Every so often it takes four to six months for a letter to arrive from the U.S. in my mailbox.
I had a delayed package a year-and-a-half ago. 107 more words
It’s truly a miracle that I’ve endured this week and all of its unwelcome rollercoasters. Starting with disastrous curry that had me down and out for three days to enduring seemingly never-ending waves of homesickness, I have finally come out on the other side. 1,404 more words
Me, at the end of Week 12:
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One-sentence summary: Nico (host grand-nephew) left Funky Farm South to resume living with his parents in Tarma; José (youngest host brother) (aka golden child) is home for two weeks vacation; I unhappily wore a traditional German colonist dress to present awards on stage – you know, cultural appropriated immersion; asked to judge an entrepreneurial youth contest / and was stood-up to judge the contest #nilda; blindly learning the local municipal government system of delivering informes (official work reports to socios); and realizing how unreliable a narrator my brain can be in any language.
My city and I have a tumultuous past. My resentment for her bubbles up when I see her listed amongst the most highly segregated cities in the United States and simmers down when I’m nostalgic over the hours of care I put into her communities, planting trees and facilitating workshops and volunteering. 976 more words