About the Time I was Absolutely and Terrifyingly Lost in Panama

About the Time I was Absolutely and Terrifyingly Lost in Panama

A year ago I was Lost.

No-cell-phone-service Lost. The-road-is-a-gravel-track-through-cane-fields Lost.

Set Sail One Day

Five girlfriends had set out from Panama City to go to El Valle, about two hours away. We’d go to the Sunday crafts market there and have lunch at a boutique hotel afterwards.

A quick stop for cheese empanadas and gas and we were on the road. The miles sped by as we talked and laughed and it was well over an hour before we started to look for the turnoff to El Valle. There wasn’t a sign, but the intersection was the one with the pink shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe.

More talk. More laughter. More miles. Eventually we turned on the GPS and it signaled a turn. Not the road with the shrine, but it was the right direction.

At Road’s End

About half a mile down the new road, tarmac gave way to gravel. With deep ruts. Then worse ruts. We passed a small village and asked if that was the right road to El Valle. Yes, we were assured. One person said El Valle was just 10 minutes. Another said 30 minutes. The GPS seemed to split the difference.

always turn right

Bad ruts turned into a dry stream bed weaving through Panama’s low mountains. The doughty SUV slid downhill, the tires unable to grip the loose stones. We jolted in the car like peanuts in a tin can. A dashboard light turned on—overheated transmission. We stopped on a rocky plateau and scouted ahead only to find that the gravel track narrowed ahead. The five of us were quite alone in the hot rustling jungle.

The SUV cooled and we started off again, now having discovered that we were all Catholic and that two of us carried rosaries. The jungle gave way to cane fields. Hard green stalks as high as the car roof rattled against the windows.

Two Hours Later . . .

After two hours off-road we broke through the cane field and clambered onto tarmac again. We were on the eastern edge of El Valle. Never were five women more ready to buy souvenirs.

I learned a few things that day.

About being lost. And knowing when to turn at the shrine.

  1. Don’t be so distracted by peripherals—entertainment, Twitter, mooning over the wrong guy—that you forget to look for the shrine that points the way to where you really want to go.
  2. If you’re lost, keep going. Take a break to rethink the situation, take care of problems, or give yourself a pep talk, but don’t confuse “taking a break” with “breaking down.” Cheerlead as you go—you’re handling the uncertainty well, you’re learning about yourself and wherever this “lost” place is—even if it is inside you.
  3. The shrine doesn’t have to be the pink altar on the side of the road. A shrine can be any pointer that helps you travel where you want to go. A shrine can be the project you handled well—you can use it as inspiration for managing a bigger one. A shrine can be a passing grade in a tough subject—you know you can master the next class, too. A shrine can be a hard decision, a recovery from an illness, the day you stood up for yourself, the time when you were scared but did it anyway.
  4. Maybe today’s the day you build a shrine. The day you make a decision and carry it out. The day that you see new possibilities. Believe an inspirational quote and translate it into action. Once you build the shrine, it’s yours forever, ready to inspire if you get lost.

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always turn right

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

always turn right

A 9/11 Story

A 9/11 Story

I was sitting in a small auditorium at the Colegio Americano in Mexico City waiting for the meeting to start. The room was full of women and the occasion was the annual meeting of Mexico’s Secretariat of Education with the school’s parents. I knew I wouldn’t understand most of it; my Spanish listening skills were still feeble although I’d temporarily mastered numbers. But the school administration had sent home shrill notes insisting that parents attend, claiming a correlation between continued accreditation/funding with the number of parents that showed up.

9/11We were new at the school that year. I didn’t see anyone I knew from my vantage point near the rear exit. The murmurs around me were all in Spanish.

As I leafed through my Filofax, a soft exclamation in English sounded from the front row. A blonde women turned to someone behind her as she waved a cell phone. “A plane hit the Twin Towers in New York,” she whispered loud enough for me to hear.

A small plane. A Cessna, I thought. A private pilot must have had a heart attack and veered off course. The plane would have splintered into pieces against the skyscraper. How sad.

With great ceremony, some school officials and a large man in a glen plaid suit mounted the stage and crossed to the podium. There were introductory remarks. The glen plaid suit started speaking on behalf of the Secretariat.

The warm air in the auditorium thickened with a mixture of boredom and expensive perfume. The speaker’s face was moist above the microphone. I had no idea what he was saying.

