Not being able to sleep on the nine-hour flight from Atlanta to Santiago, I look up from the book I am staring at and observe that mine is the only above-head light aglow. I am in for an ordeal — a strange place in a foreign tongue — and I am fatigued out, ready to melt down. The plane is aiming for Santiago, Chile, where my daughter, a Fulbright scholar, has fetched up.
When the plane docks, I sheep-like follow the people in front of me. I blunder through immigration. Hand the nice man in the glass box $100 cash. After customs I am spewed out into the arena of taxi hawkers and cruise directors. None of their signs speaks to me. I don'êt really panic, not knowing which way to turn, but I slow down and stop really, waiting for something to happen. I figure now is the time for Laura, my 24 year-old daughter, to appear and find me.
'êDad! Dad!!'ê shouts a familiar voice and I turn to see the Kig, as I call her, walking toward me. She is gorgeous. The hair-cropped Butch cut she has affected for the past few years is gone; now it'ês hair almost to her shoulders. I am comforted by the familiar smile and gleam in her intense grey eyes. South America'ês idea of how a woman should look has had its effect. Holy Smoke! Who is this person?
And that is the adventure and discovery of my trip to Chile: Learning who my grown daughter is. We embrace, genuinely glad to see one another, but living in close quarters is going to be something else.
Laura has rented a car from an entrepreneurial fellow who operates under the radar of Hertz and Avis. And it is when she is talking with the car guy that I first hear her rattle off Spanish with extraordinary speed. She is clearly pleased with herself for having rented a car at a bargain rate. Later that evening she rips in and out of and along with the Santiago traffic with the chutzpah of an Indy 500 driver.
We spend the night in the apartment owned by the parents of a friend of hers, a twentysomething upper class Chilean with an older sister. The apartment is their pied-a-terre in a high-rent district of Santiago. There is no toilet paper. The bathroom sink is plugged. There is nothing to eat for breakfast. I soon discover that Laura has no specific plan whatsoever to get from A to B. 'êLet'ês head south. All my friends say that it'ês terrific.'ê I realize that our roles have been reversed. She is in charge. I am the kid.
It is clear that we each have very different ideas of what shape the trip will take. I had expected planned routes and identified destinations with known hostelries. Laura, armed with her excellent Spanish and fearlessness regarding asking for information, is prepared to wing it and proceed as the way opens. I seriously consider asking her to take me back to the airport. I want to go home. (I later find out that Laura is wishing the same thing!)
Laura has become well adapted to a culture of students on vacation who would never get out of bed before 10:30. Adjust to Chilean time, Dad! This is not good news for a guy who starts his day at 6 am and simply must have food and a nap around noon. But I wake at 10 am and discover that there are suddenly lots of good things to eat for breakfast and that Laura has not only shopped in the morning but that she has been pouring over the Lonely Planet guide until 4 am to plan out our trip.
What happens over the next two weeks bears some resemblance to driving to San Francisco, turning around, and driving back. Image: We arrive at a national park where the book has said there is a hotel. We learn that it burned down four years ago. But we are welcomed into a hostel run by a young biologist who hosts student groups to learn about the critters that inhabit the Andes. This is my first close encounter with the phenomenon of the Chilean family. The family is the social unit. No one is excluded. Fathers patiently spoon pasta into the unenthusiastic mouths of their children. It can be 11 pm but the kiddies are still up. You never hear a parent scold a child. And you rarely hear a child cry. Sure, it'ês noisy, but it'ês a happy noise.
Another image. Laura in a bikini has seriously red and painful sunburn on her thighs, acquired the day before while she lay on a lawn chair. Sitting in the car is increasingly uncomfortable for her. We cross one of the myriad rivers that flow from the Andes to the sea and I pull off the highway, having spotted some Chilean children disporting themselves in the river. Having suggested to Laura that she soak her crimson self in a bathtub of cold water the night before, I now pull off the highway and find the trail to the river. There is this wonderful moment when Laura wades waist deep into the river and the kids are drawn to her like a gentle magnet. All in Spanish. This scene alone is worth the trip.
Perhaps the greatest revelation I experienced from being re-united with a daughter I had not seen for a year was the at-first shocking but then quite pleasing way she was shaping herself into her own person who borrowed traits from myself. Her willingness to question everything, take nothing for granted, and form her own opinions was more sharply defined. So was her willingness to take risks and act spontaneously. There was no subject that she would not talk about. She exhibited more boldness than I had ever seen in her, having no hesitation in accosting passersby for directions. Outgoing as ever, she would chat up and carry on in fluent Spanish with anyone.
On the way back north, Laura has suggested that we head into this national park or that. I look at the map and see a discouraging grey road that just seems to run out of ink rather than arrive at a destination. There is no promise of any kind of hostelry being there. I suggest that we head for a four-star hotel in Santiago, to which Laura accedes. Hey, Dad is paying the tab. Let'ês go for it. And we do.
