Pichilemu

An American travels alone to a remote village outside Santiago to take up surfing for the first time.

The weather was beginning to warm and the temperature had reached 90 degrees. The trees were green, speckled with white and purple flowers. People played on pianos placed around the city. And I wanted to go to the beach. I had heard from a friend about a place called Pichilemu, a beach town famous for surfing. I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf, and it seemed there was no better time than while in Chile. I decided I would travel there alone, mostly because I needed a break from the Americans I was living with. On Tuesday I reserved a bed in a hostel my friend had recommended. The next day I went to the bus station and bought a ticket for 2 o’clock on Friday.

On Friday I left class at noon and briskly walked down Providencia towards my apartment. There were beautiful women and bare skin abounding in the streets. I felt excited and energetic. It was hot and bright, reminiscent of Southern California in the summer. The sun felt strong on my face, and the back of my neck was hot as I rubbed it. As I waited to cross Manuel Mont I saw two large black dogs fighting on the corner. One had climbed on the other and was gripping the other’s neck in its jaws, barking. I gazed at them as I waited for the light to turn.

No one was home when I arrived. I went straight to my bedroom and emptied my backpack, spewing its contents on my bed, which were several folders, an English textbook and CDs for work. I opened my drawers and laid out three t-shirts, a pair of shorts, and a Northface fleece. I pondered before thumbing through my flannel shirts that hung in my closet. I wasn’t sure how to dress in Pichilemu. After some thought, I grabbed one shirt and put it on my bed. Surely, there will be bars, and I’ll want to go them, and I’ll want to look presentable. I also laid out my bathing suit. I folded the contents and stuffed them tightly into my backpack. In my kitchen I fried two eggs in a pan and cut wedges of a tomato and placed them on toasted wheat bread. I ate quickly, grabbed my bag and left my apartment.

The metro was crowded. I stood gripping a vertical metal pole, sharing it with ten others. My forehead glistened and my back felt damp from the heavy backpack pressing against it.

At the bus station I bought a bottle of Coke and a pack of cookies. I stood waiting outside for the bus and the sun beamed on my neck. I squinted through my sunglasses, my eyes sensitive to the bright light. Several buses came and left and I waited for 5 more minutes and another bus pulled up. I looked at its front window, where there was a sign that said “PICHILEMU.” I walked forward and took a spot in the queue board. I boarded and others boarded for a few minutes and the bus filled up. A Chilean girl sat next to me. Before we pulled away, three people came on, one after another, selling sodas, candy and snacks. One woman sold individual pieces of sugar candy for 20 pesos each. She begged and pleaded but no one bought anything. I twisted open my soda and took a sip as she walked by.

The bus pulled away from the station. Soon we were outside of Santiago, cruising on the highway. Rolling green hills and mountains surrounded us. The sky remained clear and blue and the sun shined on my right arm, which rested against the window. Everything outside looked plush and green. An hour outside the city we passed a wine vineyard. The vines appeared to go on forever in orderly rows, sprawling over a hilly landscape, layered on top of rich brown soil, which looked moist and freshly watered. We made several stops where passengers got on and got off. We were getting close to Pichilemu and we stopped again and let on a dozen men. There were no seats so they stood in the isle and they held the backs of the seats as we kept driving. We passed a sprawling pine tree farm, which went on for several acres. Then a sign that read “Bienvenidos a Pichilemu.” I asked the girl next to me for directions to my hostel.

I got off the bus on a quiet street in town. It was still sunny but very windy and cold and I put on my fleece. I walked for five minutes and arrived at the address I had in my email. There were no people on the street. There was no sign on the hostel and the door was locked. I called the number they had given me, which was for Ceaser, the hostel manager. The phone rang and a man answered.

“Hi Ceaser, this is Branden. I have a reservation today.”

“Are you here now?”

“Yes, I’m outside the hostel.”

“OK, wait there. I will come.”

