Kike

We picked Kike (Kee-kay) up at church and the first thing I noticed was his man purse and his cologne. He looked eagerly at us, a little puppy ready to be picked up by his new family. He must be freaking out, I thought. He’s going to have to speak English all the time and adapt to all the weird things my family does.
Taking in an exchange student for nine months was a last minute decision. We had barely settled on hosting Kike, a seventeen year old from Mexico before we had jetted off to Bermuda for a family vacation. We weren’t even coming back to the US until two days after he arrived, which was why we were picking him up at church, as he was staying with one of the program administrators. Our relaxing trip to Bermuda was tinged with a feeling of anticipation looming over all of us.
“I hope he knows I don’t like Mexican food,” my mother would fret. My dad and my brother made all of the borderline racist jokes they could think of, over and over again, while my head was swimming with constant questions. What would he be like? Would I be able to understand him? Would I like him? Would our family be able to stand him for nine whole months?
Once Kike arrived and assimilated into our family life, he became affectionately know as the “metrosexual” of the family - 1) He was loaded, 2) He carried a man-purse (or satchel), 3) He got along with my middle school friends and me much better than he did with my football loving brother and 4) He favored a pair of bright blue capri pants that he wore to yoga. He had a high pitched, girly laugh and most people would have immediately assumed he batted for the other team - except for the fact he practically never stopped talking about “pretty girls.”
“How was your day?”
“Good. I talked to a pretty girl.”
“Did you make any friends?”
“Yeah. I’m friends with a pretty girl.”
Girls actually loved him, but only ever as a friend. His Facebook was filled with pictures of girls hanging over him, but he was far too shy to ever make a move with any of them.
To my family’s often square, mundane, two and a half kids and a white picket fence life, Kike added a splash of pizzazz. He was always up for something, anything - a hike, a game of Monopoly, a dance off. He was like the dog we never had - eager, but a little annoying sometimes. He gave us a different perspective on so many things, as his brain was filled with a million facts about cars, romantic comedies, and everything in between. One night, we rented the movie Splash, a rom-com about Tom Hanks and a mermaid. In typical family fashion, after watching it, we went around and rated it from one to ten.
“Three,” my brother grunted unhappily. “That was stupid.”
“Probably like a seven,” I said.
“Ten!” said Kike, a huge smile spreading across his face.
I’m not sure he gave us any big cultural perspective other than telling us that what we considered to be Mexican food definitely was not.
By the end of his nine month stay, we were all a little sick of him. He tended to hang around people a bit too much, very much like a puppy. He tagged along eagerly when I would spend time with my friends, or interrupt me to do something fun when I would work on homework. When he got on the plane back home everyone shed a tear - but felt some stress lift off of them. Our pet dog was gone.

II. Leonie
“Two weeks? We dealt with a crazy Mexican for nine months, we can handle a German for two weeks,” was my mother’s response when I asked if we could host a German student at the beginning of my sophomore year. There were too many students coming, so they needed extra houses for the students. We were glad to open our doors.
When the German students stepped off their bus into the BUHS parking lot, it was as if we had stepped right into Paris Fashion Week. They were all just so beautiful. The only picture we had of Leonie before was a small black and white headshot and we were shocked when she effortlessly came up to us, sweeping me into a hug. This girl is only a year older than me? I wondered, in shock.
I absolutely adored Leonie, and all of her German friends. Leonie was tall, leggy, and blonde - all the things I thought I would be before puberty came along and reared it’s ugly head.
“You look just like Taylor Swift,” I (and everybody else) would always say to her.
“No - I don’t! She’s much prettier than me!” she would squeal back, with an flick of her hair.
To me, Leonie was a goddess, but the strangest thing about her was that she seemed to actually like me. A beautiful European girl wanted to spend time with me, a dorky American sophomore.
One night, she had a whole crew of Vietnamese German friends that took over our kitchen to make us some ‘Pho’, a delicious traditional meal that is made with soup broth, meat, and noodles. The girls were all blown away by our typical American home.
“Look at their kitchen! It’s so big! Look at this juice! It’s so big!”
“I really want to take the yellow bus to school one day!”
“Your mom really has a ladies poker league? That is so Desperate Housewives!”
Leonie was everything I had imagined a European girl to be. Beautiful, smart, popular, sophisticated, and kind. She made me laugh. My parents absolutely adored her. Everyone one she met adored her. She had that effect - she was everyone’s best friend wrapped up into a ball of beauty. Leonie was the perfect exchange student as well - fun, eager to learn, polite and able to tolerate my father for a long period of time.
“Want to see a picture of my town?” she’d entice my parents. “Here, I made a scrapbook of my life for you!”
Leonie had such an effect on us, in fact, we even planned on going to visit her in the summer. She told my dad about the Autobahn, and he got that ‘I need to drive there and I need to drive FAST’ look in his eyes and although our plans fell through and we didn’t end up going, I know he is still itching to go and drive really, really fast.
The two weeks with Leonie sped by.

