PATAGONIA 35 - LENNON DRANK BEER

Santiago, Chile: The day before I left for Patagonia I was focused on my preparation. The big leap would have to wait for the next day. I remember when I was 10 I wished I was 12, then at 12 I wished I was 16, My mom shared the same advice every time; “Don’t wish your life away.” So the day before I left Patagonia, on my way home, I was focused on finishing strong. I had people to see, work to do and more than anything else, I wanted to feel good at the end of the day. There would be plenty of time on the plane to reflect. I told the Sisters I would see them that night, walked to Terra Australis and had coffee with Juan and Olvia. I had no reason to go through my suitcase, it had been organized and packed before I left on my walk-about. Everything else had to fit in my duffle bag and backpack. Juan called, confirmed my flight the next day. Students arrived and the day began just like every other day. I sat in on class with Olvia and the British guys. Sometimes I helped when she wanted them to listen to us talk. The review was good for me as well. 

I made sure I was early at Library For The Blind. Alone in the audio lab, I took the guitar out and was practicing as my blind students began to arrive. Some were new to me. My three star pupils were right on time, Claudia, Javier and Ruth. We retold the stories on both songs and did some singing. Jet Plane was our best song. Claudia thought it should sound more sad so we put in a “Boo hoo” after the “Oh babe, I hate to go.” At the end, they all thanked me in both Spanish and English. Ruth was the last to go. She was more dressed up than usual. I asked what was up and she had a date. I asked if he was a “Novio” , a sweetheart, and she laughed. She said she didn’t need one, just someone who could pay for their own whiskey. She said she liked Cutty Sark Scotch Whiskey but without ice and that Lennon only got to drink beer. I stopped to see the Librarian, the lady who interviewed me. She said the students liked my lessons, that I was welcomed to come back any time. 

On the short walk back to Terra Australis it occurred to me; I’ve done everything I could squeeze in. There was no walk-about field trip that day; students got a free afternoon. I asked Juan if he and Olvia would like pizza for an early dinner; picked up two large pizzas and we shared a pleasant supper. They both had work to do at school so it was dark when we closed up. I was going to take a taxi with the guitar and suitcase but hey insisted they drive me back to Sisters B&B. I would’t see them again; my flight was early and I would take a taxi to the air port. 

I was afraid that time would drag but I was wrong. I napped down stairs, fully dressed, with my travel alarm set in my pocket. It went off at 1:00 a.m., my hosts called a taxi and I was checked in, ticket in hand, through security and at my gate by 2:30. It went so smooth I forgot to change my pesos back into American dollars. Still going on cash I had left over from my credit card fiasco in Bariloche, I didn’t want to bring it back in pesos but I didn’t want to get stuck outside the security gate either. Boarding was easy, they let my guitar go in the overhead and my back pack under the seat. My flight home was direct, no stops on the way so I was able to sleep. 

The International Terminal at Miami International is a far, long walk from everywhere. I walked past the gate where I had seen the flight attendants and crew, boarding on the night I left the USA. There were several check points where everyone had to funnel through, look at passports, get permission to keep going. I had time to make my next flight but none to waste. Food could wait. There was a point where it occurred to me that I might be waling back to Kansas City. At the end of every long tunnel was a turn into another tunnel where I couldn’t see the end. Then another turn and another long tunnel. Finally, there was a zig and zag where all you could see was the security officer at his kiosk. The people ahead of me made it through with no difficulty. The officer wasn’t in the blue TSA uniform, his was tan and his badge was different. He was Latino, in his 40’s with a thin mustache, looked like an actor on a movie set. He shined his light on my photo, thumbed back to see where I was coming from, where I had been. He gave me two short glances and then a long third look, handed my passport back and nodded his head for me to move along. I was several steps toward the zag in the zig-zag when he called me by name, “Frank.” I stopped and turned his way. We made eye contact but his expression didn’t tell me anything. “Welcome home,” he said, and he said it again, “Welcome home.” 

