Well, actually it’s called a “carne de extranjeria,” but for our purposes, we’ll call it a “work visa”. The most important thing to note is that I still don’t have one and I need one. I needed one yesterday.
I have been in contact with my Peruvian employer since July when I came to visit and first made contact with them. It sounded like a dream job- teaching English, paid 30 day vacation, flexible schedule, benefits, the whole deal. While back in the States preparing for my big move, I stayed in contact via email with my contact at the Institute. She knew exactly what steps needed to happen in order for me to apply for a work visa and exactly what day I would be arriving in Lima.
Three days after my arrival, I met with her to being the visa process. My hopes were high and I was expecting to begin work within four weeks. Now, three weeks later, I have yet to sign a contract. I have yet to take my papers to Immigrations. I have nothing but little hope in my future job.
The past three weeks have been filled with excuses about a sick employee and promises that my paperwork will be “at the top of the list.” It appears that a Peruvian perception of the “top of the list” is much different than an American perspective. My expat friends have told me that Peru is notorious for being slow. Combined these expats have lived in England, Nigeria, China, Egypt, Finland, Canada, and Scotland, yet there is one overwhelming consensus- Peru is by far the slowest. I have also learned that the standard “3-4 week processing time” for my visa is in reality “6-8 weeks”. That is, of course, unless you are willing to slip someone a hefty fee to ensure that your papers get to the “top of the list,” whatever that means.
Here’s where it gets interesting. I’ve noticed that due to the general lack of a sense of urgency, sometimes Peruvians take matters into their hands. I have been told to take names, ask to speak with supervisors, be firm and keep a paper trail. I have also been told that even the appearance of a lawyer can make the difference in getting what you want. It’s a weird cultural line to cross. Keeping paper trails and showing up unannounced in the United States would most often result in nothing but office gossip before your first day. No self respecting office would be threatened by an attorney and asking to speak with a supervisor rarely gets you a different outcome.
This isn’t the United States. If it were, I wouldn’t be so eager to obtain my work visa because I would not be counting down the days until I need to plan an out-of-the-country vacation only to reenter as a tourist. Emmaline, we’re not in Kansas anymore. I guess it’s time to start acting like a Peruvian.
Expat Thanksgiving
Last Sunday, the Dean of the church that we have been attending invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at “the house”. The house? Why yes, we have dinner here. We eat at 4pm so come anytime before that.
This “house” was a mystery to me until Tuesday when I was at the church helping to prepare for their Christmas Bazaar on Saturday. The Dean’s wife came over to help me but then exclaimed that she had to run home to check her marmalade. Fantastic, I thought. I’m here alone, can’t communicate with the Secretary and with Limean traffic it will be hours before she returns. She returned fifteen minutes later. This “house” was the Parish house that I didn’t even know existed until that very moment.
I arrived on Thanksgiving to a living room full of beautiful, native English. Hailing from various parts of the United States, we gathered in attempt to create a fall, American holiday in a spring, Peruvian home.
We ate turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn casserole, cranberry sauce, asparagus and pumpkin pie made from canned pumpkin smuggled in from the States. We drank wine (hooray for Anglicans) and sat under a canopy in the backyard, discussing the oddity of celebrating Thanksgiving in a city in which everyone else is going about their regular Thursday.
We drank until dark and discussed the upcoming Christmas pantomime. We didn’t watch the Parade or endless hours of football. No one had plans for early morning Black Friday shopping and Publix holiday commercials aren’t flooding the television. But rather we ate and drank and shared and fellowshiped. I’m thankful that even three thousand miles away from my family, I found a little bit of home in the familiar taste of pumpkin pie.
This “house” was a mystery to me until Tuesday when I was at the church helping to prepare for their Christmas Bazaar on Saturday. The Dean’s wife came over to help me but then exclaimed that she had to run home to check her marmalade. Fantastic, I thought. I’m here alone, can’t communicate with the Secretary and with Limean traffic it will be hours before she returns. She returned fifteen minutes later. This “house” was the Parish house that I didn’t even know existed until that very moment.
I arrived on Thanksgiving to a living room full of beautiful, native English. Hailing from various parts of the United States, we gathered in attempt to create a fall, American holiday in a spring, Peruvian home.
We ate turkey with gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, corn casserole, cranberry sauce, asparagus and pumpkin pie made from canned pumpkin smuggled in from the States. We drank wine (hooray for Anglicans) and sat under a canopy in the backyard, discussing the oddity of celebrating Thanksgiving in a city in which everyone else is going about their regular Thursday.
