Mendoza, Argentina: The highway to Santiago was still closed; snow on the mountain. I walked back under the freeway, toward the park. On a neighborhood corner I noticed a small group crowded around a young man who was squatted down. Close up I could see he was playing the shell game. Put the pea under one of three shells, take bets, slide the shells around, fast talking as his hands moved over the shells. He stopped, lined the shells up in a row and asked the sucker where the pea was. The guy who waged a peso or two pointed at one shell and of course he was wrong. The dude took the peso and solicited another sucker, began the sliding shells and fast talk. I raised my camera and shutter-click, captured the game. In a heart beat he froze, scooped up the shells and turned on me. After a quick assessment he figured I was not a threat but gave me the finger-wagging, head shaking, no-no-no message. I hadn’t thought about it but sidewalk vice in broad daylight is universal. The con man wasn’t worried about being collared, but no photographs, no photographs, don’t do that.
I moveed on to the festival, business was slow but still up and running, saw Wing at a different booth, she recognized me and waved. After a once-around there was nothing new so I headed into a neighborhood. There were shops at street level with residences above, 2, 3, sometimes 4 floors; found a table runner that complimented the colors in my house and bought it. The next day, one way or another, I would buy a ticket for over the mountain. At a gut level I knew it would be the airplane. Changing Argentine pesos into Chilean for the boat ride, then back into Argentine in Bariloche and soon, back into Chilean in Santiago, I would spend as much in conversion fees as on trinkets. Still, if you agonize over every peso it’s impossible to travel.
I thought about my teaching/story telling experience in Santiago and Ushuaia, asked a taxi driver about any English language schools. He said there was one, did I need a ride. I pulled out the map and asked, where are we “donde estamos” and “donde esta la escuela?” where is the school? It was in the next block south of the Independence Plaza Park, where I spent most of the night before. I hadn’t explored that area yet. The big, old trees turned streets into tunnels and I was impressed how well the old buildings were maintained. Instituto Amicana is a university that specializes in language. It was a large, red brick building with a facade that made it look older than it was. The green spaces were secure behind an 8’, wrought iron fence. The ornate front gate was doubly locked and guarded by a security officer.
I walked up to the gate, he stepped up to meet me. It was Friday, school should have been in session. I asked if I could come in and he stared the blank eyed look of someone who doesn’t speak the language. “Enseñan Ingles aqui, sí!” I asked; they teach English here, right? He nodded. Can I speak to a professor? “Puedo hablar con un maestro?” He told me to wait and walked off. I imagined how Oliver Twist must have felt, waiting for someone to toss him a crust. The wait felt longer than it was and I almost walked away. He returned with a young woman in trail. Liana Figueroa was 30-ish with red hair, dressed in a power suit, looking like a C.E.O. In short order I learned there were no students, that it was an inservice day, a workshop. I explained that my interest in the school had been to see if they might have need for a native speaking, gringo, story teller. We talked for a few minutes and she asked me to wait a little longer. She went back inside, a short wait and she returned. She wanted her boss to talk with me but that lady was too busy, asked for my contact information and how long I would be available. I had a few small, half page flyers, handed one through the gate. Unfortunately, I had a plane to catch in Santiago and I would’t be around more than a day or two. By Monday, I had to be over the mountain.
She was a sweetheart. In the 7-8 minute conversation we both hung on the other’s words. Her English was perfect, with just a hint of British accent. But I knew, didn’t have to ask, that’s what you get when you learn English in South America from South Americans. She apologized that we couldn’t talk more, that she had to go back inside. I apologized that I didn’t have more time. She had my contact info on the flyer, I asked for her e-mail address. She went back to work, I went on my way. That was 13 years ago. We are still the best of “Pen-Pal” and FaceBook friends. With Liana, like Miguel Gunter in Ushuaia, you are in a strange place and you stretch the limits of coincidence. You meet someone who you probably had no business meeting and good chemistry keeps you connected, for maybe as long as you live. I do not believe in fate. Destiny is process, when the weight of the moment becomes carved in stone. I do believe in rooting around, looking under stones that show no promise, only possibility.
I didn’t want to go back to Hostel Casa Pueblo too soon. I had a premonition about the next day, wanted to brush elbows with strangers and watch children do what they do. I bought a small geode, cut in half so the crystals gleamed inside. It probably came from China but it didn’t matter, it sparkled and it was in my pocket. At the bus station I fed the man the answer instead of the question, “No cambio!” no change. He sounded like an echo; “No cambio.” I asked, “The bus to the airport, when does it leave in the morning?” He didn’t have to check a schedule, “Siete y media.” he replied: 7:30. “Cuantos” I asked. “200 pesos.” - “Gracias” - “De nada.”
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