// By ada // March 10th, 2009 // 5 Comments » // Virtual Producer "Notes"
There’s no heat, but the 500F temperature change in twenty-four hours is the smallest difference between where I was and where I am now. Waiting for orientation to begin, I’m sporting every piece of winter clothing I brought, talking with other bundled teens from around the globe. A volunteer appears and pours boiling water from a thermos into a funky wooden cup filled with some kind of herb; a decorative silver straw sticks out. She asks if we’d like to try some “mate: MA-tey.” Without thinking, the boy to her left takes a big gulp, and grimaces as the boiling liquid burns his throat; however, his face relaxes to a smile as his belly is warmed. It’s passed around, and though we’re too cold to really taste the flavor, we’ve unknowingly taken our first steps (and sips) on our way to becoming Argentinean – or at least as Argentinean as foreign teenagers can get in a year.
Within seconds of arriving at my host family, I’m offered mate, which I sip carefully, the edge of boiling bitterness eased by sugar. The lemon piece I spy beneath the herbs gives the infusion a unique twist, making it wonderfully intriguing. My host family members talk between themselves in Spanish, and I listen to the beautiful sounds of the language flow out of their mouths, interweaving open vowels with soft “sh” sounds and rolled “r”s. Though I don’t understand or speak any Spanish yet, it’s just as curious and beautiful as the funny little drink. They ask me question upon question, but I’ll sort out the misconceptions later, when I learn how to tell them that my father is not, actually, over seven feet tall. (My metric conversions are apparently off, especially in Spanish.)
Soon, I’m understanding a good bit of Spanish, and I’ve made friends: Vicky invites me over for a girls’ night. Upon arrival, out comes the mate and a brilliant idea arises – make the Yankee serve it! Tentatively, I take the mate (which I learn is both the cup itself and the drink as a whole), fill it with yerba (herbs) and add sugar. I then pour in water – just enough so a bit of yerba remains dry, keeping it fresh and aromatic. Finally, I insert the bombilla (straw) and pass it on. My new friends are all compliments, and I’m even closer to becoming Argentinean: I can serve mate. ¡Vamos, todavía!
By the start of the new school year in March, I’m fluent in Spanish and I love speaking it. I still hear the language as a flow of beautiful sounds, but I understand them as I understand English: without thinking. Every year has its difficulties, and when misunderstandings go from comical to catastrophic, drinking mate alone is the best way for me to reflect. The slow repetitive motions of serving calm me, and allow me to focus. It is time for a change of families. Vicky becomes my new host sister, and mate becomes my study-buddy. At 2 a.m. one night over a shared mate with Vicky, a small strand of yerba falls onto the table. We pick it up and place it on a shelf, saving it as a sentimental reminder of our sisterhood.
Too soon, the year is over. How do you say goodbye to people you love so dearly? A final mate is shared in silent reflection. Later, through tears at the airport, I’m given a parting gift: a silver mate engraved with my name and “Recuerdos de Argentina.” I promise to use it well.
Tomando un matecito a la tardecita