We drank until dark and discussed the upcoming Christmas pantomime. We didn’t watch the Parade or endless hours of football. No one had plans for early morning Black Friday shopping and Publix holiday commercials aren’t flooding the television. But rather we ate and drank and shared and fellowshiped. I’m thankful that even three thousand miles away from my family, I found a little bit of home in the familiar taste of pumpkin pie.
Laundry Woes
This first time I had to do laundry was on the first floor of our Wohnheim (a glorified dorm building) in Munich. Upon the recommendation of my friends who had done laundry earlier that week, I brought with me my German dictionary. Which was wise advice because I was then looking at a machine with foreign words and symbols, laundry vocabulary isn’t exactly high on the list in college classrooms.
After one month in Munich, we made the big move to Dresden. There I lived in an apartment like environment. The entire complex was comprised of five rather block like buildings, most likely left over from the days of GDR architecture design. My new laundry room was on the first floor of another building. After some intense searching to find it for the first time, I entered the room and to my surprise found only two washing machines and one drying machine. Here is where my American-ness shows: subconsciously I was expecting the large, bright, and industrial laundry room of my college dorm. Off from the small room containing the washing machines were two larger rooms, with cables strung across the ceilings and each labeled “Tröckenraüm”. A drying room. Despite my attempts to fully embrace German culture, I bought cable from the local store and each week rigged a clothesline in my bedroom to dry my clothes.
And now, I’m hit with another laundry predicament. During the apartment search, Alvaro found several suitable apartments, but I was insistent on one thing: my building needed a laundry room. Under no circumstances did I want to walk my dirty clothes to a laundromat each week. Thankfully, this building has a laundry room.
When I arrived, he told me that the laundry room is only open Mondays, Wednesdays and Friday. Unusual, yes, but perhaps it is more sensible. Today after lunch I took a trip to the laundry room, after it’s Wednesday and I need clean clothes. After several puzzled looks and rough translations, my doorman entered the laundry room and told us, “Not to worry, the laundry lady is on her lunch break but will return shortly.” A laundry lady? The doorman walked back inside and I begged Alvaro to inquire more about this situation.
It turns out that the building has a laundry woman come on Wednesdays and Fridays (not the aforementioned Mondays) and she is there from 7:20am-3pm. She does laundry for 2 soles per kilo (what’s a kilo?), folds the clothes and returns them to you.
I have a couple of concerns:
Alvaro offered for me to do laundry at his parent’s place, which would require a fifteen minute walk along the streets with my dirty clothes, no gracias. For now, the plan is to do my laundry at his parent’s place on the weekends, when he can drive me. Not ideal, but it works. On Friday, when the laundry lady comes again, we are going to nicely ask her (and perhaps agree to keep paying her) if it would be possible for me to do my own laundry. I think I am just too uncomfortable with a stranger handling all my clothes.
It could be worse, yes I know. However, when moving to a new city, there are a few things that are harder to compromise on than if you were simply visiting. I do know one thing, one day when I settle down and have my own place, I will build a custom made laundry room: just for me.
After one month in Munich, we made the big move to Dresden. There I lived in an apartment like environment. The entire complex was comprised of five rather block like buildings, most likely left over from the days of GDR architecture design. My new laundry room was on the first floor of another building. After some intense searching to find it for the first time, I entered the room and to my surprise found only two washing machines and one drying machine. Here is where my American-ness shows: subconsciously I was expecting the large, bright, and industrial laundry room of my college dorm. Off from the small room containing the washing machines were two larger rooms, with cables strung across the ceilings and each labeled “Tröckenraüm”. A drying room. Despite my attempts to fully embrace German culture, I bought cable from the local store and each week rigged a clothesline in my bedroom to dry my clothes.
And now, I’m hit with another laundry predicament. During the apartment search, Alvaro found several suitable apartments, but I was insistent on one thing: my building needed a laundry room. Under no circumstances did I want to walk my dirty clothes to a laundromat each week. Thankfully, this building has a laundry room.
When I arrived, he told me that the laundry room is only open Mondays, Wednesdays and Friday. Unusual, yes, but perhaps it is more sensible. Today after lunch I took a trip to the laundry room, after it’s Wednesday and I need clean clothes. After several puzzled looks and rough translations, my doorman entered the laundry room and told us, “Not to worry, the laundry lady is on her lunch break but will return shortly.” A laundry lady? The doorman walked back inside and I begged Alvaro to inquire more about this situation.
