While traveling so far at such a young age could have easily turned my world upside down, it seemed to turn it right side up. It made me feel important to travel; I felt like I was someone bigger than a little blonde nine-year-old who lived in totally-normal Katonah, NY. In Israel, I put paper prayers in the cracks of the Western Wall, I planted a tree for my great-grandmother; in Egypt, I saw real mummies, and I walked through the Pyramids (which, interestingly, smelled strange.) When I came home, I had stories to tell my friends, kids who mostly had never been far beyond the East Coast, if they’d even made it that far. I was different; I was interesting. I was not just a book-nerd, but I was a well-traveled book-nerd. Travel gave me some clout among the other elementary-school-academics—and it helped that I came home from that particular trip reading (albeit, at nine, only partially understanding) The Diary of Anne Frank, bought from the gift store at Yad Vashem.
In my teens I ventured to many new places—I spent a significant amount of my high school breaks and summer vacations in Nicaragua, but also managed to explore Mexico and the Dominican Republic, England and Italy, and, of course, Canada—and always, whenever I would go through customs, I would excitedly look at the new stamp on my passport. Although the marking was no longer a necessity for my memory, looking at it reminded me that I was somewhere different, somewhere special, and that a life-changing experience was bound to occur in the following days.
Now, two passports and two horrible passport photos later, I am heading out of the country for my first real extended visit. I have used the phrase “I am moving to Santiago, Chile in two months” a couple of times in the past few days, because that’s how it feels. I’m picking up my life, dropping everything—most notably a relationship, four years of vegetarianism, and the comfort of 24/7 internet access—to go on this five-month South American adventure. And as much as I know I will miss all of the things and people I will leave here, I am incredibly excited for this experience.
Here is the general plan: I am participating in a wonderful study abroad program through SIT, called Chile: Education and Social Change, for three months. Through the program, I will be living in Santiago and taking classes there, traveling up and down Chile and to Argentina, and completing an independent study project on empowerment through (creative) writing/literacy education in urban and rural schools. After the program is over, I will be spending approximately two months exploring South America, during which I will hopefully meet the remaining family I have in Montevideo, hike the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu with my mom, and eventually spend some time back in Nicaragua. However, all of these plans are open to change as I change, as I learn, and as my Spanish language skills increase.
I do have the standard list of worries: I talk to my parents almost every day and I know that, come seven weeks from now, that will be essentially impossible; my Spanish isn’t excellent and I’m terrified of being in a place where I can’t communicate with fluency; I’m nervous about moving in with a host family; I’m afraid I won’t like the food; I don’t want to offend anyone by breaking cultural taboos without knowing it. My nose ring should likely come out, but I’m thinking of replacing it with a simple stud. I’ll have to abandon the idea of spaghetti-strap tank-tops, which have long been my warm-weather staple item.
Yet, somehow, there is a strange sense of comfort that I will be getting away from here—from all of the things that tie me to the area(s) in which I live. It’s a chance for reinvention, it’s a chance for discovery, and it’s a chance for adventure. And, if nothing else, I will have a new passport stamp; a new experience. (Look how cool the stamps are in Chile!)
