PATAGONIA 9 - ANTHROPOMORPHIZING

Bariloche, Argentina; marooned without a credit or debit card I had the better part of the week to wait for money from my credit union in Michigan. I decided to take a boat tour on Lake Nahuel Huapi. So late in the season, the tour company had marked the tickets down. That morning I finished my Spanish lesson with time to spare. The boat could handle maybe 40 passengers but we would be lucky to fill half the seats. It was a rainy gray day, cold with the wind out of the south. Everything in Spanish, I wouldn’t be getting any help. 

The ride was choppy but I like even bumpy rides. The program began with some geology, how the lake was formed, the mountains. I was picking up words on a subject I already knew. Lake Nahuel Huapi has 5 or 6 arms reaching out in all directions, never far from one shoreline or another. I brought a sandwich and a banana; good thinking. They did have a toilet and drinking water on board but not much else in the way of meeting passenger needs. We went ashore for a short nature hike so I was surprised when we stopped again later. This time we took a steep trail up the mountain side. Our guide was taking us to an old growth grove of Lenga trees. I knew about the Lenga. One of my room mates was Swiss, an engineer who had come through Punta Arenas, Chile where Lenga grow on the slopes above the Straights of Magellan. They were told that there are Lengas up there that looked down on Magellan when he made his first passage through the straights in the early 1500’s. Bariloche is farther north, more temperate than Punta Arenas but factor in the altitude and you get big, old trees, we would be seeing 500 + years Lenga. They are deciduous trees with a short growing season, losing their leaves in the fall. The more harsh the climate, the more they thrive. 

I didn’t have to be told we were coming into the old growth trees. They were huge; 100 ft. tall, trunks with 5 ft. diameter. Like everywhere else in the world, great trees were harvested to keep up with the demands of civilization. But getting to the trees and getting them down to a saw mill was not cost effective around Lake Nahuel Huapi so the old growth has not been disturbed there. They are now protected in both Chile and Argentina. They made me think of the tree giants in the movie Lord Of The Rings. Leaves on the ground were ordinary yellow and gold, no clue to their  pedigree except look up. The way back down was both steep and slippery, hand rails few and far between but the view over the cove was awesome. You could see the 2 or 3 miles across the lake to the far shore with white caps on the water and low clouds racing north. I was careful but kept taking in the scene thinking; ‘You can’t do this watching a travelogue.’ 

Back at TangoInn I wrote in my journal and talked with Herman, working behind the counter. I asked him about the dogs. There is a vestibule or alcove you have to pass through as you enter the building with just enough space for doors to open and close, for a potted plant and a rack full of tour brochures. In the morning and at night there were two dogs sleeping on a small rug in that alcove. Both medium size world-dogs; mongrels. One, a long hair black while the other with short hair, black speckles on white. They managed to keep out from under-foot and responded to a kind word and a pat on the head. During the day they went somewhere else. Herman said they were citizens. They didn’t belong to any one, they just slept at TangoInn. I asked about feeding them. He said that they didn’t but sometimes travelers give them treats. “If you want to feed them it’s between you and the dog.”

Before the trip I bought a leather bomber jacket for the South American winter but the lining was thin and I was cold on the boat that afternoon. I would need something more suitable as I went farther south with winter setting in. Herman suggested I could sell my leather jacket there at the hostel; “People sell stuff here all the time.” It was a good idea, packing useless stuff is no way to travel. But I would need a new coat and I was still waiting on money from home. 

There was a big football game on TV that night. Liverpool against the Italians for a championship; the bars downtown would have a Super Bowl atmosphere and I could follow the action in spite of the high speed commentary. I had a grilled cheese sandwich, some chips and nursed a beer for several hours watching the game go on and on and on. The rest of the crowd was really into it, yelling, pounding on table tops, beer after beer to the owner’s delight. The game was a delayed broadcast as it had been played hours earlier in Europe but nobody knew or cared. I think bars are bars around the world. If you keep food prices low the crowd eats more and drinks more. A young man asked if he could share the booth and the good line of sight to the big screen. His only interest was the big screen and the beer in his hand. All I learned about him was he didn’t like the British and he drank cerveza Crystal. The crowd was mostly for Italy and the Brits were ahead. It was well after dark, not much time left on the clock and it seemed likely Liverpool would hang onto their 2 goal lead. I headed back toward TangoInn. 

The bar was down near the lake shore. I could go back the way I came or take the long walk by the boats tied up in their slips, around the hill, a little farther but no uphill. Street lights were no more than small bulbs on a pole or on the side of a building. I felt like a sailor in the dark, plotting course from one star to the next. My street, between the lake and the hillside was too narrow for cars to pass. The side streets running up the hill were dark and steep, every business closed for the night. I heard something, looked over my shoulder and saw a pack of dogs behind me, across the street next to the retaining wall. They had a leader, walking with a purpose, some place to go. At the next up street the front dog turned up the hill with 5 or 6 others right behind. But one dog didn’t go up the hill, it kept on in the same direction I was going. The narrow cobblestone street narrowed and became a pedestrian walkway that put the dog walking just off my hip. It was speckled like the dog at TangoInn. Under a light I spoke and it looked up at me. All speckled with one black ear; it was the dog from TangoInn. 

Anthropomorphize, all you have to do is assign human attributes to things not human. I don’t think a dog can feel sorry for you or be thankful but dogs can and do have large vocabularies. They understand and remember what certain words mean. When you say, “Go for a walk.” some know they are going for some exercise. “Cookie or Treat” mean something good to eat. I knew that and I knew the speckled dog didn’t speak English so did my best in his language. ?Te vas a casa? I asked. No response, just straight ahead walking. It was obvious, the dog was keeping pace with me. I sped up and so did the dog. Back at TangoInn I noticed the black dog was already curled up on the rug. I opened the door and speckled dog slipped in ahead of me, turned a circle and laid down. I reached down, registered several pats on the head that seemed to be appreciated. Inside, Meg (short for Magdalena) was the only one at the desk. I asked her about the dogs again. She said they come home at night and wait for someone to let them in. The leave in the morning when someone opens the door. So I’ve lived with the question for all these years. Did Speckles recognize me in town that night and know I would open the door or was it just an anthropomorphic anomaly? It really doesn’t matter because it’s a great story either way.

PATAGONIA 8 - TANGO INN

Puerto Varas, Chile: Our amigos at the hostel were still there when we got back from Chilòe, with everyone headed somewhere else in the morning, a party was in order. I learned that a typical hostel required a big kettle of spaghetti with some kind of sauce, bread and lots of wine. They sent me to the mercado for bread and I came back with some cheese as well; we were set. Since I left Santiago my guitar hadn’t been out of its case but Paulo played as well and wanted to see it. So we took turns, Paulo with his rumba rhythms and my version of the blues. At the end of the evening you would have thought all of us had been best friends for life. First light and a new day, Rafaela, one of the lawyers from Rio was going our way and we would have her good company another day. 

