If I could do an exchange year as an adult, I don’t think I’d choose a fancy city.
No thank you. I am already tired.
I would choose a small town somewhere warm, where people still greet each other, the coffee is strong, and someone’s grandmother knows my full life story before I have even unpacked my bag.
My host family would be loud, kind, and very concerned about whether I have eaten.
I would say, “Yes, thank you, I ate.”
They would say, “That is not food,” and put another plate in front of me.
Honestly, that sounds perfect.
For one year, I would like to live slowly.
I would help in the kitchen, walk around the neighbourhood, learn the language badly, and probably say something completely wrong at least once a day.
But that is fine. At this age, dignity is overrated.
I think the best part of an adult exchange year would not be the place.
It would be feeling like part of a family again.
Being teased a little.
Being fed too much.
Being corrected with love.
Being reminded that home is not always where you were born.
Sometimes home is where someone shouts from the kitchen:
“Come eat before it gets cold!”
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Image is mine. Sun setting on an another day of promise.
