Coming Home

I exit the bus, so this is Monte Maiz? It is two-thirty in the morning, and I know that at any moment Leticia, my contact here, will appear. I go about my business, getting my bags from the porter, and by the time I turn around from that, bam, there they are standing around me in a circle.

Luke? Yes, I am Luke. (This was in English).

Leticia is younger, with a round, healthy face and black hair, bangs. She speaks excellent English, though with a distinctively Argentinian accent (which I can now identify with ease), and though she is speaking to me very slowly, as though I am an animal she's trying not to startle. The family that is standing with her are looking at me in the same way. A new creature! What will it do? What should we do?

Leticia introduces me to the Gorgettis, shaking hands with the father and kissing the cheeks of the mother and daughters, and I am driven four blocks to a small house in the center of the village, nestled between an appliance store and a bicycle repair shop about the size of a closet. The entrance, which is also the garage, is covered by a wrought-iron gate. I go in, it is cozy and softly lit, and told where my dormitorio (bedroom) is. Oh, nice, I get my own little end of the house, and my own bathroom! I am a little relieved to keep my American personal habits private and pure.

Back into the kitchen, and Olga, the mother, asks, are you hungry, are you thirsty? A little, yes. Pizza? Empanadas? Anything is fine. She is a big, stout woman with a kind and matronly face, in her fifties, and carries years of a hearty farm diet, meat straight from their own fields. She is clearly a homemaker by trade, because she is very good at it.

They are all extremely nice. Leticia asks, do you want me to stay, can you do this? She is still speaking to me in that way, and the family is still looking at me in that way. I think, do what, have a late dinner with a family that I can barely communicate with? I really, really mean 'barely.' But I have been in more challenging situations than being offered tons of food by an eager host family with which I shared no common language. I say, yes, no problem.

Carlos, the father, is the most willing to speak to me, as Olga is concerned for my comfort and satisfaction and the daughter and cousin (12 and 17, respectively) are pretty wowed by my presence, I imagine. He is as robust as his wife, has a smiling and sleepy face, with eyes constantly half-closed. He is wearing a vest and one of those woolen-knit caps that I thought belonged to the Scots, but then again, these people are straight-up caucasian, which is quite different from the soft Mediterranean blend that has been the ethnicity of most Argentinians up to this point, a fact that points to the immigrant history of the country.

He asks me a lot of questions, few of which I remember, because I understand almost none of it. My preferred response is 'Si.' Still, I have a feeling that he sympathizes with me more than anybody else in this moment, maybe because he is the least dazzled by my exotic nature (hah!). I appreciate it.

I eat as much food as I can to show my appreciation, and answer as many questions as I can, and, when I found an opening, I made my move for bedtime, because I knew I would be