I didn’t know, I hadn’t thought about how I wanted my journey to end. But there should have been a moment when I sensed, that story was over and a new one soon to begin. I made my flight, changed planes in Atlanta and it was still daylight in K.C. when I collected my baggage. I’m not particularly patriotic, being an American has as many drawbacks and down sides as it does privileges. When someone asks me where I’m from I tell them, “I try not to be from:” But making that long walk, feeling in limbo and being welcomed home the way I was, in my own tongue, seriously, twice by the same officer: I couldn’t have written a post script that would have pleased me more. It made me feel so good then, and still does every time I reboot that memory. 

It was full summer in Missouri, hot by any measure. I had three days before I needed to be in Oklahoma City for a Story Telling Conference. It was a little strange to hear so much English, with no accent. I found myself automatically translating what I was hearing into Spanish. But that door was closing and a new one would open when I woke up the next day. 

RIGHT & WRONG

Back in 2006 or 2007, I went to a National Story Telling Conference in St. Louis, Missouri. Story tellers take longer to confer than ordinary people so the conference took 5 or 6 days. Every day after the lunch break we had a general assembly with a keynote speaker. Toward the end of the week our speaker was not a story teller, not a writer, had no obvious connection with us. By his introduction he had some affiliation with the University of Missouri, selling the glory of Missouri and St. Louis in particular. His ice breaker was supposed to be humorous but it came off heavy handed with a scathing putdown on people who pronounce the state’s name with the “uh” ending rather than “ie”. He sprinkled words like ‘stupid’ and ‘uneducated’ into his rant and concluded, “Say what you will but ‘Missour-UH’ is just WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.” That really rubbed me the wrong way. Exactly why, I didn’t know but getting up and leaving felt like the right thing to do. Sure, when I’m not self editing as I speak, and sometimes even when I do, I speak ‘Missour-uh’. Monkey see, monkey do; and growing up, my people spoke ‘Missour-uh’. I can swing from either side, it is trivial and it should not have been an issue. 

Recently at my coffee klatch, someone’s friend of a friend came in and sat down with us. Being cordial, everybody gave him an ear and he liked the sound of his own voice. Being judgmental is one thing, connecting dots is another and I try not to judge. In either case I didn’t care much for him; nothing negative so much as nothing positive. Next thing I know, he was knee deep into the Missour-ie - Missour-uh  squabble with pointed insults and condescending distain for Missouri-uh speakers.  I kept my mouth shut for as long as I could, maybe 2 minutes. Then I offered an observation that language is dynamic, evolving, ever changing and its function is good communication. Then I embellished that view; When I say ‘Missour-uh’, nobody thinks I meant Minnesota or Montana. They get it. It begs the question; why is it so important that you belittle others for using at worst, a simple colloquialism? The man squirmed a little but took the last word, adding with a presumption of authority, “It’s just wrong.” 

The word ‘Epiphany’ when used in other than a religious context means, an illuminating discovery. The man’s little retort had dealt me an epiphany. I’m old but I never stopped reading, never stopped asking questions, never stopped studying. I wasn't any smarter than before but my education never stopped and I was better armed, better informed than a decade earlier with the St. Louis bigot. 

Everyone has a moral construct. The matrix for morality evolved along with our ability to do math and write poetry. Morality is about the perception of Right & Wrong. Morals vary from person to person but the neural network and the process of acquisition are universal. The 1st category of morality is 'Belonging' and 'In-group Loyalty'. It’s older than tribalism, it's where the highest order of belonging was the family clan. Survival depended on clan loyalty and belonging was the key. Moral #1, Be true to your family, it’s the Right thing to do. By nature of our emotions and the language we use, being Wrong about anything carries with it a moral caveat. So it’s not only ‘Who’s your mama?’ but it’s also, ‘Where are you from?’ If you are a neighbor, if we know you at all, that works to your benefit. Strangers are dangerous, most likely an enemy. It is so deeply rooted we don't think about our roots but we want to know where people are from.

