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.”

My Nation

My eyes travel to the top of the slim white obelisk penetrating the blue sky. Bright, fluttering flags ring the monument. A glorious day in my nation’s capitol, a nation in which I haven’t resided in over four decades. Is this patriotism that I’m feeling? This mix of nostalgia and pride? It’s been many years since I last visited Washington, D.C. Now I’m with Nico, my 38-year-old son, born and raised in Chile, and his girlfriend, as he sets sight for the first time on these monuments, the National Mall, the Reflecting Pool, the round-domed capitol and the just inaugurated African-American Museum. The flags and monuments and museums tell the stories of a nation – its founding, its growing pains, tragedies, errors and triumphs. They have the power to evoke in me the idea of my country.

            As if a preface to visiting the nation’s capitol, bits of American history and geography surface during our drive from New York City to Washington, D.C. The freeway doesn’t allow much of a view of Philadelphia. But then – “Look over there. Isn’t that the tower of Independence Hall? Yes, it is!” Even from a distance, I identify the familiar spire rising above the surrounding buildings.

            “Nico, that’s where the Declaration of Independence was signed.”

He hadn’t studied American history. Unexpectedly, I have the opportunity to imbue him with a bit of his heritage.

            An overhead freeway sign announces Betsy Ross Blvd.

“Do you know who Betsy Ross was?”

To his negative I explain about the first American flag.

“Do you know what the flag was made of?” he asks.

He has me there.

“Hemp.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I read it somewhere.”

Studying for his Master’s degree in New York has clearly allowed him to absorb more than just what the curriculum offered.

Our chat is peppered with new discoveries.

“What river is that?"

“Think it’s the Delaware.”

We decide that the large body of water on our left is the Chesapeake Bay.

“This must be Maryland.”

Five states within a few hours. A revelation to my West Coast geographical mind set.

Upon arrival, we head for George Washington University and the last session of the yearly Peace Corps Connect conference. The following day, our only day for sightseeing, we decide to start at the Capitol and walk that long open vista to the Lincoln Memorial. The Native-American Museum seems a good place to begin, after all, they were here first, and Nico tells us he has been reading about the sustainability practices of Native Americans. To our amazement the main exhibit explores the cultures of the Inca Trail, which extends the western length of South America through Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and central Chile. Serendipity? We wander through displays highlighting the accomplishments of the Inca peoples: a facsimile of an intricate rope bridge used to cross deep canyons, intricately woven textiles and photographs of steep hillside agricultural terraces. But what catches my attention is the sacred Incan tradition of reciprocity (ayni). Ayni is the backbone of daily Incan human-to- human interaction, in which there is a mutual flow of giving and receiving. I am struck by how this concept dovetails with the ideas proposed at the Peace Corps Conference by journalists Sarah Chayes and Sebastian Junger.  They make a strong argument that the alienation of individuals in our society has its roots in a lack of community and sense of the common good. Values of cooperation and solidarity struggle to survive in our society where the almighty dollar rules. Not a heartening picture.

These momentous concepts percolate in my mind as we continue our stroll along the Mall to visit to the National Botanical Garden, lamenting we have so little time as we pass by one imposing museum structure after another. We contemplate the war monuments: World War II, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, which again takes my thoughts back to Sebastian Junger’s analysis of returning soldiers’ alienation in our deeply divided modern society which foments a culture of greed and fame.

Just beyond the Washington Monument rises the bronze-toned Museum of African American History and Culture. Barricades maintain order in the winding lines of opening day visitors. Bright faces reflecting anticipation and pride. The air vibrates with rock music and dance performances, while savory smells waft from soul food kitchens.

 In the late afternoon we climb the marble stairs of the Lincoln Memorial to stand before the solemn sculpture of Lincoln and contemplate the words of his Second Inaugural Address and Gettysburg Address inscribed on the walls. Again war and injustice are the focus, his words still relevant, still there for thousands to read and reflect on the injustices caused by slave owners ‘wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s brows…’ From his grand marble chair, Lincoln has a direct view across the Reflecting Pool to the African American Museum. But his countenance is lined with worry. Does he despair that our nation hasn’t followed his counsel: “a house divided against itself cannot stand….?”

