From the Air, Landfall.

Touchdown in Santiago, Chile... well just outside Santiago, Chile. I found the ground safely and am here in Chile, and am an ignorant, arrogant American who doesn't even know the language. I can now come close to feeling what immigrants to the US must feel. The first thing: pay the reciprocity tax. One hundred and thirty-one dollars to enter the country, because all Chilean citizens must pay to enter the US. Next: immigration. And as I stand in line, watching each student take their turn, my supreme lack of knowledge of the Spanish language becomes brutally apparent. Grades in classes no longer matter, because I cannot think of a single Spanish word. Then the front of the line confronts me; then I am called forward. The man behind the glass looks at me, my brown-blond hair, my hazel eyes, my foreign shirt in a foreign language, my hesitant, pleading smile... and he does not smile. Machine gun fire flies from his lips and I can't understand a single word. "I'm sorry... I mean, lo siento, um... que?" He shakes his head, rubs his eyes, mutters a string of what surely must be curses, and interspersed i can catch the occasional "americanos." "Pasaporte," he says, finally. Passport, right. I fumble, and search, and pull it from my pocket with shaking, sweating hands. Passport. Of course. Then he asks for the form they ran out of on the plane, the form that you must fill out and give to Immigration--the form I didn't realize existed, because they ran out while handing them to the passengers in first class, in business class, and on the other side of economy class. Right, that form. The man puts his head in his hands. More muttering, and he gives me a sheet of paper to fill out. I fill it out. "Vuelo?" Vuelo? "Um... que?" He rubs his temples. "Flight number," in heavily accented english. Right, flight number. I have no idea. I search my pocket; my boarding pass isn't there. I see the others passing through immigration and disappearing around the corner, and I can't find my boarding pass. Deep breath. It's in my backpack. Yes, there it is. "Nueve, Cuatro, Cinco." He fills out my passport number, gives me a copy of the sheet and my passport. I'm alone. The others have all gone. Okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. Every step takes me farther away from any place I know, and I'm okay. I turn the corner. I'm okay. I walk down a crowded hall. I'm okay. Rapid, ping-pong banter all around me. I'm okay. Fewer stares than I'd imagined, or maybe I just am missing them. I'm okay.
There, they are, at baggage claim, picking up their suitcases. There are my suitcases. I'm okay.
Familiar English conversation. And laughter is universal. I am safe, with faces I recognize and people I know and words that my barely functioning brain can understand. Deep breath. Calm. I'm okay.

And we're walking, and I am comfortably following, but not trailing, not falling behind, and Baggage claim looms. And there is a sign that says no fruits or vegetables, or turtles. Turtles? I'm glad I'm not carrying any turtles. I am carrying hazelnuts... oh no, I'm carrying hazelnuts. My bags go through the x-ray, and the woman at the screen points to my suitcase. And a man comes over, and speaks Spanish. (Spanish is the official language of Chile, I've heard.) But he smiles. When I stammer, "Uh, lo siento, pero... que?" he points to my suitcase and to the table in front of him. And I put my suitcase on the table in front of him. He asks for another form I didn't know existed, and familiar panic is rising, because when I hand him my receipt from immigration, he shakes his head. But I'm not last this time, and Kelly and Lauren help me fill out the paper, and the man is smiling and helping too, and I don't have anything illegal or dangerous in my suitcase, and everything passes, and we are all okay.

Then we are through, and I see the group laughing, talking, smiling. Guillermo, one of our new professors, shakes my hand, smiling a sincere and infectious smile.

I have now survived three major airports, and only a bus ride remains until I reach my new city. Buses, I can handle. Four and a half hours of bus... sure, why not? I slept a little on the plane. I'm feeling I may need to sleep a little on the bus.

The buses are incredible. Much better than economy class. First class all the way. I can sleep on a bus.

But, other things are more pressing. This is Chile, and I must observe. It is very cold. I think they said about forty-five degrees (F not C). It is winter still. Barren trees, and short black twisting vineyard stumps dormant until the spring... and palm trees, too, and many fields, and cold, gray sky. And the Andes out of the left window, and more mountains out of the right window along the coast. Amazing. It's not that different from the Willamette Valley in the winter. The mountains are bigger, though.

I look out the window enraptured in something completely new and un-witnessed by my inexperienced eyes in the past. The country rolls by, and despite the similarities it is different. I am so concerned with staying objective, with not falling into the ignorant, arrogant, judgmental American stereotype I abhor, that my brain doesn't know what to do with the trash-strewn riverbank we pass over, or the small ramshackle tin building, leaning dangerously and with the man sitting asleep outside the door, or the stray dogs looking beaten and hungry roaming the parking lot of the pit stop. But all these things are true.

Chile is different, but the same. There is no such thing as a poor politician. This is the world in which we all live. (I've been told there are good politicians, somewhere, few though they may be... I hope so.) There is still the horrifying gulf between the rich and the poor. This is the same worldwide. The majority of the country's riches rest in the hands of a few families; the difference is a much smaller middle class than the United States. We gringos are incredibly fortunate with the opportunities we have.

Maybe the only difference between our countries is that in Chile they don't hide these things as well as we've learned to in America. As I see more of the country, I am less surprised by the differences, and instead see more similarities. The people working in the field, the cars roaring down highways... there are malls and four-, five-, six-story buildings. Skyscrapers. Blockbuster. McDonald's.

We arrive in Chillan around one or two. My eyes can't read the hands on my watch, which is three hours slow anyway. The bus pulls over at the Plaza de Armas, and the host families are already there, moving toward the door. The bus's inhabitants are all eagerly peering through the glass, trying to figure out whom belongs to who.

Guillermo stands and begins calling the names of the students, one by one, to move forward, step down onto the surface of their new hometown and meet their new mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. The anticipation hides behind the more apparent nerves on their faces. My name is called, and I stand on shaking legs and move forward with wide eyes, and step down with my stomach sloshing around, bumping my heart, nudging my lungs, and brushing aside my kidneys with its crazy somersaults. Down the steps, and a man steps forward, with a big smile and a wave. It takes a moment, but as my foot hits the pavement, I realize this is my father. And closely following is my brother. Alfredo and Matias.

A handshake quickly becomes a hug, and I am ushered away from the group. I am being talked to and smiled at and everyone around me is talking and laughing, the parents with their new children. I understand little, but mi hermano (brother) speaks a little english, as does my father. They speak slowly and clearly, and I understand when they ask me if I'm tired. I nod my head emphatically. "Si, muy cansado." They grab my bags and put them in the back of the small green "auto" and open the door for me... and I don't look back to the fading bus and my fading countrymen.

At the house the door opens, and there stands a Chilean woman. My mother, Chivi. And coming down the stairs is Coni, mi hermana (sister). Handshakes become kisses, for in Chile, women are greeted with a kiss on the cheek. When in Chile...

They push me to the table, and I realize I'm not that hungry, but I don't care. I sit down with them and eat... I can hardly remember what. But it is delicious. Then they send me upstairs and show me my room. I put my bags down, and they show me the bed. And I fall asleep.