Even though we’ve come a long way baby, our emotional set is essentially the same as our Stone Age ancestors. What we believe about ourselves doesn’t have to be true, it just has to work to our satisfaction. If someone knowingly mispronounces your name, there is every reason to believe it’s an expression of disrespect. That sense of identity goes hand & glove with group loyalty. When it happens, we feel a need to push back. If you truly identify, loyal to the core with your state, it can feel like an insult that has to be answered. If the offended person doesn’t understand the moral implication it doesn’t change the feeling. So ‘Missour-uh’ isn’t just incorrect, it’s Wrong; not Right, but Wrong. Incorrect can be corrected but being Wrong is a moral failure. Being ‘Right’ is just as potent. Being Right validates us. Even if the feeling is predicated on bias and flawed information, that righteous feeling satisfies a moral need. Civilization has given us technology and sky scrapers but human nature is still in a cave. It doesn’t have to be true, it just has to work for us. 

The fact that I understand this scenario does not make me immune to it. Humans are inherently beset with human nature. It is hard wired into the brain. Even if we believe we can overcome human nature with discipline and logic, we can not. In those cases we perceive an objective attitude but view the reality with a subjective eye. 

My impatience with both the St. Louis bigot and the coffee shop bore are driven by my own moral sense of Rightness. I’m sure I’m Right but then, truth be known, I would be the last to know. Like Pit Bulls, when we feel moral high ground beneath out feet, we bite down on the bone even harder. The next time someone belittles us ‘Missour-uh’ speakers, I should just tell them to go suck a lemon, or its 4-letter, vernacular equivalent. But that would corrupt me in a different moral category; Fairness & Reciprocity. For me to feel morally Right, I need to afford others the same courtesy and tolerance I would expect from them: Do unto others. But on the Right & Wrong thing, I think I am both Right and correct. 

PATAGONIA 34 - ISLA NEGRA

Santiago, Chile: Two days and a wake-up, that’s how long before I would fly home. I didn’t have to be at Library For The Blind until noon and I didn’t want to be underfoot at Terra Australis. So I took the black, canvas gig bag that El Peregrino traveled in, all around Patagonia, back to the store where I bought it. I struggled with my Spanish, asking the man if I could return it. I knew he wasn’t going to give me any money but I had nothing better to do. Trying to engage a native stranger would be good practice. He was adamant that he could not, would not take it. When I asked why not, he said it was worn and damaged, he refused to make a refund. I tried to tell him that someone could use it, it was too good to throw away. The man had stopped listening. My vocabulary lacked important words and I wasn’t making much sense, I knew that but kept trying. He just repeated, “No, no, no” he couldn’t give me a refund and he wouldn’t take it back. I needed to get his attention again so I waited, got eye contact and tried something different. “No quiero tu Dios maltido dinero.” I had forgotten I knew that one; “I don’t want your God damn money.” It got his attention. I knew the verb “dar”, to give and “regalo” a gift. I repeated them several times and added, “a alguien.” to someone. He got it. In a flash of insight, we became allies instead of adversaries. He took the bag and thanked me. Just enough time for pineapple empanadas from the bakery across the street, to pick up El Peregrino at Terra Australis and be at the Library on time. 

I was a few minutes early but the room was full. Besides Ruth, there were seven. Two men and a teenage girl were new to me but Ruth said they were regulars. Introductions took a few minutes and I moved on to some new questions in English and Spanish. Once we had the question answered in Spanish we translated it into English. “I have one brother.” “I like to sing.” Everybody got to do a couple of “I have” and “I like” problems. Even if they already knew, it was good repetition. When I asked Ruth what she liked she surprised me. She liked Baltimore, Maryland. She had been there four years earlier; it’s where she got her dog, Lennon. Over the three days we had several good conversations after all, she was the only one who actually had some fluency. She stayed in Maryland for three months, training with her new dog, Lennon. I knew she was a big Beatles fan, did the math and made the connection. John Lennon? “Oh yes! He is my favorite. What else could I name her?” I asked what it would have been if the dog were male. She said it could have been John Lennon but as it was, Lennon worked either way. The next day I learned that her e-mail address was  (sergeantpepper@). 

