All Roads Lead to Austen: A Year-long Journey with Jane

by Amy Elizabeth Smith

  Seriously.

  I had fallen into a literary rabbit hole, with Austen readers popping out of every hedge. As the owner set about making me a coffee, the woman introduced herself as Cristina. Somewhere in her sixties with jet-black hair and a strikingly pale complexion, she had a refined way about her that reminded me of Leti in Ecuador.

  “You’re here doing a book group? I adore book groups!” She set Tomalin aside and invited me to sit beside her. “Of course it all depends on the people. Sometimes the conversations just turn into group therapy, and that’s a bore. And so many people can’t move past narrative when they talk about a novel. What fascinates me is language itself. My mother was French, and I do French-to-Spanish translations.”

  Perhaps I should introduce her to Nadine. Intrigued, I did the only reasonable thing—I invited her to join the group.

  “Mi amor, that would be wonderful! But I don’t have a copy of Emma.”

  She was not getting away. I promptly wrote down the address of the Librería Romano. “There’s a spare copy at this bookstore. You could go today and pick it up from Hugo, the clerk. Just tell him I sent you.”

  The owner swooped in, a look of distress on his face as he handed me my coffee. “You’re doing a book group at Romano’s? Well, I’m jealous! You could do it here, you know. This is a fine bookstore. Why not do it here, right, Cristina?” Cristina took a noncommittal sip of her coffee. He frowned, then turned his smile back on and continued, “Well, it’s just that Ernesto and I, we’ve got a bit of a…friendly competition going on.” Somehow, when he said the word “friendly,” he looked anything but. “There’s room here!”

  Employing tact can be difficult in one’s own language, let alone a second. As best as my Spanish allowed, I told him I appreciated his offer but didn’t want to offend anyone by making a change. While he’d been generous to invite me in for coffee, there was something about him I found a little shady. Whether to change my mind or to show me what I was missing by slighting his store, he then slipped into a private office and returned with some of his best treasures to show off, including a Virginia Woolf first edition.

  “These are a bit pricey, as you can imagine,” he said archly; pricier than you could afford, his look implied. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I’m pretty sure I saw Cristina roll her eyes ever so gently in his direction before smiling at me and turning her attention back to Austen.

  Too much backstory. Time to be going. I browsed the shelves and bought something (in my modest price range…) that looked interesting. Then I took my leave after exchanging contact information with Cristina and urging her to stop by Romano’s for the copy of Emma.

  “Of course I will, mi amor!”

  I’d repeatedly been warned that since it’s considered rude to decline invitations in Latin America, knowing when “yes” means “no” is tricky business. Nearly a year into my travels, I was still clueless at detecting the difference. But Cristina seemed like a very interesting woman, so I would just have to keep my fingers crossed.

  ***

  Back in Mexico when I had achieved Book Overload, Diego had taken me out for an evening of boxing to change things up. Probably the appropriate choice in Buenos Aires would be to watch a soccer match or take tango lessons. But I wanted to do something more Austenesque and, in particular, something inspired by lodging in a ritzy Emma neighborhood. Promenading around one afternoon, I spotted a small shop where a group of women were gathered around a table, chatting and doing embroidery.

  The attractive, middle-aged owner greeted me at the door. “You’re welcome to join us,” she smiled. “But if you’re a beginner, it’s best if you wait until my daughter is here. She’s the one who teaches the group.”

  Liking the ambiance of the shop, stocked full of attractive fabric and patterns, I paid for a lesson in advance, pocketed the receipt, and returned two days later. The women stitching at the table welcomed me graciously, introducing themselves and asking questions about California. “You’re welcome to see our work,” a grandmotherly woman seated to my left offered, “but I’d recommend you start with a simpler pattern.” She was embroidering a scene of the Virgin Mary and Jesus, while the woman on my right was stitching the name “María” into the center of a wreath of ivy. The others obligingly held up their projects—a farm scene with chickens and ducks, an overflowing fruit basket, and most attractive of all, an artistic spray of delicate flowers on silk done in tones of dark gold, chartreuse, and burnt orange.

