I hope to sit at many more tables.

At any given time, all over the world, someone is sitting around a table sharing a meal.

The long wooden table in our house has been there since before I was born and the gouges and scrapes in the wood bear testament to its longevity. It is the heart of our house physically, but also the focal point of social gathering. Family and friends pack onto its benches to share meals, and on a smaller scale, my family of three sits down to a nightly dinner at one end.

The summer after my Sophomore year I traveled to Buenos Aires to study, and while the experience indeed broadened my perspective, it ultimately showed me the similarities between my own culture and the one that I had been dropped into. During the next month, I experienced a wide variety of new traditions and customs, yet the most meaningful activity was something familiar to me, a ritual from home: the evening meal. 

I lived with two women- Roxana, a retired psychologist, and her late husband's daughter, Marianela, who had recently graduated from university. They shared a small apartment in Recoleta, a neighborhood known for its neoclassical architecture that I could see from the kitchen window. The ornate buildings spiked across the city’s skyline alongside high-rises, their metal and glass panels shining in the winter sunlight. 

My first night in this new place, I found comfort in the familiarity of preparing and sharing a meal with these women, joined by an assortment of family and neighbors who had gathered to welcome me. I found myself around a little table in the corner of the kitchen, with a family I did not know, yet I felt no apprehension. There was something familiar about the atmosphere that calmed me. The laughter, clinking of glasses and plates, and the buzz of happy voices reminded me of home, regardless of the language that we were speaking. 

Every night after that, the three of us prepared dinner in the tiny kitchen, and each time we bumped into each other, Roxana would groan and complain that she needed a bigger space, in the same futile manner as my own mother. 

Usually around ten o'clock, when we had finished cooking, Roxana would ask me “¿Iris, Agua con o sin gas?” “Sin por fa.” I would answer every time. I hated carbonated water, but appreciated that she always asked.  

Near midnight, or sometimes later, when the candle had burned down and the exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with us, dinner would come to a close; the dishes were washed then kisses exchanged before bed. 

I looked forward to every dinner that we shared because they always entailed two to four hours of dedicated conversation. At first, I was apprehensive to speak in a second language for such a long period of time, afraid of all the mistakes that I might make, but after that very first night I completely forgot about these worries. I was curious to learn everything that I could from these two women. Roxana told stories about her childhood in the city in the 70s and 80s, and her experiences of the political unrest of Juan Peron’s presidency, and the subsequent coup, that defined her teenage years. As I sat absorbing the stories of this near stranger, I realized that this intimate moment was simultaneously occurring in every corner of the world, in thousands of different languages, over an endless variety of meals. 

Although the food on the table may differ, the things we share with one another- our stories, our perspectives, our lives, remain the same. 

I hope to sit at many more tables.