I asked Claudia if she could tell me any of the “Jet Plane” story in English. She struggled with it, got help on tough words; soon it was a group effort, everyone getting a word in. We were going to do a different song. “La cancion para hoy” I said, “es el espacial de medianoche.” The song for today is, The Midnight Special. It took a few minutes and some help to get my story into Spanglish but they were a great audience. When a man in prison looks out his window, he can see the train station. When a train comes in the middle of the night, its light shine across the platform with all the people getting on and getting off the train. The verses are about life in prison while the chorus is about his dream of having the train’s light shine on him. For that to happen he would have to be on the platform, a free man. 

None of them were familiar with the song but all liked the story. It’s simple and it repeats. “Let the midnight special, shine a light on me.” Deja que el especial medianoche, me ilumine. They got the subtle melody shift between lines and we sang all four lines of the chorus. I don’t remember how we handled the 4th line with its “Ever-loving light,” but it worked. The verses took more time but that’s where the story took us. Everyone thought it was great that Miss Lucy came so far to see the warden, to negotiate her man’s pardon. “Yonder comes Miss Lucy, piece of paper in her hand.” They listened for the chord change into the chorus and everyone came in together. “Let the midnight special, shine a light on me.”  Time flies when you’re having fun and we were having fun. We agreed to do it again the next day, same time and place. I noticed, thought it glum; just in the standing up and putting on coats, the creative spark and happy spirit that had raised us up, it went away. The sweethearts sat together. I watched them smile and squeeze hands but they couldn’t see each other and it didn’t seem fair. Out the window, up the sidewalk, two of the others were feeling their way behind white canes. I put El Peregrino in his case and made my way back to Terra Australis. The suitcase I left there during my walk-about was still stored in the bathtub. I put the guitar case with it, out of sight behind the curtain and waited for Marcelo. 

Our plan was to drive an hour west to the coastal town of Isla Negra, a popular tourist destination, one of those places defined by famous people who once lived there. Hannibal, Missouri with Mark Twain and Key West had Ernest Hemingway; Isla Negra had Pablo Neruda, Chile’s equivalent to Hemingway and Mark Twain. Neruda died in the 1970’s during the reign of dictator, Augusto Pinochet. They were political enemies and there is still plenty of conspiracy theory over Neruda’s untimely death. History has treated the poet-philosopher much better than the dictator. One of Neruda’s homes was in Isla Negra, now a museum and the town was a favorite hangout for college students when Marcelo was at University.

I didn’t have to wait long, Marcelo didn’t even turn off the motor. Olvia said I would love the sea shore, that it was both scenic and historic. He said I would love it too but his recollection was from spontaneous combustion, alcohol and testosterone, a decade earlier. The drive was pleasant but uneventful, talking about our college days. I was 30 years plus, ahead of him on the learning curve, he like monkeys on the tire swing at the zoo, me like patrons of the zoo, both thinking the fence was to save us from the other. It was mid afternoon, mid week, winter time on the sea shore; not a lot going on. The museum was preserved as it was when he lived there, not much emphasis on plaques or displays. I didn’t need a docent, I had Marcelo and he knew the story by heart. Isla Negra; it’s not an island as the name suggests but the Negra part is self evident. Rock outcroppings along the beach and out into the surf are gray granite with black bands of intrusive basalt that made Mother Nature the original advocate of abstract, surreal art. Blue water, white foam and red kelp all swashed ashore and back out. If it were not so cold it would have invited bare feet onto the wet sand. All the while, my amigo was caught up with nostalgia, reliving his college memories. 