We took a bus east, through Puyehue Nat’l Park and into the mountains. Our destination, San Carlos de Bariloche, Argentina. It has trappings of Breckenridge, Colorado but with a Latin flair. Mountains all around with a big  lake in the valley, it is a summer and winter resort. The fall season there is laid back, summer vacationers gone home and not enough snow on the slopes to have skiers. There was plenty of snow at high altitude but the lakes around Bariloche were dotted with sails and people were out in short sleeves.   

Tango Inn Bariloche was a 4 story hostel at the north end of town, across from the train and bus station. Esra and Rafaela shared a room in the women’s wing while I took a bunk in a 3rd floor, 4 bed dorm. Our walk into the city took us up a long steep hill and once over the top the town spread out along the lake shore below. Looking down toward the lake, the city gleams with fresh paint and red or black tile roofs. Look the other way, the scene shifts to concrete blocks and flat rooftops. Beyond that you see unpainted wood and galvanized metal. The barrio stretches back over the hilltop, out of sight.  People come from all over to vacation in Bariloche, but they keep their eyes and their money focused on the fresh paint. 

We headed for the business district with its tile roofs and 5 story buildings. Sidewalks and gutters were clean, store fronts were inviting with sale specials and the ladies had money to spend. Chocolate from Bariloche is prized all over South America. Like anything wonderful and expensive, they will ship it anywhere. I had to set myself a limit, three pieces per day. We split up, I went to the beach even though they had stored the umbrellas and stacked the beach chairs. I walked along the shore, looking rocks and leaves. After the bus ride, walking was its own reward. 

Back at Tango Inn, I had bought eggs, cheese, an onion, a bell pepper and two avocados. I promised both of the girls an American omelet before they headed north the next day. Several pilgrims shared the kitchen with me, fixing rice & beans or mac & cheese. They had never seen an omelet in the making. I got excellent grades on dinner; we wouldn’t see each other in the morning so we exchanged email addresses and drained a bottle of pinot noir. By the end of my stay, I taught all of the hostel staff and several guests how to make omelets. I started thinking of myself as the Emeril Lagasse of Bariloche.

Talking to vendadores is a great way to practice the language. They want to make a sale and once they see you are trying to learn their customs and language, they want to help. The fact that I commanded an expanding vocabulary didn’t help with the rapid fire speed of those same words coming at me. I got very good at saying, “Por favor, yo solo escucho despacio. Puedes repiter?” Please, I only listen slowly, can you repeat? People liked that little humor and it served me well. I told a clerk in a chocolate shop that when she spoke it sounded like a one word sentence, fifty syllables long. She thought that was very funny and did put a break in between words just for me, every time after that, and I bought chocolate from her every day. Bariloche’s chocolate is as famous there as Mackinaw Island in Michigan for its fudge. There were more confectionery shops than any other business in town. 

The next morning I thought I would get some cash from the ATM at the bank down town. After several failed attempts, I realized that it wasn’t just me; something was wrong. Waiting in line to see a teller it occurred to me, I couldn’t do this in Spanish. I tried at first but the teller just looked at me with a blank gaze. A hand tapped me on the shoulder. The man behind me asked, “Do you need some help?” He looked like a native but his English was perfect. I accepted, he explained my problem and we were directed to a waiting area, outside a closed door office. I thanked him sincerely, in both English and Spanish and he went back to his spot in line. 

A middle age lady whose English was heavily accented sat me down and I asked if we could use her telephone and my international calling card to call my credit union in Michigan. Dialing all the codes and prefixes, it involved more wait time and redirection than one would think but after all, that’s a lot of switching. The problem was quickly identified. A computer hack in California had compromised all of my credit and debit card’s security. They had mailed new cards the week before. I told her where I was but it didn’t register. “I’m sure it will be in your mail box in a day or two.” Once she got the geography straight the only feasible way for me to access my accounts was for her to wire money to me from my savings account. The two bankers talked for a few minutes and she handed the telephone back to me. The process would require routing the draft from Grand Rapids to Detroit, Detroit to New York, New York to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Toronto, then to Buenos Aires and from there to the bank in San Carlos de Bariloche. It would take at least 5 days. We did the details on the telephone and all I could think of was the classic default, “The check is in the mail.” I thanked the lady, was told to check back on the 5th day, beginning the next day. I wold have more time in Bariloche than I had planned for but then, when in Rome . . . I just had to stretch my cash to last five days. 

Checking adds on the big bulletin board at the bus station I choose Escuela De Montaña, a language school on a side street just into the barrio. I stopped there to see if I could be a day to day student. The old, German Head Master was happy to let me have things my way. I paid for 2 hours of instruction in advance and he agreed to wait the 5 days for lessons after that. As in Santiago, some instructors are on call. They work when there is work. He made a call while I was in his office and asked me if 4:00 that afternoon would be too soon. I let him know it would be just right. 

Arianna was late 20’s I think, tall with long, straight, black hair down to her waist. Those 6 or 7 classes were the best investment I made in Patagonia. I asked questions, she offered corrections and I repeated myself correctly. Then we added words to the vocabulary, conjugated verbs in several forms and I used them, correctly. Slipping back into English as need be and right back to Spanish: we had a good time. In the time we spent, I came to confirm my suspicions about South American culture. After her little boy was born, her husband left her for a relationship where he could be his lover’s only distraction. He did pay child support but without the closure of divorce, they were still caught up in the legality. He could play the field which was accepted but she could not remarry. Two of the other teachers were in the same scenario. I asked how much she got paid and the answer was depressing. She had a good education and teaching English part time, for peanuts, was the best she could manage. I slipped her a tip at the end of each lesson that doubled her pay. The old German would have fired her had he known but he never asked and we didn’t tell. 

PATAGONIA 7 - WHO MIGHT YOU BE?

Valdivia, Chile: They told me May was the rainy season in the south and rain it did, all day. I spent most of the afternoon slithering in and out of my poncho, shuffling from one dry place to another. The Fish market was entertaining but after a while I just went walking in the rain. From the right spot you can see all the way downstream to the mouth of the river and out to sea. Boats were still coming in and out, people doing what they do. I watched people for a while. You have to be cagey and not get caught but snooping from a distance is good exercise for the imagination. I watched an old grandmother with a little kid in tow. She was shopping for fish up on the adult level, with the fish on the counter. The child was hand in hand with her grandmother, one level down. Her view was of puddles on the wet concrete, people’s feet, buckets and boxes, spillage from the work being done above. She was exploring, bending over, reaching, only to be reined in each time. The old lady was multitasking. The kid finally had enough and just sat down, only to be picked up, loved on a little, put back down on her feet and they started over, like a loop film. I watched it repeat several times. I thought, ‘I’m half way around the world, watching grandmas and niños in the fish market. It had taken some effort and a lot of money to get here for this and it was worth every dollar.’ 

When I got back to the hostel it was dark. I opened the dorm door, expecting a dark, cool room. A floor lamp cast dim light and I was met with a rush of hot air. On the single bed someone was wrapped up in a blanket like a caterpillar in its cocoon. In the corner was a kerosene heater. There was some motion and I saw eyes looking out at me. I spoke in English, “And who might you be?” Esra Hemogle was probably in her late 40’s, slender if not wiery, maybe 5’2” with tightly curled blond hair down to her shoulders. She had checked in after me, cold and tired, paid for the heater and went right to sleep. She is a story by herself. A Jewish Turk from Istanbul, she and her sister owned a garment business. They designed, fabricated and marketed their own brand of women’s clothing. Then they got an offer they couldn’t refuse and sold the business. Esra decided to travel for a while; that was six months earlier. She went to University in Switzerland, fluent in 7 languages with no reservations about asserting herself. 

