I'm afraid of Latin Americans

Rodrigo, an old friend from my days in film school called me recently and needed help. He wasn't in any kind of danger, which relieved me. After twenty minutes or so of speaking excitedly over the telephone I hung up and booked a flight to Chile.

My seat was smaller than I had hoped but the woman next to me was symmetrical and British, so I was pleased. She smelt like Pina Coladas and worked in fashion, and her cleavage made up for the soggy fish that was served for lunch. We spoke about my life and hers, and time slipped away and clouds passed us by.

She was on her way to attend the launch of Maria Cornejo's new summer line, which was to be unveiled on the steps of the Bellas Artes Museum in the heart of downtown Santiago. Cornejo's clothes have a simplicity and elegance that is undeniable, but her dresses are often meandering and lack a certain edge. My British friend disagreed and offered me a peanut. I accepted.

Rodrigo moved to Chile three years ago after landing a job as a reporter for El Mercurio. Thousands of city workers were on strike and Rodrigo required my expertise in Chilean Labor laws to help him cover the story. I was also very good at dealing with impassioned Latin Americans but Rodrigo had yet to find that out.

I was to meet Rodrigo in the evening to go over notes, which gave me a full day to drink with my British friend. We ate what was perhaps the most succulent Curanto en Hoyo that I've ever tasted and drank bottles of Cabernet franc, Pinot noir, Sangiovese, Malbec, and Petite Sirah. We were drunk and made love under the hot Chilean sun.

Rodrigo was waiting for me outside of my hotel room with an impatient look tattooed on his otherwise placating face. His hair was thick and royal and could easily be sold to the highest bidder. Chile had treated my friend well. He looked fresh and his teeth were white and his jeans were tight. He wasn't wearing any socks.

The strike was being referred to as a lost cause by the Chilean intelligentsia. Rodrigo and I agreed. Workers masked their desire to increase their influence within the ruling centre-left coalition with basic monetary demands. It was bush-league and inconsequential and I preferred drinking wine and making love than concerning myself with the politics of a country best known for its Curanto en Hoyo.

I returned to Thornhill the following day to watch Family Guy with my dad.