Grapes Upside Down

14. Hot Chocolate

~Madisen~

By the time we finish our second week of classes, I hit an energy block unlike anything I've ever experienced before. After a late night dancing our stress away at a ridiculous night club in Valpo called "Duff," I sleep in until 10:00am, then take a slow walk after breakfast instead of going jogging.

Noah leaves to meet up with his new Chilean buddies to play soccer, and I spend most of the afternoon on the phone with my family.

Eliana dominates the first hour of conversation showing me her art projects from school and inventing songs about Chile. At five years old, she is somehow able to create spontaneous lyrics that rhyme while still making a bit of sense.

"Let me talk to Madisen for a few minutes, Love Bug," Mama Cami interrupts when Eliana attempts to begin a round of hide-and-seek with me over the phone.

"Fine!" Her sass ringing through my eardrums from 8000 miles away causes me to burst out in loud giggles. Random shapes and colors blur across the screen, and I gather that Elly has chucked the phone onto the floor. My mom's face appears a few seconds later.

"The Queen of England has granted me speaking time with you," she says with a fake royal accent.

"I miss her too much!"

"What about us? Don't you miss us?" Mumford inserts herself into the edge of the FaceTime rectangle.

"Yes, but I miss Elly the most." My mom's huff, pretending to be hurt.

"How have things been going, darling?"

I tell them about last week's excursion to visit the Mapuches, though most of our conversation is spent recounting the absurd series of experiences in Recreación.

"Wait, I didn't catch it," Mama Cami interrupts, returning to the screen with a cup of tea. "What were the rolled up newspapers for in the end?"

"We used them to create paper sculptures, like angels, animals, or... I don't know, whatever we felt like. But Clara and I don't understand anything the teachers say, so there's, like, zero context for any of these activities! One day we're reading an article, discussing the philosophical meaning of the concept of 'play;' the next day everyone's in costume... then, out of the blue, we're building llamas out of rolled up newspapers. Nothing makes any sense!"

I'm laughing, but I feel hot tears pressurizing behind my eyeballs. The experience of being continually lost--geographically, culturally, linguistically--is wearing on my emotions more than I expected it to. Basically, I feel like an idiot about twenty times a day.

"Also, the course syllabi are nothing more than a list of texts. Each day in my lit class, they are discussing one of the books, seemingly at random. I've asked other exchange students and Chileans in class, but it's like no one knows what's going on."

All my frustrations from the first two weeks of class tumble out, hot and unfiltered, as I allow myself a much needed venting session with my mothers.

"Have you tried speaking with your professor?" Mumford gently hints. She happens to be a literature professor at Seattle University.

"I did!" I exclaim. "The professors just sort of brush us off when we approach. Like, 'don't worry, little Gringa, do the best you can and you'll be fine.'"

My moms listen sympathetically and ask if others from my group are having similar challenges.

"I think so. But, the thing is, the assignments are not that challenging. Once you take a few notes in class or look up some stuff online, you can easily BS your way through an essay. But I would actually prefer to read the texts and learn something."