We had a great fish dinner at a small restaurant. They had Escudo in bottles which made me happy. I didn’t finish mine but what I drank was just right with the coarse, heavy bread, avocados, mangos and of course, the fish. It was dark when we got in the car but Marcelo still wanted to show me his favorite places like criminals returning to the scene of the crime. There was the little cove where they skinny-dipped, where his girl friend, future mother of his daughters; they slept there on the beach. We drove to a place where there were no street lights, where they rode bicycles between houses to elude the police, some things never change. At the end of the story, on our way back to Santiago he reminded me that they never got caught and he had graduated with honors. 

The sisters were happy that I was happy. They had their own stories from Isla Negra, from when they were young. Pablo Neruda had been a hero for them and his little town was almost sacred as the church. I would go back to Library For The Blind the next day and after that I had no plan, just wait for the night to unfold. It would be my last full day on the continent. 

PATAGONIA 33 - ON A JET PLANE

Santiago, Chile: People of privilege and means know their doctor’s name and where to find their office. We take it for granted but Los Pobres, the poor, they do not. When we see people in hard times, whose very appearance bears out that undoing; denial is such an easy, painless path. “Not my business,” or “Too bad,” then be on our way. I am guilty as anyone. At Library For The Blind, the blind people were for the most part Los Pobres. For most of them, blindness would have been preventable had they been born in a hospital or been diagnosed and treated early. 

I was on my own in a room with five blind people and I had something they wanted. I started with greetings and simple exchanges, coaxed at least a “Hello” from everyone. Ruth, my student-helper, was good at knowing when someone needed help, me included. They knew my name was Frank and I was an American story teller and I would help them with English, that’s all. We got started with questions but they had to be in English, I did my best to answer in Spanish. So between Ruth and myself, we framed new vocabulary to fit the questions. Lots of personal stuff, family, likes and dislikes. Music worked its way into the mix and I asked each one about their favorite songs. For Javier and Claudia it was fun, they were ready but we had to coax the two beginners. With a little help they agreed, anything by the Beetles. Javier knew which Beetles song he liked, “Yellow Submarine”. I asked, “Puedes cantarlo?” if he could sing a little bit. With some prodding, mostly from Claudia, he mouthed the redundant chorus several times. She had been leaning against him, holding hands. When he straightened up to sing, she gave him space. So when I asked about her favorite song she didn’t bother to tell us anything. Claudia raised her face, squared her shoulders and began singing; “I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, Babe, I hate to go.” She didn’t miss a word and the melody was in there. We cheered and clapped hands.

Then I learned, most of the popular music in South America comes from the USA or Great Britain. If they don’t understand English it doesn’t keep them from learning the lines and singing along. It was an “Ah-Ha” moment. This would be how we teach English to the blind. Jet Plane was in my song book; I could make a story in Español to explain the lyrics. “I’m leaving” is (Me dejando) and “on a jet plane.” En un avion” is (on a jet plane.) We said the words and then sang it. With Ruth’s help, I paraphrased it in Spanglish. One of the lovers has to leave, doesn’t know when they will be back, already so lonesome they cry. Claudia was so disappointed she almost cried. “Tan hermosa y tan triste.” So beautiful and so sad. I guided the melody with chord changes on the guitar. ‘Tell me you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.” . . . abrazame  como si nunca me dejaras ir.” In two hours we got through the song twice and it was time to go.

One of the first things I do in the morning is stare into the mirror. I notice if my eyebrows are just bushy or really bushy. Without giving it much thought, body language tells us a great deal. It’s a natural expression of feelings that may be as important as the words. My new friends didn’t get that benefit of either. They couldn’t look in the mirror or see each other. Their motions and gestures were often exaggerated. Revelation for me; they have no idea what they look like. What I saw was unfiltered emotion from body swaying to facial expressions. When singing, my subtle little head movements paled in comparison. One line at a time, we put lyrics into story, in Español, then sang it in English and the singing was fantastic. Shuffling around, ready to leave, Ruth called out,, “Mañana mismo tiempo?”  Tomorrow, same time? Everybody concurred. My job would be to work up another song. Four months earlier, in the dentist’s office in Santiago I thought it strange that music in the waiting room and elevators was all in English, Lionel Ritchie, Linda Ronstadt, The Beetles; why no Latino music? I guess I had my answer. Javier and Claudia sat together on a bench in the hallway, holding hands, talking just like one would expect of sweethearts.  

