We survived the señora

After an early post about our struggles with our host family, several good friends wrote with some supportive words. One phrase in particular stuck with me: “you will survive the señora!” That became a sort of mantra over our month in the homestay.

I should preface all these comments with the statement that Sam is not necessarily in agreement with all of them. We have different memories of what happened and how we felt about it. But since this is my blog, I get to put my perspective on it. He can blog about it if he so desires!

One month – I tend to believe I can do anything for a minimum of three months and most situations I think I could stick out for two years. So one month? We’re having difficulties? Piece of cake; at least it wasn’t three months. But I was surprised by how long that month was. After a week and a half, we considered moving out but I really liked the food and dreaded the thought of being in a hotel for several weeks. At two and a half weeks, we were pretty certain we could stick it out but the situation was slightly outrageous. At three weeks, I considered leaving school early and traveling for two weeks instead of one.

I’m glad we finished our month, but it wasn’t easy. And I’m left with conflicting feelings about the experience.

On the one hand, the family clearly loved Simon. The señora bought him a car, the type of toy he’s been coveting from every other little kid at the park and would play with at any opportunity, so he’d have something nice to play with at our apartment. She lavished him with her versions of love and affection. She was so proud of Simon and bragged about him and his good behavior to everyone who visited.

On the other hand, we had real power struggles over boundaries with Simon and food (both for me as well as Simon). I’ll give a couple of examples.

Most group meals bordered on the comical in their carnival aspect. Everyone watched, silently, how Simon ate his food and the señora would narrate as if she were doing play-by-play for a ballgame: “Look how he eats with his hands! How funny! He’s like a little monkey. Oh, now he’s going for the rice! He likes it! Have more. Have a bite, here. Eat it! Eat! Oh, he just wants his mama. Always his mama!” (Mimicking Simon) “Mami! Mami! Maybe your mama will let you have a little treat after dinner? Maybe she’ll let you have some special cake that is for the king of the house?”

She loved to hold him, but Simon didn't like to be held. While he warmed up to her somewhat, he would frequently cry out and protest when she picked him up and handled him. No amount of protest on his part could convince her that he did not want to be held by her. I eventually would take him back, but she would  usually start mimicking Simon's cries and, clearly annoyed, mutter, "Mami! Mami! Ya!" 

Yes, we stepped in to set boundaries. But that didn’t make us popular. The señora pouted when we asserted ourselves. At the same time that I wanted to extricate Simon from certain situations, I also wanted to let things unfold and not swoop in at the first sign of his being upset. I would give Simon little pep talks in our room: “You are doing a good job of letting the señora know when you don’t like what she is doing!” Those pep talks were probably about as much for me as they were for him.

One of my food struggles with the señora was over brown rice and quinoa. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m celiac and therefore cannot eat gluten. An unrelated issue is that I also am intolerant to white rice. So, I’m a fun dinner guest two times over.

When we first moved in, I was impressed with how often we had quinoa. While it’s native to the Andes, I had heard that it wasn’t frequently eaten here. As it’s a grain I can eat, and is extremely easy to cook, we ate lots of it back home. I asked at one dinner if they normally ate quinoa or if it was because of my dietary restrictions. Quinoa is a way of life for us, she told me. Excellent! So they normally eat this; it’s not just because of me. I was relieved.

Brown rice was trickier. I bought a bag of brown rice and made some once when I was sick; she showed me how to use the rice cooker. For the first two weeks, she would serve dinner with a plate of brown rice and a plate of white rice, so that each person could serve herself/himself accordingly. But then a second Japanese person moved into the house, and all the brown rice disappeared. All white rice, all the time. Instead of us being able to serve ourselves from the foods on the table, she gave us plated food. Everyone else (including Simon!) got full plates of food, including white rice. She gave me a dessert plate of whatever the vegetable option was. This was about a third of the food that everyone else had. I was perpetually hungry and would eat energy bars when I got back to our room. Finally, one morning I got up the courage to ask for brown rice; I was having a big internal debate over asking for more food, since I saw my request as being extremely impolite. But hunger – and the fact that we were paying a lot to live there and be fed there! – finally won out.

This is an abridged version of our exchange.

Alison: Can I make some brown rice so that I can eat rice when everyone else has rice?

The señora: No, the rice cooker has white rice in it. You can’t make brown rice.

A: Can I make it on the stove in another pot?

TS: No, I don’t know how to make it in a pot.

A: Oh, I know how to make it. I made it all the time back home.

TS: But it’s different here. It uses too much water. I don’t know the quantities to use because Lima is at a different altitude. The rice cooker does it in an hour but it will take too long on the stove. You’ll use too much gas. Maybe the maid could make quinoa, I don’t know.

A: Sure, quinoa would be fine. I just want something to eat when everyone else has rice.

TS: But we have to wash every single pot and pan and plate and utensil today because we are fumigating. The maid already has too much work. I don’t know that she can make quinoa too. You can buy rice to go at a restaurant.

A: Brown rice at a restaurant here? Where?

TS: All of them!

A: Would you prefer that I do that?

TS: Do whatever you want!

There is no brown rice readily available at restaurants, so getting it to go wasn’t truly an option. I gave up and figured I’d stock up on chocolate or raisins. That night, there was quinoa for me to eat. I thanked her for it, and she went on a diatribe about how the maid had to wash it for 30 minutes because quinoa is poisonous if you don’t wash it well.

This is why I started going to bed at 8:30 – I was exhausted from exchanges like these!

I appreciate that she was careful to serve me food I could have, and delicious to boot. I’m thankful that with a house full of people with different food preferences, she was able to accommodate us. But at the same time, we were paying her to do this.

We recently visited the señora so we could pick up several gifts she had given Simon but which we couldn’t take with us at the time. And it was a nice visit; she had made a special quinoa pudding for us to have as a snack (the irony of being served quinoa was not lost on me). We sat and visited while Simon played in the patio and babbled with the señora. She urged us to come have Sunday lunch with them on occasion, and invited us to come for Christmas.

I appreciate those offers and believe they are genuine. They made me wonder if things could have been as bad as they were. And then I open my journal and read about all the other occasions I haven’t described here, such as the time she told us we drank too much water and needed to buy it instead of having it at the house; the time I had to scrub a skillet several times over the course of a day to pacify her (even though the maid did the dishwashing); the time she told us we could no longer do laundry at the house because the maid was refusing to do any laundry and the señora didn’t know how to operate the washing machine, and then we found out everyone else’s laundry was still being done by the maid; etc.

At the end of the day, I suppose I’m glad we had that experience. Just like everything else, it was a time to learn and adjust and problem-solve as a family…. And the hardest part of that experience, the homestay, is over. Ya!