I stood outside on the dirt sidewalk. A truck drove past and kicked up a cloud of dust. Across the street was a small market where a young girl played with a doll. I could hear a rooster crowing. After a few minutes, I saw a man approaching on a bicycle. I looked at him and he waved, and I raised my hand in return. He pulled onto the sidewalk.

I towered over him as he walked towards me. He was short and had brown, leathery skin and shiny black hair. His eyes were dark.

“Hello. Ceaser,” he said in Spanish, extending his hand, smiling.

“Branden. Nice to meet you.”

He opened the door and led me inside the house, which was quite old.

“Jose said you were going to arrive at 10,” Ceaser said and looked at me as we walked through the main hallway.

“No, I told him 6.”

“Strange, he probably misunderstood.”

“I guess so.” He led me through the living room, which was adorned with flags from around the world and a large map. We turned into a bedroom.

“Here’s your room,” Ceaser continued. It was simple, with two twin beds and a storage cabinet, and a window with a view of the backyard. I could see a palm tree waving against afternoon sun.

“Here,” he said, handing me a padlock and a key. “You can put here,” he pointed to the latch on the cabinet. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest,” he said. We walked into the living room by the bathroom. Then into the kitchen.

“If you want, you can put things in here,” he said, pointing to two fridges. “And that’s it,” he said, shrugging. I felt I had to ask him a question even though it was pretty straightforward.

“Is there breakfast?”

“No.”

“Is Christian here? Jose said he could help me with surfing,” I asked.

“No, he went to Santiago.”

“Do you know when he’s coming back?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. If you want surfing I can tell you where to go. I will ask for you,” he said.

“OK, Thank you.”

“I have to go into town now. I’ll see you later?”
“Sounds good.”

He left and I went into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face and brushed my teeth. I walked around the house, which was completely silent, and I examined the maps on the walls. I stared at illustrated map of Italy. There was a frame that held coins from Europe, placed in six rows separated by different countries.

I unplugged my phone, which was charging in the wall, and walked out into town.

It was very windy on the street and except for the occasional passing truck, wind was the only sound I heard. I walked past a large open garage which was loaded with fruits and vegetables. I peered in and watched as a young boy helped a man, putting tomatoes in a bag for him. There were several restaurants in the main square, but most of them were closed. I kept walking towards the beach. The wind became more intense as I got closer. I could see the water and the swells rising. Soon my feet hit dark gray, almost black sand. There was no one on the beach. It was after 7 now and the sun was descending closer to the ocean, creating a beautiful orange glow.

My Nikes were covered in gray soot as walked on the beach and inched towards the water. I stood on the wet sand right up to the point where the waves were reaching. Far from the shore there were large waves that crashed and created specks of white that glowed beautifully against the orange sky. There was a light haze over the water, created by mist from the heavy surf. It was beautiful and I stood there for some time watching. Later I walked down the beach and took some pictures and then hiked back up towards the street.

I ate an empanada at a restaurant where I was the only customer. When I was walking back to the hostel, I spotted Ceaser on his bike.

“Hey, Branden, did you eat something?”

“Yes, I had empanadas at the restaurant over there.”

“Ah, it’s a good place. You like them?”

“Delicious.”

“Two girls arrived at the hostel. From Germany,” he said. “You can make a party with them tonight,” he smirked.

My imagination jumped to all sorts of possibilities, but mostly I was relieved to have some company.

“There is the surf school down this street,” he said pointing. “I’ll go now to tell them you will come. What time you want to go?”

“In the morning will be fine.”

“OK, class at 11?”

“That will be good,” I said.

“OK, I go now. See you later.”

“Ciao.”

He pedaled off and I walked back to the hostel. I stopped at a store along the way to buy some beer. When I returned to the house I found no one was there. I sat in the living room and played some music on my computer and drank. After a while the Germans came in. They were both college students and looked a little younger than me.

“Hullo,” one of them said. “Katerina.”

“Branden.”

“Hi, Sina,” the other said.

“Nice to meet you.”

They set some things down in the kitchen and then we were all sitting in the living room. I was scrolling aimlessly through things on my laptop screen. It was beginning to get dark outside.

