On September 11, 1973 Salvador Allende, the democratically elected, Socialist president of Chile was killed. Suicide or murder, no one really knows. I suspect the latter. Augusto Pinochet’s junta tortured, killed and abused the citizens of Chile for years.
As a fellow socialist nation, the Swedes offered support for Allende’s followers. The ambassador opened the embassy in Santiago and offered sanctuary. And Chileans flooded into Stockholm. And into my dorm.
One of the Chilean refugees landed on my floor at Valhallavagen 5. We met, spoke and arranged a date. I wanted to be a journalist. He would be my interview subject.
On the night of the date, I was nervous. This was not about him, but about money. I was living on a VERY tight budget—about $2.00 a day. I became a specialist at walking everywhere, eating one good meal in the student cafeteria—it was always TORSK—which I now know is cod, and dining on omelets for dinner.
Who would pay for this date? At home in Los Angeles my male friends paid. I still feel a bit guilty about that. What was the protocol of a Chilean and an American in Sweden?
Our dinner was in Gamla Stan-the Old Town. At an Indian restaurant. After the curry in an old Swedish café we took the subway to a movie theater. It was a French movie by Claude Chabrol. A French film with Swedish subtitles. He spoke Spanish, I spoke English and we both spoke fledgling Svenska.
How many cultures can be incorporated into one date?
Later in the year, Allende’s daughter came to Stockholm and gave a speech at a huge rally.
Today the leader of Chile is a woman whose father was one of the tortured. Go for it Michelle Bachelet.
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