Options: Stories from A to Z

Tuesday, the day before the eclipse, traffic picked up. The next morning, it was bumper to bumper along the little street next to the boardwalk. I felt quite smug that I only needed to walk a few blocks from my comfortable lodgings to the beach.  

Forrest had not committed to where he planned to view it, or with what group of couch surfers or eclipse chasers he would gather. When I asked him, he shrugged. “I’m not sure. There are several options.” 

“I’m staying right here,” I told him. “It’s the perfect location. If you don’t go anywhere else, you can find me along this section nearest to our cross street.” 

Perhaps at the beginning of our trip I’d have felt crushing disappointment at the prospect of not sharing the thrill of a total eclipse with my son. But by now, I was used to his ways, and he was used to mine. 

He liked exploring and meeting people, preferably Spanish speakers to practice the language. I didn’t want to meet anybody. Thankfully, he didn’t bring anyone over for meals or to hang out. I’d have hated that. I needed isolation to process my grief, to feel my emotional imbalance in all its turmoil, something I had to do over and over again. I had no idea when it would be enough and I'd feel normal again. When not with Forrest, I craved solitude. 

Totality in our area would be around four on the afternoon of July 2. Unlike 2017, this Eclipse of 2019 was easy, not counting the whole flying to Chile part of it. Go to the beach, find a spot on the sand or in an empty chair, sit down. Walk back when it’s over. Back then, Bruce and I had to prepare well in advance with hotel reservations, getting up before dawn to drive to the location, take chairs and food.

Around three-thirty, I headed over to the beach area and found the perfect spot. Crowds had gathered, mostly family groups in a party atmosphere. The chairs, benches and ledges along the boardwalk were all taken, and the sandy beach was filling up fast with large groups. 

I claimed my little hill, spreading my things out to save room for Forrest in case he joined me. The slight, crooked hill was too awkward for setting up camp chairs or spreading a blanket and too small for more than a couple people to lean their backs against. 

I felt lonely as I often did when alone among couples or families gathered for celebrations or dinner or just walking together enjoying their lives. I wondered what Forrest had decided to do. I wished he were here with me. 

Finally, I deserted that location and walked along the beach to find a less crowded area. Along the way, I saw Forrest approaching from the other direction. I waved and he ignored me in his stoic way, although I could tell he saw me. We met a few minutes later. 

“What’s up?” I asked him. “Are you headed somewhere to see the eclipse?” 

“No, that didn’t work out. I thought I’d find you.” 

“I had a pretty good place. Let’s go see if it’s still available.” 

We turned around and as we approached my little hill, I was happy to see it was still free. Forrest and I settled down to wait for the eclipse. There was still another twenty or thirty minutes until the moon would start its path across the sun. All these people stressed me out and made me tired. I made a pillow out of my sweater and pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt so that it nearly covered my head. 

“I’m going to take a little nap, Forrest,” I said. “Don’t let me sleep through it.” 

He ended up falling asleep as well, and we both woke up about the same time thirty minutes later. I felt much better, and the happy families no longer annoyed me. Fortunately, we had not slept through any of the moon’s historic journey, slow as it seems when you’re watching and waiting for it to completely block the sun. 

Forrest became impatient. At partial, he said, “This isn’t such a big deal." 

“Just wait, you’ll see,” I declared. 

Minutes later, “still not that impressive. Kinda cool that it’s getting darker though.” 

Shortly before totality, he figured it was over. “Okay, I guess I’m done.” He stood and looked around restlessly. 

“Forrest! Just watch or you’ll miss it.” 

Thankfully, he obeyed and therefore witnessed those few seconds when the moon completely blocked the sun, with only that thin, brilliant ring outlining the silhouette of the moon. 

“Wow, that’s pretty cool.” I no longer had to tell him to keep his eye on the sun. Like everyone else, he couldn’t look away. Totality is enchanting like that. 

As the moon passed on, seeming faster than before, daylight returned, confusing the seagulls and pelicans who had begun to gather for their nighttime routines. They veered up into the sky practically bumping into each other in their disorientation. I found the behavior of the birds nearly as intriguing as the eclipse.

