Just Perfect Really: Stories from A to Z

Inside, the apartment building smelled of new construction and looked deserted. Unlocking our unit on the sixth floor, we entered with such relief. Going to switch on the lights, nothing happened. The brand-new fridge was plugged in but not cold or running. No electricity. 

We hurried back to the security man, who was surprised to hear it. “No luz?” 

No luz, nada.

He locked up his little building and came with us to check. He opened the box just inside the front door and flipped a switch. Lights came on. Forrest and I both felt a little silly. 

Our unit was immaculate and modern and looked brand new. Two bedrooms, a full kitchen, nice living room, dining area and a laundry room with washer and dryer that were still wrapped in packing material. I thought we might be the first occupants.

Each bedroom had a double bed, dresser, side tables and large closet. I could live here! Too bad we were only staying for one week. Too bad it was $500 a week. If it were $500 a month, I would not want to leave. 

“Do you have the Wi-Fi password, Mom?” 

I checked my emails and texts from Israel. “No, he didn’t send it to me.” 

We went back to get it from the guy. He wrote down the Wi-Fi codes for the buildings on either side of ours. "Your apartment has no Internet", he explained, "but certain areas in the building will connect using these codes." 

A major setback. I needed Wi-Fi for work. Such a lovely apartment and I wouldn’t be able to work in it? 

Oh well, we could try out the hotspots tomorrow. We returned upstairs to Room 610. Before we had left, Forrest had shut the bedroom doors for some reason, and now mine would not open. Somehow the button on the handle had gotten pushed in and it was locked. He tried sliding a credit card through to no avail. 

Third trip back down to security guy. I figured he would have a master key. Instead, he said he offered to call a locksmith, but we had to pay for it. He told me how much. Wait. This was on us? 

I questioned him several times to make sure I understood correctly. Yes, he confirmed, it will take a locksmith and it’s our responsibility to pay him. Should he call? 

What other choice did we have? I had enough cash from what I withdrew at the airport. He called and told us to wait in our apartment for the locksmith, maybe thirty minutes. 

By then we were both so hungry, maybe we could get something while we waited. I asked security guy where to find food, and he gestured toward a direction that looked deserted with no lights and nothing but emptiness. 

“We can find something later, Mom," Forrest reassured me. "Let's wait upstairs." We couldn’t risk missing the locksmith to search for food. 

The nuts and peanut butter were in the kitchen, but neither of us wanted that. We needed fresh, hot, and filling. 

The locksmith arrived in less than thirty minutes and unlocked the door in less than five. I didn’t have the exact amount to pay him, but he said to wait, he had change in his truck. He left, and we wondered if we'd see him again. 

Sure enough, he returned with the change in small bills and coins. An honest guy, just like our first taxi driver. When so many things go wrong in a day, a little positive like that makes up for a lot of disappointment. 

Forrest and I took off in search of dinner, hoping to find something open this late. This area had new construction among empty lots, everything under development. We might have to walk a ways, but at least we didn’t have to haul anything. 

We headed the direction the guy had pointed. After about three blocks, we came to a small, open tienda. They had empanadas in a case, a few empty tables, and a soccer game playing on the TV. 

We got one empanada to share, which they heated in the microwave and brought to our table. I didn't figure an end of the day empanada reheated in a microwave would be very satisfying, but it turned out to be the most delicious thing I had eaten in recent memory. We ordered another one to share, wondering why we didn’t get two to begin with. 

Forrest was thrilled to find a soccer game on their TV. He cheered for Chile along with the few people there watching, employees apparently. We were the only customers. The game soon ended, and they prepared to close. If it hadn’t been for that soccer game, the place would likely not have been open. 

We walked the three blocks back, feeling energized as we discussed the events of the day. How pleasant and luxurious was our bus, how desert-like the landscape. How strange that our building had listed its name as Enjoy Coquimbo when it clearly was not Enjoy Coquimbo. We laughed about the electricity and wondered why neither of us had thought to check the box. 

Forrest was effusive about the soccer game and the chance to watch Chile play in a café in Chile and cheer for the national team with Chileans. 

“Those thirty minutes watching that game were worth the whole trip,” he said. “I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried.” It was not a World Cup year, but he was a fan of the sport and followed the games. “I had thought how cool it would be if I could find a place to watch a game while I’m in Chile, and there it just happened!” 

How delicious were those empanadas, we declared. How nice were those people! How honest was the locksmith! What a luxurious apartment we have! How exciting to finally be on our first real stay in South America! 

We bonded over these shared experiences as we found our way home in the dark. A perfect ending to this very long day. 

I can't find your booking: Stories from A to Z

Forrest kept track of our progress as we traveled, telling me which towns we passed and how far we were from Coquimbo. He had no WiFi on the bus but had downloaded the map earlier to his phone. 

