Jorge

"The first thing you can say about Chileans is that we are friendly and hospitable; at the first hint we throw open our arms and the doors of our homes. I've often heard foreigners say that if they ask directions, the people they approach accompany them personally, and if they seem to be lost, their informant is capable of inviting them home for dinner, even offering a bed if they're in difficulty." (From "My Invented Country" by Isabel Allende)

There is much to say of Sweeting's roommate Jorge, but I suppose it is really all best summarized by the first two hours I was in his apartment. I already spoke of my traveling woes - the lost luggage and the summer clothes in winter weather and the forced Spanish use so early on. I showed up at Sweeting and Jorge's apartment a little - a lot - battle weary. I arrived just in time for Sweeting to let me in and then duck out for one of his evening classes, leaving me shivering under the covers and fretting about my suitcase loss with a promise he'd be back in a few hours and things would be better. One hour gone: cold... no call from the airline... not getting out of bed... might as well nap. Hour two: Why won't they call? Why can't I call out of Sweeting's stupid phone? My whole vacation is going to be ruined! Hour two and three quarters: The phone rings. THE PHONE RINGS!!! Hello? Spanish. Lots of fast phone Spanish. In a panic I manage a "espere senora, por favor!! espere!" and run out to the common room in a frenzy, throwing the phone to the still unfamiliar Jorge telling him to figure this out for me!

Sweet Jorge. He patiently, calmly, cooperatively converses with his countrymen on the phone. Confirming to me nonverbally with intermittent eyebrow raises and head nods that my luggage is en route while giving verbal directions to the airline. He handles everything and that moment made every single worry wrinkle that I will be cursing myself for in 20 years to subside. I sink into the dining room chair next to Jorge's work station, pick out two cigarettes from his carton on the table, and light them simultaneously before handing him one and exhaling out a weighty mixture of stress and smoke.

Sorry to disturb your peace and quiet, Jorge, I say in Spanish. Although very willing to help, he seemed a little tentative about the sudden intrusion into what was clearly HIS space. HIS dining room table turned office desk. HIS cigarettes. HIS tranquilo. I'm taking this all in when I also realize that the Beatles are playing softly in the background. And there is a bunch of photography equipment strewn about. And there are about 15 huge pieces of funky artwork hanging around on the walls. And a Spanish-English dictionary on the shelf. And so I start asking him about everything... and the discomfort melts into engaging conversation. About his fiancee and his artwork and how the flatware on one of the canvasses represents that he needs her like he needs food. About his photography and how people have to eat spinach like Popeye in order to get strong and how he thinks that Sweeting has done quite well for himself in Chile. About the funny English/Spanish translation mistakes like "embarazada" being used by gringas to express embarrassment but actually means pregnant and the importance of differentiating between "relaciones" and "MIS relaciones."

Another hour passed before Brian got back from class, and it was obvious he was happy to see I had clearly settled right in and made myself at home. And for the two weeks I was there, it was a lot of Brian at work and Jorge and I at the table chatting. To revisit the original quote, it was two weeks of Jorge throwing open his arms and his door at the first hint of my arrival. Giving me directions. Making me dinner. Always glad to discuss Beatles or post-Beatles songbooks. Being patient with my fear of the gas heating system. Teaching me about Spanish and about Chile. Teaching me that I was in his world... and was welcome in it.