The water pot broke. Again.

Not as many people have these in the States as here in Chile, but we have an electric teapot. For some reason, coming to Chile makes you decide to drink lots of hot drinks. Maybe it's that there's no heat and no insulation in houses. That could be it. But Chileans drink lots of té. And we do, too. Except now our pot broke again.

Last time one of us (maybe it was me) left it turned on to boil with less than the minimum water in it, and it melted the whole thing. I noticed it at 5:00 am, so it probably was going all night. But I took it to the servicio técnico - the licenced repairman, and they just gave me a new one since it was under warranty. That was not what I had expected!

But this time it just won't turn on. One minute it worked, the next it wouldn't turn on. It's not the outlet, nor did it work to clean the connections. So I am at a loss. My next adventure: go get another one. It's still under warranty!

But is it really worth it? That's the question. I mean I have to drive all the way across Santiago. We have 6 million people here, so that's a long way. Or I can take an unreliable bus about an hour one way with my girls. Or I can take a taxi that will cost me an arm and a leg. Of course, there's only one servicio técnico in Chile for this company, so my options are to go there or not go.

I'm starting to think that Mark's idea to buy a new one of a different brand might not be such a bad idea after all.

Thursdays and Sundays the market sets up on the main street about five blocks away from our house. It takes up some eight blocks of sidewalk, and is the main event for my Sunday afternoon.

Some stands have vegetables, some fruit. Some have fish that they clean for you right there. Some stands have plastic dishes, and some have shower curtains. Some people bring boxes of bags of yarn of all different colors. Some people bring fistfuls of bandaids. Some people sell used and broken radios and others sell "brand new" pirated cds. Think farmer's market meets flea market.

Each week, twice a week, early in the morning the old chevy pickups loaded to the point of breaking their shocks with crates of bananas, oranges and kiwis jockey with the tiny Asia Focus mini-mini-vans full of second-hand clothes for a parking spot along the curb. Then the feria workers (think carnival workers, the way they hawk their wares) set up their stands and tents, and begin to sell to the first arrivals.

Right before lunch, the action heats up, both in terms of the weather and the number of shoppers. I arrive around one, in the middle of the pack of people paseando, maybe buying or maybe not. I weave my way around the grandmas going slow, the baby strollers doubling as shopping carts, the teenagers I keep an eye on, the strolling couples, and the street dogs excited about all the commotion.

I bring a market cart from home, and fill it up with four kilos of apples, three kilos of bananas, two kilos of oranges, maybe a pineapple, a huge cabbage, two kilos of carrots, five green peppers, some really long celery, and however many lemons I have enough money leftover to buy. It all costs me 4000 chilean pesos - cuatro mil - less than 8 US dollars. I truck my produce for the week home, walking the five blocks trailing my market cart over the cracked sidewalks.

By four o'clock, they are tearing down the stands, loading the unsold merchandise onto the trucks, and tying their tent tarps down to cover the goods. At five the city is sending in the street sweepers with their brooms and a garbage truck for all the loose cabbage leaves, broccoli stems, squashed tomatoes, discarded fish pieces, remains of oranges that were cut and offered to prospective clients, and rotten potatoes.

The next day you hardly know the feria was ever there, nor that it will all happen again later that week. The only hint is the yellow painted "parking spaces" on the wide sidewalk where the feria stands will return next time I need to get out and mingle with my neighbors and buy a canteloupe or two.

What is going on here? That's the question to ask of this photo. About two months ago, Mark and I woke up to the incessant ringing of the doorbell. It was our neighbor, and the reason for ringing was immediately obvious. Our water meter and the pipes connected to it were gone! The neighbor had seen the culprit ride away on a bicycle. After asking around, we found out that they are stolen for the copper inside, which is fetching an all-time high price. In our neighborhood, there were five stolen the same morning. You gotta wonder what the guy who buys copper thought when someone brought him five water meters! The water company showed up an hour later with their special key to turn off the water at the street, and fixed it later that day. But it makes you think: if someone can ride their bike by at 6 AM, hop my five-foot fence, break my water pipes off at the ground, and ride off without being caught...maybe we would be better off living in an apartment again! 