“I follow along and can tell where we are,” he explained. I get lost when I turn around and have never been able to read or follow a map. That was Bruce’s area of expertise and apparently his son inherited it. 

Our bus stopped in towns along the way, when people got on or off. Forrest and I often disembarked to stretch our legs. I always checked with the driver to see how long we had. I was paranoid about getting left behind. 

It was dark when we arrived at the Coquimbo depot. Good thing Forrest had been following the route, since there were no announcements like on the chicken busses in Guatemala. Not only that, but the Guatemalan drivers and their ayudantes watched out for Bruce and me and would signal when it was our stop. 

We had no such care on this trip. On my own, I would have regularly asked the bus driver what town this was. Not my independent son. He liked being in charge of his own destiny, not relying on someone else to guide him to the right place. 

We collected our luggage and noticed a few cabs parked nearby. As in Santiago, the drivers waited for us to come to them rather than soliciting our business.

Our hotel was called Enjoy Coquimbo. I had reserved an apartment on Booking.com for one week. Our driver knew the place, and we were on our way. 

He asked if we were there for the eclipse and offered a few suggestions on the best places to see it. If the day was cloudy, he said, we should go to a higher elevation. He handed me his card and offered to drive us to the best spot. 

Reaching an elegant, multi-story, modern hotel, he announced our destination: “This is Enjoy Coquimbo.” He parked at the front curb rather than pulling up through the circular drive and letting us off at the entrance. “I can’t drive up to the door,” he said without further explanation. 

We unloaded and paid him what he asked. 5000 pesos. When I expressed surprise and questioned the fare, he replied, “This is what it costs.” Since our Santiago driver had charged 3000 in the city, 5000 seemed too high. 

All right then. Your card’s going in the trash.

Hauling the luggage up the circular drive and into the hotel, I couldn't wait to leave it in our apartment and walk around all week light and free. Just a few more steps and this long day would end. Forrest and I could check into our rooms then get food. It had been ten hours since breakfast.

At the desk, an attractive young woman dressed in the highly tailored uniform typical of Latina hospitality workers greeted us with a smile. I gave her my name and said we had a reservation through Booking.com.

 After a lengthy computer search, she asked my name again. She frowned and searched further. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find your booking." 

I showed her the email from Booking.com and one from the owner, Israel. She looked it over carefully, made a few phone calls, then said, “This is Enjoy Coquimbo as your email states, but you’re not reserved here. Your building is down the street.” She explained where it was and how to get there. “It’s not far. You can walk there easily.” 

By then, my brain had stopped accepting Spanish and nothing she said made sense. Patiently, she tried again, using gestures while repeating the directions. I shook my head in confusion.

Forrest, on the other hand, listened attentively, although his Spanish skills were quite rudimentary then. I was too puzzled, weak, and exhausted to find my way anywhere. Just please let me put my luggage on a cart, get on an elevator, and go up to a room and lie down. 

The desk clerk--sweet, kind, young and pretty--smiled at Forrest. “If you wait a few minutes, I can get someone to take over here, and I will show you the way to your building.” 

I was grateful for the help and Forrest clearly happy to chat a bit longer with this cute girl. Occupied with impressing her, he took my awkward, heavy duffel without the usual complaints. I kept the large, easier-to-manage purple suitcase.

Seeing Forrest and the girl chatting and laughing together, she practicing her English and he with Spanish, cheered me up. I wanted nothing more than for my youngest son to meet the right girl and be happy with her forever. 

She led us around the outside to the back of the hotel and pointed to a bunch of buildings two blocks down. “It’s there, at the end of that street. Do you see it? If you think you’re okay, I better get back to work.” 

Forrest said yes, he sees it, no problem, thanks so much. The girl wrote the number of our building on a piece of paper along with her name and phone number, “in case you need anything during your stay in Coquimbo.” 

We thanked her and parted ways. I followed Forrest. I still had no idea which of all those buildings was ours. How did he know? And why had they listed it by the wrong name? And why hadn't they provided the right address?

Along the way, each high-rise had its number visible on signs in front. Ours was next to last. It was gated, with a security man in a little building. We approached him on foot with our luggage, and he watched us suspiciously. Where is their rental car? Where is their taxi? 

It was quite dark, nine p.m., and felt like midnight. 

At the window, I gave my name and that I had reserved an apartment through Booking.com. He looked at his book, turned the pages, looked at me, and said in Spanish, “I don’t see it.”

I stared at him in shock. He checked again, found a different book to thumb through. "No, it's not here." 

I opened my phone to the WhatsApp messages exchanged with the contact person, Israel, which thankfully were in Spanish. I showed the guard, and just like that he reached behind him and grabbed a key from the shelf, handing it to me. 

"Apartment 615," he said and gave instructions on how to open the security door, then take the elevator up to the sixth floor where we would find our apartment. 

