Casa Pueblo in Punta del Este, Uruguay
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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. July passed in stark chapters distinguished by swaying emotions, celebratory milestones, and sorrowful struggles. I bid farewell to too many friends and community members in Montevideo. My parents visited for two weeks, and we strolled the streets and sights of Buenos Aires and Montevideo. I turned twenty-three while moving to a different province, starting over again, again. I cried in frustration after exhaustedly running through cycles of trial and error. I laughed in the sanctuary with new friends and mentors on the foggy coastline. I felt myself gain strength on long runs at sunset and problem-solving victories. And gradually, after relearning to ride the go-with-the-flow wave, I began to feel at home—again.
It is July 22nd when I write this introduction, and I am living the conclusion of the sixth chapter: starting all over again, again. In two days, I will return to Montevideo, again, to begin the seventh chapter. However, this post already takes up ten pages in my Google Doc draft document. To alleviate pressure to meet an imaginary, self-imposed deadline to publish a monthly reflection, this post serves as part one in a two-part July series reflection. As I write these reflections, I laugh at their ever-increasing length. My life story in Uruguay only becomes more saturated with experiences. There is always more to write about, reflect on, laugh about, cry about. Writing is my therapy, as I often relate to you all. But as the months pass, time grows more fleeting. I find myself more reluctant to attend regular therapy sessions on my soft living room couch. In the end, the fear of forgetting triumphed over apprehension. So, without further ado, I present July: the month of starting all over again, again. Chapter 1: Montevideo, part 1I could barely contain my excitement when I saw my parents’ faces as they passed through the “Arrivals” entrance of the Montevideo airport. Thirty minutes prior, I arrived to scout out the best place to scan the lines of tired faces. They could arrive any time. I didn’t realize how excruciating the wait for loved ones at the airport would be. My parents could be stuck in the customs line for ten minutes, thirty, an hour, who knows? So the moment I saw my mom’s bright smile — still persistent after almost 30 hours of traveling– and wave, I tried to restrain myself from bolting from my reserved spot in the line of other expecting loved ones. But I was unsuccessful. I rushed forward to my parents’ open arms after they were clear of the immediate entryway. Warm tears rushed to my eyes. After three months, I was home in their embrace.
Recovering after our emotional reunion, we flashed a quick family selfie before making the trek to their Airbnb. I treated them to empanadas at 8:00 pm –Uruguayan dinner time— which satisfactorily rejuvenated our spirits and stomachs with crispy dough and cheesy fillings. How did I last so long without them around? Over the past three months, my parents and I regularly called through spotty wifi connections, often restarting the call between WhatsApp and FaceTime multiple times. Their faces were pixelated, my voice lagged, and together we struggled to maintain a conversation without pausing to say, “Hello! Can you hear me?”. But that chill late June Sunday evening, there was no buffering, no lag, no frozen faces. It was just us. My parents’ first full day in Montevideo was just that: full. We opted to walk everywhere instead of picking up an Uber and therefore, traversed from Pocitos to Parque Rodó to Ciudad Vieja by foot. Acting as their unofficial tour guide, I connected the dots of my favorite places around Montevideo: Escaramuza café and bookstore, Parque Rodó and its children’s book library, la Rambla, and the mirador (overlook) at the cultural Intendencia center. They basked in the twinkling lights of Escaramuza’s outdoor patio, smiled with sugar-stained lips after tasting their first bizcochos de membrillo (small jelly-filled pastries), and marveled at the effortless magnitude of La Rambla. With windswept hair, we settled at the peak of the lookout point of Intendencia. I observed them observing the uneven skyline below and wondered what they saw. Did they hear the quiet tone of the city underneath the overlapping tango music and the sounds of sighing city bus tires? Did they notice the