It started in Elementary school with a talking parrot. Ok, a parrot puppet on the hand of my language teacher Mrs. Bilbo. Together we learned the days of the week and colors in Spanish. From there, a year or two in Middle School, three years in High School, and a year in college--that sounds like enough lessons to survive in a Spanish speaking country, right? Wrong.
Realizing that I might need a boost in learning, I decided to take a two-week Spanish intensive course with the added bonus/terror of a home-stay component. So, I reluctantly packed my bags and began a journey that would change my impression about the Dominican people and myself.
My first day at the training center was a little scary. My teacher spoke no English, but I soon realized that I understood more than I thought. With my very basic Spanish, I could communicate and have concepts explained to me. What fun!
I felt good, by the end of the first day of lessons, then my teacher told me that we would take a carro publico (public car) to go to my Dominican family’s house. I thought she was joking. (For those of you from Brooklyn, think of a dollar cab on Glenwood Ave., but instead of a Lincoln town car, imagine the most beat-up car you can find and then jam six people into it.) The women at the training center couldn’t believe that I used cabs instead. (A cab traveling anywhere in Santo Domingo is $150 pesos, about $4US. It's like traveling anywhere in Manhattan for only $4...how could anyone pass that up?) Although the carros publicos cost a mere $15 pesos ($0.45), they are hot and crowded, and definitely not ideal for someone carrying a suitcase. But the purpose was to experience Dominican life, so I went; and I survived.
Once out of the car, we walk four New York City blocks to my new house. There, Doña Frosina was waiting to greet me. She was a short woman with a very sweet face of mix ethnicity (Arabic and Dominican). Doña’s disposition reminded me of my mother’s—she immediately assured me that her house, a single-floor two-bedroom apartment, was my house. The house was breezy—a welcomed change to my hotel room filled with recycled air.
That night, Doña Frosina, her daughter Adiana, their cat, Feo (Ugly), and I all sat down for dinner. I was starving and wanted to be excited, but, unfortunately, up until that point my opinion of Dominican food was pretty bad. Thankfully, Doña is a great cook. She made Bandera Dominican—a dish of rice and beans, and chicken in a sauce. We ate and her daughter, a 24-year-old very religious girl, explained to me the complexities of Charismatica, the type of Catholicism she practiced.
After dinner, I went to bed in my little room and marveled at my new adventure—the kind of thing I always wanted to do but never before had the nerve.
