A series of September homecomings

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Disclaimer

​This blog, this post, and all related accounts are not an official Department of State publication, and the views and information presented are the Grantee’s and do not represent the Fulbright Program, ECA, the Post, Fulbright Commission, or the host country’s government or institutions.

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“When I stepped into your apartment in Maldonado, it felt like coming home from college. I could finally relax and be completely myself.”

Ryan’s hair is lightly dripping from a hot shower. Her computer sits on the TV stand in my living room, paused on the opening credits of a Ted Lasso season finale. The lamplight casts a warm glow on her smiling face. There is no tension in her smile lines that crinkle next to her eyes. Instead, her face is soft behind her tortoise shell glasses frames. She is relaxed, rejuvenated by the waterfall shower and the relief of speaking her native language with a good friend. 

She leans back on the soft white cushions, legs extended. Her hands cuddle her tea cup. She closes her eyes, relishing the quiet of my apartment and the elegance of the marble countertops in my kitchen. I understand her bliss. Here, she can come home to English conversations, Ted Lasso episodes, and heavy breakfasts with addictive jam and curry hummus. Her barricade of self-expression is alleviated. 

I invite her to optimize my apartment’s sanctuary. We take turns cooking breakfast, doing the dishes, and sipping coffee while gossiping about our busy social lives. On the first evening of our sleepover, Ryan and I snuggle on the couch with our hot apple-mango tea. We laugh effortlessly over Ted Lasso jokes and sigh in collective closure, “Ah, such a good episode!”

We decide to go to bed early because we can. Leaning against the pillows, we sit in silence for thirty minutes before turning off my nightstand light. The only noise is my pen scribbling against my journal paper. Next to me, Ryan fluidly types on her phone, occasionally stopping to tuck a strangling ringlet of her red curly hair behind her ear. She is more diligent at journaling than me. I miss my fair share of entries, but Ryan? She hasn’t missed a day since last November. After some time, she puts down her phone and lies on her side, facing away from me. 

I lift my pen from the paper. I must pause to feel the peace of sharing space with Ryan. She doesn’t realize that I came home in her tight embrace in the Maldonado bus terminal. Her visit offered a sweet serving of mutual homecoming, with a cherry on top. 

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