Whispers again rippled out from the front row in a language I could understand. A second plane had struck the Twin Towers.

No one left. The sweaty Secretariat man droned on for another 30 minutes until finally the school officials thanked him and dismissed the meeting. Maybe he took questions. I don’t remember.

I drove home and turned on the television. It was 11:30 am. At 11:32 I realized the world had fundamentally changed.

And that’s my 9/11 story.

Click here for the 9/11 digital archive. The Archive contains more than 150,000 digital items, a tally that includes more than 40,000 emails and other electronic communications, more than 40,000 first-hand stories, and more than 15,000 digital images.

Click here for the 9/11 memorial website.

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9/11

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

9/11

How to Find Love at Mexico City’s Markets

How to Find Love at Mexico City’s Markets

Love to find that perfect travel memory? Love authentic handcrafts? Head for Mexico City’s markets.

Markets inspired much of the atmostphere I wrote into THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY, the romantic thriller and modern Cinderella story. The sights, sounds, and temptations of Mexico City’s markets helped drive the novel’s authenticity.

Mexico City's markets

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Find more than souvenirs

Mexico City’s markets are where you can fall in love with the country’s culture, people-watch both buyers and sellers, and find some of the best street food, too. Just watch your purse/backpack/wallet. Like every big city, Mexico City has its share of clever pickpockets, even in the best markets.

Related: The Lost Chapter of THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY

Each market has its own flavor and specialty items and everyone I know has their favorites. These are mine.

Bazaar Sabado

Bazaar Sabado art

Samples of handicrafts available at Bazaar Sabado. Courtesy http://elbazaarsabado.com/mx/#expositores

A straight shot down the big Periferico highway from the upscale Lomas de Chapultepec area, San Angel is the most colonial of all the Mexico City neighborhoods, with old Spanish architecture and a charm that makes you want to stay and explore. The market—Saturdays only–is located on the edge of the Plaza San Jacinto and spills outside the building, making it an interesting but fairly well contained exploration. This is the place for very high quality (prices reflect that, too) glassware, metalcrafts, mosaics, artwork, etc. There are several restaurants nearby with great food, too. The market’s website gives more information.

The main building is organized like a US antiques mall, with vendors in stalls surrounding the building’s courtyard. My favorite purchases there have been beautiful laquerware and cedar carvings of a village, including different churches. Alas, the dog ate the carvings (no kidding) and when I went back the vendor wasn’t there. The rule here, as with all Mexican markets: if you see it and like it, buy it NOW. You probably won’t see it again. These are pieces of art, not mass market products.

I’m also kicking myself for never having bought any of the glass mosaic pieces—candle hurricane lamps, bowls, etc– that are a feature of this market, so if you go, let me know.

Jardin del Arte

Jardin del Arte Mexico City

Photo by Agustin Valero – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=9070692

“They waded into the sea of paintings that was Jardin del Arte.”

This quote from THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY says it all. This Sunday market is devoted to paintings of all sizes and shapes and is one of my favorite weekend places. It is held in a park at the northeast end of Rio Lerma (on Saturdays there are ballroom dancing events where older couples come out and dance to big band sounds.) Artists whose paintings are sold for thousands in galleries come with the lesser pieces which you can buy for a fraction of their worth.

Then there are the unknown artists with one or two unique items, the artists who make a living selling the predictable Mexican village scene of a house, a girl, and a donkey, and the rest who make this a feast for the art lover.

On the fringes of the park there are vendors who sell art supplies—every size and shape of canvas and type of paint and pastel. I knew one American woman who bought several paintings every weekend for a year and opened a gallery in the US with them. No doubt she jump-started many a Mexican artist’s career.

Related: Read Chapters 1 & 2 of THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY

Mercado de Jamaica

Photo courtesy Leigh Thelmadatter, https://creativehandsofmexicodotorg.wordpress.com/

This is where people buy their voodoo stuff, I was told. Be careful if you go.

And yes, I saw the voodoo candles and statues of Santa Muerto, the saint of death idolized by drug cartels. Bottles of herbs and pamphlets with incantations. I bought a candle with special coins guaranteed to enhance the wealth of my family . . . still waiting to see the results.

