There’s been a lot of crying on my end this week, making an incredibly off one in contrast to my usually very content, rarely over-emotional self.

We’re past the honeymoon stage in out stay here in Chile. The thrill of living abroad has officially faded into a fairly dull routine reality. I’m starting to miss little luxuries from home — Target, tacos, free refills. I’m forgetting what a world is like where I can communicate with everyone, rather than a tiny percentage. Then there’s the family thing — missing Mother’s Day and my niece’s first birthday in the same week, in addition to missing my friends and boyfriend back home — it’s all left a dull ache that I’m simply not familiar with.

But it was really not enough to cry about. I mean, I deal with little sadnesses easily enough. I’m tough.

Then I had my first teaching observation. As far as I know, it came out of nowhere — no one else I knew had been observed, and I didn’t even know they were doing observations. I had a boring, really lame lesson planned for my advanced class. Only half the class showed up. None of them did their homework.

So when it came time for the meeting with my director afterward, I wasn’t expecting a glowing lovefest with champagne and praise.

But I wasn’t exactly expecting the number he gave me: 61/130. Like, that’s my score.

As he started down the checklist, all I could think was, if I suck at my job, then why the fuck am I here? Seriously? I have a family and a lot of friends who love me back at home. I have so many connections that I could easily find a job that I’m good at, even if I hate it.

So then I started crying. In out meeting. I just started sobbing as he took me down the checklist, explaining things that I had done wrong, or badly. And of course, when someone points out that you’re crying, the embarrassment makes it that much harder to stop. He asked me if I was happy here in Chile.

I nodded. I managed to stammer out a string of words: “Yes…I have…a lot of great…friendsssssssssssss here.”

To which he told me that some teachers have come up to him with concern for me — I just look sad all the time apparently.

Untrue, I think. I mean, I’m one of the TIPS that is constantly happy. It just didn’t make sense to me. But of course, it’s hard to really refute that rumor when I’m sobbing over your desk over a routine observation.

After I left, I Skyped Jeremy and then my mom, which made me feel a lot better about everything — even the mountain of paperwork I had left to do because it had been “neglected” (read: I never received the paperwork in the first place) over the entire semester.

The next day, I received an e-mail from my TIPS coordinator — she wanted to meet with me and talk about how she could “support” me. At first, I rolled my eyes, wanting to shout at her through the screen that I am not depressed! I scheduled a meeting anyway.

So last night, I trudged on over to Providencia to meet with my coordinator. I wasn’t really nervous having met her before — she was one of the nicest people I’ve met here in Chile. As we sipped beers in the cool night, she explained to me that my observation shouldn’t have been conducted in that kind of way — it should have been more constructive and numbers shouldn’t have even been involved. In turn, I explained to her that I’m actually very happy here.

All fixed.

So I went home, turned on the TV to see that Ghostbusters was playing, and in English at that. I was getting absorbed in it when Jenna told me to come over. Sure, there were protests happening outside her house, but the party was going to start soonish and she wanted to borrow a shirt.

I looked out my window when I heard chanting to see a march of people a block over. Protesters. They’d been out all week. On Monday, I had walked into the aftermath of some tear gas on Alameda — nothing serious, just slightly stinging eyes and nose. Thursday, I heard rumors of fires on Alameda and ruckus demonstrations.

Chileans love to protest. There are demonstrations for schools (school systems are terribly underfunded here), prices for the Metro (which are disproportionately high here, to be fair) and just about everything in between.

Right now, Chileans are up in arms about the vote to install hydroelectric dams in the last remaining wilderness — Patagonia. Despite the fact that more than 60% of the population disapproves of their installation, and there are other options for renewable energy sources, the government decided to put ’em in anyway.

On a sidenote — funny how politics are the same fucking everywhere. The say-one-thing-do-another-once-elected shenanigans are rampant in all parts of the world. As much as I’ve tried to keep my nose out of the politics here, I’m drawn in anyway. But I guess that’s just the story of my life.

Anyway, finally dressed, looking adorable, I walk to Jenna’s using a different street than the one I usually take — as that one was filled with protesters. I stopped to pick up some liquor a block away from her house. The botilleria was at the corner where protesters were turning from Portugal to Curico. I was walking in the opposite direction when I noticed that people had their shirts and scarves pulled up over their faces. Figuring they were just being precautionary, since it seemed like a fairly tame march, I marched on.

Soon, I smelled it. And seconds later, I felt it. My eyes stung and every breath in burned terribly. It wasn’t unbearable at first. I walked on at my same pace, trying to hold my breath.

It got worse. My entire face started to hurt, and I broke into a run. Jenna’s apartment building wasn’t even a block away, but it felt like a mile. Tears — actual tears! — started falling. When I finally got to Jenna’s building, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I shook on the gate, begging to be let in.

When I finally got up to her apartment on the 15th floor, I yelled “I REALLY LIVE IN CHILE NOWWW.” I found Jenna and Mel in the same state as myself — mascara running everywhere, red puffy faces. Well, for Mel. Jenna was fine.

They had me breathe into a cotton towel, which helped immensely. It took several minutes, but soon I was able to keep my eyes open for a picture.

All recovered, and eye makeup reapplied, we were able to continue the party. That’s just life in Chile, I guess. And really — I’m not sad about that.