But I also promised myself that next year—I’ll be home for Christmas.
***
New Year’s rolled past in a noisy orgy of fireworks screaming off from practically every house and street corner, giving Guayaquil, from the vantage point of my windows, the aspect of a city once more under siege by pirates. Shortly thereafter I met with the final group. The women of Lady Catherine proved infinitely more pleasant than their namesake, although our meeting place did qualify as the Rosings Park of tennis clubs. Located in an upscale development on the edges of greater Guayaquil, this was clearly where the moneyed Ecuadorians came to play. The central gym was designed in the shape of a sailing ship, complementing the riverside location, and the other buildings conveyed a similar sense of movement and modernity.
Carmen introduced me to the other five women, whose names I promptly forgot. I’d met the Mrs. Gardiner group members more or less one at a time, but five women’s names at a stroke short-circuited my memory. Only one name stuck with me—because Silvina had brought a large tray of tempting holiday sweets. I mentally dubbed the ones who hadn’t come bearing food as Tall, Youngest, Very Nice Necklace, and Short, hoping their names would resurface in conversation so I could avoid having to ask.
“Ignacio José is supposed to join us,” Carmen said after ordering a soft drink from a hovering waiter, “but I’m not optimistic.”
And I wasn’t optimistic about seeing my twenty bucks again, either. Betsy had recently given me the scoop on him. I’d managed to squeeze in one short but very pleasant visit with her and her grandchildren at the beach house, largely spent chasing sand crabs on the shore, enjoying long meals with the family, and reading. Betsy had learned through the telephone extension of the Guayaquil grapevine that Ignacio José was offering a colorful explanation for the missed Pemberley visit. The stairwell entrance of his basement apartment, he claimed, had been blocked by careless construction workers dumping immense piles of concrete—he’d been trapped for two and a half days, forced to survive on canned goods and artistic inspiration. “But he probably just got locked in by his landlord for not paying his rent,” Betsy had concluded. Both options were eyebrow-raisers for me.
With Ignacio José and his guidance both AWOL, our poolside conversation ambled from Austen film adaptations to El Pintor de Batallas and other random topics and back again. Youngest was the only one who’d actually brought her copy of Pérez-Reverte’s novel, and Short leaned over to me and said in a stage whisper, “If she were one of your students, she’d have straight A’s every time!” I kept hoping names would surface, but no such luck.
“We’re typically better organized than this,” Very Nice Necklace explained apologetically after a long sidetrack into family gossip. She was the oldest of the group, approaching seventy, flawlessly coiffed, and poised yet warm and pleasant. “We really can stick to one topic at a time!”
“The holidays have gone to our heads,” Tall agreed as she passed Silvina’s sweets over to Short. “We need Ignacio José to keep us honest.”
We chatted for a while about California, my travels, the holidays, and Silvina’s outrageously good sweets, each member urging the others to take the last of them home. As the sun finally set spectacularly over the water, Very Nice Necklace offered to drive me back—or, more precisely, offered for her driver to drop me off on her way home.
“Oh, thanks, Chela!” Carmen said, suddenly saving me the embarrassment of asking her name so late in the conversation.
“I hope you’re not disappointed in us,” Chela said as we settled into the backseat of her enormous SUV. “Conversation is harder to maintain during the holidays, but this really is a good group.”
As I insisted that I wasn’t disappointed at all, I realized, silently, that I kind of was. But not with the group. It was clear they were intelligent women whose lack of focus was a combination of hooky-playing holiday spirit and losing Ignacio José’s guiding hand. Without him, Mrs. Gardiner might well have devolved into a melee between the We Heart Darcy women and the Beat Darcy With Sticks men. I was disappointed, however, not to have gotten Lady Catherine’s perspective on Austen. But the first group had gone so well that I simply had to consider this pleasant conversation (plus holiday snacks) as a bonus.
Chela leaned forward to explain something to her driver then turned back to me. “Our group’s been going on for more than twenty-five years now, although not with all of the same members, of course. But I’ve been here since the beginning.”
“Have you read any of Alicia Yánez Cossío’s novels?”
