The year was 2007. A bus raced through downtown Quito, picking up passengers at both designated and less official curbside bus stops. People boarded and descended the bus stairs, all with lives, stories, and backgrounds that I could not help but feel curious about. A quick glance around me established my position as the only gringa on board. A small group of men, each toting an instrument, climbed aboard the bus and began to perform with the hopes of earning the attention and spare change of their fellow passengers. A bus attendant in high heels gracefully navigated down the aisle to collect my fare, as I struggled to maintain my balance with a firm grasp on the bus handle and wearing a pair of flats. While the music carried throughout the bus, I saw the Pichincha mountains at a distance, and in this moment, I felt–oddly, inexplicably, delightfully– at home.
As a study abroad student experiencing another country for the first time, I had been consistently overwhelmed in Ecuador that summer—culturally, linguistically, and geographically. With the knowledge of a single Spanish class under my belt, I timidly but willfully participated in a summer-long intensive Spanish program in Quito, watching my own cultural preferences shift and bend in the wake of this intense immersion.
It wasn’t long before the same food that initially made me ill was what I craved around the clock, and I never missed an authentic home-cooked meal if I could help it. The ornately decorated, tiny apartment that my host family so graciously opened up to me was no longer too cramped and antiquated, but a more than comfortable living arrangement in which I spent hours bonding with my host mother and sisters. My initial and persistent altitude sickness transitioned quickly into a sincere appreciation of the daily mountain views, sunny weather, and comfortable climate. And finally, when I returned to the United States and subsequently experienced the luxury of the everyday things we so often take for granted, such as readily available hot water, I found them slightly unnecessary, sometimes even turning down the temperature to match what I had, in such a short summer, grown accustomed to.
In the 8 years since this first adventure abroad, I have been fortunate enough to accrue a number of influential, inspiring, and, dare I say, alcohol-induced experiences away from my tierra. But no matter how much ground I have covered in the meantime–hitchhiking in Italy (sorry, Mom!), horseback riding in the Andes, plaza-partying in Madrid—I have never been able to top that moment on a bus in Quito, alone yet accompanied, when I realized I was exactly where I was meant to be, and that I would never be quite the same again.
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