Home: A Foreign Land

"The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land."

-Gilbert K. Chesterson

The first time I saw many friends and family members after I had come back from my three months abroad in South America, they often said, "I bet you’re so glad to be back in America with all the things you didn’t have abroad.”

I looked them all right in the eye and said, "I disagree."

Yes, I missed my family—quite terribly. I missed my friends. I missed endless hot water and being clean all the time and eating peanut butter. But you know what? I know what I can live without and what I need to live. I need my family. I need the people who understand me best. I don't need electricity, hot water, indoor plumbing, a refrigerator full of food I don’t eat before its expiration date, a closet full of clothes I barely wear, twenty purses, and all the ridiculous excess of American culture that I didn’t think twice about before I left.

I just spent ten weeks traveling what felt like every last inch of Ecuador, a Colorado-sized country in the north-west corner of South America.
I saw shooting stars and the Southern Cross over our boat in the Galapagos. I swam with sea lions, sea turtles, and sharks, and was close enough to touch whales and feel their spray. I heard baby sea lions suckling and heard masked boobies calling for their mates. I touched sea cucumbers in their tidal pools, urchins on their rocks, and eagle rays as they slicked past my legs. I hiked up volcanoes, snorkeled in underwater caves, and walked across miles of pristine beaches.

I woke up every morning in our home city of Cuenca to see the Andes pink and misty and walked past them every day. I passed the same soldier every day on the street as Antonia (another student on the trip) and I recounted the previous night on our way downtown to the Spanish school. I followed my nose down the street every day during class break to find the freshest bread and buy it for 10 cents. I laughed with my host mother and was teased by my host uncle. I taught them English words (and the Italian command for "EAT!") and they taught me to speak Spanish less like a gringa, a white girl. I learned the importance of family by watching my host mother take care of her ailing grandmother and by seeing the love and sacrifice it takes to support each other. I saw the strength of women rise above a culture bogged down by machismo.
I had adventures every weekend with my friends, both American and Ecuadorian. I got into clubs for free because we came so often and we liked to smile. I danced salsa without self-consciousness and loved it. I ended up by the Tomebamba River for late-night conversations—deliriously happy.

I ate guinea pig and chicken foot soup and fruits I never dreamed could exist, with spikes and goo and seeds which looked like fish eggs. I discovered a taste for the national beer. I ate lunch for $1.50: soup, rice, dessert, juice, cilantro, and all. I discovered my limits.
I conquered my fear of heights from observation towers overlooking the Amazon jungle. I saw the same frogs that are in zoos in their natural habitat. I saw the scariest spiders in the world and refrained from smushing them. I hiked the jungle for hours a day and went back for more.

I bargained away my life in Otavalo and met the most talented and creative artists I've ever seen. I found gourds carved like owls, jade necklaces like leaves, feathers painted with volcanoes at night, shrunken heads, jewelry shaped like tortoises, silver filagree so fine I was afraid I'd break it, and bottomless bags in which to carry it all. I saw artistry as old as the hills and pagan rituals long practiced by even the Catholics themselves. I loved in that city.

I let myself remain an open book to twenty-six strangers. I found that with every secret I let unfold from my clenched fists, I was healed a little bit more. Instead of humiliation, I found support. I laughed until I cried and cried until someone fed me Nutella. I left twenty-six friends richer.

I climbed mountains. I saw nature at its purest. I met the kindest people who welcomed me into their home with open arms and called me their daughter. I felt more understanding of myself and my own culture than I ever have in the last twenty years. I experienced things I'll never be able to replicate in a million years. And that’s why I have to disagree that America has so much more to offer. I only found who I am only when I took the risk to leave it.

I think it turned out okay.

Wouldn’t you agree?