tranquility etched in between the dirty, uneven sidewalk tiles? What could I do to help them see what I saw: an albeit sometimes obsolete but welcoming city of coffee shops, plazas, and unparalleled walking path by the ocean — a temporary home? The sunset signaled the start of another evening. However, this time my parents accompanied me through the heartwarming routines of manic Mondays: merienda at Las Cabras café and swing dance class. Walking into the cozy, vintage-lamp-lit café was a surreal homecoming. This hole-in-the-wall coffee shop had transformed into a treasured piece of home, routine, and community in Montevideo. As usual, Paloma stood behind the espresso counter chatting with her coworkers about upcoming orders. After greeting her with the usual salutations, we embraced in shared acknowledgment of our dwindling remaining time together. Paloma was the bridge between my two homes: the United States and Montevideo, Uruguay. Her welcoming glow quickly transferred to my parents as she helped us to my usual table between the entrance and the espresso counter. Together, we belonged on that unassuming street corner. Piping hot chocolates served in generous ceramic mugs, coffee alfajores, and scrumptious tostones del día (toasts of the day) melted away any remaining preoccupations of navigating cultural differences, language barriers, or lingering novelty. Las Cabras is my sanctuary; it is my refuge from the unpredictable storm of “What’s next?” and the encapsulating anxiety of saying goodbye to everything I once knew. It’s impressive how much a cup of hot chocolate can make me forget. And, for two hours, my parents and I forgot everything beyond what mattered most: being together. Oh boy was I in for a surprise at swing dance! My joints tingled and my heartbeat quickened in anticipation of my last class. The following hour and fifteen minutes followed the bittersweet routine I came to depend on. Before the class began, other members slowly trickled in; we exchanged waves and warm smiles to combat the chilly night air. I introduced Santiago and Luis to my parents who settled at a table by the sheet-music-covered entrance. Another bridge materialized through these short, simple exchanges between my two homes. The air felt a little warmer. My feet felt a little lighter as I stepped onto the wooden dance floor. At 7:35, Eugenia and Marcos entered the studio. The group congregated in a circle, leaving space for both teachers in their designated spots. Eugenia commenced class through a series of loose jazz movements before introducing the themed sequence of the class: the triple step. The proceeding hour served a sentimental taste of the freedom of movement within the structure of paso básico. With each sequence, I grew lighter, floating around the rectangular floor. I caught my parents filming out of the corner of my eye; we were capturing ambivalence from our respective perspectives. I am adequately buzzed by stimulation at the end of every class: warm but not overheating. However, Eugenia and Marcos surprised me with a special spotlight for my last class. Surrealistically, Santiago, Luis, Mate, Ana, and other members of my found swing community formed a condensed circle in the center of the room. This was not part of the schedule. Eugenia gently pushes me into the circle’s center. She and Marcos take turns explaining the tradition of a member’s final class. They assign ten minutes at the end of class to form a community circle in which every leader takes turns dancing with the departing member: a series of farewell embraces exchanged through dance. An instrumental version of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black” blasts on the speakers with sorrowful strings; jazzy, jumpy piano; and the tsk tsk of snare drums. The leaders float around me seamlessly. I never stop moving, forever gliding within the circle and between partners. By the end, the room is spinning and my back and forehead are soaked with sweat. It was cathartic, celebratory, community-led, fun, liberating, and somewhat theatrical: the embodiment of swing dance. Usually, I walk away from goodbyes heavy with guilt and nostalgia, but that night, I was walking on air. Chapter 2: Buenos AiresWhat were my first impressions of Buenos Aires? It’s an overstimulating, beautifully intimidating, expansive city; a cross between Paris and New York. And there’s the sixteen-lane highway and a plaza that is like a little sibling of Times Square.