It turns out that the building has a laundry woman come on Wednesdays and Fridays (not the aforementioned Mondays) and she is there from 7:20am-3pm. She does laundry for 2 soles per kilo (what’s a kilo?), folds the clothes and returns them to you.
I have a couple of concerns:
- I’m somewhat particular about my clothes, preferring to dry some and not dry others. I can’t imagine putting that responsibility on someone else.
- I don’t even ask my parents to do my laundry, let alone someone I don’t know.
- What happens when I work? Most likely I won’t be here to drop off and pick up my clothes?
- And finally- my explanations to her would be in Spanish, most certainly to take the better part of her seven hour shift.
Alvaro offered for me to do laundry at his parent’s place, which would require a fifteen minute walk along the streets with my dirty clothes, no gracias. For now, the plan is to do my laundry at his parent’s place on the weekends, when he can drive me. Not ideal, but it works. On Friday, when the laundry lady comes again, we are going to nicely ask her (and perhaps agree to keep paying her) if it would be possible for me to do my own laundry. I think I am just too uncomfortable with a stranger handling all my clothes.
It could be worse, yes I know. However, when moving to a new city, there are a few things that are harder to compromise on than if you were simply visiting. I do know one thing, one day when I settle down and have my own place, I will build a custom made laundry room: just for me.
Pedestrian Fines
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| Graphic from El Comercio |
Peru, however, is quite a different story. It’s a place where Alvaro says you must, “cross like a Peruvian” (meaning whenever and wherever you can) and where as he says, “you can never trust a stop sign.” Crossing the street in Peru is an adventure all by itself.
But today, that is all going to change. Today is the first day that Lima’s new laws regarding pedestrian crossings will begin to take effect. These consist of general laws that would help to keep order in any large city: don’t walk on the street, don’t get in/get out of a moving vehicle, don’t hang on to the outside of a moving vehicle, don’t walk in front of moving cars, don’t litter and cross only at designated areas. Each of these infractions, if broken, will come with a fine ranging from S./ 18 ($6) to S./ 108 ($36).
From what I have read, a majority of Limeans welcome the new laws, hoping that it will bring some sense of order to the chaotic traffic environment, however, it is met with one overwhelming criticism: there simply aren’t enough pedestrian crossings. The official response to this is that the pedestrian must then walk to the nearest crossing, though inconvenient, it is safer. Very true, however, in a city of nearly 8.5 million people the rare pedestrian crossing is not sufficient. The only authorities who have the power to impose these fines are the Transit Police, can they provide a large enough presence to deter over 8 million people from crossing in the middle of the street? I’m not sure. As Lima makes significant changes to their transportation infrastructure, this is a good step forward, and for now that seems good enough.
Pedestrian Fines
When in Germany, you should only cross the street at designated pedestrian cross walks. Failing to cross at these areas could result in a fine and/or scornful looks from passing Germans. Germany is run by an overwhelming sense of civic order, so much so that even if there is not a car in sight, most pedestrians will not cross the street unless their trusty Amplemann is green.Peru, however, is quite a different story. It’s a place where Alvaro says you must, “cross like a Peruvian” (meaning whenever and wherever you can) and where as he says, “you can never trust a stop sign.” Crossing the street in Peru is an adventure all by itself.
But today, that is all going to change. Today is the first day that Lima’s new laws regarding pedestrian crossings will begin to take effect. These consist of general laws that would help to keep order in any large city: don’t walk on the street, don’t get in/get out of a moving vehicle, don’t hang on to the outside of a moving vehicle, don’t walk in front of moving cars, don’t litter and cross only at designated areas. Each of these infractions, if broken, will come with a fine ranging from S./ 18 ($6) to S./ 108 ($36).
From what I have read, a majority of Limeans welcome the new laws, hoping that it will bring some sense of order to the chaotic traffic environment, however, it is met with one overwhelming criticism: there simply aren’t enough pedestrian crossings. The official response to this is that the pedestrian must then walk to the nearest crossing, though inconvenient, it is safer. Very true, however, in a city of nearly 8.5 million people the rare pedestrian crossing is not sufficient. The only authorities who have the power to impose these fines are the Transit Police, can they provide a large enough presence to deter over 8 million people from crossing in the middle of the street? I’m not sure. As Lima makes significant changes to their transportation infrastructure, this is a good step forward, and for now that seems good enough.
A Church for Expats
In order to make my transition to Lima somewhat easier, Alvaro has been conducting thorough research on English church services in the city. To our mutual surprise he found an English speaking church within walking distance of my apartment.