The next morning at the bus station she told me that she liked traveling alone but sometimes it’s nice to have a counterpart. That’s when she told me, since we were headed the same way, interested in the same things, we would travel together for the next few days. She liked me, said I wasn’t like most Americans and to take that as a compliment. We didn’t talk that much but sitting next to someone you know, someone you can ask a question or make an observation without introducing yourself; I was alright with that. 

There is an international youth hosteling organization that, as a member they will book your reservations ahead, assuring a place to stay even if you arrive in the middle of the night. Esra had booked us rooms at a hostel in Puerta Varas, on Lake Lianquihue. We agreed to a tour of Puyehue National Park the next day; I took bags to the hostel while she got our tickets at the tour office. That evening we met the other travelers at the hostel. Two young women, both lawyers from Rid De Janeiro, a particle physicist and his lady from San Paulo in Brazil. They were married but not to each other. That’s how they do it in South America I was told; when marriage becomes a business the heart looks somewhere else. For practical purposes, in South America, divorce is out of the question. Rather than embarrass the family you be discrete, out of town. They were all in their 30’s, happy to meet new people and be away from home. Paulo from San Paulo was outgoing and funny, his sweetheart was subtle and clever. The lawyers were hungry, thirsty and ready for a party. 

The next morning we (Esra & I) were at the bus stop early and off to see Puyehue Nat’l Park. The highway runs parallel to the river which, at lower altitudes is the main feature of the park. The views we got from both the road and at observation points were spectacular. It is the wildest river I’ve ever seen, no shore line, just volcanic rock funnel with a steep gradient, white water plunging down through narrow chutes and over falls. They once allowed qualified white water Kayakers on the river but too many were killed and they stopped all that. 

Driving through, stopping occasionally in small towns and villages, Esra made a cryptic remark, “There is nothing here that you can’t see in Austria.” The mountains, architecture, the names on business and public signage were all German. People there looked the part with German names but Spanish tongues. They were 3rd and 4th generation immigrants. No wonder German war criminals fled to Patagonia after the war. It’s where their relatives were. 

The next day was a two day tour of Chilòe, the big island at the top of Chile’s archipelago. Several hours on the bus, a ferry ride later and into Castro, the main city. The island is about 100 miles by 30 miles. The Pacific coast line is so rugged, so dangerous only a few roads go there, no towns or ports there and only enough people to tend sheep. All of the civilized activity is on the sheltered, east side of the island. Old Catholic churches with domes and ornate statuary were covered in gold leaf. Inlayed mosaic floors and ceilings seemed out of sync with the simple life style and utilitarian nature of Castro. But down the coast an hour by bus, several fishing villages beckoned.

We met a young, college drop out from Oregon. Holly had taken a semester off to help her sorority sister who was enrolled in a grant funded program at their college. She had to spend the year collecting data on an environmental study project farther south in the islands and talked Holly into coming down. Crazy, then she and her “sister” couldn’t get along and Holly had become a tourist, her flight home still a month away. We spent the night and next morning in the little town of Quellón. We ate at a two-table restaurant with a galvanized metal roof, two feet on the shore and two feet in the water. I had giant grilled scallops, roasted corn chutney, steamed peas and new potatoes. 

The woman who fixed our dinner had never been off the island. I would be the first to agree that travel is not necessary for a good, full life but likewise, it is still the best education a person can get. If I thought there was such a thing as fate or predestination, (and I don’t) at least it felt like I was where I needed to be. Photographs came out great and sea shells as nice as any I’ve picked up anywhere. There is a tendency to think how great it would be to live in one of those delightful places but the feeling doesn’t last. If you’re curious and want to see what is waiting for you up the line, you don’t get too attached to quaint villages and lovely people. When you are away from home the first rule of a good guest is, leave before you wear out your welcome. The next day we traced our tracks back to Puerto Varas. 

PATAGONIA 6 - "SEE, IT'S EASY"

Terra Australis Language School; I still had 6 days of instruction paid for but some things won’t wait. Juan told me I could come back anytime and pick up wherever I may be with my Spanish. I streamlined my belongings and left a full suitcase with them. This time the bus ride stayed on the highway. It wasn’t an InterState but it was good, rolling along at 80 km/hr without interruption. Temuco is a small city, 600 km south of Santiago. It’s where most of the Mapuche Indians live; not in the city of course but in the rural, hill country around Temuco, at the foot of the Andes. They are remnants of a great people who, like other indigenous groups around the world, scrape out a meager existence, clinging to an “old way”. Their reputation as warriors was well deserved, defeating Spanish assaults again and again. They were the only New World tribe not to fall to Spain. They lost their lands to German immigrants in the 1800’s who came with plow shears instead of guns and the Mapuche thought them harmless. 

The market area was under a big, open air structure that sheltered all the buyers and sellers from the rain, and it rains a lot. Mapuche art was there in abundance, wonderfully crafted and very expensive. Warriors have evolved into wood carvers, silver smiths and weavers but they don’t come to town. Their women, artists also, do all the transporting, set up and sales. Buying Mapuche art, there are no good deals. Everything is expensive and they, unlike Latino peddlers will not negotiate. 

The next day as I was going from stall to stall, looking for something I couldn’t do without, I noticed a little man pushing a cart, collecting cardboard. In Santiago, in the evening, men of all ages appeared, peddling bicycles, pulling modified trailers to carry cardboard. Merchants and vendors set their throwaway cardboard out before closing and the scavengers worked all night collecting it. In the early hours of morning they would be loaded beyond belief, headed for a recycler. The guy in Temuco did the same thing except he worked by day and pushed a 3’ x 6’, flat bed cart. As vendors emptied containers, he picked them up. He spoke to me, “Excuse me please.” trying to navigate the narrow isles. I remarked about his English, then spent several minutes talking. He was cool. I tried to use Spanish first and find someone who spoke English as a last resort. He assured me in some pretty good English, Spanish is easy. I think he was showing off. He held up one finger and said, “dedo”. Then he opened all his fingers and tapped his palm, “mano”. He touched above his elbow, “brazo”, then his forehead, “cabeza” and in English, “See, it’s easy.” He gave me some tips on which vendadores to buy from and the best hostel. I changed from where I was to the place he recommended and he was right. 

The next morning I caught a bus to Valdivia, an even smaller city, on the coast, famous for sea food and its fresh fish market. Pulling into town, traffic came to a standstill as a protest march closed off the road. Singing, chanting, beating drums and waving banners, the crowd moved at a slow pace. I learned later they were a coalition of poor people (los pobres) who thought they were being exploited. They behaved very well, no mischief, nothing destructive. As they passed our bus I understood; following them were dozens of black suited police on motorcycles with small machine guns on their backs. They not only guaranteed the protesters their rights but also cast an intimidating presence on them. 