At least one week and a half is required to obtain a well-rounded taste of the mouthwatering international cuisine, scattered bucket-list sights, and Argentinian culture. However, my parents and I scheduled only four days in this metropolis, so we (or I should say, my mom) planned our short trip precisely to optimize our time in Buenos Aires. And that started with the ferry ride. Day 1 For our trip from Montevideo to Buenos Aires, we took the direct and, therefore, more expensive yet elegant route. We arrived at the ferry station with plenty of time to spare. Once on board, our economy ticket offered entrance to an open seating area with four rotating armchairs and a table. The ride was mostly smooth; however, as someone very prone to motion sickness, I still did not dare to explore much of the ship after it pulled out of port. The ship featured a mini-mall of duty-free stores on the first level and limited savory and sweet treats for the two-hour ride (the cappuccinos were excellent). The best part of the ride was my parents’ taste test of a Ricardito: a traditional Uruguayan chocolate-covered marshmallow! Tips for riding the ferry:
After checking into our Airbnb, we ventured out to stretch our legs. We snacked at Tanta, an upper-end Peruvian restaurant, and then strolled around the Teatro Colón, and eventually returned to our Airbnb to crash and make dinner reservations for 8:00 p.m. Reluctantly, we braved the frigid evening air for a seven-minute walk to Huacho, a family-owned Argentinian restaurant. The daughter of the owners seated us immediately in the empty restaurant and explained the extensive menu of high-quality beef and seafood. «Bienvenidos a Argentina!» the beef sizzled in welcome as it passed our table on hot plates. We sipped glasses of our shared bottle of Argentinian Malbec wine to further tempt our taste buds. Each of us splurged on our first full meal in the city. Dad opted for traditional steak, Mom for stuffed pasta, and I a local fish delicacy. We hungrily dove into impressively tender meat resting in olive oil and spices, leaving very little leftovers despite the massive portion sizes. It was, without a doubt, one of the best meals I’ve had on this trip. Day 2 If you allot only a few days in Buenos Aires, have funds to spare, and still want to see most tourist attractions, I cannot recommend a private driving tour more. I cannot adequately emphasize the enormity of this city. For context, it is common to take a twenty-minute Uber or taxi ride from one neighborhood to the other. That being said, it would take hours to traverse the city on foot to cross off any food, sightseeing, and cultural bucket-list destinations. (However, if you prefer to not spend $150 on a private driving tour, here are two recommendations. First, a group bus tour. Second, booking an accommodation in a safe neighborhood centrally located near areas on your bucket list, such as Recoleta or Palermo.) Leo, our knowledgeable, considerate guide picked us up at 9:00 a.m. to begin our tour. Here is a list of places we visited on our tour:
Leo dropped us off at the Feria de San Telmo to explore. We walked around this elongated street market for an hour, navigating overstimulating crowds on the streets and inside a food market. At sunset, we hopped in an Uber back to our Airbnb to recuperate for dinner. Perhaps even more reluctantly than the night before, we hopped in another twelve-minute Uber to Mercado Puerto to a recommended restaurant named El Mercado. And we were spoiled with exceptional service, bubbling cheese and asparagus risotto, and a bread basket. I can attest that the food in Buenos Aires meets the hype! Day 3 Café Tortoni was the only bucket-list destination absent on the driving tour itinerary. So, the following morning, we decided to stretch our legs and walk to the historic downtown café. Like most popular tourist destinations in Buenos Aires, there was a twenty-minute line to enter. And, thankfully, it was worth it. The inside was breathtaking: high ceilings with chandeliers; walls decorated with old photographs of tango dancers, writers, and artists; and a spacious, luminous, and golden dining area. My parents and I sat at the table closest to the entrance door, tickled by the cold air draft. However, our shared churros and hot chocolate neutralized the stimulating shivers. We soaked up the stillness in the overstimulating city of skyscrapers. Buenos Aires, like any major city, is constantly in motion; it is easy to get caught in fast-paced traffic and lost in the cacophony of honks, tourist groups, and street performers. Eventually, we began to piece together our itinerary for the afternoon: walk to the Latin American art museum and an evening tango show. In summary, the Latin American art museum was 6/10 and the tango show was 9/10. Between the two major art museums in Buenos Aires, my family preferred the style and diversity of art in the second: el Museo de Bellas Artes. However, the Latin American art museum, despite having a cost to enter, offers an opportunity to acquaint yourself with Latin American historical and artistic movements through painting and sculpture. The tango show, on the other hand, was incredible! Between this show and the one I attended in Montevideo (at Bar Fun Fun), the Argentinian tango show presented more diversity within