Nails

It was 1988. Flights between Ecuador and Brazil (and vice versa) were operated by VARIG, which landed in Guayaquil, a coastal port city (at sea level), on alternate days that is, every other day. I believe the aircraft continued on to Mexico, making stops along the way, before returning. Whenever this was the case, VARIG included accommodation at a good hotel, the OroVerde, as part of the ticket.

A group of six Brazilians, all connected in one way or another with EMSA (a Brazilian construction company), involved in a water supply project for Quito (the Papallacta Project), was gathered there waiting for the next return flight. Tired from fieldwork carried out at around 3,000 meters above sea level, they decided to relax by the hotel's swimming pool, which was fairly busy since this stopover point for outbound and inbound flights attracted a steady flow of travelers with little to do. It seemed to be a city with few attractions (Ecuador has beautiful places, but with limited time and while waiting for a flight, no one wanted to risk missing it).

At the pool that day, next to the group, a woman stood out, lying on a lounge chair, sunbathing, wearing a hat and a stylish bikini. When she stood up and gracefully walked into the water, the low murmur of conversations among the men around the pool suddenly turned into a respectful silence of admiration. It is remarkable how an unexpected silence captures everyone's attention.

Dark-haired, about 1.65 meters tall, in her mid-thirties, with a stunning figure, she noticed the attention she was attracting and straightened her posture even more, as though challenging the world. A goddess.

Watching her from such close range, Gilberto, then in his early forties, noticed that her fingernails were trimmed in what one might call a Brazilian style (far less pointed than elsewhere in the world). He decided to take a chance, approached the woman who had become the Queen of the Pool, and asked whether she was Brazilian.

She was not. Her name was Daisy; she was Chilean but lived in Belo Horizonte, Brazil. She asked why he had thought she was Brazilian. When he mentioned her fingernails, the conversation flowed naturally, and both smiled. Hormones probably explain such reactions and attractions. It was almost a miracle that they had not already packed their bags into the same apartment.

That evening, upon arriving at the airport, they arranged seats together on the port side of the aircraft: she by the window, he on the aisle. Proximity, age, and scent trigger the biochemical reactions inherent to such situations, and at remarkable speed. During the night flight, with the cabin lights off, flying over the Andes, the Amazon, and the Brazilian cerrado, the blankets concealed their caresses and disguised their movements. They outdid Sylvia Kristel in Emmanuelle. Perhaps it deserved a place in the Guinness Book.

The couple believed no one had noticed, but Geraldo Wilson and Zé Carlos, among other things, stayed awake watching the entire scene. Besides soaking VARIG's little pillows with drool, they spread the story around, enhancing Gilberto's reputation—depending, of course, on who happened to be listening.

A friendship and a deep bond began there, and nearly thirty years later it still endures between the engineer from Goiás and the Chilean physician from the WHO (*1).

Recently, Gilberto told me that Daisy still goes to the very same manicurist from Minas Gerais.

(*1) World Health Organization. A physician specializing in human reproduction, helping people avoid unwanted pregnancies and children—one of the most important activities in the world for society, with demographic implications, helping to curb population growth, as Gilberto enthusiastically likes to point out whenever speaking about his muse and her professional work.

Miguel Fernández y Fernández, engineer, chronicler, and columnist, member of the National Academy of Engineering and the Engineering Institute # written in 2015nov, 3,030 characters