I found a hostel near the fish market that looked like a huge, old, two story  house. The inn keeper said all the rooms were taken but called me back. A woman had rented a room for the week but had been gone for several days; he didn’t think she would be back. He showed me the room; it had been a living room once upon a time, with a large, stone fireplace and a bay window. On the floor in the middle of the room was a full sized mattress with a sheet and a pillow. He said he would change the sheet. I thought, ’This is really weird.” My instinct was to pass on it, keep looking. Then I thought, ‘What the heck. This is supposed to be an adventure.’ I told him I would come back later but walking away, looking back, it gave off vibrations like the Bates Motel in Hitchcock’s movie, Psycho. Another hostel down the street was more to my liking. I chose the dorm room with three sets of double bunks and a single. I was the only one there. It cost the equivalent of 4$ a night without heat or 6$ with a heater. It had been raining off and on and it was damp but it wasn’t cold so I held on to the 2$ and choose, without heat. Threw my stuff on a bottom bunk near the door and I headed down to the river and the fish market. 

Rain set in and my pancho came out. Like in Temuco, the open air, covered structure allowed business to go on in the rain. It was much smaller but then the only commodity was sea food. The environment was exactly what one would imagine only embellished 1000%. The smell, the noise, men with blood stains on their aprons and big knives; I thought of horror movies again. The river ran right up behind the market and fishing boats came in the night to off-load for the next day. Gulls swooped and hovered, cormorants perched anyplace there was a foothold, all competing for scraps thrown away into the river; no need for a garbage barrel. On the concrete piers, seals sat like they do at Sea World, waiting for someone to throw them a fish. I had the urge to buy a fish but didn’t hadn’t seen the kitchen situation at the hostel and didn’t want to carry it around the rest of the evening. Under the cover of a sheet metal lean-to I had two pieces of fried fish and half an avocado. That was my supper. The next morning I would be bound for Puerto Varas, farther south, the gateway to the Lakes District. 

PATAGONIA 5 - RUTA De VINO

The switchback from English teacher to Spanish student came easily. At Terra Australis, Dee was still there but it was her last day; everyone else in our group had moved on. In the classroom Olvia had me drilling on future tense and subjunctive verbs but he difference between I saw and I have seen was pointless to me. That evening I asked Marcelo, “Where can I go for an overnighter? I want to take the bus, find a place to stay, find food, do something with a purpose and come back the next day.”  He mulled for a minute and said, “Vino! You know enough about wine to go to a bodega in the south and buy some really good wine.” 

Santa Cruz is a little over 100 miles south of Santiago in the Colchagua Valley, the heart of wine country. I caught an early bus the next morning. Marcelo came with me to the terminal but I did all of my own negotiating. Bus travel in Chile is comfortable and dependable. They leave on time and arrive on time but it takes a long time. Once you get off a main highway it’s one of two speeds, creep and crawl. Then, every crossroad with more than 2 buildings , one of them was a bus station and we stopped at them all. The bus system transports people and packages. At some stops nobody got on or off but it still took half an hour. The frantic, hurried pace of Santiago does not carry through to the countryside. We arrived mid afternoon in Santa Cruz and I found a small hostel near the plaza. Once inside I realized it was a private residence, more line a Bed & Breakfast. A young mother was feeding her child in a high chair as I did business with her husband on the kitchen counter. We stepped over dirty clothes and toys  in the hall on the way to my room but it was clean and neat with a window that overlooked the street. 

The tourist season had winnowed away and store hours were unpredictable at best. I settled in the lounge at the hotel, studied vocabulary, had a grilled cheese sandwich and a bottle of carbonated orange juice for dinner. The shift to small town tedium from big city chaos was overwhelming. The bartender was multitasked as waiter and cook. He was watching football (soccer) on TV and it took me a while to realize the match was between two European teams. The telecast was in Spanish, too fast for me to follow but the players were all bloody Brits. Going back to the hostel I tiptoed up the stairs, careful not to disturb anyone but they were up, even the little one. The next morning they had breakfast waiting. Hostals provide what they call breakfast. It’s a bun or roll with butter and jelly, a slicer of cheese and a cup of coffee: breakfast in South America. 

There was plenty of information on wine tours. They bus you around from vineyard to vineyard with tasting sessions, stop for a brunch at the hotel and finish by 2:00. That is during the vino tour season which had ended several weeks earlier. The only organized excursion still on the calendar would be part of a tour package, too late to sign up for that. But there was a consortium of growers who had a store front, Ruta del Vino, on the plaza. I checked there but they didn’t open that day until after siesta. So I walked around the plaza, looked in windows and passed a couple of hours. Santa Cruz is an important town for wine gurus but otherwise, it’s just a sleepy little town. You can walk the streets and look in all of the unshuttered windows in an hour. 

The Plaza de Armas in any town is left over from Spanish conquest, evolved into a public green space, a park. I sat on a bench, took out my notebook and started reviewing my old lessons. Two young women, maybe teenagers, were on a bench across the square. Both slender, wearing full length skirts and long sleeves, they got up and walked toward me. “Hola.” I said “Hola” back. I was picking up a word here and there, straining to make something of it. Strangers were talking to me and that’s a big deal. I caught a form of “ayudar” (to help) and “tu” which means, you. Were they telling me they wanted to help me? I tried to tell them I didn’t need help. They understood but kept up a line of chatter that I couldn’t follow. One touched me on the shoulder and the other sat down beside me. I heard, “dinero” money. They wanted money. 

With a notebook in one hand, I stood up and tried to disengage from the one. The other was patting my pockets down. I wanted to interact with local folks but this was bizarre. I told them to go away, that I had no money but they were like hungry mosquitoes, buzzing after a warm body. I looked around, we were the only people in the park. One of the girls started pushing on my pocket, fishing for a coin purse there. The other one was trying to keep me occupied with in-your-face chatter and pulling on my shoulder.  Gypsies! I thought.  They were Gypsies! I should have known that. 

I raised my arms and shouted, “Parar, parar, soy Satàn.” They stopped and I had a few seconds to think about what to do next. I had told them to stop and identified myself as the devil, had to keep talking or they would be after my money again. “Vaya o morir de la cruz de los Chicago Cubs.” That got their attention, they stepped back. I got it right almost. Cruz actually translates “Cross” but it’s also slang for an affliction. I told them to go away or I would curse them with the affliction of the Chicago Cubs. I was going after “Curse” but couldn’t remember any curse other than the Cubs. But it worked. I shouted with some vigor, “Vaya, vaya” telling them to go. They stepped farther way and began swearing at me, giving me the finger. But I had them backing away: “Quieres morir, de la cruz?”  That was grim, asking them if they wanted to die. I wrangled my arms and hands around like gangsta’s flashing gang signs, pointed at them and they ran. 

