The kitchen was bustling – almost chaotic. I could handle the squawking parrot, the blaring news, the chicken being butchered, and the countless animals running around. What I couldn’t handle – or even comprehend – was the rapid Spanish flying back and forth across the room. I sat there with sweaty hands and butterflies in my stomach, worrying about how I would survive the next two weeks.

My new Bolivian family was big, loud, and friendly. My host mother, Doña Josefa, and my host sister, Roxanna, were preparing a huge lunch of fried plantains, chicken, and potatoes. I was perched on the edge of my chair, feeling nervous and lost. Everything was so new, and it was all happening too fast. My homestay family peppered me with questions and listened patiently while I answered in my mediocre Spanish. It was the first hour of what would be a 12-day stay, and they were eager to know everything about me.

Feeling bad that I was just sitting there, I asked what I could do to help. I was handed a tomato and told to peel and cut it. There was only one problem: I had never peeled a tomato before. In the United States I had always just washed them and cut them up. I struggled to remove the peel and ended up with a ball of red mush. My homestay mother noticed my failure, picked up the next tomato, and peeled it flawlessly in five seconds flat, the bright strips of skin curling onto the faded blue tablecloth. Seeing my shocked face, she muttered, “Vas a aprender.” (You will learn.) I doubted that.

Over the next several days, I became more comfortable in my new home. I genuinely laughed at the jokes my family made, instead of smiling and hoping I looked convincing. We had in-depth conversations, and I began to understand the nuances of their Spanish. Roxanna and I grew close. We braided each other’s hair, went to the market to buy the week’s groceries, watched telenovelas, and sat on each other’s laps while riding in packed trufis (fixed-route taxis). My new family affectionately called me Emmita (a Spanish nickname for Emma). I became a part of their lives, even though we had so little in common.

One morning, over our typical breakfast of bread, jam, and lukewarm coffee, my homestay father asked if I missed my family. I told him that I did. He smiled his toothless grin and said, “Somos tu familia ahora.” Lying in bed that night, I realized what he had said: “We are your family now.” Those words made me feel like I had found a home in this foreign place.

Each day, I helped prepare lunch and dinner, which usually involved peeling tomatoes. I progressively got better and better. One day, we were making my favorite soup, and I was peeling tomatoes. Roxanna looked over at me and exclaimed “¡Estás aprendiendo!” (You are learning!) It may seem silly, but I felt proud that she had noticed my improvement. On my second to last day, I managed to peel a tomato in one continuous strip. What would seem like a petty achievement to most made me grin with accomplishment. I held it up for my family to see and they all laughed and smiled that I had finally done what had looked so difficult to me on my first day.

Saying good-bye to my host family was so hard. They had allowed me into their lives, and we had shared so much early morning café y pan, late night arroz con leche, countless meals, and soccer games under the stars. I am eternally grateful to them for embracing me and my awkward Spanish. Those 12 days made me realize that you don’t need to speak the same language in order to truly connect with another person. We are all human, and all it took was a tomato to make me realize that.