  Needlework of all sorts figures into Austen’s novels since any woman of her day, regardless of class standing, would be expected to sew. A poor woman’s skills would run the gamut from making her family’s garments to creating whatever curtains, table linens, or bedclothes the family income could sustain. An “accomplished” woman of means would be expected to produce decorative work and keep her pretty hands from idleness—perhaps, like Lady Bertram from Mansfield Park, with “some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty.”

  Throughout her surviving letters Austen refers to this bonnet she’s retrimming or that gown she’s refurbishing. If you visit Chawton Cottage you can enjoy, among other things, seeing a delicate embroidered handkerchief worked by Austen’s own hand and an elaborate patchwork quilt she made with her mother and Cassandra. As striking a thought as it may be for fans today, it’s likely Austen spent at least as many hours a day sewing as she ever did writing—or more.

  I’d never hit that sort of balance, but I could at least dabble in the classically feminine world of the sewing circle. I bought a needle and fabric and, with the owner’s help, selected a simple pattern of violets in a basket while the others carried on without the teacher, who finally rushed in fifteen minutes late.

  “Darling, we’re going to have a new student today,” the owner said as her daughter swept past. “She’s a visitor from the United States.”

  “Some Yanki tourist?” the slender twentysomething said with undisguised annoyance, dropping her coat and scarf onto a chair without having turned to look at the group. “That’s just great, Mother. You’re kidding, right?

  “No, darling, I’m not kidding. She’s already here.” Her smile stretched uncomfortably at her daughter’s behavior. “And she speaks Spanish.”

  Bingo! One of the best things about learning another language is the opportunity to surprise people who don’t expect you to speak it. For as much as you hear about anti-Americanism in Latin America, I’d expected moments like this long before—but either people were very discreet or just not as interested in gringa-bashing as international gossip might lead you to believe. It’s probably the former, but I’m enough of a cockeyed optimist (i.e., American) to go for the latter.

  I decided to run with the situation, giving the cranky young teacher my biggest Dorky American Tourist smile while calling out, “Hola!” She still couldn’t manage to wipe the irritation off her face, despite the obvious prompting from her embarrassed mother, so I rubbed it in further, thrusting my hand cheerfully in the air and waving at her. Yes, that’s right. I sure am crass!

  The woman stitching Mary and Jesus gave me a reassuring pat on the arm, murmuring something about “young people,” and the rest of the ladies redoubled their efforts to be kind. When it became clear that the teacher intended to reward my aggressive Yanki friendliness by ignoring me, the ladies offered advice, and slowly my little basket of violets took shape.

  Despite a promising start, I began to make one mistake after another, and my violets wilted on the fabric. Stitchery and I, it seemed, were not cut out for each other. My sister Laurie has mastered pretty much every needle art despite flunking junior high home economics (more for mouthing off to the teacher than for lack of skill; hassling teachers runs in our family, even for those of us who turned out to be teachers). When Laurie settled down to married life at age eighteen, she not only learned to knit—she bought Angora rabbits, f
ed them from her own garden, taught herself how to spin, turned their fur into thread, and then knitted.

  Alas, talent with stitchery was clearly not genetic. I returned for another lesson, and Señorita Sourpuss was just as neglectful as ever. I smeared the violets around a bit more with my needle, then, after enjoying the progress of the other ladies’ fruit, religious figures, and chickens, I decided to finish the “lesson” and move on. I’d never rival Austen or any of her characters for needlework, even Lady Middleton, but I’d passed two pleasant hours gossiping and learning new porteño slang. Especially interesting was how the women used the phrase “qué bárbaro, qué baaarbaro!” every second or third sentence both to indicate “how wonderful!” and “how terrible!” A very flexible word.

  ***

  As it turned out, I needed to abandon more than the leisure of the embroidery circle. When I sat down and worked on my finances for the month, I realized I would have to renounce my ritzy apartment and downgrade.