I couldn’t have managed that on the spot if not for a similar situation a week earlier. Again, sitting on a park bench outside a super mercado (grocery) in Providencia; a young man in a suit & tie wanted to save my soul. He was pitching salvation. With his bible in one hand, thumping it with the other he wasn’t going to be discouraged. He was too fast, my ears too slow but I’ve heard it in English so many times, so many different ways I’d recognize it in any language. I told him, “Vaya, estoy ocupado.” Go away, I’m busy. You would think I had encouraged him. He came close, preaching me into a corner. It was my first confrontation with a nuisance, in Spanish. “Por favor” I said. He paused, I went on. I spoke slowly, one word at a time. “Yo se que tienes Fe . . . pero tu dios es dentro tu cabeza, no otra lugar.“ He couldn’t misunderstand. Basically it went, I know you have Faith but your God is inside your head, no place else. He wanted to show me his bible but I got up and walked inside, bought a loaf of bread. When I came out he was talking to someone else. But he was great preparation for the Gypsies of Santa Cruz.  

The lady behind the counter at Ruta de Vino said someone has to chase those girls off nearly every day but they keep coming back. Listening to her speak English was weird but I got to ask good questions and get good answers. I wanted two bottles of really good red wine to take home with me in 2 months, in a back pack, on the airplane. I told her that I liked Carménère. Lots of wine talk and sixty four dollars later, I came away with two bottles of 1998 Reserva LaJoya, Carménère. She wanted me to stick around until the weekend for a wine and cheese tasting event they were hosting but no. I explained to her how rolling stones gather no moss. She picked right up, “. . . and you are the stone.” The last bus for Santiago was long gone so I stayed another night at the hostel. The inn keepers told me that my choice of wine was excellent, that I should save it to drink with someone special. 

I got back to Terra Australis the next day,  just before Juan took new students out on a walking adventure. Olvia was worried when I didn’t get back on schedule but Marcelo had assured her I would be alright. He thought the ’98 LaJoya was perfect, thought we should drink it that night. I told him no, we weren’t special enough. My Home Stay was about to end at Cindy’s and I was anxious to move on. Juan said I could leave a suitcase at the school while I was exploring. With two months left before catching my plane home, it didn’t matter where I went. Looking at the map, I decided to head south. The Lakes region of Chile is famous for scenery and National Parks. That was the plan.

PATAGONIA 4 - T.E.I.

Santiago, Chile: after 3 weeks of Spanish class I realized I was actually learning some Spanish. But going in cold with strangers on the street, that would be scary. Eric & Benjamin were ready to move on. Dee still had time to kill and I was gaining ground. It was April. Summer was turning to fall and the change in the air let me know, I need to be moving on as well. Walking to school every day I passed a high walled compound, a full city block square. I asked Olvia about it and learned it was a prestigious, high dollar, private school for children of CEO’s, diplomats and surgeons. On the arch above the main gate were the letters, T.E.I., The English Institute. From 1st grade through high school, everybody studies English.

I had been thinking about it for several days, stopping at T.E.I. to see if they might be interested in an American story teller. So I left the house late and arrived at T.E.I. after classes had begun. I told the guard at the gate what I was about and he took me to an office, sat me down and left me. A lady, Ms Hausmann, in a gray business suit came and motioned for me to follow her to her office. Her English had a slight British accent and it was perfect. We talked for quite a while about me and my story, I told her I didn’t need to be paid; “I’m a storyteller and I need to work in front of an audience.” It seemed a natural fit, they are learning English, I already know it and I frame it in an oral tradition. 

Two men in gray suits came in, Ms Hausmann introduced us and stepped out. They certainly were not English teachers. We talked about my teaching experience in the states and about oral history. They seemed satisfied, left the room and I was by my self again. Ms Hausmann came back to inform me that they were not in the market for a storyteller but they did need a long term substitute in the English program. The men who spoke to me were the Head Master and the Chair of the language department, and our chat had been a job interview. I never learned Ms Hausmann’s title but she had her own office, a secretary and she told people what to do. She offered me the job, for a month to 6 weeks. One of their English teachers was recuperating in the hospital and there was no suitable replacement available. They really liked my midwestern accent and conversational tone. If I could get my teaching credentials faxed down and if I wanted the job, it was mine.

Everyone at Terra Australis was excited for me. I could come back to school any time but this would be an unexpected adventure dropped in my lap. I stopped at T.E.I. on the way home from school; my credentials had come through in the fax. A contract, it took over 600 pesos to equal a dollar. When Ms Hausmann did my contract the amount was incomprehensible. I just signed it. She wanted me to start the next day. I begged off, needing a day to wrap things us at my school. So it was: dress code for men was suit and tie but I had neither. No problem, she said to wear the best I had and it would be fine. 

Classes were small, no more than 18-20 per class. Ages varied and I never knew what grade they were unless I asked. The youngest were probably 10 and the oldest probably 15 or 16. It was weird; some classes only ran for 30 minutes, others 45 and some for a full hour. Ms Hausmann was crystal clear: don’t allow them tp speak Spanish, follow the lesson plan as best you can but we want them listening to a native speaker. I was to talk a lot, keep them engaged; sort of like story telling. 

     All of the English curriculum in South America comes from Great Britain. Workbooks, vocabulary, tapes, videos, reading assignments, all of it. I learned that there were literally no native speaking English instructors in Chile. They are all Latinos who learned English from other Latinos. It is a life achievement to spend a summer in England. The British accent is ingrained in the curriculum. I got stuck on British anomalies, unfamiliar words and phrases and the students loved it. My excuse was, “This is English, if I were teaching American I would never make a mistake.” We got along great, kids are kids, all around the world. My laissez faire approach came across in severe contrast with the 19th century British, no nonsense, authoritarian style that other men teachers had inherited. On my second day a security guard came into the room unannounced because we were so loud. Not all that loud by my ear but he thought he was needed. I assured him that nobody was bleeding and I was in fact, in control. 

Some teachers went out of their way to make me feel welcome, to others I didn’t exist. In one class there was a 12-13 year-old girl who was really sharp. Her classmates all turned to her when they were stumped and she handled everything well. On a Friday, as they were leaving she wished me have a good weekend. I noted her English was perfect and asked how that worked. “Easy” she said, “I’m from Fort Lauderdale; my dad was transferred here last year.” In my free time I went down to the commons area, under a breezeway and sat in the shade. Kids from my class would bring their friends and introduce us. Others would walk up cold and test their English on me. There I was in jeans and a button up shirt with two weeks of beard stubble, hanging out with kids, like the pied piper of Providencia. 

Another girl’s parents were both math teachers there at T.E.I. Her mother Amy had pretty good English skills. She wanted her other kids to meet me so she invited me to their house for Sunday brunch. The dad was stiff and formal, spoke little English but worked at being cordial. The other 2 kids were cool, spoke some English but clearly, English wasn’t spoken in the home. Then (I’ve forgotten his name) led me into the kitchen where he had set up the blender to make pisco sour. I didn’t want to shoot myself in the foot this time so I faked it. But my enthusiasm wasn’t convincing. If your host shares his fantastic, secret brew and the best you can do is a tepid smile and say, “Very good.” then he will be insulted. I was supposed to use superlatives and drink with him until it was all gone. At our house, Alberto liked pisco sour too but when I didn’t like it he offered some Pinot noir. At school the next week, Mr. Man avoided me. 