Bu this sprawling market is also where the best Halloween/Day of the Dead costumes are sold, as well as flowers, food, pets, fabrics, household pots and pans, and just about anything else you can expect a Mexico City householder to use. Here’s a wonderful description of the market by Mexico City-based artist Jim Johnston.

Don’t miss out! Get your free copy of the Insider’s Guide to the Best of Mexico. Free download here.

Cuidadela

The market at Balderas

Photo courtesy Leigh Thelmadatter, https://creativehandsofmexicodotorg.wordpress.com/

This downtown city market is a warren of vendor stalls with a big selection of handicrafts and household goods. It is big but the quality is a notch below Bazaar Sabado and the pickpockets are more in evidence. Expect more aggressive vendors, too.

My best purchase there was a ¾ size guitar for $40 that was well-crafted with a nice solid sound, perfect for a son learning a new instrument. We still have it, many years later.

I also got a Bruce the shark piñata for my daughter’s Nemo-themed birthday party that was nearly impossible to break (Daddy had to cut it open with a penknife before the kids could get the candy inside!)

This is a great place for embroidered tablecloths and talavera, the heavy painted pottery from Puebla. Many vendors will take custom orders and deliver the finished tableware to your house. If you aren’t ready to buy, ask for the vendor’s card (tarjeta) so you’ll know how to find them when you are.

Insurgentes

Otomi embroidered cloth

Photo courtesy Anne Damon, Zinnia Folk Arts, www.ZinniaFolkArts.com

This upscale market on the Reforma side of the Zona Rosa is the best place for jewelry and the beautiful embroidered cloth by the Otomi Indians. It is near the Plaza des Angeles, a wonderful (and pricey) antiques mall with Spanish Colonial china, furniture, and artwork. (I have a soft spot in my heart for this place because I once left my car unlocked all day in front of it and the car was wholly untouched when I returned. A small urban miracle.)

The Insurgentes market can be a tight crawl; the vendors are squeezed together and the aisles between the rows of stalls are narrow. Most sell sterling silver jewelry and weigh an item before giving you a price. Stall owners can usually be found with a cloth polishing their silver inventory and will want to show you more items than what is on display. Lots of good copies of Tiffany, Louis Vuitton and TOUS jewelry but the Mexican-designed necklaces, rings, and bracelets can be breath-taking, especially those with semi-precious stones.

The Otomi cloth is unique, embroidered with big animals, many of which are imaginary. The thread is often one color, making a big statement that looks very modern, although some are multicolored. Vendors at the market generally sell pieces big enough to be a bedspread—for $300 and up—as well as pillow covers, table runners, and place mat-sized pieces. Ask to see more than what is displayed; almost all fabric vendors will have more folded up and stacked somewhere. So You Think You Can Dance TV host Cat Deeley had a pile of Otomi pillows on her patio in InStyle magazine. If you can’t get to the market, find these beautiful textiles at Zinnia Folk Art, which always has a wonderful selection.

Coyoacan

Photo courtesy Alex Fisher

Photo courtesy Alex Fisher

Photo courtesy Alex Fisher

Photo courtesy Alex Fisher

The market in Coyoacan, near the bright blue Frida Khalo museum, is worth a stop if you are in the area. Coyoacan was among the first of the Mexico City’s neighborhoods to rbe named as one of Mexico’s Barrios Magicos (Magic Neighborhoods) due to its  tree-lined cobblestone streets, colonial-era homes, and rich cultural history. It’s got great local produce, as well as as a carnival of street food, including chapulines (fried grasshoppers.)

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Mexico City's markets

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

Mexico City's markets

The Girl on the Other Side of the Earth

The Girl on the Other Side of the Earth

When my daughter was little I wanted to give her a sense of her place in the world. We got a globe and calculated the exact opposite spot if one drew a straight line through the center of the earth from where we were.  We hit China.

We started to tell each other stories about a Chinese girl who lived across the earth from us.  She would be my daughter’s exact age, of course, and we wondered what she’d be doing. What clothes would she wear? What season was it for her? What food would she like to eat? If it was bedtime for my daughter was it morning for the girl in China?

Each time our family moved, we imagined a new girl on the other side of the earth from wherever we found ourselves. The globe has some pen marks on it now and we weren’t terribly geographically precise, but we still talk about where is the girl on the other side of the earth from us and what she is doing that is the same or different. Which was the whole point of the exercise, I think.