“Several, yes. Sé Que Vienen a Matarme, that novel will stay with you. For our twenty-fifth anniversary celebration we invited her down from Quito. She’s an incredible woman, simply incredible.” She gazed out the window for a moment then turned to me with a smile full of memories. “This group has been important for me, really important for me, over all these years. If you don’t fight for space in your life for art and conversation, so much will pass you by—for anybody, but especially for women, since we’re always taking care of others. My life is richer because of this group.” She patted my hand with a wry smile. “That sounds sentimental, but it’s true.”
Chela’s heartfelt observations stuck with me long after she’d dropped me off. What she shared made me realize how much I’d allowed myself to silently make comparisons between the lives of the Lady Catherine group and those of the teachers in Antigua and my friends in Mexico. I knew what Nora had been up against trying to find time away from the throng living with her, struggling for privacy, and I’d assumed that Lady Catherine—and the ladies of Mrs. Gardiner—had it easy.
And here I was, being a reverse snob. You’d think an Austen lover would be a bit more careful about making assumptions, about giving in to first impressions. But alas, no. Chela’s comments made me think twice about the pressure of a woman’s role, independent of her finances. Going off in a corner with a book is, on a basic level, a selfish act. It was something Chela had found herself forced to defend, financial comfort notwithstanding.
Thank god for feisty women, rich or poor. Thank god for anyone who’ll fight for the right to sit down with a good book—and then, the right to sit down with some good friends and that good book.
***
My last day in Guayaquil dawned hot. The furnishings that made my temporary home more homey returned to my suitcases—the purple fish blanket, the owl statue, the stuffed chihuahua. Joining them were quite a few more books and some beautiful fabric runners from the indigenous artisans’ market. I emailed Diego to let him know that I was about to hit the road again. He’d been shocked when I’d told him about the dengue, blaming himself for not recognizing what had befallen me. “If doctors couldn’t identify the problem,” I insisted, “why blame yourself?” He promised to protect me from any and all mosquitoes when I finally returned to him.
Would I return to him? I missed him terribly; that I knew. Walking Guayaquil’s Malecón, I was always aware of his absence, aware of how, lovely as it was, the Guayas still just wasn’t the sea at Puerto Vallarta. I’d spent plenty of time alone when Diego was working, but I’d always felt his presence. I knew that each evening he’d come through the door laughing, asking for a beer, sharing amusing stories about that day’s fares in his cab. Could that be my life, what I’d left behind in Mexico? If my biggest complaint was “Gee, he’s too cheerful,” was I an idiot to hesitate?
But it wasn’t just about us; it was about geography, too—and that was something, for the moment, beyond my control.
I spoke briefly with my mother, as well. She urged me to keep coated with bug spray, to avoid perfume (“and strong deodorant—that’s like perfume, too”), and to call when I made it to Chile.
Betsy was back from the beach at last, and for our good-bye lunch before my airport run we chose a Polynesian restaurant facing the Malecón, with surfboards for tables. The enti
re soundtrack of Pulp Fiction played as we ate and chatted.
“This visit must not have gone as well as you’d hoped,” she said with a rueful smile. “But I’m so glad Emilia’s doctor helped you!”
“I was sorry not to spend more time with you at the beach and also, that I missed Quito,” I admitted. “But even with the dengue problems, I had a good time here.” It was true. I’d become familiar with a fascinating, if somewhat rough, city, and I’d read unforgettable Ecuadorian literature. I’d visited museums and spent quiet hours contemplating the broad Guayas river from the Malecón. I’d been disappointed once more in my search for Nancy Drew in Spanish, but hey, I’d cracked the secret on bookstores being organized by publisher. Best of all, I’d enjoyed my visit with Lady Catherine and treasured the Austen discussion with Mrs. Gardiner. We’d even fit in a very pleasant dinner reunion at Oscar’s house, minus the still-missing Ignacio José (“I don’t understand how he could resist free food!” Leti had laughed). My twenty bucks were history—but it would have been nice to have seen that charming, artistic rogue one more time.
“Even though I couldn’t be in your book groups,” Betsy said, “it’s been wonderful for me to talk with you about your traveling Austen project. Reading is such an important part of life!”
