A glorious day in Pelluco, and a fine view from the window of Teresita's dining room: yellow azaleas at the wall of her house, a gallery of rhododendrons and a snowball tree (copas de nieve), a whole park full of trees reaching down to the coastal road, the towers are apartment buildings in Pelluco, and the cityscape in the far distance is Puerto Montt. Tere served us a quiche-like spinach pancake cut into appetizer sections (spinach from her own invernadero. She also served a delicious ceviche made with salmon and vegetables, with her muy especiale mixed berry compote for dessert.
When she visited us in Bellingham this past summer, Tere had a good time washing, chopping, and cooking vegetables from our garden and greenhouse (invernadero) in between sessions of practicing her English.
Now, we do our best to converse in Español with our elegant hostess.
She would love to have us move in with her right now, but we'll wait till January when one of her two rentals will become available. In the meantime, we're staying at the Hostal de Los Navegantes, across the road from the marina, where we have a room with private bath, breakfast served downstairs, wifi, and a very nice fire in the stove on days like today, when the spring storms roll in one after the other and the rain showers alternate with hail showers outside. I like the warmth and openness of the upstairs lounge, here, where I have the big table all to myself for writing and reading. Don Pedro, the owner here, has an apartment in town he is almost ready to rent to us. Not as high-toned a neighborhood as we had last year, and not as close to Centro, either, but we'll get to learn a whole new set of buses and collectivos, as well as a different group of vecinos. The apartment we had last year is available once again, but there has been a 25% hike in the rent. Don Pedro's place, with all utilities included, rents for what we paid last year. Is it a 25% less attractive spot? I guess it all evens out. Maybe we can move in by Tuesday. He's been retiling the bathroom, repainting, etc. He's told us if there's anything missing as far as furniture or dishes, all we need to do is let him know and he will provide.
Richard is off in Puerto Varas today for lunch with the ROMEOs. Did I tell you about them last year? An adjunct to the ladies' English-Speaking Book Club, the Retired Old Men Eating Out might bring Richard into contact with someone who will know someone who will want to buy the boat. If nothing else, he'll have a fine time talking economics, politics and etc with men from Oregon, Scotland, New York, and I don't know where all else.
I attended the ladies' book club meeting this past Tuesday, tho it had been transformed into a baby shower for the newest member, due to give birth next week. I brought the books they'd requested from the States: The Hundred Year Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window & Disappeared, by Jonas Jonasson; and The Hundred-Foot Journey by Richard C. Morais. I also brought two copies of The Women, by TC Boyle, even tho I hadn't read it yet myself. Now that I've almost finished that one, I'll prepare a recommendation of it for the club. The novel is about Frank Lloyd Wright's various wives and mistresses from the point of view of a Japanese architectural apprentice who lives and studies with Wright for nine years in the Thirties. "The stress and challenge of living with a genius ..."
Before I leave you, let me add this little story:
Soon after Richard and I got home to Bellingham this past spring, I met my friend,
Dianne M, downtown for a pleasant reunion over Mayan Coffees at the Adaggio
Café. In answer to one of her probing questions, I babbled about the ardent
wave of love for my home I’d felt on re-entering my front door, stepping back
into my own living room after having been away in Chile for almost six
months. The warm colors and cozy
textures, shelves full of books, art on the walls, the carpet, the couch, the
lamps and rocking chairs … all so
comfortingly familiar! I hadn’t missed any of these things consciously, and that
rush of happiness at being back amidst these objects and articles surprised
me.
Dianne had been rereading The Wind in the Willows, probably preparing to share it with her
grand-daughter one day soon. Surprised that I’d never read it, she told me that “The warm sense of home” is
beautifully drawn in this storybook.
Curiousity about what that is, that sense of home, and respect for my
friend’s recommendation, soon led me to a delightful read. And The Wind in the Willows brought me another sweet wave
of surprise: Mr. Rat, Mr. Badger, Mr.
Mole and Mr. Toad deliver in their very different ways the spirit of deep
satisfaction they enjoy in their homes.
But it was the migratory birds that best described my own feelings of
connection with home! You can read the
whole story on line at www.gutenberg.org
… but here’s a bit from Chapter 9 to show you what I mean.
Mr. Rat is feeling restless towards the end of summer. He notices there are fewer and fewer birds in
the neighborhood. While walking his
usual rounds one day, he spies three sparrows, talking together and “fidgeting
restlessly on their bough.”
“'What, ALREADY,' said the Rat, strolling up to them.
'What's the hurry? I call it simply ridiculous.'
“'O, we're not off yet, if that's what you mean,' replied
the first swallow. 'We're only making plans and arranging things. Talking it
over, you know—what route we're taking this year, and where we'll stop, and so
on. That's half the fun!'
“'Fun?' said the Rat; 'now that's just what I don't
understand. If you've GOT to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who
will miss you, and your snug homes that you've just settled into, why, when the
hour strikes I've no doubt you'll go bravely, and face all the trouble and
discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you're not very
unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really
need——'
“'No, you don't understand, naturally,' said the second
swallow. 'First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come
the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our
dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We
hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it
was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of
long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.' …
“'Ah, yes, the call of the South!' twittered the other two
dreamily. 'Its songs its hues, its radiant air!’ and, forgetting the Rat, they
slid into passionate reminiscence …
“'Why do you ever come back, then, at all?' he demanded of
the swallows jealously. 'What do you find to attract you in this poor drab
little country?'
“'And do you think,' said the first swallow, 'that the other
call is not for us too, in its due season? The call of lush meadow-grass, wet
orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all
the farm-buildings clustering round the House of the perfect Eaves?'
“'Do you suppose,' asked the second one, that you are the
only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo's note
again?'
“'In due
time,' said the third, 'we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies
swaying on the surface of an English stream. But to-day all that seems pale and
thin and very far away. Just now our blood dances to other music.'”
Now, ain't that a fine depiction of the migratory spirit!
May all your homes be blessed with the wheelings and circlings of sweet memories.
