Street Murals, Stray Dogs and Ocean View Cemetery

Valparaiso. A port city of cliff-hanger houses. Stairs instead of sidewalks. Bright, crazy wall murals lining narrow alleys and roadways. Homeless dogs with dreadlocks. We spend two days wandering and climbing two of the city’s steep hills: Cerro Alegre and Cerro Concepción. Yes, the many hills separated by deep ravines have names. You can walk from one to the other.

We’ve come to explore: an art gallery with a monster theme (left-over from Halloween), a sweets shop, La Dulcería, which advertises via white ants painted along the sidewalks, port and bay views from hillside promenades and  terraces, streets of grand 19^th century homes built by foreign merchants – English, Scottish, German. A Scottish great uncle of mine had settled here. I want to visit the Cementerio de los Disidentes, Dissidents’ Cemetery, where non-Catholic foreigners were buried. I’d been here once before and spied a tombstone with his family name, Riddell.

            We easily find the grave and snap photos of the names inscribed on the pink-toned stone. I’m excited. This is definitely the family, but not my great uncle, Robert. Checking my hand-written family tree, I learn it’s the grave of his brother, Thomas, a daughter and his wife. Thomas came from Midlothian, Scotland and died in Valparaiso in 1880.

Headless angels and lopsided tombstones tell of the many earthquakes that have shaken up this quiet hillside. We visit the office where 80 year-old Señora Teresa, the administrator’s mother, is eager to help us search for more names. She has my son pull heavy, brown, dusty record books from a shelf. She turns the pages scanning the handwritten grave numbers and names, though she actually knows the names and location of most cemetery dwellers. She’s worked here for thirty-nine years. A living record book.

We then cross the narrow lane to the Catholic cemetery and wander about reading the inscribed names, wondering about their lives. I sit to rest on the edge of a dry fountain, its paint peeling. My son takes a seat by me. Strange. We look at each other. Is the fountain shifting under our weight? It only takes a few seconds to realize it isn’t the fountain that is moving. I announce, “Earthquake!” The rolling movement doesn’t last long, so “tremor” is more accurate. A fitting exclamation mark for a cemetery visit.

We follow narrow lanes and head for the Paseo Atkinson to view the city at night.  The lights twinkle. Then in a shadowy corner comes a growl. Black dogs at night run the risk of getting stepped on. All the strays look related or – is this the same one we saw earlier who has decided to follow us? Both my son and I are softies for abandoned dogs. He must have caught our scent.

Election Day Worries

I usually refrain from commenting on politics but I can’t pass up this opportunity to share an incident today at my local verdulería, neighborhood fruit and vegetable store (actually a repetition of the conversations at my morning Pilates’ class) . In line to pay, I recognized an acquaintance. After the usual greetings, she brought up the subject of the U.S. elections, which are being watched very closely here in Chile.

            “Have you voted?” she asked.

            “Yes, I have.”

            “I hope that horrible man isn’t elected! He hates latinos!”

            Cristina, the owner of the shop, chimed in. “Oh, he’s awful.”

            The other customers in line agreed. While Cristina weighed my strawberries, I said to the group, “I only wish that Chileans could vote in this election.”

Glimmers

It’s not difficult to feel grumpy, irritated and downright depressed in this city of ours, what with grey winter days, carjacking, house and mall robberies, traffic gridlocks and hooded vandals destroying and looting during weekly student demonstrations. These scenes have become our daily bread. Days ago a water main broke on a principal artery of the city. A deluge of escaping water flowed down towards the center of town. Surface traffic and a major metro line were cut. The news showed streams of city folk walking long distances to work.

But, all is not gloom. I laughed out loud at the sight of a young, well-dressed woman, desperate to cross the street, clambering aboard a grocery cart pushed by an ingenious Chileno. For a few pesos he delivered her across the river to the opposite corner. Oh, those enterprising Chileans. At the first drop of rain, they’re selling umbrellas at metro stations, or cellophane wrapped roses for Mother’s Day, or ready-made salads and sandwiches at lunchtime.

