There is a Special Place…

In Hell.  For all the airline executives of the world.  Currently cooling my heels in the Santiago airport, waiting for a flight to Antofagasta that has been delayed, and delayed and delayed.  It is going to be really fun to spend all day tomorrow doing presentations in Spanish on about 4 hours of sleep, if I am lucky to get that much; then running back to the airport to get back to Santiago.  If the plane ever gets here, to get me there. And get me back.

But things could be so much worse.  Good thing I watched the BBC news before I left tonight.  All the flooding in Pakistan and fires in Russia remind me that a delayed flight is but a minor inconvenience.

But still.

Espectacular, che

The Uruguayans and Paraguayans use an affectionate diminutive for one another, “che.” I love that word.  It is like an exhale.  “che.”

In English, we do not use diminutives, but in Latin America, especially Chile, they are a part of being; they are part of the air you breathe.  They add affection to the language, to how we interact with one another.

And this is apropos of nothing.  Just a little language lesson for you.

The “Espectacular” of the weekend was the sun finally piercing the rainy, cold dark clouds today, creating an intense brilliance that brought the Andes into razor-sharp focus, the moon into full light, and two wonderful plays:  Saturday night’s performance by La Compañía de Teatro Negro Bosquimanos Koryak’s “El Truco de Olej” – a troupe using black light to bring fantasy to light, and tonight, a trip to Teatro Nacional’s performance of “La Mala Clase.” I worked furiously all weekend on “work.”  This was the art. Che.

Into the Silence

The quiet spaces of our lives, if we let them, teach us profoundly. Perhaps one of the best “forced lessons” of this experience has been the time I have spent alone; reading, researching, observing, listening, interacting, without electronic devices.  A luxury we do not allow ourselves in this increasingly “connected” world.  I have found that the more time I have spent disconnected – away from email, instant messages, cell phone, facebook -  the more I have become connected. The more I act, instead of react. The more I learn. By far.

There are so many miniscule snippets of culture we never see when we are “connected;” snippets of information, and moments of time, which are the atoms that float beneath the surface of our lives – atoms that nevertheless connect us and add context and texture to who we are – but which we fail to notice.  When I first arrived here, I found out that Andres Bello, the author of Chile’s legal code, based it upon that of the state of Louisiana.  How many of us U.S. citizens know Lousiana has a code?  And that Chile emulated it? After dinner at a lawyer friend’s house last night, he pulled out the official code of the State of Lousiana.   He was working on a case, and there was an issue, you see, with this one part of the code….

Lisa, Horacio, Rodrigo at El Toro with a pisco sour. It's damn cold...but not so much when you are with friends

The night before, I had a simple dinner with friends whose lives have been inexorably intertwined with mine for so many years I have lost count.  We communicate without having to plan, without often having to speak.  Their struggles of being gay men in a Catholic country will always resound with me, teaching me things, in those silent places in my heart.

I walk home with the ice cold full moon tonight as my partner.  Breathing in the spirit of the people, the wisdom, the moments of shared experience as I measure my steps. Into the silence.

Lo Malo y Lo Bueno

Lo Malo?  The weather.  It is the coldest on record here in at least 20 years; “mediterranean climate” it definitely is not.  It actually snowed further south earlier this week. You would think a person from Portland, Oregon would not be whining about this.  But I am.  I am tired of being cold.  And I will get home just in time for fall to start.

Lo Bueno?  Lots.  Today the two vice deans and the professor in charge of “student affairs” set off on the 5-hour car trip to Chillan, where about 100 law students are working out in the cold and rain all day building houses in the earthquake-ravaged towns; and at night sleeping in community centers and grade school cafeterias in sleeping bags.  Eating noodles and tuna.  My daughter Chevigny is out there somewhere among them. The law school wants to show the students and people there that it supports everyone’s efforts.  The students are working in 10 groups of ten, scattered in different places all around the area; the profs will visit each site. And the two vice deans actually have day jobs, as lawyers.  Talk about putting your billables aside for the cause.

It’s just a little gesture, in a little town, in a long skinny country, going unnoticed by the rest of the world.  But not by me.  I love this.

Coming Into Focus

My mind is meandering tonight, having arrived home very late from work, and having burned my leftover ravioli.  Oh well, there’s always red wine for dessert…

I have one foot in the beginning and one in the end.  In four weeks, I leave Chile.  As I look out at the darkened, rainy cold night, I can’t help but feel conflicted; I have been completely absorbed in this culture, going blind reading Spanish legal texts, driving myself crazy trying to keep up with the demands of work at home, plus a research project that fascinates me but is eating up all my waking moments – and finishing my work with the faculty here, plus trying to prepare for working with three additional law schools in the period of a week before I leave.