In 2017, Bruce and I had been in an area with trees. As the light dimmed, the birds clustered in the branches out of sight. Above the ocean, these birds were in full view for us to appreciate their unusual behavior. We watched the birds as people around us dispersed. When the pelicans returned to normal flights and the seagulls to their usual skillful foraging about the shoreline, then Forrest and I moved on. 

“I don’t want to go back to the apartment,” I said. “This was a special event. We should end the day doing something different from our usual routine.”

“Let’s keep walking along the shore to make sure the birds are back to normal,” he responded. 

We had been frugal to make up for the high rent condo, although groceries were no bargain either. So different from my previous experience in Guatemala and Mexico. Around here, people dressed and carried themselves like they had money. Maybe the La Serena/Coquimbo area was wealthier than the rest of the country. It seemed more like California than what I supposed Chile would be.

Where was the street food? The local indigenous craft stalls? The mercados filled with fresh produce? 

“We should at least splurge on dinner at a seafood restaurant before we leave," I said. "After all, we’re right on the coast with fishing as a major industry.” 

“I know where there’s a string of local restaurants,” he replied. “In fact, we’re heading right for them. We can check them out and see what we think.” 

“Oh, good! I’ll buy dinner, my treat.” I had learned after Bruce died that the best way to get anyone to go out to dinner with me was offer to pay. 

We found a small place that looked out toward the sea, not fancy at all, run by a sixty-something couple. She was behind the counter, and he waited on us. They had just a few tables, and we were the only ones there. 

We ordered their seafood platters. Seafood soup, seafood empanadas, and fried fish. It was okay, nothing remarkable, but at least we got our seafood dinner on the coast of Coquimbo. 

As we walked home, we agreed we were done with Chile and ready to head north toward Peru. We had our reservation through Friday evening, but we decided to leave Thursday. Tomorrow. When we reached the apartment, Forrest checked the bus schedule online. 

“We can leave on the ten pm bus and drive through the night. Our first stop will be early morning in Antofagasta.”

 “Perfect. That gives us all day tomorrow to pack, do laundry, use up our food, clean the place up. I like the idea of no rush.” 

“We’ll go to the bus station in the morning for our tickets. We can walk there and back, then take an Uber at night with our luggage and stuff.” 

One more day to go for a long walk where I let the ocean breezes carry my grief away with the tide. Like the tide though, it always came back. I could see myself returning to Coquimbo for this fantastic beach. Winter, free of tourists, was best, and without an eclipse lodging must be cheaper. 

I visualized a group of Gowens coming out together. We could cram into the condo and split the cost five ways. That’s only a hundred bucks for a whole week of oceanside luxury in Coquimbo!

Never mind the whole getting to Chile part of it.

Not an Eclipse Chaser: Stories from A to Z

By Tuesday, mother and son had their solid routines. I wrote in the mornings, then got ready for the day and went to find enough Wi-Fi to work for a couple hours. Forrest connected with the couch-surfing community, occasionally having meetups for lunch. Dinner, we ate together in our apartment, one or the other cooking depending on which one of us got it going first. 

When I finished work, I walked to warm up. Winter in Chile was cold unless I was outside in the bright sunshine. Even then, I wore a sweater or sweatshirt or sometimes both. 

Our building was five minutes from the beach. Since it was winter and not tourist season, there weren’t many people around. I took solitary grief walks near the water and talked out loud to Bruce. No one could hear me over the pounding surf.

I poured out my aching heart to Bruce and to God. It didn’t seem real that my husband had passed on to the other side and left me behind. How would I ever get used to his absence? Those long afternoons with nothing to do except walk and talk and seek healing for my broken heart were exactly what I needed. 

When I got tired, I’d sit on a bench next to the boardwalk and look out over the ocean. I finally realized what a magnificent setting this would be to watch the sunset each evening. But I never stayed for it. I’d get restless or hungry and return to the apartment to start dinner. Besides, sitting alone to experience a sunset made me feel lonelier than ever, so I didn’t do it. 

Forrest and I normally had one meal a day together, depending on if we both happened to be home and ready to eat at the same time. Sometimes he would cook, sometimes I would. We never planned anything, it just worked out the way it worked out. 