I see glimmers of hope and humor as I go about my city.  One night a friend and I decided to go to a concert of the Santiago Symphonic Orchestra downtown, which meant boarding the metro at peak commuter hour. We are not the pushy type but, when it came to a packed metro car, we had no choice but to squeeze and elbow our way in, that is, if we wanted to go anywhere.

The live performance of Tchaikowsky’s glorious Fourth Symphony swept me away on a wave of wonder to the steppes of Russia and the glittering halls of the Hermitage. Unbelievable, the magic created by those violins, violas, cellos and bass.

Returning home on the metro, passengers eyed us as we broke into giggles, lifting our feet to avoid contact with two large balls of hair rolling down the aisle and back again, not an unusual sight in the otherwise clean metro cars.

A sharp clear blue sky greeted me this morning and, in the distance, the snow-covered ridges gleamed. A gaggle (at least a dozen) of rowdy green parrots invaded the liquidambar tree next door, gorging on the seeds of the prickly pods. On the ground turtle doves grazed on the fallen leftovers.

Like the seeds of the liquidambar, abundant reasons for joy and laughter are here for the taking in this urban landscape. It’s a matter of paying attention.

Acceptance

Acceptance

In my memoir “Marrying Santiago” (2015) I wonder where my two sons would choose to put down roots. I ask: “Would I lose them someday to the place I left behind?” My parents’ only child, I left my California home forty-five years ago to marry and live in Chile. The great distance that separated us was the source of tremendous sorrow for them.  

            While my oldest son married and settled in Chile, the younger one has been living and working in New York for four years. I miss him terribly. Living in this hyper-connected era does ease the pain somewhat – we chat online, talk by Whatsapp and Skype and send photos taken instants before.

 Today a Chilean friend who passed through New York brings me a present from my son. An enchanting little book entitled “Owls: Our Most Charming Bird” by Matt Sewell. A rich text accompanies the delightful drawings. I am so pleased with this gift that I immediately call my son. We don’t talk long as he is at work, but just hearing his voice brings me pleasure. I recently ordered Bill Bryson’s “A Walk in the Woods” for him. Since he’s a hiker, I thought he’d like it. He did.

With these small exchanges – books, photos, and online chats – the distance seems less. Last month he sent me a photo to show he’d just voted in the New York primary. I’m happy he takes seriously his American citizenship. I recently voted in the California primary by absentee ballot – signed, sealed and delivered (well, actually faxed). My son and I agree on the presidential candidate.

 This not just the expatriate’s or the immigrant’s dilemma. Several of my California high school and university classmates have children living on the east coast (many in Brooklyn, like my son.) But Brooklyn is a lot further from Chile than California. Here I’m at the bottom of the world.

Will he return to Chile someday? That is a question that must wait for an answer, and I must accept whatever choices he makes.

I'm going to step up on my soapbox today. I'd like to start a campaign (though a bit late now) against PINK, PLASTIC toys - well other colors, too. Everywhere one looks in toy departments you see PLASTIC. Don't people realize that it all ends up in the garbage sooner or later? Probably sooner. Without realizing it, I've been buying almost all gifts containing little or no plastic. I went to a Christmas bazaar yesterday with dozens of stands offering alternative gifts made from noble materials, cloth, wood and paper (hopefully recycled). I bought locally-made lavender sachets and natural hand and body creams. Offerings included potted herbs, natural soaps, all cotton baby clothes and homemade jams. I'm not the crafty type, eager to make my own gifts, but I do give Christmas cookies, homemade jams and occasionally a potted plant, offspring of one of my garden inhabitants.

    Next week I'll have the three grand-girls over to help me decorate our Christmas tree. If I have the energy (reminder: it's almost summer in Chile and the days are HOT, not conducive to baking), we'll make cookies, too. Though they have their own tree at home, they love unwrapping the tissue paper from my collection of ornaments, many once belonging to their great grandparents. (Yes, I enjoy it, too - discovering the tiny glass bell that was a childhood favorite.)