Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

Our neighbor Andrés is out on his sidewalk raking dozens of tough, prickly seed pods from his liquidambar tree. “Malditos loros!” “Damn parrots!” It is late fall and the city’s Quaker parrots gorge on the seeds, knocking the round pods to the sidewalk. You walk through them at your own risk. Trilling notes from high in the treetops tell me the wild canaries have arrived. They, too, come for the seeds.

                            

    I nominate the gingko’s magnificent saffron yellow attire as the most spectacular of the fall colors.
    It rained last night. This morning I take our grand-dog, Frida, out for a walk. She sniffs along the ground and I lift my nose upwards to inhale the exhilarating fresh air laden with rich wet smells. In the distance, fresh snow covers the mountains, so very white.
    Yesterday, it rained and thundered and hailed and even snowed in some sectors of town. This morning our city lies in the white embrace of the Andes. At noon, it is just 45 degrees in the sun.
    One of fall’s small pleasures is putting out the hummingbird feeder. Santiago’s hummers move out of town during spring and return in fall. The cold weather reminded me that I’d forgotten to put the feeder out. I felt guilty. Where would they get their sugar fix? Now on this sunny day, they careen about competing for the feeder.
    Today is grey and cold. The perfect weather to read and savor a thick chunk of dark chocolate. I'd decide it's time to take on a challenge and read Virginia Woolf. I choose “To the Lighthouse.” It is not a book to read in bed, and even in mid-afternoon, I find my head getting heavy. It’s just not a page- turner. But, when I’m feeling more alert, I forge ahead, determined.
    To brighten our garden I buy four primulas. I yank out the wilting petunias from the blue pot, replacing them with the primulas. Since I’m outside, I’ll do a bit of pruning – the hydrangea and my one rose. My aching back tells me to stop.

                    

All of my fall musings seem insignificant after watching the German documentary “Aquarius- Rescue in Deadly Waters.” Shocking. Deeply disturbing. 

                    

    The photographer takes us aboard the Aquarius, the Mediterranean rescue ship, where we witness a boatload of frightened immigrants grabbing onto the life jackets thrown to them and struggling to leave their fragile inflatable vessel to board the safety of the rescue ship. Tears well up as I listen to their stories. Newborn babies are passed to outstretched arms.  In Libya, because they are black, they’re treated worse than animals. They are fleeing poverty and violence, just as the Central Americans arriving at the U.S. border.

 
PLEASE  watch this documentary.

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.