Israel must be the jefe grande. Praise be to Israel. I was cheered and encouraged. Finally!

Forrest was no doubt thinking how much easier couch surfing would have been.

Hotels, Hostels and Hospitals: Stories from A to Z

At noon we checked out and went to the street to signal a cab. Since it cost us 3000 Chilean pesos from the bus station to our hotel, Forrest was prepared with 3000 pesos counted out and ready. 

A cab picked us up and dropped us off in front of the bus station. Once again, we trudged up the stairs with my oversized suitcases. At the top, we turned to the right as yesterday’s ticket teller had directed us. We found our bus right where she said we would. They were already loading bags at the side. We showed our tickets, watched them load our things, then climbed in to find our seats. 

Accustomed to Guatemalan chicken buses and Mexican travel vans, I was surprised by this sleek, two-story, passenger bus. The seats were more spacious and luxurious than first-class airplane seats. We could stretch out our legs, recline for sleeping, and visit the on-board bathroom whenever we wanted. 

I started out with the window seat, but Forrest soon got annoyed by my frequent bathroom visits. We traded seats, then changed again every couple of hours. I was surprised at how brown and desert-like Chile was. I had imagined green hills and forests intermingled with the Pacific coastline and sandy beaches, like the coastal highways in California. This looked more like Utah desert country. 

Occasionally, we’d pass through a populated area, a town or village with grassy sections and sparsely planted palm trees or other decorative shrubs and trees. Then right back to the desert. 

Forrest napped and made notes in his diary. I read my Kindle and wrote in a notebook. Mostly we talked, since our minds were at rest now that we were on our way to Coquimbo. 

Originally, we had planned to stay in La Serena, a college town and twin city to Coquimbo. But lodgings were scarce and expensive due to the eclipse. Hotels and Airbnb’s were overpriced and disappearing as fast as I found them. 

Finally, I came across an apartment in Coquimbo at $500 for a week’s stay, while hotels started at $180-200 a night. Split both ways $500 wasn’t too bad, since it included a fully equipped kitchen. We could cook our own food and save money. And only steps away from the beach, a perfect location for viewing the eclipse. 

During our long bus ride, Forrest and I covered a wide range of topics. He asked me what I thought makes a good marriage. He told me which of his siblings he felt had the best marriages and did the best at raising their kids. 

He knew exactly what he was looking for in a future wife. “I don’t want to marry someone in college or right out of college. I’d like her to have some real-life experience, worked at different jobs, maybe already started her career.” 

“You’ve said before you want to marry someone who can cook. It sounds like you’re after a superwoman who can ‘bring home the bacon and cook it in a pan.'” 

“No, just someone really intelligent and accomplished in a lot of areas.” 

I asked about a few of the girls he had dated, who he had seemed serious about then broken up with. Like the girl who complained about carrying boxes downstairs when he was helping her move out of her apartment.

“I can’t marry someone who's afraid to work or share the load,” he said.

“I lost interest in someone when we made cookies together,” I reflected. "He pointed out my so-called mistakes. ‘This is how my mom does it," he kept saying. That’s it, I thought. This is our last date.” 

“What was it about Dad that you liked?” Forrest asked.

"There were a lot of things, but one incident in particular reeled me in. It was our second date. Not really a date. He had dropped by my apartment to see if I wanted to go on a walk. We climbed a hill near campus and on this trail, I went ahead and said, ‘Let’s go this way.’ He didn’t follow me. Instead, he turned off a side trail, and I ended up turning around and following him.” 

“How was that significant?” 

“Because up to then I could pretty much wrap any boy around my little finger. And here was one who clearly liked me but wasn’t so smitten that he followed me around like a puppy dog. After that, I saw him as different from others I’d dated. He was kind, interested in me, attentive, yet knew his own mind.” 

It was nice having Forrest talk to me about serious subjects. “I feel like I haven’t even been around for your early adult years, Forrest. You went into the Marines right after high school. Then two years on your mission. You no sooner get back from your mission than we go to Guatemala. I cried and cried about leaving you back then.” 

“Yeah, but Mom, I was fine. I wasn’t going to live at home and go to school. I wanted to get out on my own.” 

“Well, this is nice having this time together. It’s one reason I wanted to come with you.” 

“Yes, it is nice.” 

What a good sport he was. This was meant to be him going off alone and traveling in his own way. Instead, there's me and my luggage, and having to stay at hotels instead of couch-surfing or crashing at a hostel for two dollars a night. I was okay with couch-surfing, but in a hostel, I would want a private room and bath, which costs more. 

We talked about Dad and about those four months in the hospital, after his aortic repair and before he died. 

“A year ago this month, Dad was still hanging on to life in Promise Hospital,” I said. “With that Dr. Death trying to get me to ‘let him go’ because there was 'no hope of improvement.' I hated that guy. Whenever he saw me, he’d bring it up, and I would say no, I don't want to have this conversation. He was always carrying on about how my husband won't improve and I should let him go.” 