“So are you on vacation?” Katherine asked. She had short dark hair and was serious in her tone.

“No, I live in Santiago.”

“And did you arrive today?”

“Yeah, I got in around 6.”

“Us too,” she said. “Actually, you look familiar.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I think you were on our bus,” she said. “The 2 o’clock, right?,” she continued. “You were sitting in the seat behind us.”

“Yes, I think I remember seeing you,” I said, even though I didn’t recognize her.

“What are you doing in Chile?”

“We’re students,” she said. Sina looked up from her laptop when she said this. “At University Mayor.” They explained they had arrived in July, a month before I did. They were doing an exchange program in Chile and were in Pichilemu for three days on vacation.

“So why’d you choose Chile?” Sina asked.

“I’m taking a year off and I wanted to learn Spanish mostly.” I was relieved when Sina didn’t press me for more of an explanation.

“Will you try surfing tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’m going to a class at 11,” I said.

“Us too. First we’ll see how much it costs.”

“I think it’s not too expensive.”

Later it was dark outside and I had almost finished my beer. Ceaser entered and behind him were two men in their 30s. Their names were Frederico and Christiano, and they would be staying in the hostel as well. They had large backpacks with them, which they rested on the floor when they shook hands with everyone. Christiano pointed to the map of Italy excitedly, “Ah, home,” he said and smiled.

Christiano was smiling and was tall and frail. His hair was short and had receded some and the next day I noticed he was graying. He explained he was on vacation visiting Frederico, who was working in Santiago. Ceaser sat on the couch across from me playing on his phone.

“So where we go tonight for the party?” Frederico asked the room and looked at me. He looked younger and wore a Lacoste polo and designer jeans. I didn’t say anything and there was a pause, and I looked at the Germans and shrugged.

“Vive Chile is good tonight. Many dancing,” Ceaser said.

“Is it close?” Frederico asked.

“Yes, right over there,” he pointed from his seat on the couch, twisting his body slightly. “A few blocks that way.” Then he walked to the map of Pichilemu and showed the Italians.

“You guys want to come?” the Italians looked at us. It was a tempting opportunity to make new friends but I felt exhausted. “I’m too tired. I won’t be any fun tonight,” I said. “But tomorrow let’s do something.” The Germans also stayed in. Both of us wanted to wake up early for the surf lessons. The Italians went upstairs and I closed the door to my room around 11.

In my room later I could hear the Italians speaking to Ceaser. “Where is the gringo?” one of them said. “In bed,” Ceaser replied. “I think he’s sleeping.” I smirked and eventually fell asleep.

The next day, it was a perfect summer morning as I walked to the surf school by the beach with the Germans. It was bright and sunny and the sky was clear, perfect blue. The air was warm and I heard the rooster crowing again and smaller birds chirping. The wind was calm and I wore only shorts and a t-shirt.

“Have you ever surfed before?” Sina asked. We were walking on a dirt sidewalk.

“Never. I’ve always wanted to learn. And you?” I said, looking at her through large sunglasses.

“Me too. She has before though,” motioning to Katerina.

“Really? Where?”

“Once in New Zealand,” Katerina said. “It wasn’t so easy.”

“The waves are supposed to be large here,” Sina said.

“Yes, I was watching them yesterday. Quite big,” I said. “We’ll see what they are today.”

We walked all the way to the edge of the beach and made a left on the last road and continued walking. We passed a large dog that was chewing on a piece of thick paper or cardboard, I couldn’t tell. The Germans and I each looked at the strange sight as we passed but no one said anything.

At the surf school a middle-aged Chilean woman helped us get set up. She was short and wore UGGs and a comfortable sweater and her hair up and spoke no English. She said it was only 12 lucas for the whole day, and went into the shed. “That’s so cheap,” Katerina whispered to me. The woman handed me a wetsuit and motioned to the change rooms.

I struggled with the material as I put my legs in and slid the bottom up to my waist. I jumped up and down a few times as I slid it up to my chest and tried putting my arms in; first, putting one at a time, then trying both, then successfully inserting them one at a time. I tried closing the zipper in front but it was too difficult.