Back at Terra Australis, Juan and the students were on their daily, walk-about field trip. Olvia was delighted that my time with the blind folks had gone so well. We used English only to correct and expedite my Spanish. It was slow going but she was patient. Their son Marcelo’s day job was with Lider Supermercado, the largest grocery chain in Chile where he was an IT-computer specialist. Time flew; Juan got back and Marcelo arrived almost together. The students headed back to their residences without coming inside. We shut down the office, Juan and Olvia headed home while Marcelo and I got pizza at a sidewalk bistro and talked about travels. He said there was a night club/bar down by Baquedano Station that had advertised a story telling fest every night that week, asked if I would go with him. Parking is a challenge in Santiago and it wasn’t that far to the club so we walked. 

The place reminded me of the 1980’s sitcom, Cheers; with stairs down from the street and the sign over the door at sidewalk level. I’m totally comfortable in bars and I can nurse a beer a very long time. Barmaids stop smiling when I sit at one of their tables and don’t run up a tab. But my purpose has never been to consume alcohol. Sharing food and drink is a bond that friends depend on and I go there. I will need something to wash down chips or pretzels and juice or tea serve me just as well. I can have a great time, anywhere without alcohol. But we were in a bar and my friend was drinking beer. He ordered an Escudo, I would have an Escudo too. Marcelo finished his and was flagging down a waiter while I was still savoring my first swallow. I hadn’t thought about it but then and there it crossed my mind: I don’t like drinking from aluminum cans and all the beer there was in cans. I asked if they had beer in bottles and the waiter said no. I felt a little sorry for my amigo. A few beers and he began fantasizing over women at the bar or lamenting his plight: his estranged wife had their daughters who he didn’t get to see very often. We went through two bags of pretzels and I was about to finish my Escudo thinking, ‘do I really want more beer from a can?’ 

         The story telling fest turned out to be more of an open mic for stand up comics. They did about 15 minutes and changed comics. People talk fast in Chile making it difficult to follow. The first complete 

sentence I learned when I got there was, “Lo siento, hablas demasiado rapido, de nuevo por favor lentemente.” I’m sorry, you talk too fast, again please, slowly. The story tellers were even faster, sounded like an old 33 record playing at 45 speed. I was picking up about 10-15% of the story which isn’t enough to appreciate. One guy told a story about how his day had gone but he followed a pattern. His story went from one little vignette to another; him doing things, other people involved. One little problem after another and the resolution to every situation was, the finger; el dedo, and he held up the appropriate finger, the same one every time just from a different view. He flipped us off straight up, behind the back, over his head, under his arm, between legs and every time it was the solution to his predicament. I missed most of his story but I got it, the solution was always the same, El dedo. Once it was stuck in a bottle, then he was pointing at something, then tied it up in his shoe string. He was funny, I laughed a lot.

They were still going strong when we left. The club was as close to the Sisters B&B as Terra Australis so we walked opposite directions. I think that’s why Marcelo wanted to walk; he knew he would drink too much. He could sleep at the school and be sober in the morning. There was a place he wanted to take me the next day, said he would get off early and we would drive down the coast. I would help with fuel and we would find a place to eat. Both sisters came to the door to let me in, asked about my guitar. They were nibbling cheese and sipping vino, interested in my day. So I summarized the day, said I would go back to Biblioteca De Los Ciegos again, sing in English and visit with my friends. They thought that was a good plan, went back to the television and I went to bed. 

PATAGONIA 32 - WHAT CAN I DO?