“If you had listened to him, Mom, Dad would have died at Promise, without ever saying his last words and without us getting those videos of him talking. We wouldn’t have those six weeks when he regained consciousness and got moved to St. Joseph’s.”

 “Dr. Death would’ve gotten his way. He must have gotten a bonus from the insurance companies for every patient he kills. There had to be some reason he kept pushing his end-of-life procedure or whatever they call it.”

"You were right to keep saying no to him, Mom." 

Sadness overwhelmed me and I turned away to watch the brown, desert hills of central Chile pass by outside the windows. Stupid Dr. Death.

Get a Ticket, Get on a Plane, and there you Go: Stories from A to Z

Santiago was overcast and seemed especially chilly coming from summer in the States. I held my hooded sweater coat tightly closed as Forrest and I walked near our hotel. We passed several restaurants and small stores.

In the park, a group of guys had set up a slackline, and Forrest asked to join them. I watched for a while and then continued pacing around the park to stay warm. When he caught back up to me, I commented on a few options that might be nice for dinner. 

“Nah, I don’t want to spend money on expensive restaurants. We can find something better later on.” 

Postponing eating suited me. After years of feeding a big family, I liked not having to think about meals. Hopefully, getting away from rich American food and walking a lot would help me lose weight. Forrest often showed little interest in eating. As for unhealthy junk food, he could take it or leave it. This made him a good companion for someone looking to drop a few pounds. 

Back in the room, it still felt cold, despite the space heater on high. I kept moving, organizing for tomorrow’s bus ride. I wanted my Kindle, my journal, water bottle, sweater, and sweatshirt on the bus. Everything else would stay in the baggage compartment.

I had packed four jars of peanut butter and two large containers of mixed nuts in my suitcase. “Will you want any of these for the ride tomorrow?” I asked Forrest, holding up the nuts.

He said no, he'd buy some snacks later. 

I packed them away. Compulsive snacking on a long road trip is a weakness, and I didn’t need to chomp through those nuts. Breakfast tomorrow should hold me until we arrived at Coquimbo that evening. 

Cold and tired, I crawled under the covers for a nap while Forrest sat on his bed and got online. After a bit, he said, “I’m ready to find food. Do you want to come?” 

“I’m too tired to go out. Just bring me back some of whatever you get.” 

I was deep in sleep when he returned and woke me up. “Mom, mom, mom, mom. I brought you this cake. It’s pretty good.” He waved it in front of my face. 

I roused enough to eat a few bites but didn’t want any more. “You finish it.”

“I already had mine. This is for you!” 

Neither of us wanted it but we managed a few more bites before my frugal son was okay with throwing it away. It was a yellow cake-- moist and tasty without being too sweet. My body wanted sleep, not cake. I dropped back off while Forrest puttered about. 

Our room, at the end of a hallway, had no windows to the outside. A strange setup, especially with that set of stairs leading to an upper-level dormitory space. It was dark and quiet and ideal for sleeping. 

Forrest didn’t set his alarm since we both went to bed so early. He planned to get up by seven or eight and go on a walking tour of Santiago. He had found one online for nine in the morning, and our bus didn’t leave until 1:30 pm. 

In the morning, we both woke up at the same time, the room still dark and quiet. It felt early with plenty of time to get the free breakfast and explore Santiago for the next five hours. 

Then I looked at my phone. It was nearly ten! How had I slept fifteen hours straight? We hurried out to see if anything was left of the complimentary breakfast. Although officially it ended at ten, they still had slices of ham and cheese, bread, and a pitcher of orange juice along with a few containers of milk.

After a satisfactory breakfast, Forrest got dressed and went out. He had missed the city tour. I stayed in to write in my journal and take a quick shower in that very cold bathroom. 

I finally left to wander around and take pictures of the lovely neighborhood. I shot streets and doorways and the walls of colorful buildings and the side of a bus. Santiago, Chile! I couldn’t believe I was walking on a street in a neighborhood in Santiago, Chile. It seemed remarkable. How did this happen? 

Street view Santiago

Empanadas are everywhere in Chile

Lobby of our hotel

Well, you buy a ticket and get on a plane and here you are. It seemed a miracle and yet, I thought, I did this, and I can do it again. I can get a ticket and get on a plane and go anywhere I want. 

Only next time, I will try and do it without a hundred pounds of luggage. It will likely be without Forrest, too, I realized, which made me sad. 

Fifty-Fifty Split: Stories from A to Z

It was close to noon when we landed in Santiago. Getting our luggage through immigration and customs went smoothly, despite things feeling strange and new. Forrest seemed nervous and stressed but tried to hide it, to keep his cool like a knowledgeable world traveler. 