Right now, she’s a girl in Indonesia.

Where is that girl across the earth from you?

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other side

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

other side

Remembering Resistance

Remembering Resistance

In my travels, it has struck me that a culture reveals its true strength by what it chooses to remember and preserve.  Often that means museums, but it also means UNESCO World Heritage Sites, preserved or excated sites like Jordan’s Petra or Italy’s Pompeii, the music and folksongs and linguistic ideocyncracies that are gifts from one generation to another.

Sixty-five years after the end of WWII, here are a few thoughts on the way two countries have chosen to remember and preserve their resistance to Nazi occupation.

Norway

Norway’s Hjemmefrontmuseum, located in Akershus Castle in Oslo, is a world-class museum that lays out the history of the April 1940 German invasion of Norway, the Norwegian military’s spirited but overmatched defense, and the king’s narrow escape to London where he established the legitimate Norwegian government in exile while the Quisling government ruled in Hitler’s name.

In Norway, the shock of occupation  quickly gave way to anger and to an organized armed resistance effort. The British provided training, supplies, weapons, and clandestine transportation that became known as the Shetland Bus. Norwegian Resistance cells carried out commando raids and sabotage (the most famous actions being the destruction of the production capability of the Norsky Hydro heavy water plant–immortalized in the Kirk Douglas classic movie The Heroes of Telemark–that deprived the Nazi nuclear weapons development program of a vital component.)

The Norwegians’ ability to survive in the country’s wilderness areas and ski away from pursuit helped them survive to fight another day, but the death toll was high. The Germans retaliated with relentless hunts to find Resistance members and executed civilians in response to Resistance raids and destruction.

Resistance

What the museum revealed

The museum, in addition to being located in an impressive historic castle guarding the Oslo Fjord, wins major points for display, authenticity, and heart, with an excellent collection of everything related to the Resistance, from clandestine newspapers to hidden radios to the log-shaped containers used to drop supplies to Resistance cells in remote locations.

Every display was eye-catching and well explained, with many personal accounts woven into the factual information.  The museum belongs to the Norwegian Defense Forces and the Resistance is a proud part of Norway’s military heritage.

As I wandered through the museum,  I found myself writing down bits and pieces of this fascinating national story and since have sought out memoirs of Resistance members, like Two Eggs on My Plate by Oluf Reid Olsen and We Die Alone by David Howarth. Touring the entire place took me over three hours both times that I have visited, not counting time spent in the bookshop.

Netherlands

In the Netherlands, the Dutch Resistance Museum, the Verzetsmuseum, was a different experience, reflecting that country’s different wartime situation. The museum is located in a rowhouse in a busy Amsterdam commercial district. It is a small, modern gem which has won several awards. But the nature of the resistance in the Netherlands was mostly a nonviolent movement, with small cells operating independently. Some sabotage and counterintelligence activities took place late in the war, as the Allied invasion of Europe loomed.

What the museum revealed

The museum’s permanent collection focused on how people endured the occupation. It took pains to point out the state of the country in the late 1930’s and I was struck by the high percentage of Dutch who lived below the poverty line at the beginning of the war. Needless to say, things only got worse during the occupation.

ResistanceResistanceAs I paid my admission fee I was told that it would take at least 2 hours to tour.  But 20 minutes later, I had seen all the exhibits and was wondering if I’d missed a  door to the rest of the place.

But mostly I was struck by the feeling that the museum had hidden an apology. Despite the exhibits of life during the war, the nameless but courageous couriers, and the gut-wrenching stories of those who had to kill informants in order to save the members of their resistance cells, there was a sense of sadness rather than the daring and triumph of the museum in Oslo.

It was as if the Verzetsmuseum acknowledged that it lives in the shadow of the Anne Frank House, just a few miles away and stunningly and comprehensively preserved.  That is the definitive story of Dutch resistance, a resistance of the heart and mind.

I wonder if there will be a National Resistance Museum of Syria.

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Resistance

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

Resistance

The Kitchen UN

The Kitchen UN

Oslo in June is a wonderful place. Clouds scud across a cobalt sky and the harbor is thronged with boats, tourists, and the smell of lilacs. After months of Arctic winter grey, the city is stretching itself awake in the midnight sun. You stay up long after sunset at 11pm, wrapped in a blanket at a harborside cafe.

