Goodbye feels the same in every language

We went out of Antofagasta just as we came in: with a mob-like scene and lots of emotion. Most schools in Antofagasta finished classes last week, freeing us volunteers to either travel or return home early. Thus, last Tuesday night found three of us hopping on a bus to make the 19-hour trek south to Santiago.

I never would have imagined six months ago that saying goodbye to the people who would become my Chilean family would be so difficult. Alfonso and Maritza, along with their 8- and 11-year-old sons Cristian and Eduardo, did a remarkable job making me feel just another part of the family -- eventually even calling me "son" and "brother." I feel incredibly lucky to have had the opportunity to live with such a caring, considerate and affectionate family, but it made my departure that much more wrenching.

I've had to say a lot of goodbyes recently -- to college friends now literally spread across the globe and to family who know that it will be some time before I live close to home again -- but in many ways this one was the hardest. Though I miss my college friends, I know that I will see them periodically throughout the rest of my life. However, I can't say with confidence that I will see my Chilean family with any frequency whatsoever.

Therefore, all the ingredients were in place for an emotional send-off, which is exactly what we got at the bus station. The families of all three of us leaving were there, along with the other volunteers who had yet to leave Antofagasta, some teachers and random Chilean friends that we have made over the last few months. Hardly a dry eye could be found as the bus pulled away from the terminal.

The next afternoon in Santiago, I helped the other two volunteers get to the airport, then returned to the bus station to catch another bus to the south of Chile for 14 hours down to Puerto Montt, where I took a four-hour trip to the island of Chiloé, which is just a few miles off the coast.

I will spend the next 11 days (as of this writing) making my way little by little back north to Santiago, where I will catch my flight to the United States on Monday.

But part of me still remains in Antofagasta. One comment in particular, I think, summed up the experience well. Just as we left Antofagasta, one of the other volunteers on the bus (who has a lot less Spanish experience than the rest of us) turned to me and, between sobs, said, "Your father said something very poignant to me at the terminal É and I have no idea what it was!" We didn't always understand the words that were coming out of each other's mouths, but we always understood the sentiment. Like I've said before, it doesn't matter what language you're speaking, because people everywhere are saying basically the same thing.