The Hard Thing About Homestays
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All I was given was three sentences; a short collection of words to describe a man that I would be living with for the next five months. The email I received titled “Housing Placement” paid more attention to restaurants and bars located near the house than it did to my so-called “host parent.”
I approached our initial acquaintance with cautious optimism. Having texted Santi throughout the prior week (simple things like mutual excitement for this upcoming change and holiday greetings), I anticipated that we would get along, but I couldn’t know for sure. Having seen his profile photo on WhatsApp, I immediately recognized him in the crowd of host families. He wore a warm smile and held his arms wide, welcoming an embrace. After we hugged, still smiling, his mouth broke out in a swarm of Spanish syllables that I didn’t catch. Seeing my confused look, he placed his hand softly on my shoulder and said, “We go home.”
Although my lack of Spanish proficiency hindered the speed of conversation, I was surprised at how little it affected the depth of connection. From the beginning, Santi and I silently made peace with the fact that communication would take more time and effort, and we also silently agreed that it was worth it. He persistently extended patience to me when I found the limits of my language knowledge, and his laugh always broke whatever discomfort started to form.
As the weeks have blended into one another, my life in Buenos Aires has become increasingly more natural. This, of course, is evident in my ever-improving Spanish and my ability to now take public transport. But it is especially visible in my relationship with Santi. Our daily rhythms have taken on a similar pulse. After a long day, we usually spend the evenings in each other’s company, leaving room in our conversations for the street noises that occasionally make their way through the window.
When referring to Santi, I have begun using the term “host friend.” For whatever reason, it seems like a warmer and less obligatory way to describe our relationship. While he does fulfill parental roles such as cooking my meals and washing my clothes, I feel a sense of kinship that isn’t accurately portrayed in the term “host parent.” I am blessed to live with one of my closest friends in a city where I once knew no one.
A few days ago, I heard that one of the students in my program moved from a homestay into a single apartment. Apparently, there were differences in expectations within the homestay, and she decided it wasn’t the right fit. While I don’t know much about the specific situation, I know enough to confidently assume that she and I would have very different things to say about our homestay experiences in Buenos Aires.
That’s the hard thing about homestay; so much depends on the match. Given the ideal nature of my situation, I would adamantly recommend living in a homestay to anyone considering studying abroad. It has been a phenomenal experience of cultural, linguistic, and relational immersion. However, I cannot guarantee that it will go as well as it has gone for me. It is a risk, and no length of a biography can accurately predict how well—or how unwell—it will unfold.
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