“Yo perdi mis calcetines.” I lost my socks.

(Jenn and I on the top of Cerro San Cristobal; that day we took the trolley up)

While running Cerro San Cristobal last weekend I discovered that language doesn’t come from the heart but from the stomach.

From where I live now the run is 9-miles door to door with 1,472 feet of climbing. By the time you reach the top you are so thirsty you can barely enjoy the absolutely stunning view of Santiago. Generally I wouldn’t complain, but this hill enacts a kind of cruel and unusual punishment that hardly seems legal. The 2.5-mile incline and 90° heat doesn’t really bother me, but the Gatorade stations placed periodically up the hill seem to laugh at the runner who doesn’t want to carry change on a 9-mile run. I swear the thirst is 90% mental 10% physical.

After the first two treks I finally gave in and decided to take 1,000 pesos to reward myself with an ice-cold Gatorade at the summit. Unbeknownst to me I was also paying for a Spanish lesson. After paying I immediately gulped down the liquid candy bar and headed back down. It took about 2 minutes before I realized I made a huge mistake. I should have brought 1150 pesos not 1000. The ice-cold deliciousness shocked my stomach into action and I quickly learned that the Chilean entrepreneurial spirit charges 150 pesos per squat—30 cents. And oh the irony, the bathrooms are just as numerous as the Gatorade stands on the way down. I wanted to yell, “Stop laughing at me bathroom! Just wait till I come back with 30 cents after a night of drinking and completos! We’ll see who is laughing then.”

I walked about a mile before I admitted to myself I wasn’t going to make the 3 miles back. Now, normally I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking strangers for money in English, but there is nothing like stomach thunder to make you start begging in a foreign language. I went up to few pololos (couples) lounging on the grassy hill and asked in my most polite Spanish if I could “borrow” 150 pesos for the bano. Unfortunately none had spare change and I approaching time zero.

Finally, I marched/waddled up to the bathroom guard and explained my predicament. She said it was fine and let me pass. My momentary relief soon faded as I discovered that my Spanish isn’t all that good. Somewhere I had lost in the translation that the 150 pesos came with the toilet paper, which she apparently couldn’t part with.

Now I’ll approach the next part sensitively. When I was telling this story in my Spanish class Monday morning my teacher’s eyes kept getting wider and wider as I searched for the words to describe my Sunday afternoon jog. When I got to this part I simply said “Yo perdi mis calcetines.” I lost my socks. 

(Mary at the top)