My husband’s first words to me this morning. I
panicked. Did I forget our anniversary? Wait a minute. What month is this?
July. We were married in December. What? I said. July 14th, he
answered. Oh. It clicked. Forty-eight years ago I arrived in Chile to pursue
our relationship – cut short when his U.S. visa expired the previous October.
Our courtship needed more time. Forty-eight years later….I’m still in this
beautiful country and mother of two sons and grandmother of five.
Enough time to have witnessed a socialist government,
a military coup and dictatorship, the return to democracy, and recently, severe
social unrest and… yes, Covid-19 quarantine.
I still have moments of homesickness, ‘home’ meaning
San Anselmo, the town where I grew up. Though I no longer have any family
there, I miss the dark green curves of Mt. Tamalpais, the peace and fragrance
of Phoenix Lake cupped in a fold of the mountain, the scent of redwood trees, the
grassy dome of Mt. Baldy, those geographic landmarks of my early years to which
I return yearly, except now in 2020 due to the pandemic.
For years I struggled with the question: where is ‘home’
for me? I dealt with my struggles by writing two books: Marrying Santiago and Notes
from the Bottom of the World.
Now, after forty-eight years of memories and four
months of quarantine, I know that ‘home’ is Santiago, Chile, where my family is
– husband, sons, grandkids, nieces, nephews, sisters- and brother-in law. Because
of them, this place is ‘home’ for me. Instead of Mt. Tamalpais, I have a view
of the magnificent snow-covered Andes.