acts, music style, and overall experience. The hour-long show featured three young dance couples, one middle-aged couple, one tango singer, a four-person band, and two “gaucho” performers. My favorite part of the show, sin duda, was the “gaucho” performance. The couple, dressed in supposedly traditional gaucho wear, performed synchronous rhythms on a drum strapped to their hip and boleadoras: a traditional instrument and weapon of a long rope with hard, round stone at the end. A three-course dinner, a photo on stage, and a bottle of wine were included in the price of admission. Admittedly, the show screamed tourist attraction, but it was a mesmerizing delight nonetheless. Day 4 The final day in Buenos Aires featured gorgeous French toast; an unexpected, overstimulating Independence Day march; another art museum; a merienda with compañeros; and a tranquil dinner. To kick it all off, my parents and I Ubered to PADRE: a popular modern breakfast restaurant and café across town. I felt right at home with their generous portion sizes and thick, sweet French toast. Thank you, Mandy, for all of your recommendations for this trip! Coincidentally, our travel itinerary aligned with Argentina’s Independence Day. Therefore, we had to change our plans around the festivities that filled the main avenue for hours. I watched the parade of every military branch in the country strutting by in their uniforms and tanks. Some of the soldiers even carried skis and snow gear! The display of military power and adoring citizens adorned in flag capes was surreal, to say the least. An afternoon nap was well-deserved and needed. As an aside, the compounding visual and auditory overstimulation caught up to me that afternoon. First, the constant movement through Buenos Aires’s alluring neighborhoods and bustling streets within a packed itinerary was exhausting. My parents and I took naps the other three days at sunset to recharge and regulate in silent stillness. Second, the interwoven seas of people at the parade prickled my claustrophobic anxiety. As we passed a street art fair near the parade, I recognized I could no longer filter out the stimulation; I was dysregulated. So, I asked my parents to pull over and sit on the curb to allow me to regulate. I closed my eyes and took deep belly breaths for five minutes. Shutting everything out, I focused on what I could control. Overstimulation and dysregulation are everyday experiences. I utilize regulation strategies and own noise-reduction earplugs (shoutout to Loop!). I know my limits and which environments I am comfortable and uncomfortable navigating. Regardless, I know that some experiences —such as traveling to a major city— will leave me lethargic from saturated exposure to stimuli. (Ok, aside over!) The rest of the afternoon consisted of additional commuting to and from merienda and dinner. I fell asleep instantly. The following day, we boarded the indirect ferry to Colonia and then took a bus to Montevideo for part two! Chapter 3: Montevideo, part 2I hit the ground running upon returning to Montevideo with a football match and picado. Throughout July, Uruguay competed in the Copa América football tournament hosted in the United States. The evening I returned to Montevideo, Uruguay played Columbia in the semi-final game. Whenever Uruguay plays in a big match, fans crowd together in their homes or bars to chow down on a picado, or an assembly of appetizer snacks and bites. For context for readers from the U.S., it’s similar to attending a Super Bowl watch party with various cheese, crackers, and sliced meat shared plates.
Carolina—a good friend, local, and regular party host—invited me to attend a watch party at her house. I admire the practice of picado because everyone contributes a dish. It’s a family potluck of cheese, bread, dessert, and, at Carolina’s house, exquisite homemade hummus. I watched the game sitting on the floor by the coffee table, positioned strategically next to Mandy’s focaccia and Carolina’s hummus dip. Her spacious living room was filled with cheers, frustrated sighs, laughter, and overlapping conversation. For most of the evening, my attention was directed towards community building, not the game. I did not want it to end. Over the next few days, I optimized the dwindling time through additional gatherings with friends. I scheduled a special send-off birthday lunch with Ryan and my parents at Attorante, one of my favorite restaurants in Montevideo. In addition, I attended a late-night card game reunion with Juan, Sophie, and Josephina, my friends from UTU. During both gatherings, my friends and I soaked up each other’s company without time restraints. Their presence was a warm embrace — one I eventually, reluctantly pulled away from. Moving day was right around the corner. Chapter 4: The big birthday move to maldonadoOn my 23rd birthday, I moved to Maldonado. Lugging my monstrous suitcase and various bags on and off a bus, picking up my life again in an unfamiliar location, and saying goodbye again to my parents in an emotional hug huddle was not my ideal kind of birthday celebration. Honestly, it is hard to believe I turned twenty-three. I associate twenty-three with the official end of the post-college transition; the grace transition period into adulthood is over. The pressure of growing up is heavier than ever.
