Stories from a man who fails to meet media expectations of what it means to be gay:
white, frivolous, over sexed yet sexless, shrill, single, stylish, a clown, unimportant, et al.

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Nico does the ballet and does not fall asleep

Again, more of the belated summer vacation:
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The next couple of days were once of enjoyed lazyness, not doing very much other than hanging around the house with Beth and the kids, or joining her on occasional errands driving through a suburbia both familiar (it was after all a suburb) and foreign (a suburb were gas stations sold empanadas as fast food).�

One errand took us to a nearby open air mall anchored by a Jumbo and an Easy, an oversized supermarket/everything store and an equally large DYI/hardware store respectively.� Wandering though food markets in other countries is always cool, this one had loads of interesting fruits, including purple avocadoes. Also, being a California native, I had never seen ferrets for sale legally, never mind in a hardware store.

The last Friday night of our visit, John and I went with Carlos and Beth to the national ballet at the Teatro Municipal de Santiago (they had extra tickets after some friends of theirs canceled).� I�m not exactly a ballet fan, but it was an interesting night.� The Teatro was beautiful, built in an old world Opera house style, overflowing with ornate gilded details.�

John, Beth, and I were to take a taxi into the city proper to pick Carlos up from his work, then head on to the theater.� Except that the driver arrived 15 minutes late to pick us up from the house.� There was also a long delay dealing with large traffic jams.� It gave us an opportunity to watch some flame throwing jugglers, but it also meant that we arrived at the opera house five minutes after the start of the first act.� The Ballet had started on time and there was no seating during the entire first act.� Starting on time was a apparently a big surprise as there were a couple dozen people milling about the lobby, half of them staring at a TV monitor, watching folks in various stages of undress hopping around a stage, while the other half complained that it never starts on time, so why now?
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We gave up on the monitors and waited out the rest of the first act in a caf� adjacent to the theater.� What we missed was La Consagracion de la Primavera (The rite of Spring), but we did see the second act, Pajaro de Fuego (The Firebird).� It wasn�t bad, although I did spend almost as much time looking at the architecture as I did the dancers.� It was a traditional staging, and I suspect that I would have probably preferred the more modern and not very clothed version of La Consagracion.�

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Dinner was a short cab ride away, in Bella Vista at a place called Como Agua para Chocolate.� Named after the movie, it was a Mexican restaurant specializing in �sensual and passionate� cuisine with dishes with names like Cocimiento de Frida y Diego.
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We started off with a round of pico sours, the national drink of Chile.� They were good, if a bit strong for me, but then again, I drink rarely; most anything tastes strong to me.� The feel of the restaurant was warm, inviting, and celebratory, even before a gypsyish troop started playing guitars, singing songs of the love of the land, and leaping around tables in dances of strength and vitality.� Many of the dishes were sized to share, but I spared John the jokes about forcing him to eat something dead as I was in a mood for carne that night.� I forget the name of the dish I had, but it involved beef enveloping a large flavorful portion of a couscous like grain.� Very good food.�

That night felt very �big metropolitan city� to me, far more so than living in Los Angeles affords.

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