I was no longer the American oddity and it occurred to me: I had come to Santiago for the Spanish and I had been instructed to neither speak nor allow my students to speak any Spanish. I went to Ms Hausmann with my dilemma, sharing my intention regrettably to leave T.E.I. She understood. When she alluded to the signed contract and the responsibility it carried, it was laughable. We were both laughing behind somber faces. I didn’t need the money to begin with so if they void the contract and keep the money, we both come out ahead. The experience was one I could not have purchased. I suggested, they could have me deported. She assured me they were not going to have me deported or not pay me. “Come back on Monday and I’ll have a check for the time you worked.” Her smile was real, she thanked me for my contribution and I took her at her word. I finished that Thursday & Friday thinking I could disappear like the cowboy and his horse in the old westerns. But someone leaked and students knew by the end of the day. On Friday they brought cookies and chocolate, some brought cards. I brought my guitar, taught them “Auld Lang Syne” and we sang it together; “We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for days of Auld Langs Syne.” 

PATAGONIA 3 - WE DO THE BEST WE CAN

I should not have been surprised but I was, in Chile, everybody smokes; at least almost everybody. I never saw Juan or Olvia smoke and Marcelo only once in a bar late at night. But they wouldn’t in front of students. I had requested that my Home Stay be with smokeless hosts. On the way to Cindy’s house I asked Juan about it: he smiled the reluctant smile that bodes bad news, “We do the best we can.” he said. Alberto alluded to it one day, after a big inhale & exhale he looked at me and said, “I forgot, this is your poison.” It was unusual for either Cindy or Alberto to, be without a cigarette in hand. It is presumed all children will start smoking when they reach the magic age, whatever it is; a right of passage.

As my vocabulary improved Cindy and I talked more but getting her to slow down was impossible. Her real name was Sylvia but Latin women like to take on an alias, often an English or American name. I said I like Sylvia better than Cindy: it’s a real name, not an abbreviation for something else. Her standard comeback on anything that fell outside her logic was that I was crazy. I spent more time with her than with Alberto but then the Home Stay thing was all hers. When Alberto did engage it was formal and in English. 

Their relationship was stormy with arguments and insults. One would get the last word and harmony would be restored. In Chile the church does not condone divorce and getting one is a social curse, time consuming (years) and incredibly expensive. It is a male dominant culture and married men who stray are the rule rather than the exception. Women hate it but find their own ways to cope. Having a side man was one way of dealing with a husband’s mistress. Alberto had lots of swagger and Cindy had her attitude but I had no knowledge of them in that regard. She told a friend who told me that she suspected Alberto simply because he traveled so much and after all, he was a man. He had a possessive, jealous side that surfaced over time but that is a story of its own. So I was living in a Patagonian Peyton’s Place. Marcelo’s wife caught him cheating and they had been separated for over a year. He really missed his two little girls and had no idea if or when his wife would take him back.

At school, our afternoon walks with Juan were good exercise and always educational. He was a treasure trove of Chilean history and a good story teller. Our walks usually began with a ride on the Metro. Santiago’s underground was a crisscrossing network of tunnels, three layers deep. Not being accustomed to subways, the descent from the street made me think of coal mines. Our adventures began at the Baquedano Station, the main portal for Providencia. Changing trains strategically, you can go almost anywhere for about a dollar. There was lots of security, brown uniforms, shiny black riding boots and sub machine guns. They never smiled, never made eye contact. It went without saying, you don’t want their attention. Still, pickpockets were working every station, all the time. One afternoon Eric wore cargo pants with big side pockets. We were on the boarding platform when he reached down to check his pocket and there was a hand in it. He grabbed, held on and yelled as the smallish teenager tried to escape. They thrashed for a few seconds before the kid broke free and ran for the stairs with a uniformed guard in pursuit. Eric didn’t lose anything and we boarded our train, not knowing the fate of the little, Chilean, Oliver Twist. Having been fore warned, I carried everything of value in a pouch around my neck, inside my shirt. 

That day we went to one of Pablo Neruda’s homes, now a museum. Neruda is Chile’s equivalent to our Mark Twain - Ernest Hemingway. He was bigger than life, built three homes in three different cities; one for his wife and the other two for his mistresses. The one in Santiago was like a sailing ship inside with bulkheads, port holes, even the pitch of the floors. There was a Gringo couple at the museum doing a self led tour. When the lady heard some English being spoken she came over to visit with Yanks. Wearing a red, Ohio State sweat shirt she confided how good it was to see us. I turned to her, tipped my “GO BLUE” baseball cap and asked her if the rivalry extended south of the equator. She struggled a bit, didn’t know what to say. I warned her;” Watch out for pickpockets in the Metro.” and we left her there. 

The Home Stay organization was independent of the schools they served. Alberto and Cindy decided to have a party at our place for other Home Stay hosts. Marcelo and our little group were allowed as I would be there anyway. With maybe 20 other adults there, Marcelo, Dee, Eric, Benjamin and I retreated the court yard, taking charge of hamburgers and lamb chops on the grill. Cindy had a girl friend, Margo, a 50-ish, blue eyed blond who saw me as an untapped resource. Cindy wanted to hook us up as she thought I needed female companionship but more so because Margo needed someone to pay her bar tab. They were all inside, taking turns at the blender, making pisco sour. It was Margo’s turn. 

With a fresh pitcher full and an empty glass in hand she came outside. They couldn’t pronounce my name. It came out with a soft (à) sound that doesn’t go well between consonants in English. It had an “ahh” sound, “Fr-aah-nk and I hated it but it was the best they could do. She called out, asked me to try her recipe. I nodded (not) and begged off. She sloshed the pitcher and asked again. Alberto was coming to my rescue, reaching for my shoulder. I was feeling a little pressure, a little impetuous in front of my friends; what to do! Before he could speak we made eye contact and I said: “I’d rather kiss a chicken’s ass.” It was softly spoken and I knew the only 5 people who could understand. It wasn’t my style and I don’t know what got into me but I thought I was safe. It would have gone unnoticed but Alberto howled with laughter, slapping his legs. Marcelo and my peers followed suit. Then all the guests wanted to know what I said. Alberto looked at ne and his eyes spoke truth, “Boy, do I have you now!” The group wouldn’t let it go so he translated his alternate version in Spanish. He told them, “He said; A toast to pisco sour, Chile’s finest.”  They all liked that. Then he had them repeat it with him, my original English version and everybody threw down a shot of Margo’s pisco sour. He got me off the hook and we laughed about it for weeks. Margo was smashed within the hour and someone poured her into a taxi and sent her home. The feast began after that and the recycle bin was soon full of Pisco bottles. The lamb chops were excellent. The next morning over coffee, Cindy asked; “el culo de un gallena?” - A chicken’s ass?  I had to struggle for the words; “Solo un poco de humor Gringo.” Just a little Gringo humor. She held back the laugh and told me; “Estas loco.” You’re crazy. I got the last word, “Pero no bebí el pisco sour.” - But I didn’t drink the pisco sour.

