Dear Ana Maria Luna Cabrera, Mi Querida Senora,
Mil gracias y mil veces mas, gracias. Thanks for somehow putting up with my antics in throwing a twenty person thanksgiving in your driveway this afternoon. Thanks for appreciating my MarthaStewartesque centerpiece. Thanks for making enough sangria to get everyone blasted. But back to basics, you made turkey with a fancy walnut gravy before I even woke up. Still in pajamas, I came downstairs as you began mashing potatoes. Sorry I didn't put on a sweater like you told me to, but it was seventy degrees and I liked my knit cap sleeves. Besides, I was warmed by your glowing presence, and the excitement of the eighteen other people at the table. We had more food and more love and more lingual confusion than any thanksgiving in the world today, I bet. Somehow, a gourmet American feast came out of an itty-bitty Spanish kitchen in a matter of hours. What began as a gloomy and glum week filled with memories of families and food an ocean away ended up as the most wonderful story of intercultural peace feasting.
And after it was all over, you smiled, and I knew it was good. "Vale la pena," the Spaniards say. As we settled into fleece blankets on the couch with some herbal tea you call "Infurelax" that may be made of drugs illegal in America, and we started watching Woody Allen's Scoop dubbed in Spanish, I was happy happy happy. I feel at home and you are my family.
I promise to make my bed every single day for the rest of my time in Spain.
Love always,
Your somedozenth host child,
Estefania
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