  Well, if Austen’s Miss Bates could survive her slide from wealth into genteel poverty with good cheer, so could I.

  I paged through a city guide and settled on a hotel along the Avenida de Mayo, the broad artery that leads to the city’s central square, the Plaza de Mayo. Fortunately they had space for the rest of my visit, and when I finished out the week I’d prepaid in my current accommodations, I packed my retinue of fanciful animals and fabrics and bid au revoir to the staff.

  The new hotel wasn’t exactly “genteel poverty,” but it also wasn’t the style I’d become accustomed to. On Juncal I’d had a spacious bathroom, a dining area, a full kitchen, and a very attractive living room. Now I had a single room so narrow I could hardly drag my suitcases through the space between the bed and wall. Since I’d been thrilled to find anything in the city center in July, I’d failed to notice how the wallpaper was peeling and the exposed floorboards in front of the bathroom swayed underfoot like the deck of ship. The shower curtain was too short, which led to a soaked floor with each shower. An odor of sewage, which I’d also failed to notice when I’d agreed on the room, permeated everything.

  As self-pity swept over me, I felt an accompanying wave of belated travel panic. What had I been thinking, blowing my money on that expensive apartment? Why hadn’t I searched out some middle ground? There wasn’t even room in this new place to display my llamas! What was I even doing there? And what if nobody showed up for the group, after my hanging around for weeks, spending money? Hugo el tirano might just throw me out of the bookstore anyway the next time I showed up, if he decided he didn’t like Emma.

  Arrrrghh!

  Maudlin, I fled the room and boomeranged back to my old neighborhood for a Marianne-style wallow. Ah, the streets where I’d lived! Eventually I wandered into a church, one of the most gorgeous I’d seen in all of my travels, a spot I had already visited several times. I sat quietly, absorbing the tranquility of the surroundings. Finally, having calmed down somewhat, I headed for the door, pausing to gaze at an ornate statue of the Virgin Mary with offerings of rosaries draped over her, a painted label at her feet: “Yo soy la protectora de los desamparados”—I am the protector of the helpless.

  Descending the staircase, I walked past a teenage girl sitting with a baby. She raised a hand toward me. Still wrapped up in my own problems, I continued for half a block then jerked myself to a halt in the center of the sidewalk.

  I’d done plenty of work with nonprofits in the United States, and employees at shelters advise not to give money to people on the street; you’re most likely fueling an addiction. But this wasn’t California with its numerous soup kitchens. Who knows what kind of safety nets there were in Argentina? I headed back and handed the girl enough money to eat for the day while well-dressed locals leaving the church passed her by without a glance. Maybe they had compassion burnout. Maybe they’d given her money on the way in. Maybe they wrote a big check to a shelter every month. Or maybe not. ¿Quién sabe? Who knew?

  My mother was raised Catholic; my father converted when he was in the Air Force. Visiting the Vatican was a powerful moment for him, a moving renewal of his adopted faith. As for my mother—she unexpectedly found herself shocked at the sight of such outrageous wealth. “Don’t tell your father I said this,” she confessed later, “but I kept thinking about how many people they could feed if they’d just sell off a few treasures.”

  Indeed. I’d had that same schizophrenia since the moment I’d set foot in Latin America, given the contrast between the striking loveliness of historic churches and the often desperate poverty of the general population. On the one hand, most churches were open long hours, and people could visit and feel ownership in the beautiful communal space, rich with memories of baptisms, weddings, and funerals. On the other hand, each elaborate statue or ornate cross could be translated into a scholarship fund for parishioners’ kids, couldn’t it? And shouldn’t God be there, crosses or no crosses, statues or no statues, if there was a god?

  I had no answers, especially not that day.

  One of the most subtle, insightful moments in Emma happens after she and Harriet have delivered aid to some needy villagers. “These are the sights, Harriet, to do one good,” Emma says as they leave the miserable abode. “How trifling they make everything else appear!—I feel now as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures all the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon it may all vanish from my mind?”

