Grapes Upside Down

10. Alfajores

~Madisen~

"You... are from United States, no? You have... favorite thing about Chile?"

My professor, a light-skinned man with a mustache, engages me in conversation with slow, stilted English. Chaos ensues around us in the gymnasium as Chilean students mill about setting up equipment, chatting and kicking around soccer balls.

I reply in what I hope is a more fluent level of Spanish than his English:

"Yes, I'm from the United States, from the state of Washington. My favorite thing about Chile so far is..." My mind flashes through a series of images, flip-book style, of the most bizarre peculiarities I've experienced in the past week: clowns juggling bowling pins in the middle of the intersection while cars wait at red lights, bus drivers honking incessantly at traffic that has no place to disperse, produce venders in the market whistling and cat-calling as I walk by ("¡Guapa!" "¡Mamacita!")

Clara appears by my side, bumping into me to make her presence known. I throw my arms around her in relief. We appear to be the only two exchange students in a sea of Chileans. It's the first day of the semester, but in my observation, everyone here already knows each other as well as the protocols for this class, which is called "Recreación."

Profe Aguilar proceeds to repeat his questions with Clara, who pauses for an unnaturally long time, staring at him with a neutral expression that I know to be masking irritation. She finally answers, in Spanish. Our professor's poor English is a reminder of how ridiculous we must sound basically every time we open our mouths.

"Holis."

I spin around as a finger taps repeatedly on my shoulder.

"Hola," I respond with amusement to the boy smiling at me with a goofy grin. His greasy hair is cut into a sort of mullet style. He asks for our names, makes jokes that we don't understand, then attempts to speak English with us. His language skills make Professor Aguilar sound like a prophetic orator.

"You so pretty, yes?" he tells me.

"What?"

"You like Chile, yes?"

"Yes." I grin through my discomfort.

"Yes! You want friend me, yes?"

"¿Qué?"

Clara rubs her temples in mock exasperation as she witnesses our failed conversation.

"Wow, you have a new boyfriend—congratulations," she deadpans when the guy finally leaves us alone to go punt soccer balls into the rafters.

Twenty minutes into the period, the two professors finally gather everyone in the middle of the basketball court with a sharp whistle. Profe Aguilar's co-teacher begins explaining the rules of our first activity. He is short and bald, with a rounded belly, and I don't catch his name. His speech is mumbled and soft-spoken, words disintegrating into the empty, echoing spaces of the gym before I can collect them.

"Yes Boy" taps my shoulder again and whispers something to me in Spanish, further impeding my ability to focus on the instructions.

Another shrill whistle causes the mass of students to scatter in a frenzy; Clara and I remain planted in place like wildflowers that have sprouted in the wrong habitat. Foam balls whizz past our heads as the rest of the students sprint haphazardly around the gym. We retreat to the sidelines, staring at each other in bewilderment, then trot around at random in a half-hearted attempt to pretend we know what's going on. About six students wearing what can only be described as black Klu-Klux-Klan caps hurl the spongy balls at their classmates, who leap and twist to avoid being hit as if this is a matter of life and death.