I walked out of the change room, and the Germans were sitting there. Katerina looked at me and started laughing immediately.

“You’ve got it on backwards.”

“Huh?”

The woman came around the corner and I motioned for help with the zipper. She paused and waved her finger at me and said something in Spanish, and then bent over slightly pointing to her back. Sina started laughing as well and the woman smiled at me. I had the suit on backwards. A flash Keanu Reeves in Point Break entered my mind and it was suddenly obvious the zipper went in the back.

“Sorry I’m a gringo,” I said, and shrugged. She laughed and I walked back into the shed and took off the suit and then put it back on again, the right way.

The woman was about 5’1” and handed us our boards from the shed. They were long and heavy and I struggled to get a grip on mine as she passed it to me. We rested the boards against the outside of the shed.

Our teacher, Sebastian had tan skin and messy brown hair. He spoke English through a thick Chilean accent as we walked on the sand and then stopped close to the water.

“For the first class, I’m not going to show you many things,” he said. “First we do some things on the beach then we go in the water. OK?” We placed our boards in the sand and he showed us how to lie down and then hop up. We stretched. The beach was deserted. In the water in front of us, there was a pack of surfers drifting on their boards. I watched one of them paddle forward and then catch a large wave. I was mystified as I watched him fly, turning and twisting his board. Sebastian bent down to demonstrate how to insert the leash into the board.

“These boards are very large. It will be easier for you to balance on,” he said as I lifted it up. “OK, let’s go.”

We promenaded to the water, and I felt proud, hauling my board under one arm. Sebastian didn’t have one. “I going to help you,” he said.

A wet suit is necessary for the South Pacific as the water temperature is often in the mid-50s. As I walked in, it hit me like knives. I got up to my waist and then a large wave engulfed me and I felt the water seep into my suit. My body became stiff as I adjusted to the frigid swells.

I belly flopped onto my board, as did the Germans, lying on my stomach, chest up, resting on my elbows, feet on the back of the board. It was easy to balance, and the three of us floated, our backs to the beach, watching as the surf came in. I bobbed up and down, facing directly into the waves, rising up and then back down repeatedly as the water rolled underneath me.

“OK, we’re going to wait for a big one. We’ll take the wave there,” Sebastian said pointing. He was floating in the water, which went up to his neck, gripping Katerina’s board. A few waves passed us, and he turned her board and waited behind her. A large wave approached and as it came over him, he shoved her forward and she disappeared. The wave broke and she reappeared moving with it, lying down, and then attempting to stand. She crouched up, standing low, holding out her arms for a few seconds and then tumbled in the water.

“Bravo!” Sebastian shouted. Katerina turned around and smiled.

He paddled over to me. “OK, Brrandoon. I going to help you,” he said. “We going to wait for a big wave.” We floated for a minute, and I told him I was in Santiago teaching English, that I arrived in August. Then Sebastian spotted one, pointing to white caps off in the distance. He started to slowly turn my board.

“Move back,” he said. “You are very close to nose.” I inched my body back and waited in a strike position.

I turned my head to glance at the wave approaching behind me. Sebastian was directly behind me holding my board and I couldn’t see him. I turned forward, and heard the water rushing and building behind me. “OK, go!” I heard and I felt a sudden push forward and I was moving fast with the wave. I pushed up on my hands and tried to pull my leg forward to stand. I got in a low crouch position, but suddenly I slowed down and came to a halt and tumbled into the water. Icy cold fluid streamed down through my neck. I paddled back.

“You tried to stand too soon,” Sebastian said. “You need wait.” He helped Sina, and then Katerina and then me again. Sebastian shoved me forward as a giant wave approached. This time I waited, but my balance was off and I fell hard, the water swallowing me up when I lost control. One by one, Sebastian assisted us, giving each of us a push. Katerina was standing almost every time.

He pushed me again and I fell. I was disappointed I couldn’t stand, surprised by the physical demand, but felt happy. I fell again. The sun shining, the beautiful beach in my sight, the wind calm.

