Uruguay: Getting There

I was 12 years old when I moved to Uruguay. My dad was a colonel in the Air Force at the time and to this day, I think he still believes the Uruguay tour was the best assignment he ever had.

When I was around 8 years old, my dad left my mom, sisters and I to head to the Presidio of Monterey, California for several months to master the Spanish language. The Presidio of Monterey is the ‘Home of the Defense Language Institute Foreign Language Center’. It is renowned as the United States' best foreign language school.

Dad always had a fascination with all things "Latino." A quick look through his vinyl collection and you could tell that his curiosity to learn about Latino culture wasn't just a phase. Some of his records are from his undergrad college days at the University of Utah as an ROTC student. I think my mom and he took dancing lessons when they were undergrads. A little tango, a little mambo, and some Polish polka -- that's a whole other story.

OK, so Uruguay. I remember my mom and I had to wake up early and be at the Dulles International Airport four hours before our flight to New York was supposed to take off. We were bringing our family dog, Buttons -- a mindless yet adorable Poodle Terrier -- so that meant we had to be at the airport and additional two more hours on top of the four required for international flights.

I don't remember much about what I did to bide my time while waiting to board the Pan Am 747 for six hours, but I do remember an incident involving my mother's purse, and consequently the first time I realized I was more mature than I knew.

As I walked down the Jetway with my mother, carry-on luggage in tow, I remember thinking, "So, at what time am I actually going to say goodbye to America? I mean, at what point do I fully accept that I won't be coming back to the U.S. for three years? Is it when the wheels of the plane are no longer touching the tarmac in New York? Is it when I first see the Atlantic Ocean 30,000 feet below?"

Such a question boggled my 12-year old mind.

It wasn't until we were all settled in our seats – co-pilot side of the Boeing 747 with me in the window seat-- that I saw a panicked look on my mother's face.

I remember we were looking out the window watching the baggage handlers load Buttons’ kennel into the belly of the craft.

"Oh, no! Oh my God!," my mother said.

"What? What's wrong?," I said.

"Where's my purse? Is it in my carry-on?" she said frantically as she tore through her bags.

"Mom, calm down!" I said. "See if the stewardess can do anything. Do you think you left it at the gate?"

"I don't know. I might have. Yes, maybe."

She was able to get a flight attendant's attention and inquire about her purse.

"It had everything in it; our passports, cash, credit cards, everything."

The attendant said she would see what info she could find out. Unfortunately, my mom wasn't able to run back to the gate to look for it as we were in the final stages of pre-flight check.

I think it wasn't until we were taxiing down the runway that the attendant leaned over to my mom and assured her it would be waiting for us at the gate in New York.

It wasn't until then that she completely calmed down and was able to enjoy the flight. We had a good chuckle about it too, and how her pre-teen son told her to, “Chill!” and get a grip.

“The situation could be a lot worse,” I reminded her.

She looked into my eyes and said, “You’re right, it could be.”