When my plane touched down in Guadalajara, Mexico, I got off with a plastic-bound conversational Spanish guide. The agency arranging the homestay for my college-level study abroad hadn't been able to give me any details about the woman I would be living with for the next few months. So I searched the crowd to look for my mysterious hostess. I scanned the crowd, and then saw her, who looked to be nearly sixty with strong fingers gripping a white piece of paper with my name scrawled across it in black ink.

I moved toward the unsmiling woman. “League Aun?” she pointed to the sign and asked in a pronunciation that was new to me. “Yeah, Leigh Ann,” I replied. She nodded and let the sign drop to her side. She looked relieved, and I felt relieved that she suddenly had shown some warmth. She was, after all, the only person in Mexico who knew how to spell my name.

“Mi nombre Leigh Ann. Soy de los montañas de Carolina Del Norte.” My name is Leigh Ann. I'm from the mountains of North Carolina. That was the extent of my Spanish.

She nodded again. My name was the extent of her English. Then she began to speak Spanish, her words flowing faster than river rapids. I could tell she was trying to give me the information I needed to adjust to life in Guadalajara, but I couldn't even remember how to say I didn't understand.

The first few days I lived with Señora Montañas, my hostess, it was impossible to communicate even the simplest things. Another American student boarder who had just arrived, Katie, became my translator. When we returned after school, Señora asked about our days. First, she addressed Katie and then me. I simply smiled, but still she asked every day, as if she already knew that soon I would be able to answer.

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Every afternoon, an hour before mealtime, Señora invited me to the kitchen.

Gradually, I sensed a shift—not only in my Spanish, but in my relationship with Señora.