Iron Shirts

I hate ties and dress pants, tucked in shirts and polished shoes. I hate formalwear as if it were a parasite sucking out all of my personality and eliminating all hopes of comfort. The button down shirt is a leech; the pleated khaki a bloodthirsty tick; and the dress sock, an annoying associate who believes that you are friends and subsequently hits you up for money. It is with this kind of disgust that I found myself embarking on a cultural experience far more difficult than any I have yet encountered in South America: the act of ironing.

Now ironing may seem simple to those who have grown up with starched collars and pleated pants. But for those of us who buy clothes with the soul purpose of covering up our nakedness (reluctantly at that), the iron and ironing board present themselves as daunting foes.

I took the task worse than I took the challenge of leaving Chile. I knew I had to do it. I had to be presentable for my job interview and the dress clothes I bought had suffered greatly en pasaje from La Serena. The shirts had more wrinkles than an old folks home and the pants took the permanent form of the bottom of my backpack. Despite my reluctance, I knew that an outfit in that state would not serve my goal of finding a job.

I handled the iron as if it were a mangy, disease infested Chihuahua that spewed steam instead of frothy, rabid saliva. I wanted to keep my distance from the ironing board too, but knew I had to get close to work out the thousands of creases and folds that inundated the fabric of my VanHeusen cotton polyester blend. I laughed a bitter, cynical laugh when the iron pushed across the tag that said “Wrinkle Free”.
“Wrinkle Free my ass” seemed like the most appropriate response.

I ironed laboriously for two hours, completing three shirts and two pair of pants. During the epic, I managed to soak one pair of pants with water, and slightly singe the collar of one of my nicest shirts. I also found, in review of my tiresome effort, that on two of my shirts in very obvious positions, rather than eliminating wrinkles I had permanently folded down creases that could not be uncreased no matter how long I sat the iron on top of them (hence the singeing). After two hours, I learned that I had failed, and willingly sulked for a few brief moments.

But an outfit was saved!

I had recovered from the ironing mishap with one good pair of pants and one good shirt. Luckily they matched (my friend’s mother informed me that they matched, I assure I have no aptitude for that skill either). It was with that outfit that I entered a taxi the following day and went to my first interview in Huaraz.

The school was aptly named after my protector and guide here in Peru: Huascarán. I had been in contact with the Director while I was still in states. He had made me an amazing offer but never followed up. Discouraged, I paid the TeachingChile fees and, well, we know how that story ends. But now that I was in Huaraz, I decided to try again. I had arranged an interview, and in my newly, and begrudgingly ironed clothes, I entered the school and began the gauntlet.

The process of interviewing for a job in a foreign country is more trying than any other work related experience I have ever had. I was interviewed by two different people in the course of an hour; was offered a job, offered a different one, then offered a combination of the two; was formally tested psychologically and emotionally through questionnaires, drawings, and story writing (some of my favorite questions were: What do you need to finally be happy? What do you hate most about women? Fill in the blank: My sexual life is __________.); I was given a tour of the campus as if I was going to work there, but without any confirmation; was told I would have to start tomorrow, then told to wait because I would need a work visa (again without confirming that I would take the job); and all of this was done in Spanish. My head swam with translations, cultural rules and norms, and currency conversions when we discussed a salary. In the U.S. they offered me a specific job with an amazing salary. That job had since been taken and would not be available again until February, but meanwhile they offered me something I could live off of. Upon leaving, they told me they would call me the next day confirming I had passed all the tests and that my interview went well. If everything fell into place, I would have a job.

The job will be one sixth of the pay they originally offered, but it will be enough to live off of. Come February they promised I will get the original salary I was offered. So I have to bide my time now and make do. Despite having expected more, I like that I am being challenged in this way. I don’t ever want money to dictate the worth of an experience, and with the current salary I’ll be making, I will be closer to living a Peruvian life. I wouldn’t really know what to do with a lot of money anyway.

Another addendum to the job offer was getting my residency and work visa. Turns out that that will take about 25 days to process. In the meantime I have found a few jobs tutoring English from the Hostal. But my surrogate family here is being amazingly generous and making it so that I can live off of what I make while also helping me with ever possible road block that has come up. Their generosity has been unparalleled to any other I have experienced (and I have same very generous friends) and I constantly note that they are imparting on me a virtue I shall always try to practice myself. I am being looked after: by Huascaran, by the Blanco’s, and by my family and friends who supported me on the sudden change of plans. This is truly an amazing gift, and I thank all of you for being a part of the support.