A Spoon Should be a Sign - A Note on Family Times

The other night my host mom called me down to dinner. Usually I eat with my host dad, Fernando, and she will nibble on something small- she used to eat dinner with us, then she was on a diet, sometimes she doesn't feel well... so usually just the two of us eat. Fernando wasn't there (sometimes he has work meetings until late), and she had put my dinner all laid out in front of me: bowl of soup, plate, salad bowl. Yummy. I eat the soup first, and look at the salad. It looks like an awfully big bowl, but, well, I like vegetables, and the other place wasn't even set- the bowl was directly in front of me on my place mat, so I dug in. After putting one spoonful (key) of salad in my mouth, ella me dice, "Compartes la ensalada con Fernando-" you're sharing the salad with Fernando! Aaaahh! I was so embarrassed. OBVIOUSLY I would be sharing a massive salad with a spoon in it! I didn't realize because he wasn't there, and it is incredibly rare that there is any type of family platter on the table, everything is always set out in front of me, pre-portioned. I kept apologizing, but she didn't care at all.

Things have been much better with my host family. Part of it is me learning to deal with my host mom's neurotic-ness (last week she told me I had to ask her to have a glass of milk... I was really upset at first, but made myself breathe, said '5 weeks,' it's her house, and if she is a control freak she is a control freak...) I can say please, thank you, be served, and never do dishes. Every night I say, "es mi turno?" o "voy a llevar los guantes," but rarely does she let me wear the gloves and do the dishes- even my own. It's strange. I don't like being waited on like that, it is uncomfortable, I guess because I am not used to it.

But I have grown used to the solitude of the house, the fact that I only really talk to them at dinner, the fact that I have no relationship with my host sisters. It's not what I envisioned (or wanted), but has pushed my comfort level in important ways. I hate to think that these things will make it easier to leave, but it is undeniably true.

I really do have a good and improving relationship with my host mom. Soon I will go back to being responsible for my meals (and I miss that a lot- tonight I ate alone because I came home late after Model UN, and it was strangely comforting to just put food in the microwave and wash my dishes) God, I miss cooking! Last night I was having a bit of a homesick night and was reading news and epicurious.com, noting recipes I wanted to make when I come home. Mom, I want to bake a pie (from scratch). Also string bean casserole.

But I have one more month of Ecuador- one month exactly; thirty days of my now-normal walk to the bus to school, of putting money in my bra, of greeting the security guards in my neighborhood in Spanish; one month of Coqueros fruit ice creams, one month of Spanish literature and wonderful travels, one month of legal drinking, one month of the view of Quito from my rooftop. One month with the people I've met here who I will dearly miss, and I know it will go by all too fast, even if sometimes I already wish I were home.

It is weird to be the same person and live in another country, in another culture. I don't think I have changed that much. I've learned to sit on a bus for 13 hours through the night without losing my mind (still not sure how), I've learned to deal with hunger and potato soup every day... not to mention fear and harassment. I've learned to not have freedom in the house I call my own. I have not learned to be accepting of other views (note two weeks ago, when I stormed out of a conservative friend's house shaking and almost crying after a political argument). I have learned to speak in Spanish comfortably, although I am sin dudo not fluent.

And, maybe most importantly, I have almost learned to walk down the street and put my key in the door without looking around and checking for my safety.

Although I do the same thing in Manhattan, so that might be a lesson for another day- or another decade.