My mediocrity doesn't stop with my looks but extends to the talent department. I can't honestly say that I'm a natural at anything. Admittedly, there are things I'm not necessarily bad at-- I'm not completely musically incompetent and I have a decent golf swing-- and I have a few unique quirks, but touching my nose with my tongue and perfectly mimicking the Roadrunner's beep beep sound have never won me any contests.
It sounds like I have low self-esteem, but that's only partly true. What I'm getting at is this: in Alabama, I'm the All-American Girl. But so are all my girlfriends.
I've spent the last week in South America, though, and I can tell you this: I may be the All-North-American Girl, but I am certainly not the All-South-American Girl. Oh no-- at the risk of bragging-- I am, in fact, an exotic beauty. For the first time in my life, I may have caused whip lash. Little ol', tow-headed, freckle-faced, J. Crew-clad me.
On our first full day in Chile-- post traumatic mandatory tsunami evacuation-- my cousin took Chasley and me to Valparaiso, a neighboring town and the oldest port city in Chile. The port was full of military vessels drifting in the Pacific, monitoring wave conditions, against a back drop of Chilean mountains. It is truly breath-taking-- most of us are either "mountain people" or "beach people," but here the two worlds collide. Inland, the streets curve steeply uphill, and a rainbow of colorful shops and apartment buildings decorated with brilliant graffiti line the steep incline. Allowing my mouth to gape open at the overwhelming new sites-- not to mention the smells of empanada shops and a bakery on every corner-- screams tourist! almost louder than my pale skin and platinum hair, so I resisted the urge to drool but it was a true challenge.
On Saturday nights (mornings), the Chilean nightlife picks up just at 2 am (when American bars are closing, the Chileans smirk) and Chilenos of all ages pile into discos for a mix of bossa nova music and Top 40 American rap. The DJ spins records, and the Latin Americans dance in a completely non-vulgar, non-American way: this isn't bump and grind, it's actual dancing... it's like being in a room full of Gloria Estefan's and Enrique Iglesias's. Once again, don't stare and try not to gawk.
But the funny part is, I was able to resist the urge to openly ogle the Latin American lifestyle. Meanwhile, the Latin Americans did not return the favor. You see, while I'm the Girl Next Door here in the States, in Chile I'm a Blonde Goddess. A trophy. An extraterrestrial being. I might as well have been a giraffe walking down the sidewalks of Valpo the way people turned and openly stared. Men running on the beach for their Naval Academy PT stopped and took their picture with me; Emily's Chilean friends called me Cameron, as in Cameron Diaz-- a comparison that is absolutely laughable in this half of the Americas; old Latino men whispered, "Beau-tee-full layy-dee" in my ear as they passed-- something that would've been flattering had it not been incredibly creepy, and that's only when I knew what they were saying; cars and buses honked and leered. It was delightful. And terrifying.
Our day of site seeing in Valpo on Saturday was fabulous-- the city is beautiful and the perfect Latin American experience, and the nightlife is upbeat and exciting-- and for a week, I was a giraffe: an exotic head-turner, an American Gisele Bundchen... and that was kind of fabulous too.
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