And there in a shop window, was the perfect souvenir–a row of blue and white spice jars with names of spices in Norwegian, looking like an Italian-worded set that my grandmother had. I imagined them in a row on my counter at home, their blue letters proclaiming my adventurousness. Every time I’d look at them I’d remember both Oslo in June and my grandmother’s kitchen.

kitchen

But mostly I’d be looking at pottery shards in a soft-sided suitcase.

So I passed them up and I’m still kicking myself. Those little jars captured what Norway meant: the bluest sky in the world, the freshness of energy of a reborn place, an unexpected reminder of my grandmother.  And my kitchen really needed that final touch; something to go with the salad tongs from Kenya, coffee mugs from England, corkscrew from Australia, the framed menu from my Paris student days, the olive cutting board from Greece, and a truly antique Delft tile I couldn’t afford, another from the tram stop at Binnenwatersloot where for once I wasn’t lost, a tiny ceramic square from Rome inscribed with the blessing Pace e Bene.

A fourth tile hangs on the wall. Hardly a prized antique, it’s a mass-produced tile with a color picture of a woman and child walking next to a walled village with “Rothenburg ob der Tauber” written on the bottom. I got it in an antiques shop in Virginia, in a box labelled “odd cups.”

It took me back to the medieval village of Rothenburg, to a 1981 trip my mother and I took to West Germany and Austria. We embraced the beverages, the food, the architecture, the people, and the fine bed-and-breakfast establishments recommended by the publishers of Let’s Go Europe. We climbed an Alp. rode a cable car, listened to Mozart in Salzburg, sang in the biergartens, and mourned at Dachau. And bought not one sourvenir.

So years later, I found myself paying the outrageous price of $12 for a chipped tile and exulting over such a bargain. Of couse I called my mother and she laughed as we remembered the beer, the wursts, and the rest of the trip. I smile every time I see that tile, knowing what a bond it represents.

The kitchen is the heart of the home. Maybe that’s why so much of my kitchen tools are souvenirs from my travels.

Bene e Pace

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kitchen

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

kitchen

At the End of the Line

At the End of the Line

Let’s set the scene

Luz filled out a form to cash the check at a mahogany counter then went to the end of the line.

            It moved very slowly and grew very long. Luz had ample time to look around. The bank was an elegant place of glass and darkly veined marble where people had hushed conversations. The business being transacted was too venerable for a normal tone of voice.

            Luz was only about eight customers away from the teller windows when a man wearing a beautifully tailored dark suit walked into the bank. In the midst of the rough looking laborers, he stood out, tall and good looking.

            He consulted his jeweled Rolex and eased into the line directly in front of Luz. No one he passed reacted at all. The security guards on either side of the line appeared not to notice.

            Luz stared at the finely stitched wool in front of her. Maybe it was the boldness of knowing Eddo or the check that said she was a real artist or the fear that Marisol would punish her for taking such a long time, but she tapped him on the shoulder.  “Excuse me,” she said. “The end of the line is back there.”

            The soft murmur of banking conversations abruptly ceased.

            The man turned around. He was younger than Luz, maybe in his early twenties. He looked her up and down, taking in the gray uniform, old sweater, short socks, scuffed shoes, high cheekbones, and flat hair tucked behind her ears. Luz tried not to wilt.

           “What the fuck?” he said and sniffed as if she smelled bad. Then he turned around and walked ahead of the next three people in line. They all stepped to the side to let him pass.

end of the line

Write what you know

Unfortunately this fictional scene from The Hidden Light of Mexico City is based on a real event.  Like Luz, I was in a big bank in Mexico City.  As I stood in line and watched the well-dressed young man cut in, I actually gasped at his rudeness.

No one else reacted. The laborers, maids, and others whose work attire betrayed their social class just numbly accepted that he should be ahead of them and avoid their long wait. I spent the next few minutes alternately fuming at the lack of reaction and convincing myself that this wasn’t my fight.

But the gasp had attracted attention. My check was invalidated by the teller.

My revenge was to capture what had happened in a novel.

