No place like home

Halfway through my fifth week in Peru, my American classmates and I began to compile a list of things we missed about the States.

It started out small: warm showers, Pandora.com and burritos. But as the week went on, it grew and grew.

We would be sitting in class and someone would come back from the bathroom and say, “toilet paper in public restrooms.” Check. We added it to the list.

Or halfway through the pollo, papas fritas and ensalada they served every day, another person would try to clean up a spill with the tissue-thin napkins, and snap. Real, thick napkins would join the list somewhere between Oreos and tall people.

By the end of Week 6, the list had become our mantra: tap water, barbeque sauce, macaroni and cheese, non-sweet ketchup, hot breakfasts and swimming pools. It was our collective chant as the homesickness began to settle in. We started to come up with other lists too.

There was the things-I-am-not-going-to-miss-about-Peru list (white rice, altitude sickness, micro-taxis), and the first-thing-I’m-going-to-do-when-I-get-home list (bathe, go to the pool, eat Chipotle).

During the walk to school or on the way back from work, we pulled together our individual woes and wrapped them up nice and neat into a little list: our mutual homage to home.

Our last week was a whirlwind, and there was no more time for lists.

After spending seven weeks trying to live like Peruvians, we suddenly became tourists, boarded four planes in five days and jetted off across the country for the final leg of our trip.

The mountains in Cusco were beautiful, and then seeing Machu Picchu open up through the sun gate after a day of hiking was unbelievable. Sipping one last Pisco sour with a friend in Lima was lovely.

Twelve hours later, I was left sitting alone in the Atlanta airport trying to piece together where all the time had gone.

The next morning, faithful to the list, I brushed my teeth with tap water, grabbed my pool bag and headed off to Chipotle.

When I got to the front of the line, with a newfound confidence in my Spanish skills, I asked the server if I could order in Spanish, but she just looked at me confused.
 Had I messed it up? Had my one day back made me forget everything I learned?

Then it dawned on me.

I had used “castellano” instead of “espanol” and because this woman was Mexican and not Peruvian, she didn’t understand. I corrected myself, ordered my tacos and then headed to the pool.

While sitting in my lawn chair I began to draft a new list. “Castellano”, avocados, the ocean, Coca-Cola with real sugar: an inventory of all the things I missed about Peru.