Drawing the Line

So often, my grandfather, pops into my mind as a model to live by.  Though he may be painfully shy, largely anti-social, and relatively unadventurous at this point in his life, his character and principles that he lives by are what stand out to me as being important.   As I watch him do crosswords, or pull out the plugs from electric devices, I am fully engaged.  Without knowledge of much of our daily technological lives, he is content – and more admirably, content with not having – which is what inspires me most. 

He told us that the fridge was too full of food, after my grandmother said the towels that my mother bought were too big.  We just nod our heads agreeably and later search for those big fluffy towels that she has put away underneath all of the ancient shabby ones so that we can indulge ourselves in the luxurious terrycloth.

There is a right way to do everything.  There is also a wrong way – a stupid thought, careless technique and clumsy attempt.  Integrity comes from doing what you know is right, whether someone is watching you or not.  It comes from deciding the best way to react, do and be in a given situation, without hesitation, and standing up for what is good.  Knowing what is good is the challenge while not lowering standards or giving into careless acceptance.

When in doubt, I hope to remember my grandparents – content to do without, to say “no” and to not compromise.  This is a part of what living well means.  

91 Years

Yesterday, I was reminded that my Grandfather turned 91 this week. My life isn’t even 30% of that. He has lived three times longer than myself and has spent 60 years married to the same person.

Meanwhile, I just ordered an espresso with dos leches (normal milk and condensed milk) along with a brownie and some tiramisu ice cream in a coffee shop on Calle Italia, near my apartment. Oh the extravagance of little pleasures, how I love that. I will miss the colorful money that I used to pay for it, along with the Spanish I used to order it and the conversations that I can’t quite understand around me. In my mind, I am dedicating this elaborate sugar feast to my Scottish Grandfather, probably situated in front of his TV across the Atlantic. Here’s to 91 years of life, Salud!

The scope of spending 60 years with someone is wild to me. 60 years of laughter, joys, disappointments, sadness, support and just living – probably feeling like they want to leave one another during the darkest days and feeling the opposite on the others. Sometimes I wonder what they talk about before they fall asleep at night, after all that time. They had children, who have now had children and time keeps moving us all along. Somehow thinking about the length of life calms my anxieties, realizing that it doesn’t end after failures - there is much to be learned from. Although, all the sugar I just took in might just kill me.

Last night some songs from the 80s (or early 90s) came on my friend’s radio, which I translated into Spanish (not perfectly). I swear the 80s is often more present here, in the clothes and the music. Black and stone-washed jeans are popular and sometimes I see people wearing sweaters and sweatshirts with colorful graphics or waxed on pictures that remind me of things I bought as a child. It seems whenever we have the radio on in the apartment there are all these classics coming on from U2 and Phil Colins, etc. Often, there are remakes of the songs as well. Rosario was telling me that she heard the US is usually about three years behind in fashion though, so maybe this is just the time for me to catch up. Anyway, the other night I found myself trying to translate some Tom Petty, something that used to play constantly in the back of my friend’s Dodge mini-van during my childhood.

“Pues, ‘Last Dance with Mary Jane’ es de Tom Petty.”

“Tom Peddy.”

“Tom Petty. Y, el dice ‘el ultima baile con Mary Jane. Una vez mas para morir… el duele? Doler? Y, morir el duele. Sabes ‘Mary Jane’?”

“Claro, marijuana.”

“Si, po… la Mary Jane hace el duele mas facil y mejor.”

Hearing songs from my culture in other countries makes me proud. When Katy Perry’s Firework came on in Ecuador while we were out dancing, I couldn’t have been happier, pounding my fists in the air and jumping like a Gringa.

Not only is English available, but other languages in general. My roommate and I were laughing the other night about our bootleg movies. We seem to have one in every language. The other night we watched the Japanese “Ponyo” with Spanish subtitles.

“Do you understand?”

“Of course….. it’s a kid’s movie. I could probably understand without the subtitles.”

We popped in “Balada Triste” (by Alex de la Iglesia) but it was all in Russian and we couldn’t read where the subtitles were located on the menu, so that was out. Awhile ago, we watch “Je t’aime Paris” in French with Spanish subtitles while commenting in English. When I first moved in, we tried speaking Spanish more, but I began to give up trying to explain more complicated thought processes. Between the intonation, pronunciation and all the words unique to Chilean Spanish, it would take a long time to fully understand or use it well.

Si, po. (“po” is kind of used like “like”)

No, po.

Ka chai? (Did you catch that? Used in the same way as, “you know?”)

Claro (sure)

Lata (lazy)

Filo (whatever)

Vacan (cool)

Piola (cool)

Liz Taylor (listo – ready)

Y, Boston? (And, you?)

“Y Boston?” is the most entertaining for me. “y Boston?” is in reference to, “Y, Vos?” which is like, “And you?” usually used to challenge someone. Why they seem to randomly put English references into phrases, I'm not sure. But, for example:

“You drank too much last night.”

“Y, Boston?” ("So did YOU.")