I met alot of people like that rude young man in Mexico City.  They enjoyed the heritage of old money and were accustomed–and wedded to–to the priviledges of the ruling class and the subservience of those on the social scale far below.  The latter, in turn, appeared resigned to their status and to the economic limbo it implied.

Noticed

Happily, I’m not the only one who has noticed and stronger voices than mine are talking about inequality in Latin America and its impact on development.  The RAND website offers a great recap of a talk given last month by UN Assistant Secretary General and Regional Director for Latin America and the Caribbean at the UNDP Heraldo Muňoz based on the UNDP’s recent report “Acting on the Future: Breaking the Intergenerational Cycle of Inequality.”

According to Muñoz, “features of inequality have been an inheritance for hundreds of years. Inequality is very significant, very profound, very persistent, and very difficult to break. Inequality in income, education, and health pass from one generation to another.”

Although Latin America is not the world’s poorest region, it is the most unequal one, said Muñoz. It has 10 of the 15 most unequal countries in the world, when measured by household per-capita income. “Latin America is 65 percent more unequal than high-income countries, 36 percent more unequal than East Asia, and 18 percent more unequal than even the average for sub-Saharan Africa.”

The solutions aren’t easy and they won’t be fast.  But the dialogue has started.

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end of the line

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

end of the line

A Walk in Her Shoes

A Walk in Her Shoes

I recently was on a plane heading from Central America to the United States. I had the aisle seat. Next to me, in the middle seat, was a middle-aged woman who was obviously new to airline travel.  The flight attendant rapped out directions how to buckle the seatbelt and stow carryons and continued to the next row. The woman looked panicked and I helped her get situated. We introduced ourselves. She was Maria from Colombia, this was only the second flight she’d never been on, and she only spoke Spanish.

A smooth takeoff turned into one of the bumpiest flights I’d ever been on. Maria and I held onto our complimentary dinners and said reassuring things to each other. We noted that each wore a small cross.

As we approached the US, the flight attendant handed out immigration forms. Maria stared at it blankly. I asked if she had the address of where she was going in the United States. She took out a well-worn address book, pressed it into my hand and asked me to fill out her form.

Maria was starting a whole new life in Tennessee with her niece’s family. She asked me if the winters there were cold; she wasn’t sure she could live in a cold place.

When her form was completed I explained as best as I could the immigration process and how she’d need to collect her suitcase before going through customs and finding her connecting flight to Tennessee. She kept nodding but I’d never had to describe such a process in Spanish and couldn’t seem to find the right words. But once in Houston I went into the line for US Citizens and pointed her toward the line for Visitors. Last seen, she was waiting patiently for her turn to show her passport to the uniformed official.

I wondered if I’d see her at the baggage carousel but the place was awash with people. The giant tote board showed nearly 40 arriving international flights. I’d just found the correct carousel for my flight when another woman, also about Maria’s age, addressed me in German.

I don’t speak German, just a few tourist bits from my travels like bier and weiner. But it was clear she didn’t understand how to get her luggage. The airport didn’t seem to have enough signs and few were in other languages besides English. And this was in the international arrivals area. I steered her back to the tote board and started reading off the city names. When I said Hamburg she nodded vigorously.

Baggage from the Hamburg flight was slated for carousel two. I held up two fingers and pointed the way. She saw the giant number hanging over the carousel and said “Thank you” in English. We laughed when I replied “Danke.” She gave me a hug and then went to get her bags.

I met up with her again in the Customs line. Through a series of gestures and a mix of languages I learned that her name was Marta and she was going to visit her daughter in Minnesota who was a teacher. When we parted at her gate I wished I knew how to say “good luck” in German.

As I waited for my own connecting flight, I mulled over my newfound role as a traveller’s aid society. A day in Maria and Marta’s shoes had been hard, full of incomprehensible directions and unfamiliar environments. I wondered how they would look back on their first experience of the big unruly culture of the US. They’d kept smiling and trying and hoping, because there was nothing else to be done, but underneath there had been fear of the unknown.

Every experience with a new culture is like that and putting on their shoes for a day was a good reminder. The world is smaller now than ever, and more connected, but it still takes courage to explore it.

Besos, Carmen

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walk in her shoes

CARMEN AMATO

Mystery and thriller author. Retired Central Intelligence Agency intel officer. Dog mom to Hazel and Dutch. Recovering Italian handbag addict.

 

walk in her shoes

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