Grapes Upside Down

8.Bon o Bon

~Madisen~

"¿Qué te pasó a la mano?" Sofia stares at my right hand, where the flesh near my wrist is minced up like fresh hamburger meat.

Even though the Aventuras Chile headquarters are within walking distance, Graciela arranged for escort in a colectivo, which is a sort of shared taxi. It's our debut experience riding in one, as well as our first time meeting Sofia, who works with Marcela, Glenn and Helena at AC here in Viña. 

I tell her that I fell on the cement, the words exiting my mouth in choppy fragments under Sofia's scrutinizing stare. Her natural demeanor, in contrast to our host mother's, is stone-cold serious; though perfectly polite, she has yet to smile.

"¿Te caíste?"--(You fell?)

"Sí, estaba corriendo."

There is an awkward pause when I explain that I was "running."

"Corriendo," Sofia echoes, a hint of bewilderment layered under her dry, expressionless gaze.

"Sí."

"¿Como para hacer ejercicios?"--(For exercise?) she asks, a lightbulb of comprehension gradually--slowly--illuminating in her eyes like stage lights fading on.

"¡Sí!" The affirmative blasts from my mouth with a blend of relief, excitement and exasperation. 

I don't know if I've phrased it wrong, or if jogging through the community for exercise simply isn't in people's schema here. Perhaps it's a uniquely United Statesian hobby? 

As Sofia processes my responses, I picture her envisioning this random white girl sprinting down the street of her new neighborhood--in regular clothes--for no apparent reason, long red-orange hair waving wildly in the wind. 

I snort back a laugh as my own mind replays the spectacular crash and burn, my toe catching on the cracked edge protruding from the sidewalk, body hurtling through the air and splatting onto the hot afternoon cement. Onlookers, all with the exact same blank glare as Sofia, survey the idiot American teenager sprawled across the ground like roadkill.

Accidentally glancing at Sofia, her unamused expression causes me to choke as I swallow back the giggles bubbling up in my chest. 

"Fuiste a trotar," she clarifies, her features softening. (You went to trot.) Now I know the proper way to explain this activity. Noted for future use.

"You should really cover that up, especially when you go out," she advises in a speaking tone that's cool and soft, her Spanish flowing like rich layered colors of a canyon. "You don't want it to get infected."

Sofia's words convey concern, but as her eyes flicker towards my bloodied hand again, I perceive disgust. This encounter is going splendidly.

Noah shifts around next to me in the colectivo, frustration radiating from his body language.

"I tried to buy Band-Aids for her," he interjects into our conversation, utilizing our new vocabulary of the day--curitas. "None of the stores had them..." I can tell he's itching to elaborate, but the words are getting jumbled up, and he trails off. Relatable. 

Noah had arrived home out of breath after sprinting back from the drugstore, visibly upset at not having been able to locate the needed first aid supplies. I can see he is still agitated over the failed shopping experience. 

I tap his knee with my non-mutilated hand. "Don't worry about it, Noah. I'm fine, and we'll find something on the way home."

We arrive to a quaint white house dripping in greenery--hanging plants and potted magenta flowers. The inside is cozy and inviting, composed of several distinct spaces for various activities. The downstairs includes a study area with ornate wooden chairs and tables as well as a spattering of plushy armchairs. Upstairs, designed as a loft, contains a computer area with more cushy resting places.