Usually, I associate my birthday with hot, humid weather and a balanced ice cream treat in a small Minnesotan town my parents and I visit on a planned day trip. But on July 13th, I piled on the layers that could not fit in my suitcase —a tank top, an athletic long-sleeve top, the oversized red sweater I stole from my mom’s closet, and my in-between winter jacket. The chill morning air tickles my face and hair with a soft breeze, reminiscent of a late-fall mid-November Minnesotan day. Here in Uruguay, it is mid-winter, and I traveled solo to my new home for the next four-and-a-half months. Nothing about it felt normal. So, in line with routine travel days, I basked in the discomfort of letting go of familiarity and community, eventually turning towards the open window of undiscovered opportunity. I felt numb on the bus ride. I stared out the window, observing the sun reflecting off of the tall Montevideo office buildings and, later, the rolling countryside comparable to rural Minnesota (aside from the addition of palm trees and the absence of corn fields). Taylor Swift’s Folklore was my background soundtrack of choice. The soft comforting storytelling whispered in my ear, grounding me as I floated away from home. Every time I say “goodbye” to my family, it does not feel right. The farewells have become more frequent in recent years with college and temporary moves up the North Shore, but that does not make them any easier. The pit in my chest is the same: one of betrayal, longing loneliness, and love. And every time, a part of me questions whether leaving is the right thing. However, the series of goodbyes has taught me that the easy thing is not always the right thing. Staying is not always right and oftentimes, leaving is necessary due to outside responsibilities or the pull to explore. After all, my parents guided me to walk through life with curiosity, a mind full of questions, and the courage to grow away from others’ expectations (the last being the hardest to independently adopt). Like all discomfort, it was temporary. The lonely longing was partially neutralized by the encouraging sun and celestial blue —or Uruguayan blue— sky. The gift of a beautiful winter day is a simple one; when the sun is shining, there is at least one thing to smile about. About thirty minutes before my arrival, grand rolling hills gradually emerged in the fondo (background) of the flat countryside. The road became curvy, wrapping around the base of the hills until it found its way to the coast. I sat up straight in my cozy cushioned orange seat when I saw the Maldonado coastline for the first time. The hills parted momentarily to reveal the deep blue waves gently rolling against the sand that bordered sparkling white buildings. My breath caught, the pit in my chest alleviated by the dazzling beauty of my new home. When the bus rolled into the Maldonado terminal, my joints tingled with anxious excitement at the impending rendezvous. After squeezing my carry-on bags through the aisle and down the stairs, I was welcomed by the warm sun and even warmer hugs by two of my new mentors: Selene and Valentina. In that embrace, I was reminded that I was not alone and I never would be. I permitted myself to feel my wide spectrum of emotions as we walked my heavy bags to Selene’s car. My body reverberated with anxiety, lingering depression, excitement for what lay ahead, relief, and gratitude. On my first afternoon in my new home, I received the best birthday present I could have asked for quality time with new friends. My mentors took the time to help me move into my apartment, offered to take me grocery shopping, and treated me to merienda at their favorite coffee shop. They showed me genuine kindness without expecting anything in return. All I could offer was bottomless gratitude and my presence in our first chat. Uruguayans are the best hosts. Most I have met act naturally through generosity in pursuit of enhancing foreigners’ experience in their country. They open up their homes, their hearts, and their arms to newcomers with the expectation of reciprocated kindness (and perhaps a bottle of wine or dessert). It is easier to feel at home when you are easily welcomed into one. I went through ups and downs throughout my first week in Maldonado. My spacious apartment is juxtaposed with its inviting yet empty energy. I am looking forward to the opportunities to host friends, compañeros, and mentors in the living room with a balcony. However, the persevering cold in my bedroom and the absence of my Montevideo roommates’ humming, leftover orange-oat cookies and