“OK, Brrandoon, we get this one,” he said. I paddled and rotated my board and he told me to scoot forward a little. And then there was a wave and he shoved and I was off. The wave was big and I was accelerating fast. I counted for a few seconds lying on my stomach moving forward, and then slowly swung my left foot around and crouched up. My knees bent, I looked down at my feet and then forward at the beach. Holy s**t, I was standing. On the water. I smiled as I zoomed ahead, floating. I could not have imagined it would feel this good.

It was an unusual thing to stand on water. I was in love. I gently fell in the water a few moments later as the wave died out. I could hear Sebastian cheering for me in the distance.

“Nice job, Brandooon!” he shouted.

We caught a few more waves, this time trying on our own. I stood again and then I fell a few more times and then we went in for lunch. By then arms and ribs sore from paddling and lying in the awkward position.

In the afternoon I went back to the school and suited up again and plunged back into the water. This time without an instructor, I had difficulty picking up velocity on my own, and after a few hours I hopped out, toweled off and walked back to the hostel.

When I arrived there was a new girl named Rafaela who appeared in our kitchen. She, too, was German and had large black curly hair and looked Italian almost and was slightly awkward and I assumed, a student as well. She had arrived in town that morning and was with five others who would be staying with us. We were all sitting in the living room, the Italians, Germans, Ceaser and myself.

“So what we do tonight?” Frederico asked the group. He looked sunburned and less put-together today, from being on the beach.

“It’s the election tomorrow so the bars will be closed,” I said.

“Really?” one of the Germans said.

“Yes,” I said. The Germans looked at me confusedly.

“They will close around midnight tonight,” Ceaser said.

“I’ve never heard of something like this,” Sina said.

“I wouldn’t expect so in Germany,” I said.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“I guess we could go out for just a couple beers,” Frederico said. “That never killed anyone.”

“Or maybe we make a party here,” I said. “Ceaser, what do you think? An asado?”

He smiled and said OK. Later there was some discussion about the menu and what we would make for the barbeque. Ceaser offered to buy the meat and cook on the grill.

“I think maybe two lucas each,” he said. I happily paid him.

Later I showered and thumbed through my clothes and put on a plain t-shirt. I felt excited to have plans, to be invited to a barbeque, to be with new people.

I walked with Ceaser and some of the others to the store to buy meat and beer and supplies for our fiesta. I passed by the open garage again and asked the group to wait while I went inside. I went to the avocados and bought a kilo, the young boy helping me load up a large bag. I grabbed three tomatoes and a lemon. The boy carried my bags to the counter where I handed a man two thousand pesos.

At the hostel there were 10 people in the living room. The German girl’s friends had arrived and were sitting on the couch, and there were some Chileans, who I assumed were friends of Ceaser, and Christian, the in-house surfer had returned. I noticed one of the girls, a Swede, who was rather beautiful. She had light brown hair and creamy white skin and large blue eyes and was wearing silky, stylish black pants with a bright floral pattern. I went into the kitchen. I started cutting up the avocados and I glanced at her a few times. I saw Frederico speaking with her and then he poured her some wine.

Katerina came in the kitchen.

“You need some help?” she asked, loud, German.

“No, I’m good.” There were avocado peels strewn about the table and my hands glowed green.

“Do you put garlic in guacamole?”

“Yes, of course. I love garlic. Don’t you?” I said.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“It’s good this way.”

I chopped up the tomatoes and squeezed the lemon and sprinkled some salt and mixed it together. Katerina sipped her beer and watched me and then we tasted the guacamole together.

“Needs more salt,” she said.

“Definitely.”

She started opening cabinets and then handed me a large bag. “Here,” she said. “It will be easier.” I filled a teaspoon and then sprinkled it over and tasted it again. “A little better,” I said. “More,” she ordered. I added more. “OK, good,” she said, motioning a thumbs up to me.