PATAGONIA - 2 PISCO

Providencia, Santiago, Chile: with nearly 7 million souls in residence, Santiago is a big city. It’s divided into communities or regions, a dozen or more of which Providencia is not only safe but affluent by Chilean standards and easy to get around. Many if not most Americans preferred it. The Spanish language school, Terra Australis; was owned and operated by Juan & Olvia Barrios. Their son Marcelo, early 30’s, filled in nights as our social director. 

When the other students were done for the day, Juan and Marcelo loaded me and my belongings into their Subaru. It took 15 minutes to reach 2993 El Aguilucho Ave. Alberto & Cindy met us at the door. Alberto was a mining engineer, spoke perfect English; Cindy was an Artist and a mother. Her English vocabulary consisted of “yes, no and hello.” In their 40’s with two teenage boys, I was comfortable. Engineer doesn’t mean the same in Chile as in the USA. He was a glorified mining equipment salesman and She, as I came to appreciate, did whatever she felt like doing. They had a modest, two story row house with no front yard at all but a small, walled courtyard in the back. The two boys shared a room while I was there. Cindy took on the Home Share business for the money. That way she had her own source of income, didn’t have to go to Alberto.

The next morning she drove me to school, detailing our route, when and where to turn, in Spanish of course. I was making my own mental notes and would soon have my own street map. Spanish class was fluid, with people dropping in and out, day to day. However much time you had and whatever you needed, they would do their best to meet your need. I didn’t get to know the ones who were ready to move on but by the end of the week there were four of us who became a group. Eric, in his late 20’s was an I.T. guy from Washington D.C., worked for the V.A. Fed up with his job, he came south for very much the same reasons as me. Benjamin was 19, fluent in English, from northern Germany. He was between his 2nd & 3rd year at university in Munich. It is not uncommon there for students to take a year off and travel. Deirdra (Dee) was a daring, attractive, 24 year-old chemist from Cork, Ireland by way of Australia. She had a month to kill, to learn the language before her fiancé arrived. They would travel South America for 6 months then return to Ireland and marry.

Our first big trip was set for Easter weekend. We were to catch the bus late Thursday night, north to LaSerena on the coast, ultimately to the little mountain town Pisco Elqui, famous for its vineyards. On Thursday before Good Friday, I woke up with a tender tooth. By afternoon it was a toothache and by evening I knew I had to have it looked at. It was Easter weekend in a Roman Catholic country. Chances of seeing a dentist seemed bleak. Alberto took me to a public clinic in Providencia, acted as my interpreter. The bad news was, I needed a root canal and a crown. All the doctor could do was to drill out the infection, pack it with an antibiotic, give me meds and have me come back on Monday. The good news was, I got to go to Pisco Elqui with my friends. 

Pisco is a brandy-like liquor, Chile’s national drink. It is Peru’s national drink as well and between the two, they insult and argue at the drop of a hat; maybe a harmless way to wage national pride. They dilute it with large amounts of crushed ice, lemon, sugar and any number of spices to make Pisco Sour. I didn’t like Pisco, any way they fixed it. Natives want visitors to love everything about their country, especially Pisco. If you don’t like their Pisco then something is wrong with you. I bruised some egos but in the long run nobody really cared. The Elqui valley is where the best grapes come from. A long time ago they named the town Pisco just to spite Peru.

It was daylight when our bus reached LaSerena. We ate breakfast, rented two cars and were off to see the local sights. Pisco Elqui was only about 100 Km but it took us all day to get there. Scenery was awesome with vineyards tucked into every little patch of soil and steep rocky mountainsides reaching up from there. Our hotel had a balcony that overlooked the main street and a clear view of the Andes. I had forgotten about youth and alcohol. My amigos had some serious drinking to do before dinner at 11:00 p.m. The guys wanted to get Dee drunk but she drank them all under the table. I nursed a glass of Carmenere for a couple of hours. It was clear that Dee could take care of herself, I was tired and turned in. 

Pisco Elqui is also a destination for Chilenos campers with campgrounds, you can even rent the tent. They have a dude ranch as well. On Saturday we signed on for a horseback ride, up on the mountain side above the town. Our host was an old vaquero who could have been Mel Gibson’s twin. With 7 of us in the party for a half day ride, he invited us to sample his own personal Pisco Sour. We spent over an hour toasting and shooting Pisco shots. I don’t remember how I got out of drinking mine but he was paying more attention to Deirdra than to my bad behavior and let it go. The ride was great. I couldn’t help but think what awesome athletes those horses were. Just out of town, steep got even steeper on narrow switchbacks and steep drop offs. The horses were spirited, anxious to get to the top. We didn’t notice so much going up but coming down was like looking down the barrel of a gun. No trees, just big rocks and a long way down. My horse was a real hero. 

We split up in small groups, walked the streets and spent some coins. Dark ‘O clock meant drinking time again. You need to be well lubricated, well before dinner. Marcelo had great stories and it was fun. He had a degree in agronomy, worked for Lider, a big grocery chain. His goal for me was to get me educated when it came to vino. Reds with heavy tannin were awful. So I learned to stay away from the Cabernet Savion and go with Carmenere, it was light and it popped in the front of your mouth and that was good. Early dinner at 10:00 and I gave up for the night. 

I don’t know how late they stayed up but I was up early. I walked, did some exploring; it was Easter, a sunny fall morning and the town was quiet. The hotel had a covered, outdoor dining room in the courtyard in the back. I was there, writing in my journal when Marcelo sat down beside me. He knew I’d be up while the others slept in and didn’t want me to feel left out. So we walked up hill, cobblestone streets with simple homes, only tree and rooftops visible behind stout security walls. As we climbed, we walked under pomegranate limbs that over reached the walls, ripe with fruit. With a little help and a leg up, we had enough for breakfast and lunch. On the upper boundary where houses gave way to vineyards, a steep hillside had been stripped of vines except for a few volunteers that grew along an irrigation ditch. The grapes had ripened and begun to shrivel up, dehydrating into natural raisins. They were so sweet you needed something to wash them down. With food in hand, the quaint town below and the Andes above, the view was remarkable. I asked him “Requerdas de hoy es Pascua?” Did he remember that it was Easter. He nodded that indeed, he did. In English I asked, “Would you like to take communion with me?” I held up the raisins and a water bottle. He thought it was a great idea. I concocted a make shift ritual that was more pagan than Christian and we blessed it with a high five. It took the rest of the day getting back to LaSerena and a long night on the bus to Santiago. 

My Spanish was coming but that’s classroom Spanish. On paper you have time to figure it out. Conversational Spanish comes at you like bullets. We were conjugating irregular verbs in class which was difficult enough. When you’re face to face and the other person doesn’t know that you don’t know, you can’t fake it. Out of need, one of the first sentences I learned was, “Hablas demasiado ràpido y yo escucho lento.” You talk too fast and I listen slow. Then I had to follow that up with, “Por favor, una vez mas.” Please, one more time. It’s not like building a brick wall, one brick after another, one tier on top of the last. It’s like total darkness giving way to day. The sky starts to gray and you don’t notice you can make out shadows. After a while you see shapes but it still feels like dark. I was creating a base and it takes time. It would be a while before the words started coming out without me translating them first. 

