a slab of meat or fish for dinner, and sometimes an omelette or vegetable medley. But the foods I've enjoyed most have been the fruits.

I experienced my first pepino on Sunday. It is a fruit I've only seen here, in the mercado central. It looks rather like a cream colored persimmon, with purple markings like the stripes on a tiger. Inside, it has a thick, melon like flesh that leaves the most indescribable aftertaste. One which I cannot decide if I loathe or actually enjoy. That was the first of many new fruits (not to mention strange sausages with stretchy skin and somewhat questionable mayonnaise dishes)... another new experience was the tuna, what I always called a prickly pear or cactus fruit. It is exactly like a honeydew melon with a dense smattering of crunchy brown seeds inside. Sort of like gravel enmeshed in what would be a refreshing, light snack.

In any event, life in Chile is most enjoyable. Things seem to be structured around recreation and quality of life, putting work much below play on the list of priorities. Any feelings of stress have been gently washed away by the coordinators of my program. They tell me to go eat some ice cream and plan my classes some other day. So far, it's not working out too badly. I am going to Viña and Valparaiso for the weekend to bake my half-anglo whiteness into proper chilean piel. Two beautiful beach town perched on the rocky coast should do the trick.

Pues, chao for the moment. ¡Que les vaya muy bien este fin de semana!

From a tiny sliver of my room, I have a view of the far off, dusty cordillera -- the famous Andes mountains. This is it. The world ends here, or at least that's how the Chileans view it. Es una tierra casi como isla. The towering mountain range blocks the east and the west drops into an enormous ocean. To the south, there is nothing but Antarctica. Accordingly, there is a palpable sense of pride in the sluggish summer air.

Since my arrival on Wednesday morning, I have spent the last four days in Olmue, a village near Valparaiso, in the mountain range above the coast. We stayed in a place called ''Paraiso,'' which means paradise. Let's be honest: it truly was. I lived in a little cabaña wrapped in honeysuckle, with a path that connected to the pool and grape encrusted arbor. After being properly schooled in Chilean customs and swear words (plus an excursion to a nearby vineyard where we rode a tractor to the fields and frolicked/ate our way through acres of ripe grapes), I was ready to venture to Santiago de Chile.

And now, here I am. I start orientation for my three respective universities (U. de Chile, Catolica and Diego Portales) this Tuesday, but being a foreigner (and therefore slower), I have three weeks to choose classes. Plus, I'm not actually responsible for any work during the intial shopping period. Being a gringa actually does provide a few advantages... This all adds up to a ridiculous amount of time to explore, pasarme muy bien and become fluent in spanish.

My little apartamento is so cute. I have a computer, a phone, a cd player and blue plaid bedspread and other than the size, I really can't say it looks much different from any other room, except that I can see the Andes when I lay down in my bed. I also have nto yet mentioned the small bundle of joy that rules my house: la Pepa. She is a mini white poodle about the size of a 1980s cell phone. She loves me, which I don't really understand, but we like to hang out and she especially likes to leap into my lap when I'm trying to spread fried eggs on my stacks of white bread during meal time. It's all pretty special. This is only my second day, but I've certainly managed to have a few special incidents. For example, when I went to take a shower this morning, I was first taken aback by the size of the thing. It's not much wider than an airplane seat and not a whole lot longer. But I thought to myself, ''no biggie.'' It would have been fine if not for the non functional shower head. I yanked and slammed that little knob on the spout every which way, but try as I might, only a small stream of water would drizzle from the spout that fills the tub. I spent the better part of a half hour hunched beneath the trickle (read:laying on the floor) to wash my hair and the rest of myself. Yum. Anyway, the shower man is coming any time now, which probably means tomorrow, so I should be in better shape relatively soon.

And now, it's time for more chilean life. It is hard to be sad when everyone is so loving, of which I am very thankful. Besos a todos! And finally, I would like to leave you with a small sample of Chilean philosophy: ''Hacemos lo que manda el corazon, no la cabeza.'' Y asi es.

only four days remain until my departure for chile. i am filled with joy! my latest email address -- the one i'll be using for the next six months -- will be ginalachilena@yahoo.com... hasta martes.