Santiago, Chile: After one night at the sister’s B & B I went ahead and paid for the next three nights. The location was good, they were nice enough and the house, room, bed were comfortable. With big windows, lace curtains and over stuffed furniture I thought a lot about an old movie-broadway show, “Arsenic & Old Lace”. Considering two old ladies, the big house and them doing the cooking, I ate out or did finger food; not that they couldn’t cook but the whole idea was just a little cumbersome and the arsenic thing spoiled my appetite. I didn’t have a key and the door was always locked. But one of them was always up, sort of like coming home late when you are 15. 

Fast approaching the end of the trip, I had time to rethink all the water gone under the bridge and all the turns in the road not taken. I was still in touch with friends and family back in the States but only when I had access to an internet cafe or used an expensive, international telephone card. There was always a light at the far end of the tunnel, I would go home. Still, every day was like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get. Everyone I met it seemed was comfortably shuffled into their own deck. Even when they had nothing to do, there was something to do. When I had nothing to do (which was often) it was either take a nap, sing to myself, feel lonesome or walk. I walked a lot. The exercise was good. My learning style is kinesthetic: for me to truly process information and ideas, I need to be in motion. So putting one foot in front of the other was a mental prompt as well as cardio-vascular exercise. I walked a lot that next day, Sunday. 

Several years earlier I had given a ride to a homeless roadie, from St. Louis to Columbia, Missouri: what a revelation. Long story short, his culture was basically, Stone Age hunter-gatherer; wake up, move on, find food, move again, cache things of value for another day, find a safe place to sleep. In the morning you may be in a strange place but you follow the same pattern. My trip had an element of that but I never had to worry about my safety and if not among friends, people were always accommodating. I don’t know how long I could stay out on an adventure: I don’t think I want to know. Bees travel long distances from the hive but they all come back with nectar and a good story to tell their amigos. I’m more like the bee, you flirt with “Solitary” but it’s not what you want at story’s ends.

Monday morning I was anxious to see my friends at Terra Australis, the walk was maybe half an hour, maybe less. I was early, Olvia and Juan were there but the door was locked, I had to knock. It was a spontaneous happy go-round. One might have thought I was missing in action, now home from the war. Juan called their son Marcelo, the guy who spent Easter morning with me in a little mountain town, grazing on pilfered grapes and pomegranates. He was on his way to work at his day job but would come by the school. 

Before I could get a cup of coffee down, Olvia had my day planned for me. I used my best Spanglish, defaulting to English on words or phrases that I didn’t own, doing my best to show I had learned something. She watched my eyes, helping me in either English or Spanish if she saw I needed help. “You must speak to our students, tell them about your trip; how about after the morning break!” I knew she would do that. She liked to show off her former students. A new face in the classroom would be a welcomed break in routine. “Then;” she said, “Then, oh yes; you must go over to the Library For The Blind. It’s just a few blocks. They called the other day and asked if I knew someone who could help their students who were learning English; you would be perfect.” I couldn’t get a word in but that was alright. We made more coffee and opened a box of cookies. 

I brought El Peregrino with me, in a hurry to get him back in his hard case. He had come through all the jostling and thumping without damage and I didn’t want to stretch the luck. Marcelo stopped, agreed to go hang out for a while that night. Students were arriving and I had time to go see the lady at the library. Olvia had called her and she knew I was on my way. They had taught together, once upon a time, so I would be favored over a stranger off the street. Her story was short and pointed: they didn’t have a budget, only small change that falls through the cracks. This little library was a low funding priority, operating on a shoe string. There was a need for blind people to learn English. With bilingual language skill, their chances of finding work increased immeasurably.

I was full of questions. There were books and reading stations where magnifiers helped but most of the library was served by computers. Many of them were loaded with audio/video software so they could hear the text as they read along. She reminded me, the library served people who were visually impaired, from mild to severe to totally blind. They had English language programs for the computer but never able to afford a teacher. Another indirect but real value of the English program was that it gave otherwise social rejects and burdens to their families a place to go and a reason to be there. Any mastery of English could only help them. 