Tuesday marked the first week anniversary of my leaving Utah; it seemed like weeks had gone by. It was the same for Forrest. After dinner, he said, “I’m about done with Coquimbo. It feels like we’ve been here forever. I’m ready to go.” 

“Well, tomorrow is the eclipse and why we came to Coquimbo in the first place. We have to stay for that.” 

“I didn’t come to Chile just for the eclipse like so many did. I wanted to go to South America and figured since I’m coming anyway, I might as well plan for the eclipse.”

I couldn’t believe he would consider leaving before the eclipse! “I think you’ll be glad you did, Forrest. A total eclipse is incredible.” 

“Meh. I’m ready to go.”

 “We can go after the eclipse and check out a day early.” 

“This place is full of eclipse chasers right now. I’ve met a few of them. Did you know there are eclipse celebrities? People who have seen so many they're famous in the eclipse chasing world." 

"This will make two for me,” I said. “I never figured I’d see totality once in my lifetime, let alone twice. And there’s one in Mexico in 2024, when I very well could be there. If I am, that will make three for me.” 

“You don’t have anything to tie you down and you want to travel. You could easily become an eclipse celebrity, Mom, if you wanted.” 

That was the last thing I wanted. 

“There’s even a few American celebrities in the area.” 

“Really? Like who? Tom Cruise?” I loved Tom Cruise. I would keep my eyes out for him. 

Forrest laughed. “I didn’t hear his name, but Robert Downey, Jr. and Bill Gates are a few I heard about.” 

“If I saw either of them, I doubt I’d recognize them.” Besides, they probably weren’t strolling along the Coquimbo beach or going to the shopping center ATM like what I was doing. 

“I’m just sick of the hype and ready to leave.” Forrest hated following the crowd. He had not gone to the 2017 total eclipse, practically in our own backyard, because “there’s too much hype about it. Too many people are going.”

“As close as we are, to leave now and miss it would be silly. You’re the opposite of an eclipse chaser, Forrest. You’re an eclipse avoider.”

"Yep. And I'm ready to go."

Move this chair for Wi-Fi: Stories from A to Z

Sunday after church and dinner, I laid down to take a nap while Forrest continued his quest to find the best Wi-Fi connection in the building. 

He returned sometime later pleased to say he had found it. “Come on, I’ll show you.” 

I was still under the covers reading. “Can’t you just tell me? I'm all warm and cozy.” 

“No, I have to show you.” I dragged myself out to follow him. 

The magic spot was on the first floor, in a hallway off the lobby. He pulled over a chair from the lobby and placed it at an angle.

“This is it. If you put the chair like this, you can sit and work on your laptop. It’s the best spot in the entire building. I’ve tried the chair at different positions, and this is the angle that works.”

I couldn’t believe we paid $500 a week and had to jump through hoops for an Internet connection. “I’d feel embarrassed moving a chair and sitting crooked in the hall like this.” I looked around. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?” 

“No, because who would care and anyway this condo is practically deserted. I think it's us and maybe a few others staying here and that’s it.” 

Once in a while there was another person or two in the elevator, but most often the building seemed vacant. I didn’t need to worry about anyone staring at me or thinking I was weird or strange to move a chair from one place to another. 

That became my working location during the week. Except it had no heat, no sun to warm it up, and after an hour it was too cold for me to focus. Forrest passed me once as I was shivering in the chair. 

“There’s a lounge right there at the end of the hall, Mom, and it’s heated. It has comfortable seating and good Internet reception, but the door is always locked. If you can find the guy who works around here and ask him to let you in, it’s a nice place to work.” 

Again, with the hoops we had to jump through to Enjoy Coquimbo.

Let's get a cab: Stories from A to Z

On Sunday, our second full day, we felt like we’d been there a week already. Not because it was boring, but because we had so completely embraced and acquainted ourselves with the environment. 

Forrest had researched where the nearest unit of our church was and what time it started. “It’s about thirty to forty minutes to walk. So we will need to leave here in time to make sacrament meeting at ten.” 

That sounded good to me. A nice walk on the way to church would be delightful.

Except that it was uphill all the way and not pleasant. We went along busy streets with no trees, past a few weedy lots and scattered buildings. Too often, no sidewalks either. 