I made a trip today to gringolandia. It isn’t really called that, of course, but it feels like it to me. The houses are huge, and beautiful. There is a clear view of the mountains, unobstructed by smog or buildings, and many, many gringos.

The only clue I had that I was still in Santiago was the gate guard, who clarified that, yes, I would have to walk around the corner and down the block to catch a bus. He seemed surprised that I spoke Spanish, and even more that I was going to take a bus. That’s how far off my normal route I was!

It turns out I had to walk a lot further, and then call Mark to come get me, because of a lack of public transportation. I was sure I had stepped back into the US!

When I went, I tried to guard my heart against envy of the material possessions that people in that neighborhood have. But I found that I wasn’t envious at all. I found that I felt compassion for them because they live such a spiritually poor life. I didn’t see one church, except a large rock cathedral. I wonder if they even know about Jesus, or if their space and beauty and stuff get in the way of feeling their spiritual hunger.

Mark and Doug want to buy a nice color printer for the Crusade National Office. They decided to go do it today. First problem.

So I got out the yellow pages and look under computer printer distributors. Makes sense, right? Second problem.

Some of the places have websites, so I check them out, and make a list of a few places they can go to.

First place they get to: doesn't sell printers, just makes color copies. Strike one.

Second place they get to: doesn't have any in stock, and the guy who sells them is at lunch, so they will have to come back later. Strike two.

They decide to get their own lunch. After lunch, they go to the third place: the receptionist says they sell printers there, and they can talk with the saleslady right away. They sit down at her desk, only to have her turn on her computer and show them the models that are available from their website. They don't have any in stock, either. Strike three, and you're out.

Memo to self:

1. Don't trust the yellow pages,

2. Call ahead,

3. Eat lunch when Chileans do, and

4. Don't plan on doing anything in Chile in the time you think it will take you.

So we are headed back to the States for a visit with family for Christmas, then to Denver Christmas Conference (see www.dcc2007.com), and to see some ministry supporters. We'll be "home" for six weeks or so, and the consistent topic of conversation around here is what will we bring back?.

Here's the partial list so far:

• jeans for Mark (He's down two sizes, I would guess)
• sheets (bad quality in Chile)
• cordless phone
• Good Earth and Celestial Seasonings teas
• Harry Potter book 6 in paperback. (Please don't tell me what happens!)
• Computer battery (If I don't get it for Christmas, that is!)
• sandals for Jenna and Rachel (size 5 and size 11-1/2, respectively)
• pressed powder makeup in a tone sufficiently light for my gringa skin
• computer parts (Mark's decided to build a desktop)
• craisins

And then each set of grandparents gets their own suitcase to fill with granddaughter goodies.

I'm sure I will think of other things. There are lots of things I would like to bring back that Chile's customs won't let through (New Mexico green chile, for example), but we'll just have to indulge while we are home.

Now that I'm thinking about all my favorite comforting stuff from the States, my "home" in the last sentence doesn't need it's quotation marks. And yet, while I am there, I will miss my home in Santiago, too, I know. It's complicated to always be away from home...

When was the last time you saw 29 stray dogs in 10 minutes? Probably when you went to the Humane Society to look for one to adopt. I don't think anyone will be adopting the ones I saw today. My friend Juan Carlos once told me that in the winter in Chile it rains cats and dogs, and in the summer the cats evaporate. Tal vez...

I ran over nine lomos de toro on the way to Rachel's preschool this morning. That's what Chileans call their beloved speed bumps - bull's backs. It's a strange way to describe what might range from one of those raised crosswalks all the way through a straight-up-and-down shock-buster. Needless to say, it's a bumpy ride to preschool. Then, on the way home, because Santiago also loves reversible streets and one way streets, I had to bump over another eleven lomos. Only to repeat the whole thing three hours later to pick Rachel up. I stopped thinking the speed bumps were strange several months ago: another testament to my transformation. I am pretty sure that all 50 buses, 55 taxis, 2 horse-drawn wagons, 843 pedestrians, 6 police vehicles, and 64 bright-yellow twelve-passenger school-transportation vans didn't even notice all the bumps.