Mothers and Daughters

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The latin fire, however, is far from extinguished here. But instead of Spain's guady plumage or the oversized belt buckles and gallon hats found in Mexico, Texas and Argentina, the warmth of Chile resonates in its families, lovers, and the charming back and forth between Mothers and Daughters.

So damn cute.

I've decided to romanticize it. Really, they've got their fair share of pain and strife in this filial relationship, as much as anyone else, or anywhere else, but that ain't news.

Here's what is: a two-for-one special. Mothers who carry their daughters on their laps only pay the price of one bus ticket!

I saw this discount get redeamed on a dry, hot January in Valparaiso when Jason and I took the 10pm back to Santiago. The reduced schedule meant we had to wait two hours in the muggy upstairs of the crowded station, drinking and sweating. I was pretty grumpy by the time we piled onto a hateful passenger bus.

We found our seats, Jason passed out and I counted down the seconds until devastating boredom would hit. It was almost due when my idle gaze caught hold of a really beautiful girl and her daughter sitting in the seat across from us, up one.

At least this was something interesting to focus on. I noticed that in the midst of summertime heat, this little girl was thirsty. So her mother pulled out a little cardboard box container of chocolate milk, but tragically there was no straw.

I watched as dismay hit both of them, and her mother set to work, digging her fingernail into the small, tinfoil circle where the straw should go, while her daughter sat on her lap, facing her, staring at her work with a concerned look, a sweet furrowed four year old brow, "Mommy..."

Mother surged with love. Anyone who's ever tried to open one of these cardboard box drinks without a straw knows that it's nearly impossible. After all, it's not just tinfoil, but also this thick layer of plastic underneath that only the sharp, narrow, piercing tip of a plastic straw can "Ahhh, yes!" plunge through and bring forth that sweet nectar of satisfaction.

It was hot, and her little daughter was thirsty, and mother dug in there devotedly. Finally, she made it. She'd broken through so her girl could drink. Her daughter pressed her mouth against the cardboard and sucked and squeezed and tilted her head back as chocolate milk spilled out and dripped and rolled down her chin.

Yes!, I thought to myself, the savage beauty of nature, the jubilant depravity of mama wolf giving milk to her cub! Drink on, thirsty animal, crave and vanquish your craving, suck from your mother and exult in the wild satisfaction!

But then she shocked me. She looked at her mother and offered her the box of milk. No. It didn't make sense. Mother didn't ask her for it -- yet she thought of her mother nonetheless.

Then this: a few minutes later, while adjusting her position on the lap, she accidentally elbowed her mother, although lightly. At this point I would be inclined to tell her: don't think twice wild cub! Fight for your spot closest to the Nipple. Struggle, or die!

Wrong again. Her sweet brown eyes looked to her mother and her sweet child's voice softly begged, "permiso!"

Amazing. What kindness and tenderness existed between these two girls, what natural respect, what lack of bitterness and lack of pretension that such a baby would think of her mother's thirst, that she would use a word like "permiso," that she would call her mother "mommy-po"...she fell asleep in her mothers arms like the softest, sweetest cub in all of the wild of humanity.

The bus pulled into Santiago terminal, and the harsh fluorescent lights woke up the grumpy little animal. It was the mother's turn to once again show limitless affection, by tickling her awake as her baby cub resisted and groaned.

The mother knew how cute she was being, and that I was watching them, grinning and laughing. She turned back and smiled at me, so beautiful, so in love with her daughter, and so irresistible herself. Needless to say, I fell in love as well. But, typical, I didn't get her digits. Oh well.

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