Grapes Upside Down

4. Pan Hallulla

~Madisen~

I lean towards Noah as he scans again through our host family's bio, smiling at the photo of the family on Easter Island, each member posed in a goofy imitation of the famous Moai rock statues.

"The families are arriving!" Glenn blurts out in his heavily accented Spanish, cupping his mouth with a hand in a poor simulation of whispering as he bustles past where we are seated.

Noah and I glance up in anticipation. I gesture to Glenn in a spontaneous impulse, and he breaks his hurried trot to plop down on a chair in front of us.

"Una pregunta..." I waiver, debating between languages, sensing impending vocabulary gaps before I've even formulated the full thought.

"Nuestra familia... ellos son, like, 'progressive?'" I throw air quotes around the last word, hoping he'll catch my drift.

Noah's eyes dart to me in alarmed confusion, and I wonder what's running through his head.

"I mean, can I be open about my own family?" I'm not sure how well Glenn remembers our application profiles or if he was even involved in the matching process.

"Oh!" he chirps back in understanding. "Yep, for sure. Some Chileans are less evolved on certain social issues, but you don't have to worry about judgment from the Mendezes. We were intentional with placements."

Noah's forehead is a series of bewildered wrinkles by this point.

"My moms are queer," I explain, tapping his arm. "Tengo dos mamás."

"Oh!" Comprehension relaxes his features. He is such a sweetie; I love this kid.

I'm a bit mortified about my escapades yesterday at the discoteca, letting a random guy grind up on me in front of everyone. Noah was staring at us like an alarmed older brother. He probably thinks he has to babysit me every time we go out to the club. The entire walk home to the hostel, he stayed by my side, ensuring the other girls and I arrived safely.

There is a sudden, collective electricity in the air. As I whip my eyes across my surroundings, I discover that dozens of Chilean families are filing into the outdoor patio area of the hostel where we are waiting.

Marcela delivers a welcome message, and when our family is announced, Noah and I hop up.

"Soy Graciela. Este es mi esposo, Eduardo."

Señora Mendez pulls me into a warm embrace while Noah shakes hands with her husband, after initially going in for a hug. We have been trained on certain cultural etiquettes, such as the single cheek kiss. But since many of the Chileans we've encountered the past three days are used to dealing with Americans, we sometimes get stuck in awkward social moments as each party attempts to adopt the other's cultural customs.

On the three-hour drive from Santiago to Viña del Mar, a smaller town just outside of Valparaíso, the Mendez couple chats freely with us. They interrogate Noah and me about our entire lives, from family to hobbies to cuisine in the United States.

"Graciela era chef profesional," Eduardo informs us in his barely decipherable accent. He clips off the last half of most words, leaving a physical sensation of literal holes in my brain as I scramble to fill in the missing syllables.

"Una profesional... ¿qué?" I ask inarticulately. After seven years of studying Spanish in school, it's rather discouraging how much I'm struggling.

"Che, che."

"Chef," Noah repeats to me in an English pronunciation. I put my hands to my forehead, finally comprehending, grimacing in gratitude to my new housemate.