Sneak Preview

Sensations, experiences and smells pour through my fingers onto the keyboard. Just back from a month in the U.S. – New York, Washington, D.C., Iowa, Wisconsin, California – I don’t know where to begin.

To get a handle on it all, I write down some glimmers of my journey, a sneak preview of what’s to come:

New York:

Precious time with my son and his girlfriend

Pablo Neruda’s face on the Barnes and Noble coffee shop mural

An American kestrel alighting on rooftop terrace

Nocturnal stroll along the Chelsea High Line

En route from NY to Washington:

Warm welcome from girlfriend’s family

Touching five states: New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland

Independence Hall tower in the distance

 Washington, D.C.:

Award at the Peace Corps Connect Conference for my memoir “Marrying Santiago”

Recalling fifty-year-old adventures with long lost Peace Corps friends

With my son, his first view of the iconic Capitol, the tall, slim Washington monument mirrored in the Reflecting Pool, the solemn Lincoln Monument.

Inca Trail exhibit at Native American Museum – Incan concept of reciprocity (ayni)

Iowa:

 “Mammoth muffin” at Perkin’s roadside restaurant

Welcomed by eighty-nine-year-old Betty into her farmhouse

Corn fields, silos, green and yellow John Deere machinery, barns, barn quilts and white farmhouses displaying American flags

Local lingo: acreage, blacktop (paved road), and crick (creek); jokes about Minnesotans

Plot of wild prairie grasses, once site of covered wagons and grazing buffalo

Resplendent musical events at Luther College, friend Ann’s, alma mater

The plaintive call of the train passing through town. Whoo-whooooo.

Wisconsin:

My first sight since childhood of the wide Mississippi River

Green, wooded rolling hills

Our hostess Edie’s account of  taking tea with Svetlana Alliluyeva, Stalin’s daughter, who spent her last years in Richland Center, Wisconsin

Unique design of the A. D. German warehouse designed by Frank Lloyd Wright

California:

The pleasure of familiar sights and scents of my hometown

Reunion with former classmates at San Anselmo Coffee Roastery

Magnificent breakfasts prepared by my Airbnb hostess, Joanna

Point Reyes Station’s Bovine Bakery – refuge from the rain

Quiet moments at parents’ graveside at Tamalpais Cemetery

Poetry reading by two-time poet laureate Billy Collins

Blue Angels Squadron acrobatics over San Francisco Bay with friend Paula

And so much more that I must assimilate and let percolate….

Spring Cleaning

It’s not spring yet officially until two more weeks, but the warm, sunny days and the fragrant freesias blooming in my garden activate my spring urges. Our apricot tree wears soft white blossoms, and the perfumed air is intoxicating.

When I’m not outside talking to the seeds I planted, encouraging them to rise and shine, I’m tackling projects like cleaning out a closet in the spare bedroom. It’s a job I’ve dreaded – sorting through boxes and albums of slides taken by my parents on multiple trips and cruises to Jamaica, Norway, Scottish Highlands, the Pacific Northwest, Chile. Ten boxes, 70 slides per box. Through a mini-viewer I quickly check for people photos. Here’s a surprise. Shots of two survivors of the plane crash in the Andes involving an Uruguayan rugby team. They were staying at the same hotel as my parents while here in Chile for my wedding.

  I scan for good photos of my parents to save: my father gazing up at the Matterhorn, and stretched out for a siesta on a Jamaican beach; my mother, a Jackie Kennedy look alike, petting a burro, and posing before a bright flowering poinsettia bush. I study their facial expressions, the way my father stands slightly hunched, my mother’s wide smile. It seems unfeeling to throw out the slides, their memories, but they are not my memories. Now ten years after my mother’s death and twenty after my father’s I feel ready to let go. I’ve saved a few dozen – my first step towards photo closure.

