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What does a new country look like? A new country as seen through someone´s eyes. A country we haven´t seen before. And might know little or something or perhaps a good deal about. My first glimpse of Argentina had been as a young bank employee staring out the window of a Pan Am 747 as we approached Ezeiza. It had been late November 1981 and I had been excited and scared. People talk about how shocking the relevations of President Alfonsin´s commision´s results had been. The kidnappings, tortures and murders. Please. Two fellow employees back in Toronto had made morbid jokes one day about the desaparecidos. It had been a few months earlier and Eduardo had listened as Ray had joked how the Chilean military were dumb to have buried their victims rather than throw them from airplanes into the River Plate as they had in Argentina. It was hair raising and I´m not sure how much was dark humour and how much was cynicism. Eduardo was Jewish Argentine and Ray was Chilean and both were exiles from their countries. But whether economic or political I couldn´t say. I suspect the former. So I was nervous flying into Ezeiza back then. And I looked down at the fertile ground quickly approaching and wondered what awaited me. Por favor. I was an employee of a large bank. My only fear should have been the traffic perhaps and not arbitrary detention, torture and murder. I was protected whether I liked it or not - like the businessmen wandering the streets of Santiago de Chile ( Athens in fact ) in Costa Grava´s Missing. So perspective matters.

So what does Isadora see? What does Toronto from a thousand feet up at 6:25 AM on a winter weekday morning look like to her? She knows Miami but hasn´t even been to Uruguay. Snow on the rooftops, a dark gray winter sky with red patches of light barely appearing on the horizon. Car lights on crowded avenues and highways. Low office buildings. Warehouses. A wide avenue. The runway and the touchdown. But I see all that too. What does she see? A cold, ordered city? How much have I influenced her point of view? Less than I think likely. She´s had to be independant and raise herself without much family support. Her parents never married and were forced apart before she was even born. Grandparents raised her. A cruel aunt. A house in Almagro. Back with her mother and her partner for a short wonderful while. Then on her own again and then by 17 married and with a baby daughter. Oriana and Diego were her family. And now I was part of that too. We taxi towards our gate. Pearson´s terminals spread out far more than Ezeiza, glowing with a greenish light. Does it look like Russia to her or Sweden? What does she see? The cabin attendant is speaking in Mandarin or Cantonese after having done so in English, French and Spanish. There´s a Chinese trade delegation aboard the flight. They´ve just finished meetings in Brazil and Argentina where it has been rumoured they´re mediating with disgruntled bond holders. But these seem low level folks. The big guns from Beijng and Shanghai surely have their own chartered planes. The Airbus comes to halt and despite the admonishments of the flight attendants, some people stand up before the seat belt signs are turned off.

I decide not to hug her and just squeeze Isa´s hand instead. The immigration official had been rather testy with her despite the visa and the new passport. Anyway, she´s through now and we grimly walk on towards the luggage claim area.

Que enorme ...

Isadora isn´t impressed by the empty space and the high ceilings. She´s tired and annoyed and we wait besides the various clusters of exhausted passengers waiting for their luggage to arrive. Canada is already quite a change for her.

For some reason our luggage is one of the first to appear on the carousel. How did that happen? We were one of the earlier passengers in the line up. Has it been examined or was it merely forgotten and thrown on the last cart in Ezeiza? Strange. I try not to feel paranoid. It must just be coincidence. We load the luggage on a cart and head through customs. They ask a few questons and then let us through quickly. Good. Anyway, what have we done? Nothing. After checking the luggage in for Ottawa we wander upstairs and down the concourse towards our gate. We both are tired but I did manage to sleep some on the Santiago-Pearson leg. Strange dream. An island with a volcanic atol like the Pacific but cold with a lovely harbour that looked like what Newfoundland must look like. Will I ever make it to the Maritimes? Isa leans on me and begs me to go back to the snack bar and get her an orange juice. We´ve just had breakfast on the flight but I get up and go look for juice. By the time I´ve negotiated the line up and returned with the bottle, the flight to Ottawa is ready to board. The sun is higher now and the sky mostly clear with clouds scudding away to the East. We wait till the line up is moving and then join it. It´s 7:40 AM.

Ahi esta Kingston.
Es mas bien pueblo.

She eyes the city critically and yes it´s more a large town seen from the window of our Embraer.

Y ahi el Rideau canal. Entre Ottawa y el Lago Ontario.

Somethow this detail pleases her. She´s impressed by all the water even if it´s frozen pond scum in some cases. We´re descending fairly quickly towards Ottawa. The Embraer model is feisty and agile. You can feel it cutting through it´s flight path, not lumbering along like a 737. She whispers if we´re close, already struck by how quiet Canadians seem to be - especially on the Pearson-Ottawa shuttle I might have added. Eastern Cedars, suburbs, swampy land, rail tracks and we´re down. With like saftey guided down return me to my Native element. It´s an easy landing and we bustle towards the terminal. I feel a rush of anxiety and tenderness and I worry about my parents. I had called a dozen times before David finally answered the phone. The Hanta virus had struck parts of the valley and he had been visiting and had gotten infected and had had to take a leave of absence. From what he had told me, it had been fairly serious. I had felt sick. My parents must have been frantic with worry. And they thought I had gone missing in Argentina. Another rush of anger surges in me. I want to take Kabe´s money and stay here or move somewhere else. But how? And Oriana and Diego remain back in Mardel. The plane comes to a halt at the gate. I hold her hand. We kiss, supporting each other. The plane empties bit by bit and finally we´re inside the terminal. We pass the gurgling fountain with the stones and the canoe and Trudeau´s elegant words made stone - a sublimely severe reminder of how weak my French really is. We head down the escalator to the luggage claim area. David is waiting for us. He´s thinner but he moves easily and looks reasonably healthy.

Hummm , welcome back. He has on his glasses and he shakes Isa´s hand.
Hello she answers in her heart breakingly cute accent. She tries to smile widely.
The drive. Was it ok? I ask anxiously - I hate winter driving.
Yeah, it´s fine. I have the Corolla. Mine´s in the shop.

The bags come and we head outside and towards the parking garage. Isadora gasps at the cold. She´s got on a lined jacket she bought last winter in Mar del Plata but this is different. I grab her bag and hurry us all along to the car. I´ll let David drive and we can sort things out on the way home. One last stop to go.