After twenty minutes of this, I said, “Let’s get a cab.” 

“It’s only a little farther, Mom, probably at the top of this hill.” 

Then another ten minutes, no church building in sight, but yet another hill. 

I saw a cab coming our way and hailed it. He was going the opposite direction and already had a passenger but said he'd drop her off first, then us. I got in the back seat with the girl and Forrest sat in the passenger seat. 

He drove most of the way we had already walked, let the girl off, then turned his cab around and drove back up the hill. He went straight to one of our church buildings without any trouble, although it was in a different direction from the one Forrest assumed we were walking to. 

We arrived right before the meeting began and sat in the back. As soon as the sacrament had been passed and the first speaker stood up, Forrest and I were nonstop on our phones, because Wi-Fi! 

When not looking at my screen, I glanced around at the congregation, composed of well-dressed worshipers with fantastic hair. Of course, because this is Chile, the land of beautiful people and amazing hair. 

After sacrament meeting, we stayed for the Sunday school class, spending the entire lesson on our phones. During which, Forrest figured out the route for traveling from Coquimbo to Peru, passing through several key cities for stopping along the way. 

While he did that, I booked the hotels online at the cities he listed: Antofagasta, Iquique, and Arica. Forrest planned to do a side trip to the Atacama Desert which didn’t interest me. Instead, I'd stay in Iquique, and he would meet me there before our final bus ride to the border city of Arica. 

We spent a highly productive two hours at church, making the most of their excellent Internet. When the meeting ended, Forrest stepped outside to the sidewalk, looked around, checked his phone, and immediately knew where we were. How he managed to do this, I have no idea. It was his super power. 

“Want to go home via the beach?” he asked. Of course! 

Walking along the beach was scenic and peaceful and like floating on air. I took a picture of us looking healthy and relaxed, the Pacific Ocean in the background. 

The way home felt like ten minutes instead of the forty minutes trying to get to the church, which probably was never there in the first place. I figured if I hadn’t flagged that cab driver, we would have pressed on and on, never finding it. No doubt it was the one the cab driver took us to going a different direction. 

Forrest didn’t agree with me, since his super power status was at stake. “Nah, the church was on the other side of the hill. We’d have reached it in five minutes if you hadn’t stopped that taxi.”

Karen, get over yourself: Stories from A to Z

The next morning, the mutual goodwill disappeared. It began when I made a week’s menu and list of groceries, with the idea we could shop together at a store larger than a corner tienda. 

Why was I not surprised when my independent twenty-seven-year-old son, who had lived on his own since he graduated high school and joined the Marines, did not want to trot off to the supermarket and shop with his mom from her list? 

Instead, Forrest intended to go out exploring on his own. “I want to find some fresh fish,” he responded to my suggestions about groceries. When I mentioned a few other things to pick up, he walked away with, “I’ll see what I see.” 

I returned to my room and crawled under the covers to write in my journal. Even with the door shut and the electric heater turned up high, it was cold outside those covers. With Forrest gone, I felt desolate and abandoned, familiar feelings since Bruce had died. It certainly wasn’t anyone’s fault, simply part of this long grieving process.

Sad feelings of loss and abandonment could overcome me at the slightest provocation, and they hit me that morning in our condo. Probably due to a letdown after our empanada dinner, when we had experienced one of those rare magical moments a mom does not often get with her grown children. 

Last night was the first of many such magical times Forrest and I were to share through the course of our trip. But I didn’t know what was ahead, and that morning I only wanted Bruce. 

The love of my life and my companion for nearly fifty years. What was I doing hanging on to Forrest? Insisting he take me along on what was originally meant as a solo trip couch-surfing through South America? 

Eventually I got this out of my system and noticed how bright it was outside. I dressed and went into the sunshine, much better than staying in my freezing cold bedroom huddled under the covers feeling sorry for myself. I walked to the tienda café of the night before and bought my standard breakfast of diet Coke. 