She asked me how the Guayaquil groups had gone in comparison to the ones I’d already done. I hesitated over how to articulate the differences without sounding critical. Unlike the pickup groups I’d created in Guatemala and Mexico, Mrs. Gardiner had years running as a forum for discussion. They’d become a communal repository of wisdom on dozens of novels, and it was fascinating to see what literary connections Austen evoked for them.
But perhaps because of how well read Leti, Yolanda, Oscar, Fernanda, Meli, and Ignacio José were, Austen had been more of a special event for the groups in Guatemala and Mexico. With less time to read, less formal education, and less exposure to a range of authors, Nora and the ladies in Guatemala and Diego and his friends in Mexico seemed much more taken with the novel we’d shared. The Ecuador readers had enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, but with less fervor, somehow. Our conversation, rich and rewarding, was more like one I could have had with fellow professors where I teach.
Nora and the ladies had identified with the book on a more personal level, making a smoother transition from Austen’s world to their own. It’s typically considered a mark of literary sophistication to move beyond seeing your own life reflected in a book, and I suppose that’s true, to an extent. But it depends, on the one hand, on the book. Austen creates a world that is simultaneously fact and fiction, one that taps directly into the core problems that confront us as we navigate life and relationships, a world that invites us to make moral self-assessments. On the other hand, the capacity to move beyond seeing your life in a book also depends on your life. The conversation with Chela from the Lady Catherine group was a healthy reminder that, rich or poor, we all have our troubles. But it isn’t surprising that the theme of prejudice hit home in Guatemala for women who feel the consequences of discrimination more directly in terms of gender, race, and social class.
There had been one amusing point of entry into Austenland for the Guayaquil readers, however, one subject that really got them going on a personal rather than an intellectual level. Darcy. It was fun to watch the men so willing to give him a good thrashing and the women so eager to bustle in and protect him. With Darcy, they’d all crossed that line from discussing characters within a fictional setting to imagining how they’d interact with them.
But Ignacio José, Leti, and Fernanda were firm about Austen’s world having existed in a particular place and time. For them, her characters couldn’t step out of the pages of Pride and Prejudice and onto the streets of Guayaquil. Smart, careful readers with a broad field of comparison at their disposal, they were able to recognize what’s distinctive about Austen. But I was happy with Oscar’s compromise. Sure, Austen’s characters occupy very specific territory in Regency, pre-Victorian England—but human beings are human beings, and our basic motivations and the challenges we face don’t change drastically from one culture or one period to another. Austen’s characters seek love and approval and struggle with pride and jealousy, as do we all.
I decided to take Oscar’s contribution as an omen that I would have a great discussion with his fellow Chileans on the next go-around with Sense and Sensibility. If Chileans really are “the English of Latin America,” maybe they’d have a special affinity for Austen? And if smart, contentious, and colorful Leti was any indication, I was going to have a blast in Argentina, further down the road.
Santiago, my next stop, was calling. Betsy and I finished up our Maui burgers, and she helped me haul my grotesquely overweight suitcases into a taxi, sending me off with hugs and warm wishes. “You’ve got to take care of yourself!” she urged. “Emilia and I won’t be around to help, you know.”
I felt a pang at the thought. However little time we’d gotten to share, Betsy had brought sunshine to a cloudy month. I looked forward to exploring a new country, but I was once more jumping off from the familiar and heading to a place where I didn’t know a soul.
Then again, I hadn’t known Betsy, Lady Catherine, or Mrs. Gardiner when I’d arrived in Guayaquil a month earlier.
In which the author reports for duty at a Chilean university, discovers Used Book Heaven and buys still more books, hangs out with a rooster then flees the police, tries to talk a student out of hitchhiking from Chile to Denver, and, after being asked out by a strange variety of married men, reads Sense and Sensibility with quirky, insightful Chilean poets (and one bright, bubbly historian).
Chapter Ten
It’s got the world’s driest desert in the north, ice and penguins in the south—and Chile is more than ten times longer than it is wide.
