I recently returned from a two-and-a-half month trip to Chile. My travel companions were my very own tall, dark, and handsome Chilean husband and my one-year-old half-Chilean, quarter-Spanish, and quarter-Uruguayan daughter, born in the United States. The immigration police who received us in both Chile and the United States must have been amused at seeing a family with three different passports: Chilean, Spanish, and U.S.
But before I continue writing about my traveling adventure with a nine- to twelve-month-old, an introduction about my life as a nomad (third-cultured kid, transculture kid, or however you want to label me) is more than necessary to understand where I’m coming from (literally speaking).
I was born in Montevideo, Uruguay, a small South American country surrounded by three giants: Argentina, Brazil, and the Atlantic Ocean. In the Switzerland of South America, as many call Uruguay, my mother, a green-eyed, light-haired Uruguayan of Italian descent met and fell in love with her very own tall, dark, and-handsome man—but her’s came from Spain. I was born into this mixed, yet culturally very similar, marriage and at eight months of age, my life as a “third-cultured kid” began.
My first stop was Salta, Argentina; unfortunately, my only memories of Salta are about trivial things, like getting baths in what seemed to be a huge tub in our house, getting scared seeing my mother’s face covered with white face cream, and being dragged out of a pool in the middle of a windstorm (okay, that last one is not so trivial after all). That followed a quick return to Uruguay and the decision to move to Spain, where we would stay “forever.”
With that promise, Spain became “home.” At age six, when I arrived, I quickly gained the Spanish accent that kids in Ecuador would later make fun of. My family became fans of Real Madrid and continued living in a culture similar to what we had been used to in Uruguay, thanks to my dad and grandparents, who had maintained their Spanish culture as much as possible while living in Uruguay. I listened to tango and flamenco and ate milanesas and jamón serrano. I felt normal with this dual, yet culturally rich, environment; I went to Seville, Barcelona, Paris, and Euro-Disney and stayed at roadside Formule 1 hotels on our road trip from Madrid to Paris.
But the idea to stay in Spain “forever” had to change, due to my father’s church assignment with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. That assignment took us to Ecuador, Colombia, the United States, and Chile. Every summer while we were away, we would return to Spain to feel like we belonged somewhere. While my parents lived in Chile, I met the Chilean who is now my husband and became old enough to leave home to go to college. While I was in college, my parents got transferred to England and then to the Dominican Republic, where they are now. I have yet to visit the DR, but after my trip to Chile, I will definitely be more prepared, now that I’m not traveling solo anymore.
As a single, dependent young girl, traveling was a breeze. I learned to love staying awake the night before feeling nervous and expectant about traveling for long hours on a plane the next day. After I got married, the two years my body remained planeless were a nightmare: I dropped off or picked up friends at the airport and with melancholy checked the departures and arrivals. wishing I were coming or going somewhere.
To my great joy and excitement, after our first daughter was born, we decided that it was time to take our first trip to Chile, so that my husband’s family could meet her. When we made the decision final, I got goose bumps about traveling, just like I used to before I was a parent. I obviously didn’t know what was ahead of me.