My Spanish came back enough to make myself understood. Forrest had been studying from Pimsleur and was eager to practice his skills. “I am sick of knowing only one language,” he said. “I want to be bilingual, not monolingual.” 

We passed an ATM and stopped to withdraw Chilean pesos. I took a few hundred dollars' worth, which came out in a stack of five and ten-thousand-peso bills. I gave a bunch to Forrest. “Here, take this for now. We will figure it out later.” Earlier, Forrest had connected us on Cash App. We would split everything fifty-fifty. 

At the shuttle booth, Forrest paid with a card rather than using our new cash. Outside, I told the driver we wanted a bus station where we could buy tickets to Coquimbo. We planned to purchase tomorrow's tickets and then go find a hotel. I had seen a park on Booking.com with hotels nearby, not far from the bus station. 

A few others boarded the shuttle, and we were on the way. I relaxed and looked around. Santiago was a pretty city with many wide, tree-lined streets. I could hardly believe we were finally here.

When we reached the bus station thirty minutes later, the driver dropped us off near the curb a short way from the entrance and said that was as close as he could get. He unloaded our things and pointed in the direction of the entrance. 

Although grumbling again about my packing, Forrest pulled the big black duffel and carried my heavy khaki computer bag. I grabbed Bruce's old backpack and my large purple suitcase. We headed to where the driver had pointed, passing several taxis parked along the street. 

We had to walk up a couple flights of stairs to buy the tickets, maneuvering this awkward luggage as we went. We bought our tickets to Coquimbo, then hauled my bags back downstairs and out to where the taxis waited. 

Forrest was fuming. There he was with a lightweight duffle and a nylon camp backpack, held back by his mom with her hundred pounds of suitcases. Neither of us said much. It was too late to change anything and besides, he would get over it. 

Drivers stood near their cabs watching us without approaching or calling out. Later we learned that the law requires them to let customers come to them. We headed to a random taxi and I showed the driver the address of the park. 

“Which hotel?” he asked. 

“We don’t have one yet,” I said. “We want to get one near this park. We come back to the bus station tomorrow.” 

“That's far away. Let me see if I can find you something closer.” After pulling out, he called a hotel and asked about availability. Nothing. He called another one. Nothing there either. 

Forrest and I looked at each other, a bit worried. I had reserved our week in Coquimbo but not for tonight in Santiago. Forrest had applied for couch-surfing situations although none had accepted us. 

Luckily, the cab driver found something in our price range with an available double room. “It’s not far. A good place, not very expensive.”

 About ten minutes later, he pulled up to a small hotel on a quiet street. I noticed a park, but it didn't look like the one on booking.com. I wondered if the station mentioned on booking.com was even the same one our shuttle driver had taken us to. There must be numerous bus stations in Santiago. Well, never mind. It had all worked out, and we had a place to spend the night.

This hotel was modest and clean, a model of nearly everywhere we ended up staying during our trip. Forrest never could find any couch-surfing gigs to his great disappointment. “If I were a twenty-nine-year-old girl, I’d have gotten plenty of offers,” he lamented. 

I was glad he wasn’t and especially glad I didn’t have a daughter applying in far-off places for couch-surfing opportunities. “It’s perfectly safe, Mom,” he said with irritation. 

Ha, I bet, I thought. Kids these days are so naïve. 

The driver brought my luggage into the lobby and said a few words to the lady at the desk. While I checked in with her, handing her my credit card, Forrest paid the cabbie out of the cash I’d given him. 

The man looked down at the bills, then returned a stack of the pesos to Forrest, who had gotten confused over the numbers and overpaid him. He had asked for tres mil, or 3,000 pesos, and Forrest had given him 30,000. 

A helpful cab driver with high integrity marked our arrival in Santiago. A good sign.

Eclipse Travelers: Stories from A to Z

The departure from Salt Lake was delayed nearly two hours. Instead of boarding at 9:45 pm as stated, we sat around at the gate with no information except for “Delayed, waiting for the plane, just wait here.” 

It seemed we were all going for the same reason. One retired couple planned to stay over and get residency in Chile. The other eclipse travelers were only staying five to ten days. They seemed jealous of Forrest and me and our three months. 

“Lucky!” they said. There was a camaraderie among those of us at the gate, perhaps since there were so few of us and we were Americans going for the eclipse. 

Forrest participated in his friendly but laid-back way. I said very little, still dealing with my grief issues that exhibited themselves as extreme reserve and introversion around people outside my family. I could not seem to engage normally with people anymore. 

We all got so tired of waiting

Around eleven, a crowd of other passengers showed up from somewhere, and finally we were allowed to board. Next stop, Atlanta, then overnight to Santiago. 

In Atlanta we had plenty of time before having to board. Since Forrest and I were tired of sitting, he suggested walking to our terminal instead of taking the shuttle like everyone else. 