Today we attended their morning service, while the other church goers filed in we noticed an unusual amount of non-Peruvian looking people. When we spoke with those around us we heard Scottish, Irish, American and British accents. This seems to be where the English speaking, ex-patriates gather every Sunday morning.
We started the Service with the hymn “Praise to the Lord the Almighty” which I immediately knew and Alvaro claimed that my American advantage was unfair. Though he later said that he appreciated my presence since I was clearly his “ticket” to enter the service. The Pastor of this particular parish grew up in Britain, spent nearly half of his life in the United States and now calls Lima his home. In a new city full of a strange language and unknown culture, this service was a place of comfort.
After the service, they held a small reception hosted in part by the British Embassy. We walked into the small fellowship hall and were immediately greeted by several church members, just wanting to welcome us. As we sat and drank our coffee, an older woman joined us and began to ask about our story. “You’re American? And you are Peruvian? So where did you meet?” We replied in unison, “Germany.” To which she could only laugh and assure us that we aren’t the only multi-national couple in the congregation.
The whole morning was a success. Before we left the Pastor in charge of the Spanish ministry came up to me and was sure to say, “If you ever want to practice your Spanish, come to the later service, it’s in Spanish.”
Today we attended their morning service, while the other church goers filed in we noticed an unusual amount of non-Peruvian looking people. When we spoke with those around us we heard Scottish, Irish, American and British accents. This seems to be where the English speaking, ex-patriates gather every Sunday morning.
We started the Service with the hymn “Praise to the Lord the Almighty” which I immediately knew and Alvaro claimed that my American advantage was unfair. Though he later said that he appreciated my presence since I was clearly his “ticket” to enter the service. The Pastor of this particular parish grew up in Britain, spent nearly half of his life in the United States and now calls Lima his home. In a new city full of a strange language and unknown culture, this service was a place of comfort.
After the service, they held a small reception hosted in part by the British Embassy. We walked into the small fellowship hall and were immediately greeted by several church members, just wanting to welcome us. As we sat and drank our coffee, an older woman joined us and began to ask about our story. “You’re American? And you are Peruvian? So where did you meet?” We replied in unison, “Germany.” To which she could only laugh and assure us that we aren’t the only multi-national couple in the congregation.
The whole morning was a success. Before we left the Pastor in charge of the Spanish ministry came up to me and was sure to say, “If you ever want to practice your Spanish, come to the later service, it’s in Spanish.”
Comida Mexicana
Like most American college students, my former roommate Kathryn and I, have a slight obsession with Mexican food. Our weekly date would inevitably take us to Las Palmas to stuff ourselves with cheese dip, tortilla chips, a taco salad or burrito or whatever else was our favorite dish of the month. Over countless tortilla chips and drinks we would sit for hours and hours analyzing boys, Gossip Girl and Phi Mu.
Now that I am in Peru, I need to have Mexican food. Unfortunately, it won’t be the same without my dear Kathryn, but at least the enchiladas can try to cure my broken heart from missing her.
Alvaro claims that there is absolutely no Mexican food in Peru. Hmph, I set out to prove him wrong. Last week when driving around Lima with his mom and aunt, we passed by a restaurant and all I saw was “Comida Mexicana” (!!!!). I didn’t catch the name of the restaurant but quickly looked around for a landmark so that I could give Alvaro directions. After some thorough investigating we discovered that the name of the restaurant is Como agua para chocolate (Like water for chocolate) and luckily for us, it is within walking distance of my apartment.
We arrived there Saturday night and were greeted by piñatas, Corona signs and somberos, perfecto. We were seated and promptly ordered chips with guacamole and pico de gallo. For the main dish Alvaro ordered a steak burrito and I ordered chicken enchiladas. Needless to say, we cleaned our plates.
While we were eating, I noticed a lady going to each of the tables to check on the food and chat with the customers. She wasn’t wearing anything to distinguish her as an employee of the restaurant and I just assumed that she was the owner. After we finished our meal she came over to our table and in Spanish said, “You didn’t like it, huh?!” Alvaro looked directly at her and responded in English, “What?” She rephrased her question in English and we chatted for a couple of minutes about her restaurant and where we were from.
As soon as she left, Alvaro asked me, “Why did she start speaking to us in English?” to which I responded, “Because you spoke to her in English.” After nearly one and half years, I witnessed his first language blunder. I have seen him conduct three simultaneous conversations in English, Spanish and German without confusing a single word. Last night, here in Lima, he spoke English to a Peruvian.
But she wasn’t a Peruvian. We soon learned that this woman is Mexican and she owns the restaurant with her Dutch husband. Downstairs they serve Mexican food and upstairs is a bar that serves an assortment of Dutch and German beers. Every last Thursday of the month is “Dutch Night” where they forgo tacos and burritos for sauerkraut, bacon and kale.
