Homesick.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of filling in at the "multi-culti" activity room at the old folks home, serving coffee for an hour. It's not really multi-culti, it's Marokkan. Just ladies; the men come on a different day. They greeted each other affectionately, stretching their hands out to each other and holding each other's face before planting a kiss on the other's cheek or forehead; this to each other woman in the room. Two of them spoke a little bit of really broken and difficult for a Dutch-as-a-third-language speaker to understand. Occasionally they would break in their converstation to say something like "So sorry, we speak Dutch for you. You cannot understand Arabic, eh?" And I'd smile and say something like "Oh, don't worry! I enjoy hearing you talk to each other." Which was true. This group is very unlike the Dutch ladies. They talk loudly, constantly, in and over each other's words, and laugh after every-other burst of rapid tongue-rolling pieces of speech. I immediately felt at home and realized that this was something I had missed for years and didn't know it. If they took off their headscarves and suddenly started speaking in Spanish, I would be back in Yucatán, listening to a conversation about a hundred equally unimportant and hilarious little things in life.

For the first time, a difference in my background and the Dutch culture became clear to me. I remembered a Christmas a few years ago when we had just finished decorating the tree at my in-law's and the tree fell over. I burst out laughing, and then realized I was the only one. A few of the decorations had broken, some were expensive and some had history. Of course, the breaking of the Christmas tree decorations was not actually funny. I think I've possibly slightly offended people who've just told me something serious, by giggling. And Luuk is much less amused when I shrink his favorite sweater or get lost when driving somewhere than I seem to be. I used to think it was a nervous thing, this laughing. Now I think maybe it's the Mexican in me, to laugh at everything, even in the face of things less humorous. Or maybe I'd just like to think that.

My hour with the Marokkan ladies ended, and I went back to my Dutch folks. They were knitting and chatting away, quietly and contentedly, with an occasional chuckle here or there. Mrs. S. complained about the temperature and wished the weather was brighter, then smiled at me and went back to reading the newspaper. Mr. H. nodded off; he'd slept horribly the night before. Mrs. F. started a story about something back in the day when she was a little girl, talking loudly and expressively; the other ladies listened politely and occasionally responded, sometimes leaning toward each other to comment quietly so as not to interrupt. I knew that when they all headed to their homes, they'd wish each other a pleasant evening, maybe rest a hand on one person's shoulder before waving to the rest and walking out.

I went home with a smile on my face. I'd enjoyed the day. But I missed Mexico more than I have in a while.