cakes, voice message recordings, and evening chatter leave me longing for company. On the other hand, I am reminded of my privilege and luck to live in Maldonado every time I leave my apartment. Already boasting a tennis court and swimming pool, my building is a six-minute walk from La Rambla and therefore, the beach which stretches along the coastline. I live in one building of many in a complex surrounded by trees and suburban-style homes. A main street with a bus stop runs just outside my building when I need to escape my room’s cold floors and daunting space. On sunny days, I’ve enjoyed sitting out on my balcony to write and breathe in the fresh air, the ocean barely out of reach. On my first full day in Maldonado, my mentor, Valentina, picked me up at 1:00 for lunch at her family’s house and a city tour. (Despite being in Uruguay for over four months, I still grapple with Uruguayans’ inviting hospitality.) It was Sunday, Father’s Day, and I was invited to join the family’s celebratory lunch. Valentina’s grandfather traveled from Montevideo for the occasion. Upon entering their modest suburban brick home — a "Namaste” sign in their front yard — I greeted the family individually and settled in a chair next to Valentina’s grandfather. The picado was already set on the Christmas-themed tablecloth in the elongated living room; Animal Planet hummed in the background on the television. The ensuing conversation was constantly interrupted by the family beagle’s barking indecision of staying inside or going out. However, Valentina’s family gently persisted in getting to know me and make me feel at home. I exchanged stories of travel with her grandfather and pieced together their family history through her father’s retellings; his dad jokes struck a cord of nostalgia for my dad’s familiar look of gleeful anticipation after he cracked one of his own. How can I feel lost when I am at home? I fit right in with their family of vegetarians. Together, we stared in joint contentment as Valentina cut slices of flan and a delectable fruit cream tart. Valentina’s father and grandfather directed jokes my way while discussing our loyalty to England or Spain in the European Cup final soccer game. They accepted me into their home with effortless, genuine kindness. They grounded me and planted the roots of my Maldonado community when I threatened to float away from the sensation of home. Uruguay’s beauty lies in its people, its hospitality, its “Hola, todo bien?” from strangers on the street, its Sunday multi-general family asados that last six hours, its tradition of sunset picnics in parks or beaches with mate, and its culture of convivencia — of living together and deeply caring about your next-door neighbor and neighborly foreigner. In Maldonado City or Punta del Este (Valentina admitted most Fernandinos, or people from Maldonado, don’t know where one city ends and the other begins), beauty blossoms from its landscape. Around 4:00 p.m., Valentina excused us from the family lunch to lead a driving tour across Maldonado and Punta del Este. Every minute that passed in her heated gray car, I grew more astonished by the pristine, picturesque coast and beaches. I mentally noted the name of the nature reserve on the outskirts of the city (I miss hiking so much!). I gasped in astonished delight when I saw baby whales emerge from the gentle waves of Punta Chilena, playing under the muted setting sun. I widened my eyes to take in the breathtaking Playa de Punta Ballena that hosted the famous Casa Pueblo. Valentina offered to stop and walk by the bright white cliffside mansion reminiscent of Santorini, Greece. We snapped sunset photos together and traversed through both public and private lands to get the best angles. I get to live here. This thought resonated throughout the sunset drive. The coast of Maldonado and Punta del Este is a paradise, it’s true. The sea lions and whales are friendly neighbors who coexist with me on their coastline family outings. And that is all in my backyard. Therefore, I ground myself in the landscape and the community whenever I begin to float away on the cloud of loneliness and uncertainty. Although it was painful to turn away from Montevideo’s familiarity, it was worth it to turn towards the open window of undiscovered opportunity in, as I discovered for myself, a piece of paradise. Chapter 5: starting all over again, againAllow me to lead a reality check before those rose-colored glasses get too distorted:
