My first night in Santiago, Chile I said hi to the older man gathering up the ends of carrots he cut next to me in the kitchen of our hostel. I asked how long he was staying. Vicente was 85, wearing a beige cardigan, his eyes watery. When my Spanish flailed, he switched to English and said with a pained smile, “I am just waiting to die.” It was the only time I didn’t ask the story. I went back to my room with a nod.