Our new friend was a welcoming host. She assured us that if there was a dish that we wanted but didn’t find on the menu, not to worry, she would make it anyway. Not that she is biased, but she assured us that her restaurant has the most authentic Mexican food in all of Lima. Upon finding out that I am American she said, “Oh, yes, well then you know Mexican food.”
Now that I am in Peru, I need to have Mexican food. Unfortunately, it won’t be the same without my dear Kathryn, but at least the enchiladas can try to cure my broken heart from missing her.
Alvaro claims that there is absolutely no Mexican food in Peru. Hmph, I set out to prove him wrong. Last week when driving around Lima with his mom and aunt, we passed by a restaurant and all I saw was “Comida Mexicana” (!!!!). I didn’t catch the name of the restaurant but quickly looked around for a landmark so that I could give Alvaro directions. After some thorough investigating we discovered that the name of the restaurant is Como agua para chocolate (Like water for chocolate) and luckily for us, it is within walking distance of my apartment.
We arrived there Saturday night and were greeted by piñatas, Corona signs and somberos, perfecto. We were seated and promptly ordered chips with guacamole and pico de gallo. For the main dish Alvaro ordered a steak burrito and I ordered chicken enchiladas. Needless to say, we cleaned our plates.
While we were eating, I noticed a lady going to each of the tables to check on the food and chat with the customers. She wasn’t wearing anything to distinguish her as an employee of the restaurant and I just assumed that she was the owner. After we finished our meal she came over to our table and in Spanish said, “You didn’t like it, huh?!” Alvaro looked directly at her and responded in English, “What?” She rephrased her question in English and we chatted for a couple of minutes about her restaurant and where we were from.
As soon as she left, Alvaro asked me, “Why did she start speaking to us in English?” to which I responded, “Because you spoke to her in English.” After nearly one and half years, I witnessed his first language blunder. I have seen him conduct three simultaneous conversations in English, Spanish and German without confusing a single word. Last night, here in Lima, he spoke English to a Peruvian.
But she wasn’t a Peruvian. We soon learned that this woman is Mexican and she owns the restaurant with her Dutch husband. Downstairs they serve Mexican food and upstairs is a bar that serves an assortment of Dutch and German beers. Every last Thursday of the month is “Dutch Night” where they forgo tacos and burritos for sauerkraut, bacon and kale.
Our new friend was a welcoming host. She assured us that if there was a dish that we wanted but didn’t find on the menu, not to worry, she would make it anyway. Not that she is biased, but she assured us that her restaurant has the most authentic Mexican food in all of Lima. Upon finding out that I am American she said, “Oh, yes, well then you know Mexican food.”
Noise in the City
My apartment is noisy. All. the. time.
I live on the third floor of a building that is right off of a fairly busy Limean street. Which means that nearly 24 hours of the day I hear various city noises- traffic, construction, screaming pedestrians, landscapers, etc. My apartment is equipped with these fairly nifty double windows, sort of like a bay window, but if there were windows on both sides of the bay. This bay area has become Ms. Emmaline’s new favorite spot, since she can longingly look at the birds flying free right outside her window. It’s a nice additional because I have realized it provides slightly more protection from the city noise, I can’t imagine the noise if I only had one set of windows.
On top of the all the noise from outside my building, there is a constant rumble from inside my building. I can hear water rushing down the pipes, interior construction, vacuuming, children talking, phones ringing, doors slamming and the list goes on. As the city begins to wake around 7am, whether I like it or not, I too am stirred from my sleep. Traffic doesn’t allow for sleeping i
I live on the third floor of a building that is right off of a fairly busy Limean street. Which means that nearly 24 hours of the day I hear various city noises- traffic, construction, screaming pedestrians, landscapers, etc. My apartment is equipped with these fairly nifty double windows, sort of like a bay window, but if there were windows on both sides of the bay. This bay area has become Ms. Emmaline’s new favorite spot, since she can longingly look at the birds flying free right outside her window. It’s a nice additional because I have realized it provides slightly more protection from the city noise, I can’t imagine the noise if I only had one set of windows.
On top of the all the noise from outside my building, there is a constant rumble from inside my building. I can hear water rushing down the pipes, interior construction, vacuuming, children talking, phones ringing, doors slamming and the list goes on. As the city begins to wake around 7am, whether I like it or not, I too am stirred from my sleep. Traffic doesn’t allow for sleeping i
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