It was a long walk in what felt like the bowels of a deserted airport. I would never have tried it on my own, fearing the isolation or afraid of getting lost. With Forrest in charge, it was nice. The exercise felt good, and he never loses his way. He is like his dad that way, with a built-in GPS system.

Our plane was a grand one with its four rows across. A sanitized blanket in plastic was on each seat, topped with a packet containing an eye mask and earphones. Passengers seemed jubilant and celebratory. 

Forrest chatted with a young man behind him who was from Chile. He spoke excellent English and had been asking people around him why they were headed to Santiago. He was amazed by how many were going all the way to his country for the eclipse. 

Finally, as the cabin lights dimmed after takeoff, everyone settled down. The flight attendants served food, a sandwich, a drink, a little packet of crackers and cheese, and pudding in a plastic cup. In the early morning, they came by with a breakfast meal.

I was delighted by the food, the eye mask and our location on the side aisle. We had the window and aisle seats, no middle seat like the two rows in the center. I felt blissfully free and deep down happy. 

Forrest slept through most of the flight while I watched movies, sleeping only when I could no longer hold my head up. This beautiful plane could have flown for an additional eight hours, and I would not have minded.

Destination: Stories from A to Z

When I arrived in Portland with my two large, checked bags, Forrest must have regretted me being his traveling companion. 

“Mom, why did you bring so much? We need to travel light.” He loaded them into the trunk of his car. “These weigh a ton!” 

“Remember, I plan on setting up housekeeping somewhere. I needed a few essentials for cooking. Plus, it’s winter there and the clothes are heavier. I wasn’t sure what to bring or how often I could do laundry.” 

“So, you basically brought everything you own plus kitchen stuff.” 

I laughed and slid into the passenger seat. “You’ll thank me later for those two big jars of peanut butter, believe me.” 

We pulled into his driveway twenty minutes later, no traffic to speak of, despite it being five p.m. Forrest lived near the airport and knew his side streets. 

“Is your landlord at home?” I asked.

"No, but he probably will be later." 

I had met him before, a friendly, talkative man in his fifties named Kevin. I was glad he wasn’t there as I was tired from the long day and not in the mood for small talk. 

Forrest rummaged through the fridge and cupboards. “Let’s make dinner from my leftovers. All these things are mine.” He lined them up on the counter. Rigatoni, cheese, half a bottle of tomato sauce, a few tomatoes. Bread. Dinner practically made itself. 

After eating a large plate of pasta, I felt even more tired. With the landlord gone and the bathroom free, I showered, washed my hair, and put on pajamas. It was eight p.m., time to lay down. 

“You’ll take my room,” Forrest said. “I’ll sleep on the living room couch. But I need to study for an hour or so. Will that bother you?” 

“Not at all. I just want to lay here and read for a while. When I’m ready to fall asleep, nothing will keep me awake.” I turned on my Kindle. 

Forrest sat at the desk in front of his bedroom window, sunshine still brightening the room. The sun would have set by now in Utah, but Oregon was farther north with longer summer days. 

I set down the Kindle. No book could interest me as much as this scene, my youngest son silhouetted there at his desk, deep in study. Tomorrow was our morning flight to Santiago. Happily, I drifted into sleep. 

Now and then, Forrest asked me a question or made a comment that broke into my sleep.

“Did you leave your car at Don and Lauren’s? Will they keep it at the house for when you come back or is Nathan going to use it?” 

I’m not sure. I guess that’s between them. 

“Are you setting an alarm, Mom? My friend is coming to pick us up at six-thirty and dropping us off at the airport.” 

No, I never set alarms. I always wake up on time. 

“I can’t believe you brought those two suitcases.” 

I told you about that already. I’m looking for a home. Maybe temporary, maybe permanent. 

“I almost don’t want to come back. Do you?”

Not really. I wish it were longer than ninety days. 

“Don’t say ninety days. Say three months. That sounds longer. Ninety days doesn’t sound like any time at all.” 

Let's say twelve weeks. That sounds really long. 

“Will it bother you if I turn on this lamp, Mom?” 

No, nothing is bothering me. I feel drugged by the pasta. 

I kept dropping back into that deep sleep. At some point, I wasn’t sure when, Forrest shut down his workstation and left the room in darkness. I slept straight through until four a.m. 

I wrote for an hour then got up and dressed, checked my luggage and carried it out to the front door. Forrest was sound asleep on the couch. I woke him and sat next to his feet until I was sure he was fully awake. 

I cannot remember ever looking forward to anything as much as this trip. Forrest did too but for different reasons. We each had our reasons, although we probably didn't fully understand them within ourselves or with each other. 

Neither one of us wanted to come back, and we hadn’t even left yet. 

