Where'd You Go, Bernadette(70)

We arrived in Santiago at six in the morning. I’d never flown first-class before, so I didn’t know each seat was its own egg and when you pushed a button, it became a bed. As soon as my seat went totally flat, the stewardess covered me with a crisp white comforter. I must have smiled, because Dad looked over from his seat and said, “Don’t get too used to this.” I smiled back, but then I remembered I hated him, so I plopped on my eye pillow. They bring you this kind that is filled with flaxseed and lavender, which they microwave, so it’s toasty warm and you breathe in relaxation. I slept for ten hours.

There was a massive immigration line at the airport. But an officer waved over Dad and me, and unhooked a chain so we could go straight to an empty window reserved for families with small children. At first, I was annoyed because I’m fifteen. But then I thought, Fine, I’ll do cutsies.

The guy wore military fatigues and took forever with our passports. He kept looking at me, in particular, then at my passport. Up, down, up, down. I figured it was my stupid name.

Finally, he spoke. “I like your hat.” It was a Princeton Tigers baseball hat they sent Mom when they wanted her to give money. “Princeton,” he said. “That’s an American university, like Harvard.”

“Only better,” I said.

“I like tigers.” He placed his palm over both of our passports. “I like that hat.”

“Me, too.” I stuck my chin in my palm. “That’s why I’m wearing it.”

“Bee,” Dad said. “Give him the hat.”

“Whaa?” I said.

“Very much I’d like the hat,” the guy said, agreeing with Dad.

“Bee, just do it.” Dad grabbed my hat, but it was hooked on my ponytail.

“It’s my hat!” I covered my head with both hands. “Mom gave it to me.”

“She threw it in the garbage,” Dad said. “I’ll get you another one.”

“Get one yourself,” I told the guy. “You can order them on the Internet.”

“We can order you one,” Dad added.

“We will not!” I said. “He’s a grown man with a job and a gun. He can do it himself.”

The man handed us our stamped passports and gave a shrug, like, It was worth a try. We collected our bags and were funneled into the main part of the airport. A tour guide immediately identified us by the blue-and-white ribbons we tied to our luggage. He told us to wait while everyone else in the group went through immigration. It would be awhile.

“There’s no free lunch,” Dad said. He had a point, but I acted like I didn’t hear him.

Others with blue-and-white ribbons started appearing. These were our fellow travelers. They were mostly old, with wrinkled faces and wrinkle-free travel clothes. And the camera equipment! These people were circling one another like khaki peacocks, presenting their lenses and cameras. In between the preening, they’d pull out cloudy Ziploc bags of dried fruit and tuck little pieces into their mouths. Sometimes I’d catch their curious glances, probably because I was the youngest, and they’d smile all friendly. One of them stared so long I couldn’t resist, I just had to say it: “Take a picture. It lasts longer.”

“Bee!” Dad puffed.

One thing that was funny: beside a random windowless room, there was a sign depicting a stick figure on its knees under a pointy roof. This was the universal sign for church. Janitors, lunch-counter workers, and taxi drivers would go in and pray.

It was time to board the bus. I waited until Dad found a seat, then sat somewhere else. The highway into the city center ran along a river, which had trash scattered on its bank: soda cans, water bottles, tons of plastic, and food scraps just dumped. Kids were kicking a ball among the trash, running with mangy dogs among the trash, even squatting to wash their clothes among the trash. It was totally annoying, like, Would one of you just pick up the trash?

We entered a tunnel. The guide standing in the front of the bus got on the PA system and started rhapsodizing about when the tunnel was built, who won the contract to build it, how long it took, which president approved it, how many cars go through it every day, etc. I kept waiting for him to reveal its greatness, like maybe it was self-cleaning, or made out of recycled bottles. Nope, it was just a tunnel. Still, you couldn’t help but feel happy for the guide, that if things ever got really bad, he’d always have the tunnel.

We went to our hotel, which was a swirling concrete column. In a special conference room, an Austrian lady checked us in.

“Make sure there are two beds in our room,” I said. I was horrified when I had found out Dad and I would be sharing a room for the entire trip.

“Yes, you have two beds,” the lady said. “Here is your wowcher for the city tour and transfer to the airport.”

“My what?” I asked.

“Your wowcher,” she said.

“My what?”

“Your wowcher.”

“What’s a wowcher?”

“Voucher,” Dad said. “Don’t be such a little bitch.” The truth was I didn’t understand what the lady was saying. But I was being a little bitch in general, so I let Dad have this one. We got our key and went to our room.

“That city tour sounds fun!” Dad said. You almost have to feel sorry for him with his taped-over lens and desperate attitude, until you remember this whole thing started because he tried to get Mom locked up in a mental hospital.