Sounds very exotic. But I was amazed on the long ride to Santiago from the airport by just how much the landscape reminded me of California’s Central Valley. Flat and dry, the wide expanses on either side of the highway were dotted with sparse, scrubby growth. Santiago, Chile’s capital, is in the valle central of Chile, famous for its wines. California’s Central Valley is also wine country. On a clear day, if you climb a levee, you can see the foothills of the Sierra Nevada to the east and the Coastal Range to the west. Santiago proper isn’t quite so flat; my new neighborhood hugged the base of one of its largest hills, Cerro (or “Hill”) San Cristobal.
On a clear day, without climbing a thing, the striking snowcaps you see belong to the Andes.
The apartment complex where I’d be living straddled the line between two Santiago neighborhoods: Providencia, a pleasant residential/commercial center, and Bella Vista, the funky, lively party center of the city and location of La Chascona, one of the houses of fabled Chilean poet Pablo Neruda. I was close to bars and restaurants if I were interested but far enough away that the clubs didn’t disgorge noisy drunks under my windows at 3:00 a.m. (so, no faux roosters in Santiago, like in Guayaquil). The Río Mapocho flowed by two blocks away, its banks the site of an attractive, well-stocked farmer’s market. My mother could eat Chilean fruit in January in nippy Pennsylvania, but now I could get it (and a sunburn)—walking distance.
As I’d done in Ecuador, I promptly decorated my new apartment with the purple blanket, the big-eyed owl, and the stuffed Chihuahua from Diego, along with some brightly colored, woven fabric runners from an artisans’ market in Guayaquil. I’d coughed up $100 extra for my overweight baggage on the flight out; not a single book, bright blanket, or big-eyed owl was getting left behind. At the rate I was going, by the time I hit Argentina I’d be able to take an unfurnished hotel room.
The doormen where I lived were a friendly crew, and the day I arrived, I chatted a good hour with Demetrio the Spaniard, Emilio, and Don Alberto. The complex, with a large central courtyard, was composed of three buildings accessed by a gate, beside which stood the doormen’s office. At l
east two were there at any given time, talking together or reading.
“Don” wasn’t Alberto’s first name; it was the title conferred on him as senior doorman. In his mid-sixties, he and Emilio, a strikingly handsome man in his thirties, were Santiago natives. Slender Demetrio the Spaniard, the youngest, had come to Santiago to study. With Don Alberto and Emilio, I found the “Chileans are cold” stereotype wasn’t holding true but another one was: Chileans speak the most difficult version of Spanish in South America. Even more than Guayaquileños, they drop word endings, mash syllables together, and speak quickly. Kind of the Pittsburghers of the continent, which I found heartwarming—but challenging.
Demetrio the Spaniard, easiest to understand, was also a gold mine; he knew where to find every bookstore, flea market, and weekend book fair.
“You’re in luck!” he cried, when I explained my traveling Austen project and desire to learn about Chilean literature. “There’s a sale tomorrow outside the Providencia municipal building.”
Pursuing books would be just the thing to stave off an attack of new-place-travel-panic, even if I wouldn’t be able to show them off proudly to Diego at the end of the day.
The next morning I set off with the map Demetrio had drawn. I am such a book hound that I actually dream about flea markets and thrift stores. My sleeping brain creates dusty, crowded places where, in the midst of old clothing and bric-a-brac, I suddenly discover Nancy Drew mysteries from the 1930s that I never knew existed, despite already owning a complete set. Or I pull leather-bound Dickens novels for a dime apiece from under a stack of warped LPs. Or I stumble over a box marked “Free!” that’s stuffed with hardback bodice rippers from the 1920s with titles like Daughters of Luxury or The Barbarian Lover. I’ve never had the nerve to ask any of my book-loving friends if they have these nerdy dreams, too.
I hit the feria de libros—the book fair—on a mission, since I’d gotten my first reading recommendation before setting foot on Chilean soil. Austen had reminded Oscar from the Ecuador group of Alberto Blest Gana, and finding a copy of his Martín Rivas proved easy. My bags grew heavier and heavier with treasures I couldn’t live without before I remembered the distance I had to haul them back to my apartment. I was still recovering from dengue and not up to full strength, plus taxis were trickier to catch and more expensive in Santiago—no economical tuk-tuks available, like in Antigua.
All Roads Lead to Austen Page 16