Yet to look at the two of us, no one would’ve realized our level of excitement and anticipation. Forrest and I are not very demonstrative; we keep strong feelings to ourselves. I’ve always been quiet and reserved and so is he. If we had not been so alike, this lack of expression might have been frustrating to a more demonstrative companion.

We were going to get along just fine, despite my luggage.

Companions: Stories from A to Z

Before South America came a short trip back to Guatemala. The family would return Bruce’s ashes to the place he had been so happy. Panajachel, near Lake Atitlan was the obvious resting place. Mine too when the time came.

RJ had found the perfect spot for releasing his ashes; a cliff above a wooded area that led down to the lake. During the rainy season, it got covered by the water beyond. RJ also let us occupy his hotel while we were there, a kind and generous gesture. 

While in Guatemala, a few of us stayed over to go to Tikal: Forrest, me, Travis and Jessica. Upon arrival, we bought our tickets and toured the ruins, staying that night in a cabin outside the park. 

The next day before the park opened, Forrest and I asked at the gate if we could come in for a bit. No, they said. We aren't open. And you will need to buy tickets for today. You can't use yesterday's tickets.

Forrest and I left and out of view found a wide-open entry into the side of the park, crossing a path used by workers. We came in like we belonged and climbed up one of the smaller pyramids. A few workmen passed by on a trail near the woods where we’d entered. Nobody bothered or questioned us. 

“Mom, I think we can travel together. Getting away from civilization brings out your inner hippie. Were you a hippie before you married Dad?” 

“Oh, definitely. I didn’t do drugs or protest the Vietnam War, but I had a rebellious streak. I always went my own way.” 

“Did Dad calm you down?”

“Quite a bit, because he was so traditional and conservative. Hair, clothes everything. He had such thick, curly hair. I wanted him to grow it out a little back in the 1970s. But of course, he wouldn’t hear of it.”

We took a picture together in front of the pyramid. Mother and son, forty-three years apart in age, a new widow weary of life and a twenty-seven-year-old grad student eager to start his life and career. I suppose we each needed an escape from our current situations. We would escape together to South America, and it would be good for both of us. 

When Forrest told me he thought we could travel together, that meant he was okay with me coming along on his summer travel plans. It was the highest compliment.

Booking the Flight: Stories from A to Z

One Sunday afternoon in November, my youngest son called me. “Guess where I’m going next summer, Mom.” 

“Sri Lanka?” I knew he had been looking at volunteer opportunities there. 

“Chile. I’m going for the eclipse and plan to stay three months.” 

“I want to go with you!” 

Forrest hesitated. “I don’t know what my travel plans will be. It’ll be traveling around and staying in house-sharing situations. Couch-surfing. Maybe work different places as a volunteer.” 

"That's fine. You go do whatever, and I'll find a little casita to rent. Then when you take a break from traveling, you can come back to my little house while you decide what to do next. I’ve always wanted to go to South America!”

I was a new widow, and all my kids were being very good to me. Perhaps I took advantage of it in Forrest’s case, but South America! 

"Well, I guess so. If that’s what you want." 

Over Forrest’s Christmas break from school, we decided to go online to see about flights. 

Delta had good ones at the best prices and offered an immediate discount if you applied for one of their credit cards. Forrest often utilized credit offers to get free money, being disciplined and organized enough to pay them off right away and avoid trouble. The best flight departed at four pm from Portland, where he lived at the time. It had a layover in Salt Lake and in Atlanta, then arriving in Santiago the next day at noon. 

We had vague ideas about what to do once landing in Chile. Forrest said he would look for couch-surfing opportunities. I searched Booking.com and was surprised by how inexpensive small hotels were in Santiago. We needed a place near the bus station since we planned to take a bus from Santiago to Coquimbo, a town on the direct path of totality. 

We would leave for Chile end of June and come back end of September—three glorious months. Forret would get his summer abroad and I would walk the earth for real. Not driving a car on American freeways. 

He booked the tickets.

 “Merry Christmas to us,” I said. 

“Yep, Merry Christmas to us, Mom. We’re going to South America.”

Arriving Late: Stories from A to Z

After my husband Bruce died, I wanted to run away and walk the earth. Or as a normal person would say—travel. I was lost, confused, damaged, cut in half. Not normal. My first choice was to join him on the Other Side. I couldn’t have my first choice. 

Anywhere I went those early months, I wanted to leave. I hurried from the apartment to the car to the grocery store; hurried through the aisles and checkout line back to the car, back to my apartment. No matter where I was, I didn't want to be there. 

Two months after the funeral, I drove my little car to Southern California for my daughter’s birthday. Her husband was in Guatemala as he so often was in those days. I didn’t like the idea of her being alone on her birthday so soon after her dad’s passing. 

I set off from my son and daughter-in-law’s house in St. George, only a six-hour drive from LA. South of town, the freeway was down to one lane each way due to construction. I called my daughter to tell her I might be delayed. 