On the way home I noticed a little vegetable stand across the street from our building. I bought a carton of eggs plus an onion, garlic, and peppers for omelets. Enough to have a few meals to start us off. I also picked out several potatoes, thinking about what I could made in this nice kitchen for my youngest boy. Nothing made me happier than cooking for my loved ones. Cooking for yourself is just not that fun or rewarding. 

Forrest arrived soon after with his own collection of groceries: pasta, sauce, eggs, and a few other items. “I couldn’t find any fish,” he said. 

I made us a vegetable omelet and later he cooked rice with sauteed vegetables. 

We needed Wi-Fi. I couldn’t go without working for more than a long weekend before my authors with books in process got panicky. Anywhere I stayed, I needed reliable Internet. Forrest was focused on finding the best connection in our building and went to explore every corner of it in his search. 

I walked again to the tienda/café and bought a few sticks of butter and a carton of milk from their cooler. After putting it away in our fridge, I returned to the vegetable stand across the street for more vegetables and some fresh fruit. On my way home, I saw Forrest sitting outside the building on one of the benches. 

“Hey, Mom,” he greeted, “the connection isn’t too bad right here. I’m using the password for that place next door.” 

“Oh, good. Let me go put these things away and grab my laptop. I really need to check my email.”

That outside Wi-Fi wasn't bad. I could stay connected and take care of business. Except the sun was too bright to see the screen easily. And working hunched over on a park bench or seated at a concrete planter is too uncomfortable to last long. I was soon ready to pack up and go do something else. 

Forrest was still busy on his phone. “I’m connecting with people who are here for the eclipse,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many there are, from all over the world.” 

“How did you find them?” 

“Through a couple sites, the couch-surfing group I’m in, and one I found about eclipse-chasers. I’m going to meet up with some people for lunch today.” 

“Okay, well that sounds interesting. I think I’ll take my laptop upstairs then go out for a walk to find the beach.” 

Forrest pointed in the direction of the Enjoy Coquimbo building, the real one not our fake one. “Go back to the first hotel where we stopped and then turn right. It’s so close. You can’t miss it.” 

He was right. It was less than a ten-minute walk, and what a beautiful beach, the kind where people come for the sand and the ocean. It had long stretches of wide, flat sandy beach where you could walk forever right next to the water. 

Along the sidewalks and boardwalks situated between the sea and the street were all kinds of little shops and cafes. Farther down were the less touristy areas with fishing boats and rustic seafood stalls and restaurants. 

After walking awhile on the nearly vacant beach, I connected back up with the street and noticed a green and white street sign pointing to La Serena. This was the town I originally had sought lodgings in, but they were more expensive and less available. Coquimbo, which was described as working class with a fishing industry, sounded more appealing to me than a touristy college town anyway. 

I followed the arrow to La Serena, crossed a busy street and came to a shopping center. I was tired by then and not in the mood to walk around to see what it had. I stopped at a pizza place on the edge of the center, ordered a bottle of diet soda and asked for a glass with ice. There was no ice. Okay, I'll take it warm. 

I took my bottle and glass to a table outside in the sun and watched shoppers come and go, all of them with good clothes and great hair.

The men regardless of age could be male models or movie stars based on nothing more than their hair, worn longish and styled to look casual yet fashionable, like it just happened to grow this way. Perhaps it did. I never saw anything like the hair on these men. Young or old, they all had the same great hair. How did they do it? 

It seemed like a national trait to have the best hair and know instinctively how to cut and style it to look fantastic. Same with clothes. Nice, expensive-looking clothes that looked perfect on everyone, even when dressed casually. The women too had beautiful hair, cut and styled in simple, basic lines, most often long and curled under, that made the most of their features. 

I felt sloppy in my leggings, Doc Martens and oversized sweatshirt, compared to their woolen overcoats and stylish boots. And who knows what my hair was doing. It certainly wasn’t thick and smooth like Chileno hair. Still, I enjoyed sitting there as an invisible observer of the Coquimbo/La Serena population.

That evening, Forrest sat up late in the living room watching local TV to practice Spanish. He flipped through channels to find another soccer game. He might have gone out somewhere. I didn’t know since I went to bed early, read awhile on my Kindle then fell asleep by nine. 

Our first full day in Coquimbo, a Saturday, had started out rough but turned out quite nice.

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? 

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.