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.
No comments:
Post a Comment