She picked up the bowl and brought the guacamole over to the table and everyone was pleased. I followed with crackers. I could smell smoke and lighter fluid coming in from outside as Ceaser lit the grill. The Swede dug into the guacamole. Her name was Helena.

After several cups of beer, I started on red wine and I was talking to a Karl, a 20-something German who had a thick brown beard and a heavy accent. Katerina and Sina also joined us.

“Why’d you leave America?” Karl asked. It was the same question I had already answered for the others but asked more directly.

“I wanted a change,” I said.

“But you were a teacher at home?”

“No. I used to work in finance.”

“Where?”

“At an investment bank.”

“Oh,” he said. “The bad guy,” and smiled.

“Exactly,” I said, and took a sip of wine.

“Why are you all in Chile?” I asked, looking at all of the Germans.

“We are all Spanish majors and our school has an exchange here,” he said.

“Easy enough. For how long are you here?”

“We will all go back in February,” Karl said.

“I will travel to Bolivia and Ecuador in March,” Katerina added.

“With friends?”

“No, by myself.”

“You’re not scared?”

“No, my Spanish is good, and I prefer to travel alone.”

Later Ceaser brought in plates of meat, cut into small pieces and we ate with our hands. We opened three more bottles of red wine. Karl’s face glowed red. I glanced at Helena who was still talking with Frederico. I was talking politics with the Germans and I noticed she glanced at me.

“We like the American people,” Karl said. “We think your politics are bad. We still remember Bush. America has a bad reputation after that, after the wars and the invasions. It seems you want to take over everything,” he said.

“What about Obama?”

“He’s OK, I think he’s different. In Europe they love him. But he’s so stiff all the time and serious. And now with the NSA people of Germany don’t like him.”

“I guess you’re still mad about that.”

“Of course we are mad.”

“I think it’ll blow over,” I said.

“Probably, but for now Germans are pissed.”

“My country is making it tougher to travel abroad. Chileans don’t like us either,” I said, drunk by then.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one, we helped coordinate the coup in 1973 that overthrew their government.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. You can go to a museum here and see some of the documents. It’s not a secret, but no one talks about it.” I continued.

“Has anyone ever said anything to you about this?”

“No. But in my head I think these people went through hell, and my government may have been involved in that.”

“You think too much.”

“And second, Chile copied our system,” I continued. “Everyone’s in debt, just like the U.S. They have problems with credit cards and student loans now, just like us.”

“But the system in America is not so bad.”

“I suppose, but it’s not so great either. Not right now.”

“Chilean people choose to live like you. No one made them do it.”

“But it’s a small country. They look to us for direction.”

“Yes, but that’s politics and it’s separate from people.”

I didn’t say anything and watched Karl dip a cracker into the guacamole.

“People love the culture. The Doors and the iPhone all from America,” he said, in between bites. “The American people are a good people.”

“You’re right about that.”

Later I got up to get another bottle of wine. Frederico went outside to smoke and I sat next to Helena. She looked beautiful.

“Are you on vacation in Chile?” I asked.

“No, I’m a student. I arrived in July. You work here?”

“Yes, I’m a teacher.”

“And had you been here before?”

“It’s my first time.”

“Me too.”

“So how long are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“And what will you do after Chile?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see going back to the same job.”

“Maybe you can work at a bank here.” Her eyes were bright blue and she didn’t appear tired or drunk.

“No I’m not interested in that anymore. I’m also a writer,” I said.

“What do you write about?”

“Many things. About my time in Chile, about my old job.”

“Will you share it with me?”

“Yes, but it’s not ready yet.”

She smiled and I wanted to ask her to go for a walk to lure her away. But my eyes were tired. We ran out of wine so someone opened a bottle of pisco and Frederico poured me a glass. I took a sip and winced and my head got heavy and achy all of a sudden and Helena smiled at me.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I am.”

I took another sip of pisco and told the Germans I didn’t like George Bush and that I was a bad American and wouldn’t be going back. Helena laughed.

“So I heard you went to Buenos Aires last week?”

“Yes, we did,” she said. “It was lovely.”

“I want to go back there,” I said. “I want to live there instead of Chile.”