  A wise woman, Emma, however foolishly she behaved at times. She knew that even her acts of charity were self-serving—how helping others allowed her to help herself, how the sight of their misery intensified the glow of her own good fortune. In her heart she knew that the pain she felt for the suffering of others would fade the closer she moved back toward her own circle, her own people.

  And what about my circle, my people? I’d been so far from them for so long. I traversed several blocks before I found a cybercafé with both computers and phone cabins. First, I wrote to Diego, telling him how much I missed him, despite feeling conflicted with guilt over my growing interest in Hugo el tirano. I told Diego how cold it was, just so he wouldn’t feel too badly about not being there. More than half a year back, in what now seemed like another world, he’d told me, “I’m glad you don’t live in Pennsylvania anymore. I’m not cut out for cold weather. Not even for a visit. I need the sun!”

  Then I called my mother. I was feeling dangerously needy but was saved from having her detect that in my voice (and cycle into concern for me) by the fact that she’d been watching golf, which always sent her into a happy monologue. “Angel Cabrera is Argentinean, you know. Have you talked with people about Angel Cabrera? He won the U.S. open. I think he’s the first Argentinean to win it. I don’t like it when anybody beats Tiger, of course, but this Angel seems like a gentleman. Very handsome, too. But not as handsome as Tiger.”

  My reserved, extremely modest mother had, after my father’s death, developed a sort of schoolgirl crush on Tiger Woods (before The Fall). A woman who never cared about sporting events aside from sacred Steelers games, she’d begun spending hours in front of the TV learning shot types and club preferences.

  If that made her happy, so be it. Hearing her voice, birdies and bogeys and all, made me happy.

  I returned to the new room determined to count my blessings and focus on the positives: the great central location and, best of all, the balcony. Stepping outside, I surveyed the crowded Avenida de Mayo below, then gazed up at the sky. I’d made it home in good time since it clearly was about to rain.

  As the sky opened up I realized, suddenly, that it wasn’t rain falling at all. It was snow. Snow in Buenos Aires. I was under the impression that it didn’t snow here, although the day certainly felt cold enough for it. As the thick, wet flakes fell faster, people on the sidewalk two stories below began to exclaim in surprise.

  I went to the phone and called reception. The woman was laughi
ng as she picked up the receiver.

  “Does it usually snow here?” I asked.

  “It never snows here!” Reception had a view of the glass double-doors facing the street, so I knew she realized my question wasn’t hypothetical.

  When I stepped back out, the couple with the adjoining balcony were outside embracing, gazing up at the whitening sky. They turned as they heard me appear and greeted me with delight in their voices.

  “It’s just so beautiful!” the woman said, stretching out both hands to catch flakes. “I’ve never seen snow!”

  On the streets below, happy chaos was erupting. The usual hectic pace of traffic slowed as people grappled with the strange new weather condition. The shops and cafés emptied, the sidewalks suddenly full of adults-turned-children, running, laughing, and trying to scrape together snowballs. For a native Pennsylvanian, it wasn’t much of a snow—too wet for effective snow warfare, too thin for a serious accumulation. But this wasn’t Pennsylvania.

  In 1918, Rudyard Kipling was reading Jane Austen novels aloud to his family to ease the pain of the Great War. In 1918, the first scholarly edition of Austen’s novels by Oxford’s press was still five years in the future. Virginia Woolf was eleven years shy of publishing her famous description of Austen in A Room of One’s Own. Austen herself had been dead for 101 years; Mr. Patrick Dudgeon was four. And it snowed in Buenos Aires.

  That, according to the evening news, was the last time it had.

  Yes, I had a wet shower floor. My room smelled sewage-y. The slits and gouges in the wallpaper formed themselves into creepy patterns if you looked at them long enough. And yes, people would go hungry or homeless (or both) that night, and I couldn’t do a damned thing about it. All this was undeniable.