I told her, “I have three days, what can I do?” She mused for a moment, pursed her lips and looked me square on; “You are a teacher, you know how to teach. Do what you can.” I asked, “When?” She answered, “How about today, after lunch?” The whole interview didn’t take ten minutes. Back at Terra Australis, Olvia was grilling two young men, conjugating verbs. A new girl, part time teacher had a lady and a teenage girl in the other room. They were farther along than the guys, translating English into Spanish. I got a bottle of water from the cooler and sat next to Juan. It was mind boggling how much correspondence he has to do from the initial contact with a prospective student until they walk in the door. Inquiries come from all over the world and he has to treat each one with a thoughtful, personal response. It’s a numbers, marketing game, never knowing which ones will follow through. 

Break time came, the men went outside to smoke while the ladies stayed inside and drank tea. The guys were similar to Jeff & Jeff on Navimag, British college students, off seeing the world. They thought they could absorb enough in a week to take off and survive but they thought wrong. Not bad guys but certainly disappointed their plans had been derailed so soon. Olvia introduced me, invited the students to jump in with questions or comments, that this little reunion was for their benefit as well as ours. I went ahead in Spanglish, she made corrections and translated as needed. The guys were lost immediately and she took the opportunity to make her point. “Gentlemen, When Frank came here he was no better at this than you are now.” They understood but still lacked engagement. I took the opening, “You don’t eat a cow at one sitting.” They didn’t appreciate my humor but did begin to lean into the conversation and ask questions. The ladies followed along well and made good observations. They all wondered why I had chosen to travel alone. That was the part I got right from the start. It requires that you meet people and learn a new scheme. It can be uncomfortable with long stretches of lonesome time. But If I had wanted comfort and convenience I would have gone to Ireland or Australia and I would have taken a friend. 

Olvia asked if I had any advice. The best I could offer was to remember, you don’t have to be perfect. It just has to work. Learn the gerund form with verbs. One ending works in just about every situation. Run-ran-runs, who cares? “Running” can serve in any tense and is good enough to make yourself understood. Then, talk to vendedores. They are trying to sell something and you are a potential customer. They were the most willing teachers I found along the way. If you are nice, they are nice in kind. Our session ended and it was time for lunch. 

If I was going to work, in front of people, even if they couldn’t see; I was going to have my guitar with me. If I never touch it, it’s stylish at worst and if I do, then where would I be without it? An assistant was there to meet me, showed me to a computer lab with an open area in the middle. The librarian said this was where we would meet. Another lady followed us into the room. With a guide dog at her side, Ruth must have been forty, looked indigenous, well dressed and poised. She was one of the students but she was more. Her English was good, a lot better than my Spanish but still she came to class at La Biblioteca De Los Ciegos. When there was no one to lead the lesson, she guided the group. Shortly, four others showed up, three men and a woman. It was clearly a defining moment. There we were, six people in a room with me the only sighted one, tasked with teaching them my language. I was the only one who could see the weight of their disability. In public, Ruth would not have stood out. She had command of her space and if she couldn’t see, it didn’t leave her disabled. The others were obviously handicapped, with dark glasses and white canes, they shuffled into the room. The way it turned out, when her classmates needed help she helped them. When I needed help, she helped me. At the same time, she was learning new vocabulary and phrasing.

The 1970’s was a bad time to be a poor, Chilean child. If you had any disability at all, if it didn’t kill you, you would wear it like a curse for the rest of your life. Los Pobres do not turn out like Ruth. She had grown up with privilege and now it seemed, she was giving back. Two of the men were new to the program. They knew “Hello, Thank You and Rock & Roll.” Javier had some vocabulary and was there to improve his English but also to spend time with Claudia, the woman. They were sweethearts and Library For The Blind was the only place they could be together with any kind of privacy. Both came from the rural countryside but from opposite directions. Both were completely dependent on their families, had long bus rides into Santiago. Both in shabby, tattered clothes, poorly kept. Your first instinct on a bus would be to stand rather than sit beside them. For me it would be a crash course in gratitude and the resilience of human spirit.