An experience south of the Equator

Waking up and thinking it was summer, I turned to the windowsill and saw the snow-covered… Waking up and thinking it was summer, I turned to the windowsill and saw the snow-covered Andes, which sent a chill crawling up my spine. I rolled out of the bed topped with four wool blankets, walked to my door, and opened it to my 58-year-old host mother who said, with bright eyes, “Buenos dias, Ashley!” I smiled and answered, “Si!”

The first few weeks, I still woke up in shock. I had been accepted into a program to travel to Chile through the Center of Latin American Studies with a group of 14 undergraduate students, one graduate student and a professor. I was conducting independent research on Augusto Pinochet and his dictatorship’s influence on visual arts. I still was confused as to where “las micros” (the buses) stopped and how to ask for food to go.

“Para llevar…para llevar….,” I said, as the lady behind the counter at the bakery smiled with sympathy and put my fresh roll in a paper bag. It was the accent.

The Andes lined the windowsill, tips of mountains peaking into my blurry, morning view. The Pacific Ocean was a 15-minute walk from my front door in Vina del Mar. Within weeks, the Spanish language wasn’t just a bunch of words, but a form of expression and living.

From Chile, I ventured with five other “companeras” to Buenos Aires, the land of the best beef, the friendliest taxi drivers and the most colorful streets, where vibrant tango dancers twirled in unison. The state of the economy was supposed to frighten us away, yet we ventured on, continuing to roll our R’s and eat dinner at 1 a.m., as the Argentinians did.

Dancers in Buenos Aires hold each other close. “Me llamo Ashley” sounds like “Me jamo Asjjley.” I could walk around the town and, by paying ten dollars for a leather skirt, make a merchant’s day. It was one of the most beautiful and friendly cities I had ever visited.

From Argentina, I went north “sola.” Three hours from Monterey, Ca., I planted my feet in Torreon, Mexico, the land of the watchtower. In the city with an approximate population of one million people, the corners were covered with Baskin-Robbins and Pizza Hut chains. There were more North American investments than I had seen all summer long. I spoke with Mexicans and found them to be friendly and warm, yet they spoke English, too. I was getting angry. How come everyone was speaking English?

Many stated that their relatives now reside in Texas, Chicago and even Canada. The borders are all blending together, and, soon, it won’t feel so foreign to go or to come back. And hearing Spanish won’t make me turn my head, but hearing mariachi music or dancing the tango will transport me back to those summer days.

Oh, those summer days.