I moved to Peru for the first time as a bitter 15-year-old with no intention of positivity. I was mad at my parents, who were leading Goshen College’s SST, for taking me away for a year from the only life I’d ever known. I missed my friends. I wanted to go home so fiercely I could taste the longing in my mouth. People would tell me to make the most of my time, that this was an opportunity I would cherish forever. I wanted to tell them to stop talking.
As the year progressed, I loosened up a bit. I still wanted to go home but I began to make friends, to actually partake in family laughter, to look forward to the trips we took to other cities, to have favorite foods. When the year was up, I was gleeful but I had accumulated enough happy days in Lima to feel wistful as our plane took off.
Now, almost five years later, I am preparing to return to Peru in just a few days. Instead of being the daughter of SST leaders, I will be experiencing Peru as a student with a host family, a small suitcase, an unknown service location and a group of 20 others who have yet to meet the culture I used to know.
My impending return trip has brought on much reminiscing about my past time as a Peruana. It took nothing but a short time lapse after I returned home to realize how foolish I had been, how easily I had squandered away a good half of my time being sad and missing home.
So I am absolutely thrilled that I get a chance to go back. A do-over, if you will. An opportunity to make the most of my SST experience, to not miss out on living fully just because I miss home. If the last time taught me anything, it is that these immersions into other cultures are such a whirlwind and it is better to throw yourself into them completely than to waste time being homesick or scared.
There are so many things I am excited for. The sound of Spanish perpetually in my ears. The green cliffs near the ocean. Hot bread from the grocery store, gelato in strange fruit flavors, lomo saltado and three-course lunches that cost a dollar. Another visit to Machu Picchu, where I’ll be hidden among the clouds.
Late last night, I was cleaning out my desk and found a note from my grandmother, who passed away earlier this year. The note was about a gift for my 20th birthday, which she knew was the last one she would celebrate with me, a gift I had forgotten. In naming the gift, my grandmother drew inspiration from my childhood user name.
The note said: “You are now the proud owner of a llama being sent to Peru. I’m calling her ‘Lucky Ducky.’ You can look for her when you go to Peru next year.”
As much fun as this blog has been, I am ready to return to a country that has been my home once before. This time I won’t let the experience slip through my fingers. The llama my grandma gave in my name is down there somewhere, and as cheesy as it sounds, knowing that will be a comfort. It will serve as a reminder that life is short, and that I need to embrace as much Peruvian sidewalk and mountaintop as I can.