    There is more in that dusty closet that I must face: my son’s paintings from childhood art classes, my own attempts at painting, binoculars inherited from my husband’s grandfather, a fishing tackle box, a game of Scrabble and…a slide projector. I tell my husband, “We can put the slides of our travels into the empty carousels – your stay in Germany training for the Mexican Olympics and my Peace Corps years.”  Maybe someday we’ll have a slide show and reminisce about the days when we were young.

Whoopee!

I’m on a serious binge. No, not chocolate. Chocolate is no longer at the top of my favorites list. I’m on a Netflix binge, hooked on “Grace and Frankie.” I am having so much fun! Laughter is far better for me than chocolate, anyway.

            I identify with seventy-ish Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin. How I laugh as they bemoan the frustrations of their age, the chin hairs and flabby biceps. Even glamorous ex-Barbarella-Jane needs help getting up from a sitting position on the beach, and her hands are as wrinkled as mine. Laughing about these embarrassing signs of aging is very liberating; they become easier to accept.

Jane and Lily inspire me to be a little crazy and silly and throw off my cloak of ladylike demeanor. I want Frankie to send me some of her marihuana-enhanced, quirky, shamanic, Buddhist vibes. The humdrum of my daily life – planning what the heck to have for dinner, taking out the garbage, changing the sheets – offers few opportunities for risk-taking. I must be on the lookout – maybe strike up a conversation with the beggar woman on the street corner, read a science fiction book (not my usual fare), attend an art exhibit alone – and accept new challenges, even if they’re a little scary.

This past year I did just that: river rafting and hiking over a glacial moraine in Patagonia and riding as a passenger on a stranger’s motorcycle in rural Colombia. I foresee more adventures on an upcoming solo trip, touching down on the East coast, Midwest and West coast of the good ol’ USA. I look forward to acquainting myself with unfamiliar American landscapes.

 I’d welcome a “yes” night (Frankie says you’re not allowed to say “no” to anything suggested to you) but then I’d have to have a goofy friend to do it with. My oldest friend back home would be the perfect choice. She loves to laugh and talk to strangers. I’ll soon be spending time with her. I wonder what excitement we can stir up.

I haven’t given up chocolate. In fact, the ideal binge would be watching “Grace and Frankie” while savoring creamy, dark chocolate.

Bad idea. I just did it. Wolfed down the whole damned thing.

Short-lived Euphoria

Samba dancers in brightly colored costumes, big smiles on their faces as they swirl to the music; a large float bearing two red and yellow papagayo  figures and curvaceous dancers scantily clad in sequined attire; the entire center of the stadium  arena filled with people dancing in flashes of sweeping colored lights. Soon the Olympic athletes join the performers in one big happy, mad party. My husband is somewhere in that crowd. Later he tells me he made a new acquaintance there, Mustafa, a tall Sudanese man, dressed in traditional garments.

The gaiety and euphoria of the closing event of the Olympic Games in Rio are contagious. In front of my television I smile at the antics of the athletes and sway to the rhythm. Swelling euphoria fills me at the sight of thousands of people of many races and nationalities joined together in brotherhood. This is an example of what humanity is capable of.

            But then I recall the photo of the five-year-old Syrian boy, Omran, covered in blood and I know that men are also capable of terrible violence, hate and destruction. That young boy and the scenes of destruction in Aleppo and the massive crowded refugee camps trigger compassion. Then I feel anger – anger at the leaders (you know who you are) who allow this to happen, not only allow, but order the bombings and the killing, who believe only they are in the right, who are blinded by intolerance for those who are different.

            I want to put my arms around Omron, comfort him and clean his face of blood. But, of course, I can’t. But I can write, pointing out not only the violence and tragedy, which we see live and direct on television newscasts, but also the alternatives.

Hey, World, look at the Olympics. Look at what is possible with perseverance, will power and a vision.

 Feel the joy. The possibilities. The hope.

Then take the next step. Act.