The personal relationships I have developed over the last five and half months have begun to take on new meaning  – not only those I have had for many years, but the new ones: compassionate, vibrant people who have welcomed me unconditionally and enthusiastically into their lives.  There are so many of them, and I am, already, beginning to miss each one deeply. My days continue to be filled with lunches, dinners, meetings; each one a gentle reminder of what little time I have left.

Last night, I went to see “La Fiesta del Chivo” (the Feast of the Goat), featuring Isabella Rossellini and based on the book by prolific Peruvian author Mario Vargas Llosa.  (for those of you who have not read his work, it is definitely worth a try)  It is about the dictatorship of Trujillo in the Dominican Republic, and was shown free of charge by the consul of the Dominican Republic at the Moneda cultural center (ironically located in the La Moneda Palace, where the Pinochet government murdered Allende…).  As the Chileans say, “impactante.”   I will miss just walking to every type of entertainment one can imagine….

And speaking of coming into focus, my daughter, who came to visit me for awhile, took off for the south of Chile early Monday morning, in a pickup truck, to join a group of law students.  They are spending the first week of winter break building more permanent housing for the earthquake victims in a very small town outside Chillan, with the non-profit organization “Un Techo Para Chile“  (one roof for Chile). Working outside all day in the cold, rain and mud, and spending the nights in sleeping bags in a school cafeteria.  Good for them.

Going Back to Where We Started

Enjoying pisco sours before the barbecue, in Rodrigo & Margarita's house, Curacavi

La Valle Curacavi lies just outside Santiago; a verdant gem of a valley nestled between two mountain ranges, separating Santiago and the sea.  I started my life in Chile here, among the lemon groves and budding wineries.   It was so different then.  Very much “campo;” I even had chickens and a duck I helped raise.  Campesinos scared the bejeezus out of me shooting at jackrabbits who stole their vegetables in the night; tarantulas took refuge in the warmth of the tiles in my room as temblors shook the coast range; I had adventures with gas califonts and exploding tins of condensed milk in a farmhouse kitchen with a 12-foot ceiling.  And I took a bus each day into work, into the frigid cold of winter, into the dictatorship.

Juan and Rodrigo prepare the barbecue

But now, I have returned, many times; to this magic valley that pulls at me with all its might.  Its gentle people, fecund earth, soft evening colors that melt into velvet hills,  and its incredible wine.

Enjoying the bounty of Curacavi

We used to bring our empty bottles and fill them from trucks that pulled up from the wineries, huge wooden barrels in their rusty beds.  Now, there are overpasses where dusty country roads used to be; formal “wineries” in the place of our decrepit old barrel trucks.

But some things never change, like our friends Rodrigo and Margarita, who have a small parcel of land with six horses, where every Friday they do therapy with children with cerebral palsy and other physical and mental challenges.  There is a wheelchair ramp and wooden stairs the children use to climb onto the horses.

Curacavi

Friday is a national holiday – “Virgen de la Carmen” (none of my friends knows the story, but they are happy to take the holiday); we barbecue local meat and drink wine and take in the warm winter sun in la Valle Curacavi.

Sole chatting with local fishermen - they caught flounder!

And then Sole and I head to the coast, just the two of us, to the tiny town of Isla Negra.  It is dark when we arrive.  We set up a gas stove on the terrace of a small hotel (with 4 rooms) overlooking the sea.  In the dark, among the stars, we share a bottle of wine and talk into the night, just like we did so very many years ago.  Life is good.

Twit – er….

How many of you out there have ever looked at your small child when trying to tell him or her something you believe is important, saying, “Charlie, look at me….” I think there’s a reason we do that – we want to make sure the person we are talking to has our full attention; we want them to look us in the eye.

When I left the States, I can’t remember attending a single a meeting where half the population at the table wasn’t looking at their blackberries, iphones or other “personal device.”  Since WHEN did we all become so indispensible?  All the time?

Yesterday I was at a faculty meeting where there was a fascinating debate between those professors promoting the teaching of practical skills in the classroom, and those who think that skills belong in the law office  -  the classroom is strictly about theory.  The room was packed, and as the meeting went on, people became more passionate about their positions (some ridiculous, but hey, at least they were listening.) What was striking to me is that not a single person in that room, including the dean, pulled out a cell phone, or took a call, during the entire hour-and-a-half meeting.

The Chileans are just as rabid as the rest of the world with these infernal devices (in fact they banned cell phones in cars before we did), but in meetings, I find people to be engaged, attentive and…participating.  And last week, in a meeting with approximately 25 students and about 5 professors, the dean sat for more than an hour, attentive, discussing, quietly listening as students spoke.  No cell phone.  No blackberry.  Imagine that.

Guess what people?  Each of those fragmentary glances at the glowing screen; our  24-7 “connection;” means seconds we are disconnecting from the life that is going on right in front of us.  I bet if you add up those fragments, those seconds, it’s a whole lot of life.  Gone.  And people we will never really know, because we are not listening.