III. Melanie
“Are you having fun?” I asked for what felt like the millionth time. “Isn’t this fun?”
To be honest, I had very high expectations for my Swiss exchange student, Melanie, after the gift we were given with Leonie. This was a real exchange student, as I was going to live at her house, too. But Melanie was very different from Leonie. She was quiet, hard to read, small, and had lots of long dark hair. Most of the time she was here, it didn’t even seem like she was having a good time. I tried my best not to compare the two girls, but they were such different experiences it was hard not to.
We tried to give Melanie the all-American experience, but it seemed like she was not interested. Apple picking seemed to be no fun, the fair was overwhelming, and she hardly ever ate. All I wanted was for her to have a good time.
She assured us all she was having fun, but it was hard to believe. She was so shy and uncomfortable it was impossible to tell. My parents, who now considered themselves experts on foreign teens, told me it was just culture shock. She was fine, they said.
I wanted to be able to dedicate more of my time to Melanie, but with my workload it just was a little bit too much. Melanie was not very independent, and she only had one close friend in the group she was traveling with. She was completely out of her comfort zone, and I felt for her. Or I thought I did. In my mind, I knew exactly what she was going through. I felt confident that when it was my turn to board the plane, I would be the prime example of an exchange student.
“I’ll see you soon!” I called as she boarded the bus to head back home. She merely nodded. She really wasn’t a huge talker. During the winter, we talked to each other online, but our conversations tended to be a little bit awkward and repetitive.
“Hey.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“Good, how are you?”
“I can’t wait for you to come!”
As the year progressed, I became more and more eager for my trip to approach. I was determined to have a good time, determined to appear like I was having a blast even if I wasn’t. I was scared about the language barrier, but I worked hard to improve my language skills to be ready. After having three exchange students that I scrutinized, I was ready to be the one under the microscope.

IV. Abby
I’m not ready for this. I thought, sitting on my bed in Melanie’s room. The two days I had spent in Paris had been packed to the brim with adventure, and I had almost forgotten that I would be staying at a homestay for a week and a half. That morning, we took the train to Geneva and it finally hit me. I was going to have to speak French all the time. I was going to have to be with a family I had never met and figure out how they worked. I got off the train to greet them and Madame Cassidy had immediately come up to us to say, “See you tomorrow!” That was it? I’m just going home with these strangers now? Did they do a background check? I was in a panic as I climbed into their tiny car and drove to their tiny apartment, with a tiny kitchen and a tiny refrigerator. I felt like a lumbering giant walking around a fragile little town. Dinner was a stressful, long affair. Maria, Melanie’s mom, was Italian, and like to feed people. I was served a five course meal with the works - a salad, cheese, an entree of chicken and pasta, another serving of cheese, and then dessert.
After, I felt like I was about to burst, I excused myself to take a long, hot shower. That would surely make me feel better. As I scrubbed myself clean, I remembered that quick showers were the norm in Switzerland. I rushed through the rest of my shower to be polite, and then hid myself in Melanie’s room. Finally, I understood all of the strange and awkward things Kike, Leonie, and Melanie had done or said. It all made sense. I was 100%, utterly out of my comfort zone. I wanted to apologize to Melanie, tell her how sorry I was for not getting the fact she didn’t seem to like her trip, because now I knew what culture shock truly was and how hard this next week was going to be.
The trip got much better after that first fearful night. I became much more comfortable with her family, and with telling her mother I was about to die from eating too much. I learned so much in those two weeks from culture to language to who I am. I learned there really is no such thing as a “perfect” exchange student. A fish can’t jump out of water and start doing dog tricks. It’s not going to happen. He has to flop around a little, then let evolution kick in and grow some legs.
When I went back home, all I could think about was seeing my parents, having my room back to myself, and taking a nice, long, real shower. As I jumped off the bus, I made a beeline towards my parents, ecstatic to be back with them and some familiarity of what they were like. They’re speaking English! I thought. They’re my family and I understand them and they speak English! I couldn’t have been happier with my weird family.