My father was an elongated man from Austria, who had dedicated his youth to earning a medal and competed in the 1968 Mexico City Games. He travelled the longest journey of his life to achieve glory. He experienced sweating even when he was not exercising and tried a few times to speak Spanish. Luckily, for him and the team, a translator-my mother- was on hand to help. She had the dark hair and warm eyes stereotypical of Latin women. He towered over her; she purposely made him bend down to hear her voice.
When his event was over, he wandered around lost in his failure. The team had not medaled and he was unsure what to do with his life next. The translator, usually adored by men, invited him for a coke. She provided the company he badly needed. German is a harsh language, but coming from her mouth it was lyrical and breathy. She told him all about her life as a socialite. The parties and dresses, but she was also earning her Ph.D. in psychology. He tried his first compliment to a woman ever out on her; he told her she was smart and beautiful. In turn, my mother welcomed the fawning words as she did his hand. They wondered around her hometown as the excitement surrounding the Games waned.
They spent the next few days together. He fell in love with her and asked her to leave the heat. Less than a year later, they married and welcomed me into the world. My mother who had always had a maid now had to learn how to perform domestic duties. They lived above a Laundromat in Salzburg. It was her first winter and marriage. She would go on to several more, but at present, she was trying to make it work. The land was as cold as the people were in her husband’s land. There were no kisses hello on the cheek or lively music. I was her only comfort. She spoke Spanish to me and dressed me for style over warmth.