The moment Luis Enrique rung the doorbell to the tall, green house my stomach dropped in anticipation. What would they be like, my host family for the week? Would they speak any English? Or would they understand my Rosetta Stone beginner level Spanish? Would the house be comfortable? Would I feel awkward and uncomfortable? All these thoughts loomed my head as I waited and waited for the door to open. It felt like an eternity.
Finally after a couple more rings, the door opened. I secretly gave a sigh of relief. I was tired, dirty and hungry. Plus I was eager to meet my new host family who I had heard all about from Ms. May, my son’s school teacher back home who runs the exchange program for Casa Xelaju.
The door creaked open and a dog barked. A young man answered the door and some words were exchanged briefly in gunfire Spanish. All I understood was “Nicole” (my name), “si” and “uno momento por favor”. I entered the dark house to silence and pulling in my enormous red suitcase. I was told to wait there for a moment in the long, narrow hallway, and there I stood for another five minutes waiting for the matron of the house.