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.
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