“Yes, it’s nice.”

“It’s perfect, very different from here.”

“Why you want to live there?”

“Because I like going out at night. Anyone who likes to go out would prefer Buenos Aires over Santiago,”

“I suppose,” she said. “But you don’t like Santiago?”

“It’s OK, but I don’t love it.”

“You need to give it more time.”

“Six months at least.”

“Yes, make more friends. When you have many friends here, then you should leave, but not before then.”

There was a silence and then Helena chatted with her friends. I felt my eyes getting heavier and it was time to sleep. I sat and listened to the conversation.

I looked at her. “Well, I think I’m going to sleep. “See you tomorrow, my dear?” I said.

“OK, goodnight, ciao,” she said and smirked at me, and I kissed her on the cheek and then I kissed the other girls on the cheek and closed the door to my room, exhausted and happy.

The next afternoon I packed my bag and folded up my unworn flannel shirt and gathered my things. It was cold and gray and windy. Sina and Katerina left the hostel first, and before they left I added them on Facebook and we exchanged contact details.

“Maybe we’ll see you sometime in Santiago,” Katerina said.

“Yes of course. I’m sure I’ll run into you.”

Helena didn’t come downstairs until later with the others, and by then she was fully dressed and was carrying her backpack.

“What time’s your bus?” she asked me.

“It’s at 4:30. Yours?”

“Four o’clock.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes, the weekend was perfect. Very relaxing.”

“And you have work tomorrow?”

“Yes, I have three classes.”

“I wish we could stay longer.”

“Me too. Me too. I think I will come back soon.”

“Really? I guess if you can.”

“Sure, why not.”

“It’s a very nice place here. And it’s cheap and the people are nice. Nice for the summer.”

“Exactly. I prefer it to Santiago.”

We exchanged contact details and I wished her off and kissed her on the cheek and said goodbye to the others. And then I grabbed by backpack and said goodbye to Ceaser and told him I’d be back in a couple weeks. I left soon after.

I purchased a ticket for a direct bus that made no stops. As we rode along the highway, my head ached and I drifted in and out of sleep, drinking water to help ease the pain. The clouds cleared and opened up into spots of blue sky as we left the coast. I gazed out the window at the mountains. My skin felt hot and itchy, scorched from the intense sun all weekend.

When I arrived at the station I walked to the metro and it was a cool summer evening. Everything looked crisp and clear, and the trees appeared in focus as they waved slightly in the wind. I felt relaxed and rested and strolled on the street, descending below into the metro. I waited on the platform, resting my backpack on the ground, listening to my iPod.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and it was Helena, standing there smiling.

“How’d you beat us?” she said. I was overjoyed to see her.

“I don’t know. Well, I took the direct bus,” I said. I nodded to her friends but kept the focus on her.

“Good ride?”

“Yes, it was fine,” I said.

“And how’s your head?”

“It’s fine.”

“Your skin is red,” she said, laughing.

“Yes, I know. I suppose I look like a real gringo.”

“Not anymore than before.”

“I’m so happy to run into you again.”

“Me too,” she said.

We entered the metro and it was crowded and Helena walked straight to grab a spot standing against the back door and I continued to file in, pushed by people behind me, and I gripped one of the overhead bars near a row of seats. Karl stood next to me. His face looked very red and painful.

“You should get some aloe for that burn,” I said.

“Aloe?” he said.

“Yes, some skin cream. It’s going to peel,” I said.

“I’m not worried about it,” he said.  His stop was next and we shook hands and he got off.

Two stops later it was Helena’s. She stood against the door with a crowd separating us. The metro was warm and the bar felt greasy as I gripped it. The doors opened at her stop. She passed me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Call me sometime.”

“I will,” I said. We were both smiling and she walked out. “Ciaou,” I said as her friends passed me. I watched her for a few seconds before she disappeared up the stairs with the others. I grinned. It was a good weekend, I thought, not so bad at all. I stood holding onto the metal bar, the train emptier now. The doors closed and we rolled forward.

THE END