{"id":1340,"date":"2011-12-26T04:11:47","date_gmt":"2011-12-26T04:11:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.velabas.com\/travel-stories\/?p=1340"},"modified":"2014-05-28T04:37:57","modified_gmt":"2014-05-28T04:37:57","slug":"christmas-in-puerto-montt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.velabas.com\/travel-stories\/chile\/christmas-in-puerto-montt\/","title":{"rendered":"Navidad at Casa Solis"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

…A travel story of Christmas abroad<\/a>…<\/h1>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

T<\/span>he orange light of southern Chile\u2019s 9 p.m. sun beamed through the kitchen window. It bounced off the laminate Christmas-themed table cloth, and draped itself over the utensils, napkins and bread crumbs. I watched as the rays gleamed over the stubby hand that was strumming a guitar, the smooth skin of a scar reflecting the light like elastic. The hand made the sounds of traditional Chilean music, called cuenca. Gloria and Teresa were harmonizing in song, singing of thirsty fish and Jesus, and I sat listening. We had just finished once, or dinner, of bread, tea and vinegar-soaked onions, and now the pair were serenading the scene. The strange tune stole away time and hid it somewhere while the romantic air danced in the late sunshine. It might\u2019ve created a trance if I had not been aware of my own fatigue.<\/p>\n

The days in the houses of Gloria and Teresa passed swiftly. They say that that\u2019s likely to happen with work, or pega here in Chile. I was working. Gardening kept me busy most of the time, and the days seemed to digress from their obligations to endure. We should want them to endure; the older we get the more we should want them to endure. The gas-powered motor of the grass cutter left a ringing in my ears, and my unwashed green shirt brought a stench to my nostrils daily. Otherwise, the work left me senseless and in a habitual state of meditation.<\/p>\n

\"Farming<\/a>

Farming in Chile on Gloria’s land.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

When the sky would break and loose its rain over the countryside, I\u2019d take refuge indoors and stare out. Sometimes, the raindrops turned to granules of hail, and rang a clatter on the rooftop and wooden porch. The colors of cloud and sky, grass and tree were drastically various, like the hopeful strokes of a painter\u2019s brush.<\/p>\n

In the house, a small Christmas tree stood lit in the corner of the living room, just beside the wood-burning stove. It made me think about home. I also thought about unknown places, and I thought about time. Sometimes I thought about chocolaty eyes.<\/p>\n

Gloria and Teresa finished their song and Gloria looked at me with kindness.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was lovely,\u201d I told her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve always played guitar, the both of us, since always,\u201d Teresa said.<\/p>\n

Teresa was the older of the two. She must be in her 60s, but I wouldn\u2019t brave an inquiry. The two sisters are passionate. When they speak I might think that they\u2019re constantly interrupting each other if I hadn\u2019t remarked early on that it\u2019s simply their way; it\u2019s like a conversational harmony. Sometimes they repeat what the other had just said, and other times they simply speak over each other about the same thing and listeners would have to pick out the important parts. It was somehow irresistibly agreeable.<\/p>\n

When they had finished the songs and we\u2019d cleared the table, I retired to the big fluffy bed that was once Teresa\u2019s daughter\u2019s and let sleep pull shut my eyes.<\/p>\n

Existence, being as it is, is unlikely. However, the unlikely, the improbable and the impossible often find expression in everyday encounters. That genetic carrier had to find an egg, and it had to be you of the billions that made it. The same had to occur with your relations, and with the great relations, each little swimmer penetrating the right egg at the right moment. It seems improbable. But then, you being here depends also on the chance encounters of your relations in the past, always choosing a mate that would eventually result in your birth. Imagine all the little things that could\u2019ve gone wrong; or, differently, I should say. It\u2019s an excruciatingly painful imagining thinking of the young dead, and all the hundreds of chance encounters their perseverance in life might have manifested. Alas, they did not, and you are not someone else. Perhaps you were fated.<\/p>\n

Perhaps I meet some of the best people, I thought to myself, considering my new hogar here at the Solis\u2019 homesteads. Gloria Solis, Teresa Solis and their children. Alejandro was my age, and Felipe 5 years my elder. They wore death metal black T-shirts and sported long thin chin beards. Their taste in music presented another irony that was difficult to miss. Not only were they all friendly vegetarians, but nowhere else had I experienced such hospitality on one\u2019s own accord. Gloria and Teresa had introduced me to their children, but each of them had in turn treated me as though it were they alone that were welcoming me into their family home, that they were not a third party but a principal one; indeed, that is how it should always be. It put me at ease.<\/p>\n

\"Felipe,<\/a>

Felipe, one of the best Chileans.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Working in Gloria\u2019s industrial kitchen offered a measure of tranquility as well. It was bare white, and the smell of baking served an olfactory benefice. Her helper was named Ida, a plump and smiling lady from a few parcels down road. One day we went to her home to visit and see the animals; turkey, sheep, dogs, hens and roosters, pigs, piglets suckling at the teats of momma, goats, cows and horses. Ida\u2019s daughters giggled at the gringo, I who was poking at the earth and watching the resistant sun dip below the nightline.<\/p>\n

\"Gloria<\/a>

Gloria and Ida.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Gloria's<\/a>

Gloria’s pastry kitchen in Puerto Montt.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"Her<\/a>

Her wood-burning stove.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Meals took place in the industrial kitchen, Gloria\u2019s house kitchen or Teresa\u2019s kitchen. Before me were set all manner of good things, from giant roasted garlics to cilantro tomatoes glistening in olive oil. We feasted on chicharron, steaming loaves of bread, blackberry marmalade, etcetera. But a visit to the city was short in the making.<\/p>\n

\"A<\/a>

A clove of giant garlic.<\/p><\/div>\n

The Solises had invited me to stay for Christmas, and had I accepted with the utmost of grace that I could muster. I would soon learn that Christmas day matters little in comparison with Christmas Eve. The eve began with a visit to Puerto Montt, the \u201cbig city.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the morning we loaded Gloria\u2019s small car-van with merchandise, and she and I drove into town. At the municipal market we unloaded everything and set it up inside. The place was packed filled with people making last minute sells and purchases before the big night. Gloria was selling her delicious pan de miel,or honey bread, and a large choice selection of baked goods. Over the air drifted the unmistakable scent of the sea, and I strolled through the mariscos vendors\u2019 booths, eyeing all sorts of fish, weeds and crustaceans.<\/p>\n

\"Chilean<\/a>

Chilean Christmas market where I helped Gloria sell pastries.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"The<\/a>

The adjoining Chile fish market.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Later I would leave for a few hours\u2019 work at the Petrobras, stealing their internet to post the last posts. On returning to the market, Gloria had packed up her things, and we loaded the van. Then it was off to the supermarket.<\/p>\n

\"A<\/a>

A pig’s leg for sale, gift-wrapped in a grocery store.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Christmas Eve crowds swirled like a storm through the aisles. We were no exception to the mass of bodies clawing at the last vestiges of produce and product. Nor were we an exception to the rule of shopping and women; something that I do not and never will fully understand. You, women, have shopping in your blood. From hippies to yuppies, there are some things our natural networking cannot omit. Men crave competition in one way or another, and women crave shopping. Maybe it\u2019s not shopping, but browsing. It doesn\u2019t matter; the important part is that we spent three hours in Jumbo Supermarket.<\/p>\n

Alejandro would later tell me it was a Bourgeois supermarket, and in retrospect it had Whole Foods-esque features. The ornamented displays, the low ceiling and wood framing all gave it away. Gloria kept remembering something back there. Alas, after a while of seeing the same things again and again, my mind began to wander:<\/p>\n