I love how they play with Spanish, but as an English speaker, it’s challenging to be apart of it. They say Liz Taylor in references to “Listo” which means “Ready”. Apparently, when Pinochet died, on the front page in large print was:

LIZ TAYLOR

Meaning, he was finished. The Clinic is a leftist publication that pokes fun at politics, while offering some intelligent commentary at the same time. When Paul McCartney came to visit, there was a picture of him with, “Can’t buy my love or my tickets!”. The Clinic also has a three-floor pub, with large posters of politicians and jokes printed over them. Their menu can be taken home with racy descriptions of the food, often naming the meat and chicken dishes with double meanings.

One of my students is what they call a farandula, meaning that he likes keeping up with famous people. While sitting at an unassuming restaurant nestled within houses of Providencia, he often points out different starlights to me.

“The man sitting next to you is the manager of a football team.”

“The woman behind you, in the red, is a on the series ‘Macho’.”

“That man behind me to the right, on his computer, is a famous journalist.”

I first learned about Osama’s capture through this student as well, having neglected to read the news that day or the night before.

“I have a question for you. What do you think about the killing of Osama?”

“What?”

“Osama.”

“Ah, they killed him?”

The major political news here has to do with the Hydro-electric power plant they are building in the South, in the neighborhood of Patagonia. I think it’s kind of a shame…. feeling like they should leave the landscape alone. The other night, Rosario and I got a nice breeze of tear gas, drifting off of the protesters entering the subway, having been sprayed out by the government. Used lemons were lying on the metro floor, used to calm the stinging effects. We were joking that there will be a lemon shortage and Rosario was reading later, that tear gas actually affects your fertility.

And with fertility, let’s go back to the first topic: 91 years. 91 years of life. 60 years of marriage. 10 years of the rocky 20-somethings. Years of childhood, children and parenting. Years of growing old and learning how to cope with life and enjoy it.

Cheers to my grandfather and grandmother!

Scotlandia

I am now enclosed inside a time warp with my grandparents in Scotland. They’re talking in the living room while I’m in the kitchen here, dwelling. I can hear my grandfather commenting negatively here and there, hollering about this and that. When he came in to grab something he asked me if I had a hair dryer and informed me I would get head rheumatics with wet hair. At the moment I can hear him going on about when people used to have their fires inside the houses and that they were often not very careful. This is a common theme for him, as most people never seem to have their heads on straight. I certainly don’t, for I left my camera on the living room coffee table the other night and someone could’ve broken in to get.

My Gran has a lovely way of telling a story, capped with a little giggle at the end. At the moment she’s recollecting how birds would build nests in the chimney causing the smoke to come inside. Granda compliments the story by talking about the unbelievable amount of tree parts and papers that the birds would manage to find and create their homes with, followed by Gran being reminiscent of how cozy the fire was. She has been making our stomachs feel quite cozy, inundating us with her apple tart, ice cream, meat, mashed potatoes, overcooked vegetables and toast loaded with butter and homemade marmalade. It’s a wonder how her blood pressure can be so healthy, I wonder if her veins are actually strengthened by all the strengthening fat that they receive.

In the way of food, Granda is now asking about the meal that we went out for last night. Apparently, they’ve been forever advertising about eating places in Glasgow. However, trying to explain Persian food is like trying to tell a fish about trees. My mom pursues it, trying to explain Naan, rice and the “creamy sauces” that they use.

“Get away!” says my Granda as my Grandma’s giggle pops the ceiling, “Did you like it?” he asks. His curiosity reminds me of all the things of the outside world that we should try to describe for them. The world has changed so much since they’ve walked around in it.

“Persian….” he says under his breath, allowing the words to slowing melt into his mind.

This is only a brief window of contemplation before the conversation meanders back to other depressing current events, including how people on the internet misuse information and you should certainly never give your personal information over the phone, as they’ve been told.

“The things they’re up to is terrible.” Gran almost gasps.

“Aye, and we don’t know the half of it Sarah… we don’t know the half of it…” Granda solemnly notes.

My grandparents really look stunning for their age, in their thick knitted sweaters always dressed properly for the day. My Gran still wears nylons under her woolen navy pants, though she has to cut them at the knee because half her leg is wrapped in gauze due to a cellulitis infection. She also makes sure to wear her little nylon socks over her wrapped feet. My Grandfather sits regally in his red Celtic suspenders with golden clasps, complementing the striped purple and navy polo t-shirt underneath and thick navy sweater overtop. He wears thick brown slippers, put up on a small soft green footstool as he does his crosswords and reads his books. Both have just the right amount of frailty and health that somehow bring a wise and happy presence. Though their bodies fail them a bit at times, their minds couldn’t be better, hanging on to the stubborn independent thinking that has carried them on for so many years. As a perfect example of this, I can hear my mother yell in the kitchen:

“WE’RE NOT TALKING LOW. YOU’RE GOING DEAF.”

We all can endure their independence with a little humor, satisfied that they are the same as they always have been though accumulated years that are more than twice my lifetime. They continue to exercise their minds with much reading and when we are stumped about some piece of history we can certainly ask my grandfather, who will give us a wonderful explanation of the particulars of the situation.

Now I see that the snowflakes have arrived after much speculation. Here they come, softly drifting down from the cloudy sky. Although we may feel a bit enclosed at times, there is a magical quality that exists between the constant commentary and storytelling that I like very much.