While sitting out the 4-hour bus ride from the Madrid airport to Valencia, I had a lot of time to anticipate what my home stay would be like. Both negative and positive thoughts, eventually I had to stop myself from anticipating so much, and just accept that thinking about it won’t change a thing.
We finally get to Valencia, and the bus stops so we can meet our host families and take our bags to our home. I walk down the steps of the bus and see my host mother standing right there, so I give her the customary kiss on each cheek and I introduce myself. As she started to waive down a taxi, I was surprised that she didn’t have a car to bring us back home. I soon accepted that there was going to be a lot of surprises in the next three weeks that I would have to experience.
We walked into the main lobby of the apartment complex, and pressed the button to open up the elevator door to bring our bags and the three of us up to the third floor. The elevator door opens up, and I can’t believe how small it is. Jared, my host mother and I and our luggage cram into this small elevator, to which my host mother responded “Everything is smaller here”. We walk into our new home and I immediately notice how much art is all over the walls. The TV is smaller than what I am used to at home, and the coffee table in the living room is also used as the dinner table. The bright Valencian sun makes artificial light unneccesary as there are many windows that are always open that light up our house.
Initially, I was nervous about having such little space. But now, as I am halfway through my second full day living here, I’ve learned that what my host family lacks in material possessions, they are rich in personal relationships and conversation. My host family includes a stay at home mom, a father who works in the afternoon, and a daughter around my age who studies at the University of Valencia. Conversation is never lacking, for example, my host father was extremely excited to tell me all about the three days he spent with Pablo Picassos daughter and how great of a person she was. My host fathers brother is an painter himself, and is the artist responsible for a portrait of his “Tatara tatara abuelo” or Great Great Great grandfather.
My host family's living room
Family paintings
