How to Be a Spoiled American
A Reality Check
My mom answers my FaceTime call, despite it being almost 1:00am at home.
“Hey, baby.”
“Mom, I can’t do this. There are bugs literally everywhere.”
She nudges my father, who is asleep beside her.
“Dear, I need your help here.”
I hear my Dad grunt, “They’re just bugs, Grace. Go to sleep.”
My mom attempts to comfort me, but all I can think about is home.
Generally speaking, I am not great at introductions. So, to be immersed into the home of a Costa Rican family, who may or may not speak my language, is terrifying. I was immediately relieved when my homestay sister answered the door and greeted me in perfect English. “Hi, I’m Catalina.” She is the same age as my real sister, a ripe 17, with long brown hair and pale eyes. I sigh with relief as we exchange further pleasantries.
“I guess we can take a tour of the house.” Smiling, I follow her through each room, as she flicks on any lights that are turned off to reveal my home for the next 5 days.
The last room she shows me is hers. The dream catcher above her bed draws my attention. “That’s beautiful, I have one at home,” I say.
She crosses her arms. “Yeah, my ex-boyfriend gave it to me, but I liked it too much to throw away.”
I smiled, all too familiar with the internal debate over whether or not to keep the tokens of boyfriend’s passed.
After a sleepless night of braving bugs and itching nervously, I awake to the smell of pancakes. “Buenos dias!” Rita greets me exuberantly with warm, bright eyes. She asks me how I slept, and I lie. “Muy bien, gracias.” In all her maternal glory, I can’t bring myself to mention the bugs, just like I can’t tell my mom that I don’t like her homemade beef stroganoff.
Catalina emerges, sleepily, from her room. Rita greets her daughter just as she did me, as Catalina slouches into a seat at the breakfast table. When our meal is spread before us — pancakes and toast, coffee and juice — Rita asks me if I like bananas with my pancakes. “Sí, mucho,” I say in a very poor Spanish accent. She holds up a finger, and walks briskly out the backdoor. When she returns, she is carrying a bag of bananas freshly picked from the front yard. My mouth falls open in disbelief, and she thinks that is quite funny. She takes her seat at the end of the table and peels one for herself, pointing to a bad spot on the end: “Here, we share with animals,” she says slowly, intent to correctly pronounce each word. She laughs as she cuts the shared end off, and slices the rest on top of her pancakes.
I think about how often I ignored my own overly-enthusiastic mother in the mornings before high school. She would hurry around the kitchen making breakfast, while I sat grimly at the table, wishing for just a couple more hours of rest.
One morning at home, I sipped a cup of coffee before noticing a fly had landed in it.
“Mom, there’s a fly in my coffee,” I say in a tone that embodies both melodrama and teenage angst.
“Well, I’m sure he won’t drink much.”
I rolled my eyes.
My house brother, Gabriel, is also in his teenage years, and reluctant to leave his room for dinner on the night of my arrival. Lucky for me, he also speaks perfect English, and I search frantically for common ground.
“So, what kind of shows do you like? Your sister already told me all about her love for Vampire Diaries.”
He finishes swallowing a spoonful of soup. “Well, right now I’m watching The Walking Dead.”
I slap my hand on my chest and gasp, “I love The Walking Dead, it is actually filmed near my hometown.”
His face lights up, and I feel comfortable — a small victory. We dive into a conversation about movies, music, and the like. His sister is excited to join in, and Rita watches with delighted eyes at an interaction she cannot fully understand.
Their father and Rita’s husband, Edwin, sits at the end of the table across from his wife, reserved and focusing on his plate after a day spent in his woodworking shop. Each time we laugh, Catalina translates our conversation for her parents, and they both smile; lucky for me, that is often.
After my first night at homestay, I am nervous to return for only one reason: bugs. I decide not to look in my room until after dinner, when I can be alone to face the music — or, rather, the low hum of flapping wings. Once again, I am greeted enthusiastically by Rita, who uses Catalina to ask me about my day. I explain the minor stresses I encountered: piecing together a documentary and editing a paper. Everything about her inquiry is genuine, and I am relieved to know she actually wants to listen. While Rita moves fluently through the kitchen, Catalina and I watch a movie in the living room, waiting until it is time to set the table. Rita floats between cooking and stopping occasionally to watch a scene with us. When dinner has been prepared, we all sit down, except Edwin.
I ask, “Donde Edwin?”
She responds, explaining that some nights during the week he works late in his shop on the other side of the mountain, so he occasionally just sleeps there. Gabriel joins us, a bit more eagerly this time, and we continue talking about our love for American cinema. Rita’s eyes follow our conversation, and Catalina remembers to translate so she can be included. I feel notably comfortable, with only the lingering fear of a night spent with bugs in the back of my mind.
Following dinner, Catalina and Gabriel clear the table and wash dishes. We decide it is time for bed, and exchange “Buenos noches,” before moving to our prospective rooms. I smile at Rita and tell her my dinner was delicious. She places both her hands on her chest and grins coyly.
My hand is on the handle of my bedroom door. I brace myself, flicking on the light quickly, but I am waiting in vain; the bugs, dead and alive, are gone. A miracle is all I can use to explain it. After I happily take a cold shower, I check my phone to see a text from my mom who is back at home:
“Are you are better today??” I can practically see the hope radiating from her words.
“Much better. The bugs are gone. Love you.” I reply quickly.
Seconds later, my phone lights up with her reply: “I am so thankful for that! I love you too.”
I fall into bed and awake only to the sound of Rita preparing my breakfast the next morning.