“That shouldn’t make any difference, Mom. Once you get past it, you’ll make good time. You’ll get to Vegas well past morning rush hour. There won’t be traffic between Vegas and LA since it’s a Wednesday.”

“I hope so,” I told her. “I can’t drive in the dark because of night blindness.”

“Oh, you’ll be here before dark, no problem. Call me when you hit Vegas.” 

Sally had driven this route countless times and knew her business. Her confidence made me think it would take no time at all. Mentally, I turned it into a four-hour drive. Once I get past Vegas, I think, I'll drive through a few mountains and outlying cities in California, then LA, and I'm there. 

Sally lived in Torrance, “right off the 405,” she said cheerfully. 

What a breeze, I think, as I zoom along on Interstate 15. I settled into my own thoughts, missing Bruce and wishing he were at the wheel like always. He loved to drive, and I enjoy the passenger seat if the trip isn’t too long. Truthfully though, I am no fan of road trips. Sitting forever in a car is uncomfortable.

I stopped often at the shining gas stations with their spacious restrooms and enticing lines of snacks and sodas. I liked seeing the other travelers in their family groups, the retired couples, or occasionally a single person like me. Everyone seemed glad to be going somewhere, perhaps on their way back and looking forward to relaxing at last in their own home. 

On the road, I listened to the CD recording of Bruce’s funeral, hearing the hymns he loved that I chose for opening and closing songs. Enjoyed once again the remarks of our ten children, speaking for just three to five minutes as I’d requested. Not one of them went over the time limit. 

Bruce’s closed casket had been at the front of the chapel, centered below the podium and covered with a magnificent spray of flowers in autumn colors created by our son-in-law Rob. He had registered with the state as a florist so that he could purchase his selections for the flower arrangements at the florist discount. 

I imagined Bruce standing near the casket, filled with love for each family member there in the front rows of the chapel, and for the many friends who had come to the service. He must have been bursting with a father’s pride as his children, from oldest to youngest, took their turns at the podium to share favorite memories of their dad. 

Driving, reflecting, crying, and stopping for breaks as I zoomed through Vegas. Sally thought I was late reaching it but said, "You'll make better time once you get through the city." 

Nevada is awful to drive through. Ugly, boring landscape and seems to take forever. Finally, I crossed into California. 

As the sun dropped in the sky, it bothered my eyes. I squinted through my sunglasses and slowed down, feeling nervous and vulnerable. By four or five, I had enough of the blinding western horizon. I passed a motel in Barstow and turned in to see about a room. 

Checked in, I lay down in the cool, dim room and closed my eyes. When I felt better, I called Sally. 

“Where are you, Mom? Have you hit the 405 yet?”

“I’m in Barstow.”

“What? That’s all the farther you ? I figured you’d be here by now, especially with gaining an hour.”

“Well, there was traffic remember.”

“Where, in Vegas?”

“No, St. George. The construction that slowed me down outside of town.”

“Oh, that. When did you get to Vegas again?”

“Around noon.”

“Noon Utah time or Vegas time?”

“Utah time. I looked at my watch.”

 “That’s only eleven Nevada time. I can’t believe it’s after five and you’ve only made it as far as Barstow. You’re still two and a half hours away from Torrance. That’s nine hours to make a six-hour trip, or seven if you don’t consider the time change. What have you been doing?” 

“Driving. And stopping a lot.”

She laughed. “Mom, you must have stopped at every gas station along the way.”

“I’m not used to driving long distances. Dad was always the one who drove.”

“Mom, nobody takes two days to make that trip.” She was laughing like it was the biggest joke.

“Well, I guess I do. The sun was in my eyes, and it made me tired. So I stopped for the night.”

“Okay. I was super excited about seeing you today, but I guess it will be tomorrow. If you get on the road around eight, you’ll miss morning rush hour.”

“I’ll make good time tomorrow for sure. I always have more energy in the mornings.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll see you then. Call me when you leave, and when you hit the 405."

In the morning, I felt rested and glad I stopped. Plus, it gave Sally a story to tell, about how her mom took two days to drive from St. George to LA. 

At her apartment, we lay around with the cats for two days. We cooked and ate, watched our favorite British mysteries on Netflix, napped in the afternoons, went to bed early. Except for the cooking part, we kept the same schedule as her three cats.

 

I had planned to leave on the third day but didn't want to go so soon. That restless energy pushing me to flee, to go on to the next thing, was gone. "I don't feel like leaving tomorrow," I said. 

“Why should you? What else do you have going on, and besides I have the time off. You might as well stay until Thursday when I go back to work.”

I decided to stay. After all, I loved laying around like a relaxed cat with my daughter in her one-bedroom cluttered apartment. I slept on a mat in the corner of the living room, and I could not have been happier. For once, I didn't want to be anywhere else.