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Tales from My Time Abroad: Host Family Ups and Downs

Tales from My Time Abroad: Host Family Ups and Downs

I used to have this fairy tale image of Europe in my head. Everyone is wealthy and fashion forward and they welcome bright-eyed American youths into their homes and hearts with generous abandon. My first time staying with a host family didn’t do much to dispel this fantasy.

I was staying in Puglia, Italy while taking classes at the local university. I felt like I’d won the host family lottery! Francesca and Quintino lived in a penthouse apartment with marble flooring throughout, a wrap around balcony overflowing with well-tended potted plants, thick Persian rugs in every room, and a wrought iron spiral staircase leading up to the master suite – which I can only assume was equally lavish as I never saw it. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention: an honest-to-God live-in maid.

Leave It for the Maid

Now, I know that there are families in America that have maids and nannies and other household staff. I’m not from one of those families. So for me, this was a unique and often unsettling experience. Marianella, the maid, did pretty much everything in the house and it was constantly catching me off guard. Before class, I would leave my bed unmade and my nightclothes on the floor before rushing out the door. That afternoon, I’d find the room spotless. Marianella had made the bed, folded my dirty laundry, and probably  vacuumed or dusted for all I know. She also washed all of my laundry (and subsequently hung it out to dry on the balcony for all the world to see my knickers), prepared my lunches, and cooked dinner for the whole family.

I thought perhaps this was the norm for Italian families. My friends, who were all also staying with local families, were quick to assure me that it was not.

Dinner at Downton

My first night in Lecce, I was exhausted and went straight to bed. But the second night, well, that was a different story entirely. We were seated in the family dining room which, unlike the formal dining room, felt cozy and normal. Casual, even. Apparently for Dr. Quintino and his family, a casual meal is a four course affair eaten on hand-painted ceramic. Given the Italians’ love affair with food, that’s pretty par for the course. The formal lay out of a soup bowl and two plates, three different forks, two knives, a dessert spoon and a soup spoon, as well as two glasses… Well, all of that might be a little more than normal.

Nothing could have prepared me for the Downton Abbey-esque dining experience that night. Marianella brought in platter after platter of delicious food, course by course, bringing each platter around the table so that we, the petite bourgeoisie, could serve ourselves. I later found out she was eating alone in the kitchen. We finished it all off with a dessert of fresh fruit, eaten with a fork and knife (which was very difficult and confusing for me). All we were missing was a tiny bell to ring between courses to remind the staff downstairs they were keeping us waiting.

How the Other Half Lives

It only took one lunch with my friend Abby’s host family to realize that this is not the norm in Italy. Antoinetta and Osvaldo didn’t own any Persian rugs and instead of marble flooring, they had two fat and sassy cats that left their hair all over. But their tiny apartment felt more like a home than Francesca and Quintino’s cold, marble clad penthouse. Antoinetta’s small, brightly tiled kitchen didn’t have a maid. Instead, Abby and I were put to work and together we prepared a simple but delicious lunch that I honestly still daydream about: a huge bowl of pasta con pesto with a side salad of arugula, fennel, and green olives.

It was brighter and more chaotic and more fun than my host family’s penthouse. In short, it was homier.

A Host Family that Feels like Family

Of course, I’m grateful for the lovely home that I stayed in. I mean, my bedroom had a balcony with a view; that’s hard to beat! And I had fun, too. We spent a memorable weekend at their beach flat, reveling in the blue of the Adriatic Sea. Over dinner my host parents would pull out their huge Italian to English dictionary as we quarreled good-naturedly over something lost in translation. I’m sure I learned more Italian at that dinner table than in any classroom. But I’m still slightly wistful for the experience that my friends had. I struggled with intense loneliness and homesickness and the feeling that my host family didn’t really want to get to know me. I was a guest in their house, I wasn’t a guest in their home. Four weeks later when we all left Lecce, it was Antoinetta who wrapped me in a bear hug. Francesca and Quintino were not there for the tearful goodbyes, or actually any goodbyes. The maid dropped me off at the train station.

Most of my friends stayed in touch with their host families but I didn’t get that cozy feeling of belongingness. If I were to do it again, I would trade the marble floors, fancy plateware, and the Dowager Countess for a warm, friendly family that makes me feel like one of their own.



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