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.
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