Oh, dear

I’m 4 days into my ten week trip to Baja, Mexico, and I have a line from a song in Les Miserables stuck in my head. “What have I done? Sweet Jesus, what have I done?” Yep, pretty much. The first 2 days were cool; I was at a retreat with all the other missionaries (read “Americans”) who spoke English. Then Thursday I came down to the clinic. The missionaries here are absolutely fantastic, but not knowing the language is very difficult. While I was moving in, some kids came by to see the other short term missionary who has lived here for a year and gotten to know the kids really well. She introduced me to them and told them I don’t know Spanish. When one heard this, he stomped out of the room yelling “No more Americans! They’re ruining the place!” I didn’t think this was how it was supposed to go. So like a strong, mature adult, I went to my room, crawled under my blanket, and cried. What had I done? Sweet Jesus, what had I done?

But it’s amazing how I can go from choking back tears to laughing in just a few minutes. Yesterday, breakfast was rough. Spanish + homesickness = not good. Then we went out to eat, where I tried ordering in Spanish. *bangs head on desk* Then we went to the store where everything was written in Spanish, and everyone (but me, of course) was speaking Spanish. *bangs head on desk harder* And then I only had American money and couldn’t get change in pesos so I ended up with $13 worth of quarters. Yes, quarters. *doesn’t even bother* So just when I was about to call about moving up my flight date, some boys came by and invited the other missionary here for a walk. And said I could come along. So for the next 2 hours or so they tried to teach me Spanish. And a few minutes after they left, the very one responsible for the “No more Americans!” episode mentioned above showed back up with some picture books. We then sat outside while I tried to pronounce Spanish and he critiqued my efforts. This is getting somewhere.

It’s just crazy. I hate it. I love it. At the same time. And it’s been less than a week. But when I’m just about to run in front of a car, someone is kind to me. Someone is patient with me. A little boy brings a book to my door, and we play charades forever trying to figure each other out. My faith in humanity is restored, and I am given the strength to stay just a few more minutes. Which turn into hours. Which will turn into days and weeks. I will make it. And I will love it here. In fact, I already do.