“A ver…” Eva started in Spanish. “I (pause…) to like dis fud.” She held up her cookie and beamed, knowing that her sentence was full of errors but proud of having thrown herself in the pool anyway, as they say here. No shame, just go for it and no worries if you’re wrong.
I smiled encouragingly. “Mhhmmm.” Point to her. “You like this cookie?”
“Jes,” she replies from the backseat. The other two Chilean teachers in the backseat join her in laughing. Communication!
The three women, each with children around my age, are teachers in Futaleufu. They are also my English students. And now, for a long weekend, they take on a new role as my traveling companions.
Tito, Veronica’s husband, is driving the large SUV and smiles as though he should also find the situation amusing but honestly doesn’t. In actuality he’s nervous. He’s been noticeably nervous the entire six hours we’ve been in the car together. Having gotten on the road two hours later than originally planned, Tito is concerned that we won’t make the border crossing back into Chile before the customs office closes at 8 p.m. A valid concern, I suppose. With three hours to go, I’m hoping we make it but I’ve learned not to worry.
It’s a surreal event for me, this car trip, mixed with waves of comfort and foreignness. One of those times when you stop and realize you’re more comfortable than you should be in such a foreign situation. It’s the first time I’ve really traveled in Chile by car. It oddly takes away the feeling of travel. The loud motor, curtains, elevated seats, strange faces of a bus all lend to the mysticism of travel, the feeling of being safely removed but curiously inserted into “place.” Now, however, I am curiously part of “place” and this feels safe. As I turn around in my co-pilot seat and take in the beautiful Patagonia landscape, lake after lake to my right and snow-capped mountains to my left, I can easily imagine being in a US National Park, passing through with colleagues in our plush SUV. I’ve become used to hearing Spanish so much that even the language difference holds no shock for me, no feeling of misplacement. It’s like traveling…at home. At home traveling.
This general comfort I feel lends a sort of sneakiness to the cultural differences that do creep up on me. For example, one would think that among the four Chileans in the car aged 45 and over more than one of them would be willing and able to drive. One would be wrong. Veronica, the owner of the vehicle along with husband Tito, apparently drives only in Futaleufu. She gets nervous going high speeds (over 25 mph) and managing curves, this nervousness manifested in a shoulder-to-ear posture and white knuckles at 2 and 11 o clock. Witnessing this, I offered to drive and she gladly pulled over. All passengers resumed breathing.
I requested that a CD I had made the night before on my new laptop be played. Throw some familiar music into the mix, put me behind the wheel, and the situation only becomes more eerily comfortable. As I belted out songs by Jewel, Joni Mitchell, and Tracy Chapman the landscape changed unexpectedly to a desert-like terrain (it had been dark on our way there a few days prior). I confidently kept my foot on the gas, turned on the lights as dusk approached, admired the Monument Valley-esque scenery, and proposed we played “Twenty Questions.” A hit.
So what was the cultural difference that creeped up on me? Upon finishing my shift at the wheel I received a high-five from Eva. “Muy bien hecho!,” she told me, commenting on how impressive it is when a woman can drive well and unafraid. The others all joined in the praise (and I’ve heard several comments since then about what a great driver I am, a fact that anyone who knows me from the States would certainly not attest to) and I’m left wondering if their undeserved lauding stems from the fact that I’m a woman or that I’m young. Whatever the case, their reaction struck me as odd. Actually, it snuck up on me as odd. Odd it may be, but it has earned me a position as chauffeur on at least three potential trips that the women are planning now that they have someone reliable who can drive them. “I to like dreeve!”
I smiled encouragingly. “Mhhmmm.” Point to her. “You like this cookie?”
“Jes,” she replies from the backseat. The other two Chilean teachers in the backseat join her in laughing. Communication!
The three women, each with children around my age, are teachers in Futaleufu. They are also my English students. And now, for a long weekend, they take on a new role as my traveling companions.
Tito, Veronica’s husband, is driving the large SUV and smiles as though he should also find the situation amusing but honestly doesn’t. In actuality he’s nervous. He’s been noticeably nervous the entire six hours we’ve been in the car together. Having gotten on the road two hours later than originally planned, Tito is concerned that we won’t make the border crossing back into Chile before the customs office closes at 8 p.m. A valid concern, I suppose. With three hours to go, I’m hoping we make it but I’ve learned not to worry.
It’s a surreal event for me, this car trip, mixed with waves of comfort and foreignness. One of those times when you stop and realize you’re more comfortable than you should be in such a foreign situation. It’s the first time I’ve really traveled in Chile by car. It oddly takes away the feeling of travel. The loud motor, curtains, elevated seats, strange faces of a bus all lend to the mysticism of travel, the feeling of being safely removed but curiously inserted into “place.” Now, however, I am curiously part of “place” and this feels safe. As I turn around in my co-pilot seat and take in the beautiful Patagonia landscape, lake after lake to my right and snow-capped mountains to my left, I can easily imagine being in a US National Park, passing through with colleagues in our plush SUV. I’ve become used to hearing Spanish so much that even the language difference holds no shock for me, no feeling of misplacement. It’s like traveling…at home. At home traveling.
This general comfort I feel lends a sort of sneakiness to the cultural differences that do creep up on me. For example, one would think that among the four Chileans in the car aged 45 and over more than one of them would be willing and able to drive. One would be wrong. Veronica, the owner of the vehicle along with husband Tito, apparently drives only in Futaleufu. She gets nervous going high speeds (over 25 mph) and managing curves, this nervousness manifested in a shoulder-to-ear posture and white knuckles at 2 and 11 o clock. Witnessing this, I offered to drive and she gladly pulled over. All passengers resumed breathing.
I requested that a CD I had made the night before on my new laptop be played. Throw some familiar music into the mix, put me behind the wheel, and the situation only becomes more eerily comfortable. As I belted out songs by Jewel, Joni Mitchell, and Tracy Chapman the landscape changed unexpectedly to a desert-like terrain (it had been dark on our way there a few days prior). I confidently kept my foot on the gas, turned on the lights as dusk approached, admired the Monument Valley-esque scenery, and proposed we played “Twenty Questions.” A hit.
So what was the cultural difference that creeped up on me? Upon finishing my shift at the wheel I received a high-five from Eva. “Muy bien hecho!,” she told me, commenting on how impressive it is when a woman can drive well and unafraid. The others all joined in the praise (and I’ve heard several comments since then about what a great driver I am, a fact that anyone who knows me from the States would certainly not attest to) and I’m left wondering if their undeserved lauding stems from the fact that I’m a woman or that I’m young. Whatever the case, their reaction struck me as odd. Actually, it snuck up on me as odd. Odd it may be, but it has earned me a position as chauffeur on at least three potential trips that the women are planning now that they have someone reliable who can drive them. “I to like dreeve!”
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