Olvia was not happy about me going to the clinic so Juan made an appointment for me with their dentist. His office was as sheik and up scale as the clinic was plain. They worked me in between other patients and, after 6 visits, I had my new tooth. Before I left home, I took out a travelers medical insurance policy. It cost $400. You had to pay the provider up front and submit a claim form with the receipt, after the fact. All of my dental work, the bill was exactly $400. 

2005 PATAGONIA - 1 WILD HORSES

February, 2005; after retiring from a 30+ years career, you have to reinvent yourself or you dry up and nobody notices. I became a StoryTeller, with a guitar, 3 chords, 2 sing along songs and half a dozen stories. Before I retired, an already retired friend told me, “If you have any big plans don’t put them off; you never know.” I remembered that. It took a couple of years to come up with the big plan. My first priority was to get out of town, get out of the country, off the continent. I wanted to go to a Spanish speaking country, learn enough Español to survive, work on the guitar, tell stories and meet interesting people. It needed to be a safe place for Americans, a place where they didn’t speak much English, where I could get good mileage out of American dollars. I wanted to stay away long enough to feel at home there. I made a list of Spanish speaking countries and started eliminating places that didn’t measure up or that I just didn’t want to go. When two were left and I crossed one off, Patagonia was my choice. I was going to southern South America; Chile and Argentina. 

Getting to Miami was easy enough but I had a long lay over between flights.  My bags checked, I walked what seemed like miles with my back pack and guitar. Mid afternoon at the International terminal; I was the only one at the gate. We wouldn’t fly until after midnight. Eventually, people began to show up, speaking Spanish, I would be the only Gringo. As the hour neared, more people arrived. They slept or read their papers, babies napped, woke up and cried. It got late, people dozed, some snored and I took it all in. 

From far down a darkened corridor, the sound of women walking in high heels. Then you could hear their voices and suit case wheels rattling along. They came around the corner into view, walking briskly, chatting and laughing like coeds on their way to a sorority party. It took a double take but it didn’t take long. They were absolutely gorgeous. Eight Latin knockouts, dressed in the navy blue and crimson of LAN, Chile’s national air line. They were perfect. Not a break in their chatter, eyes straight ahead, past potted palm trees, through the doors and down the ramp. They were there and then they were gone. Just enough time to breathe in and out, timed perfectly; more rattling of carry on bags and muffled voices. Five or six men turned the corner, surveying the sleeping passengers they made their way at a relaxed pace, only small talk, nothing to laugh about. Dressed in navy blue with gold braid on sleeves and shoulders, the crew was all business. Behind them a few steps, looming a full head taller came, obviously the Captain. Imagine a 6’6” composite of Anthony Quinn & Antonio Banderas. For a moment all there was, was machismo. It seemed natural to want his autograph. He had so much gold braid on the bill of his hat you couldn’t see the LAN logo behind it. In just a few seconds, we were all alone again. It struck me; wild horses. The young fillies prancing out front, showing off enough to be noticed. How could you not notice? They were followed by the young bucks, knowing their place in the pecking order. Bringing up the rear you anticipate the stud stallion, in control of everything, and there he was. Ten minutes later the agent showed up and we boarded.

In the wee hours of the morning, my eyes closed but not asleep: I felt a touch on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to the most beautiful face I had ever seen and she was smiling. I had given it some thought and was ready for the España, Qué la gustaría beber - what would you like to drink? But she surprised me with perfect Ingles, “Would you like some coffee, Pepsi or maybe water?” Thought I might answer in Spanish but all I could muster was, “Water, thank you.” So I nursed my water bottle for a while and fell asleep. Should anyone ever ask, for any reason, if I were asked to imagine the most beautiful lady on the planet, the hostess on that LAN flight who blessed me with a smile and a bottle water would come to mind; unforgettable. We changed planes in Lima, Peru. I nodded off at the gate and nearly missed my flight but then if you’re on board before they close the door you were right on time. We landed. Off loading must be the same everywhere. Clearing customs I had to pay a $200 fee for the privilege of landing in Santiago. Following the crowd toward the baggage claim, I felt someone walking close up on my right. “You must be Frank,” he said.  Juan, a tall, slender, retired homicide detective turned out to be a cool guy with a wry sense of humor. He told me they do that to all foreigners. If you don’t want to pay the $200 you can fly to Mendoza, Argentina, just over the mountain and take a bus to Santiago. But it kills another day and Mendoza is a smaller market, flights are more expensive, add on the bus ticket and it costs the same; but you can do it. Welcome to Santiago.

I would begin my Spanish classes the next day. The school was a 3 bedroom apartment on the ground floor of a high rise condo. The living room was a reception area and office, bedrooms were classrooms, the dining room a break room and a small, galley kitchen set up for preparing snacks or meals. Juan’s wife Olvia met us at the door. He was tall and thin, she was short and plump. I couldn’t help but think of the nursery rhyme, ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. . .’ both of them in their 60’s. Olvia was a sweet lady from the first ‘Hola’, a retired language professor. Her career had been teaching Chileans to speak English. In her next life she was teaching gringos to speak Spanish. Juan supervised field trips and ran the office. They had 2 other teachers, young ladies who were called in like relief pitchers when the number and skill levels of students required. 

It was lunch time. I met 5 or 6 students who took me to an outdoor bistro a few blocks away. Their job was to speak as much Español as possible outside the classroom. I was able to throw in “Gracias” and “No comprendo,” They tried to include me but all I got out of it was lunch. When they did default back to their native tongue, two of the guys were German which didn’t help and one young woman was Irish with a thick brogue. At least I ate well, chicken soup which consisted of a bowl of broth with a drum stick in it and a leafy green, spring salad. Afternoon had me signing papers and getting acquainted. At the end of the day, 3:00, they would all go out for a walk (field trip) to work on vocabulary. That’s when my ‘Home Stay’ mom and dad would come to pick me up. Home stay puts you with a local family where at least one adult speaks English. You get a room of your own and they feed you, provide some cultural support and hopefully, both learn from each other. I would be 25 years older than my new mom and dad, my two new little brothers, teenagers. I really didn’t know what to expect. 

EGGS BENEDICT

Writers, people like me who write primarily out of their own need to process ideas and likewise document that process; we are keenly aware that someone else may and probably will read what we write. Someone famous, a writer, gave good advice when she said, “If you don’t want anyone to read it, don’t write it.” I wish I could remember who it was. So you write with that in mind, shaping language, framing not only what it is but also, even if only by inference, what it means. My target audience; I know two people, writers themselves who play with words and all the while, read with a critical eye. I write to their sensibility when I put it down on the page. It’s not only what you have to say but how you say it. I try to edit as I go but that’s essentially, reviewing your own work. If you think it would be better some other way it would already be that way. Line to paragraph,I reconsider, “Would so-and-so go with me on this?” 

If you’re not a writer, reading this would be like exercising on a treadmill; spending the effort but going nowhere. But it is how it works. I would like to think it’s like enjoying Eggs Benedict for brunch without giving a thought to where the egg came from.