The Luxury of Homemaking

Two days ago, I was skyping Ms. Fannetta Jones, and even though she was pixelated and cast in the artificial lighting of a computer screen, she was just as beautiful as ever (I'm looking at you, boo). And as expected of any conversation that spans continents, we were set on catching each other up.

I listened as she told me about her brunch at Cracker Barrel, a waitress named Sugar, and some authentic, down-home Southern hospitality in Memphis. The school year had ended, and our kids had graduated. She told me about the new teacher hires at Galesburg High School, and we traded stories about the people we loved, the past we knew, and the future we could only guess at. For that half an hour, I felt connected back to a home that seems to be just slightly beyond the horizon. Then, in due course, she turned the focus on me. "So, what about you? What's new in Santiago?"

I sat there silently, waiting for an interesting story, a person that I had met, or anything at all to come to mind. All I could manage was a slight shrug of the shoulders and a blank stare. I had nothing to say, so I settled for, "Y'know, the usual."

"Well, how do you feel about feeling 'usual' in a foreign country?" This girl doesn't waste time beating around the bush, and as someone who knows me inside and out, she had a point.

I had travelled across the world looking for adventure. I had moved to a foreign city to be surrounded by a foreign language, foreign foods, and a foreign culture. But at some point over the past three months, all that had been "foreign" has become all too ordinary. All too usual.

My walk to work in the morning

The Copa America has just started, and the entire country is prepping for a month of asados and fútbol fervor. It's June, and the seasons are definitely changing: I've started wearing a hoodie around the house in the morning, and we now use the space heater to warm the hallway with the bedrooms. Mondays slowly blur into Fridays, and weekends pass by in a montage of cafes, museums, and parks. I became slightly disappointed in my lack of newness, because after all, didn't I move here for a change of pace? For the stories? For something new?

Then I remembered a crucial fact that made everything okay, and I haven't given it much thought since: I'm not traveling through Chile. I'm living here.

As much as I love traveling, it is inherently exhausting. To travel successfully is a constant act of discovery, of making sure that each hour is spent exploring and experiencing all that a place has to offer. Without a doubt, travel makes great fodder for Facetime conversations, and I hope to get back out on the road some point soon. But I'm sure any traveler could easily attest to the sense of relief when, after spending a long time on the road, she unlocks the door to her own house and stretches out in a bed that is all hers. There is nothing like falling asleep to the shape and smell of a familiar pillow or waking up and recognizing the way the morning light hits the walls of the bedroom.

In this city, I am not a traveler. Santiago is my home. It is the place that I come back to after a long weekend away. This is where I fall asleep at night and wake up in the morning.

When I think of what it means to be home, I think of making a cup of early grey and burying myself in the blankets. Home is where I can waste hours listening to TED Talks and Button Poetry way too late into the night. It is the place where I can sit outside and read a book in the sun. After a long day of work, I can come home, take off my tie, and kick off my shoes. In this place, I reserve the right to be boring.

Coloring pictures at a children's museum

After being here for just more than two months, I love being able to jump on and off the micros without having to double check Google Maps. I like the fact that I have had to get a haircut, and I was able to explain what I wanted in Spanish. And needless to say, I am absolutely ecstatic about the fact that I now have lesson plans that I can recycle as new classes fill up my schedule. There is something comforting about a day-to-day routine, an expected series of steps and procedures that I have done, am doing, and will continue to do for the immediate future.

I also appreciate the fact that now that I have a "normal," I can change it. If I want to meet new people, I live in a city of millions. If I get tired of coming home to yet another bowl of pasta and late-night viewing of Downton Abbey, I can choose from an array of events throughout the city Monday through Friday. If I want to learn the cueca or salsa, there are classes in the city's center. Lining the walls of the metros are advertisements for talks, concerts, expositions, and guided meditations.

Since settling into my new normal, I have decided to go to an intercambio (language exchange) every Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on which fits my schedule best that week. I am saving 10% of my salary and setting it aside for traveling, and I have plans to hike in Cajon de Maipo this weekend. Living in a large city has given me the agency to strike a balance between excitement and boredom, and I think that's a healthy place to be.

There are some weeks (and weekends) when I barely leave my house. There are some nights when I go to bed at 10:00 because, quite simply, I can. Constant traveling is pretty unsustainable, and there are only so many consecutive nights that I can stay up until 6:30 in the morning, which is pretty standard here in Chile. I promise, I will go to a microbrewery or a jazz night when the chance presents itself, but I think that there is value in being in a place long enough to be bored in it. Once in a while, I deserve to revel in that boredom.

Lunch at the rose garden

Today, I left my house only once to go to a park 15 minutes away. I bought some crackers and brie at a store on the way, and a friend brought along a bag of purple grapes. We sat down in a rose garden and had a picnic, sitting in a patch of sun and green grass with the Andes looming overhead. Children were laughing on a playground nearby, and couples were making out on the benches. A dog ran up to us and sat at my feet, and three minutes later, ran away to go chase a pigeon. It was Sunday, and nobody was in a rush to be anywhere other than where they were.



It was a normal day just like any other. I didn't have to fly a plane or take a train to get here. After the sun started to set, I walked home. I can only speak for myself, but if this is my usual weekend, I don't think I'm going to rush off anytime soon.

A day in Parque Quinta Normal