Moving to a different town, city, or country is hard; it is not paradise. You start from scratch and, most likely, move with limited knowledge of the surrounding area. In Kacie Rose’s memoir, You Deserve Good Gelato, she describes moving to Italy as comparable to being three years old. In other words, you must learn how to live all over again. Where do you buy food? How do you wash and dry your clothes? What health services are nearby, and how do they operate? How do you send and receive mail? How do you get around (e.g. by bus, by foot, by Uber, by train)? Before you can truly start living somewhere else, you must first learn how to survive there and meet your basic needs. In the memoir, Kacie describes homesickness as not “being [only] ‘sick’ for home; it’s being sick for all that you once knew.” In Maldonado, I felt layers of homesickness. I was sick for my home in Minnesota, of course, but I was also sick for the home I had built in Montevideo. I was sick for all that I once knew about Uruguay and Uruguayan culture. Some of the knowledge I gained in Montevideo transferred over to surviving in Maldonado, but I mostly had to start anew. After cycles of failed problem-solving, I broke down in frustration: “Why doesn’t anything go right?!”. I took steps backward instead of forward. It was me against the world, or rather me against my apartment’s drying machines and heaters. Slowly, I started to resolve these minuscule crises regarding laundry, heating, and burnt kitchen utensils. I am in search of a routine grocery store, bakery, hang-out spot, and running route. Time takes its time in Uruguay, and I must relearn how to ride the go-with-the-flow wave. I am starting all over again, again, but I am not alone. I am eternally grateful for my mentors, Valentina and Simone, who intercepted me on my first day and guided me through countless questions about space heaters, the bus system, restaurants, walking routes, class schedules, and general Maldonado geography. While looking for solutions to the heating problem in my unit, Valentina pointed me toward a Walmart-adjacent superstore that sold space heaters. It is critical to regularly serve ourselves a slice of humble pie (as my lovely, wise compañera Ryan wrote in her recent newsletter regarding cultural differences). After months of traveling and living abroad in Spain, Croatia, and now Uruguay, I recognize where my expertise as a traveler ends and where my need for assistance begins. When faced with a frustrating situation or a natural problem on the bumpy road of moving to another country, I face it head-on. Why complain when you can attempt to resolve the problem? In the first few days, I confronted and resolved numerous situations to ease my new life in Maldonado. I’ve admitted, “Yeah, this sucks!” more than I account (recognition of frustration is healthy!), but then I pick myself back up, push my ego aside, and fumble through Spanish translation and accompanying sign language with store clerks, receptionists, and other gracious strangers who guide me through solutions. (I still struggle with conversations regarding chargers and adaptors; sign language is always required and must be hilarious for the curious observer). Humble pie is quite filling, but it nourishes my personal and language growth. Thank you for the reminder, Ryan. . . .I will conclude this chapter and post with a quote from You Deserve Good Gelato in which Kacie describes the arduous yet rewarding process of building a home in a new host country.
“Pay attention to the people who show up for you, the people who show interest in your life and will go out of their way to lift you up. The ones who will cheer for you, fight for you, cry with you, and make you laugh until you have tears rolling down your face. Focus your energy on those people, because THEY’RE the ones you want in your corner—and you are deserving of nothing less. It might take time. It might take A LOT of time. But I promise you they are out there, and soon your paths will line up so perfectly you’ll forget about all the lonely days you waited for them to do so.” Thank you to my blossoming Maldonado community and steady Montevideo community for showing up for me, making me laugh through shared problems, and helping me remember that I am never alone. Did you enjoy this post?Consider sending a Venmo payment to the Journal of an Evolving Teacher business page!
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AuthorMeghan Hesterman (she/her) is an aspiring educator, storyteller, and traveler. Through regular posts and commentary, she candidly reflects on her evolution as an educator and young adult. Categories
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