Happy Thanksgiving, America! In preparation for my own ex-pat Thanksgiving here in Cusco, I began thinking about holidays spent on the road, and then I began to think about all the different quirky lessons I’ve learned along the way too. Here’s a rundown of some lessons I’ve learned throughout the years abroad.
Your Neighbors Will Always Be There. ‘Getting to know the neighbors’ – whether by name or simply by listening to their habits through your walls – is always part and parcel of living in a new place. And in my travels, I’ve experienced a lot of neighbors: docile, grandmother Luz in Puerto Varas, whose days were a well-oiled machine (and don’t you dare try to sit in her spot at lunch); fun ex-pat Paul in Valparaiso who lived above our house and never complained about the heinous amounts of noise we made during asados, wine clubs, parties and more; the innocuous roommates in Lima who I almost never saw but could always hear them urinating; the boy who lives somewhere in the downstairs vicinity of my current apartment complex and shouts, constantly and repetitiously; and our landlord who lives next to us, and every time she comes home and opens her door, it sounds like she’s breaking into our apartment, because the sound buffer is thatnon-existent. Daily, chest-tightening panic for a second until we realize Oh, it’s just Ada coming home, not a strange person trying to insert a key into our front door.
Looking down the line at the various apartments in our complex.
Classic American recipes, especially around Thanksgiving and Christmas times, can mostly be reproduced abroad. Sometimes tweaks are needed, other times not. And sometimes you just have to be hyper-vigilant around an oven with no indicator of whether it’s scorching or lightly caressing your baked good. But it always comes out delicious. And the journey to attempting to recreate it is an adventure all its own, from hunting down specific ingredients that might not necessarily be local, to acquiring the proper cookware, to obtaining a stove if you don’t currently have one (cough cough, CUSCO). There’s pretty much always a way, if one is determined enough and uses enough holiday whiles.
Holidays without family aren’t bad, just different. Prior to moving abroad, one of the aspects that made me recoil was the idea of missing holidays — and potentially a lot of them. I’ll admit, the first Christmas away from home was very strange and a little sad, though tempered by the fact that I had Leslie and Amanda with me, and we spent it in an American-style guest house. My second Christmas abroad was totally unique to the first one abroad, and to every Christmas spent prior. What I’ve realized is that it’s about creating that energy of the holiday, no matter where you are. And it CAN be done, and usually very successfully. Especially if you involve Christmas cut-out cookies with various incarnations of inappropriate shapes. Though, as I’m nearing my third year without family on all major holidays except for July 4th, I’m VERY ready to get home next year and spend some holiday time with my BLOOD. There’s something inexplicably fulfilling about spending Thanksgiving in the crisp November fall time, and the Christmas bustle amidst the snow-covered Ohio backdrop.
Peru wins in the Pisco battle. Sorry, Chile.
Though I am living in tourist destinations, I cannot be like the tourists. Even though I desperately want to schedule all manner of buses and flights to surrounding environs to hit the spots along the tourist trail, I cannot. I am a slow traveler, and this means that I must squelch the urges to dine out frequently, visit tons of bars with the gringo gang, or hit up that last-minute tour to wherever. My budget is not a backpacking one, or rather, one who has saved for a long time to be able to splurge for a short time. I have a regular person’s budget, as I am a regular person who just happens to live abroad. And other people I meet on the road sometimes forget this. Simply being in the same country as tourism seems to imply to some that I am living an action-packed, dollar-fueled adventure. I am not. In fact, I have several jobs and am working most of the time. Most of my friends and family couldn’t just up and take a trip across the USA tomorrow, and neither could I. I have to plan my trips and movement just like everybody else.
Living in a colonial city is really inspiring, pretty much all the time. Sometimes to where I can’t stand it.
San Blas neighborhood (Cusco) at night.
Technology makes the distance WAY more bearable. As in, I sometimes don’t even notice the sheer thousands of miles between me and my loved ones, because we manage to stay in such frequent contact. It’s similar to living in a different city in the same state. Minus the random Sunday meet-ups (because THAT would still involve a day’s worth of travel across hemispheres and international frontiers).
Creative workarounds make the difference. It helps that my boyfriend is a master of coaxing use out of random, disparate household objects. It means we don’t have to fret if we don’t have something, and has allowed me to expand my problem-solving skills in general. Notable examples: constructing a dustpan out of a wine bottle and cardboard. Figuring out how to re-heat food without a microwave, or warm tortillas without…whatever you might normally use to warm tortillas. Unplugging a hopelessly stopped sink with an incense stick (didn’t have to call the plumber on that one!). Using a sewing needle to make a hook to attach to thread to rescue a pair of boxers that had fallen to the patio a story below our window. In lieu of a potato masher, using the rough bottom of a drinking glass. And the more recent controversial coffee-making method utilizing leggings. And on, and on.
I speak like an Argentinian now. During my most recent visit to the USA (September-October), I remember recording a message to send to Jorge via Whatsapp. For some reason, I listened to it after I had sent it, something I don’t normally do, and was horrified by the blatant and excessive Argentinian accent. Yet, when I had recorded the message, I certainly hadn’t remembered talking like that. Could it be that almost two years with an Argentinian has finally, and irreversibly, tainted my Spanish? It must be — because the other day, I used the word vos with Jorge, something I swore to never do. OOPS!