Living in a home-stay is one of the best parts about staying in an international city. What better way is there to accustom yourself to a different culture than by living with those who practice it everyday? Some host families are absolutely wonderful—I’ll forever remember Francois Cologhan, the French woman I stayed with in Tours, as one of the nicest women on the face of the planet. She was also an excellent cook, which my stomach enjoyed. Some host families are eccentric—such as Madame Perrod, my host mother in Paris, who was in her 70’s and taught aerobics classes for seniors. In both of these situations, I lived happily with my temporary mothers. We clicked, I like to say, and my stays were enjoyable.
The only thing is, you really have to make sure that you click. If there is no click then you’ll end up miserable and despondent. You’ll not want to go home or even talk to your host family. That, unfortunately, was my initial experience in London, as I’ll describe down below. Allow my experience to serve as a cautionary tale. Listen while I illustrate what happened to me while I was in residence at my first home-stay.
Mr. and Mrs. Smith (obviously these were not their names, but in the interests of protecting both their identities and their dignities I will use these pseudonyms) were a busy family. Both parents had full-time jobs, three adult children, and two dogs handle. Understandably, I tried as much as possible to accommodate them. Yet it seemed that after the first week with them was finished—after my shiny, American newness had rubbed away—that the family had no more interest in me whatsoever.
Whilst I was living with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, they were attempting to sell their house. I am normally a very neat person, so cleaning my room, making my bed, and putting things in order wasn’t unnecessarily difficult. What was difficult, however, was coming into my room after a long day and seeing my various possessions moved about, rearranged, or just plain displaced.
My family also tended to ignore any uniformity in a dinner schedule. A family is required to give you breakfast each day and three dinners a week—which you are generally supposed to eat as a family. Well, in the three weeks I was there, I ate with them about four times and had my other meals “prepared” for me and then left in the microwave. When I did join them for dinner, it was with select members of the family. Once, I was left with just Mr. Smith, who ignored me while he watched television on his iPad. Other times, even if I was on time for dinner, they would not be eating, weren’t hungry, or had eaten earlier and were intent on leaving me to my own devices.
The menu didn’t change either. Though I am not completely adverse to the idea of eating pasta I am not one of those people that lives and breathes Italia. I enjoy vegetables, legumes, and fruit. So having white, generic pasta served to me for each of my meals with the family (all of which were not eaten with them) was not fun. Twice I replaced the dishes in the refrigerator and went to Tesco to buy meals that possessed some degrees of variety. As a visiting student, my stomach was supposed to be on the receiving end of various English dishes or family favorites—not whatever was quickest and most inexpensive to make. I mentioned the lack of variation once to Mrs. Smith and asked if it could be addressed. What did I find set out for me later that day (the family had already eaten, despite the fact that I was only five minutes later for supper) but more pasta (and this particular dish had been sitting on the stovetop for three days).
The laundry also became a tipping point. In the agreement the families have with Hollins, they are strongly advised to allow the student to use their washing machine. They don’t have to but it is very odd for a student to be refused access. When I asked Mrs. Smith about it, she flatly refused, saying that my things would “get lost” and that she didn’t want to deal with it. Had this been a washer and a dryer I might have been a bit more understanding. Yet it was only a washer and the more I thought about it the more I found it hard to believe that I could misplace my own vestments, especially when they were clumped together in a wet heap. In the end, my odyssey to clean my various garments should not have been as difficult as it was, nor as expensive, and from there, resentment began to grow.
Something else that is very important is communication with your host parents. As a stranger in a foreign land it’s only natural that you go to them for help or just to ask questions about day-to-day life. If they just ignore you then what’s the point of even being with them? You could have just as easily stayed in International Student Housing and Googled everything you wanted to know if you wanted that type of experience. Beyond the first week, Mr. and Mrs. Smith did not engage me and did not seem to want to answer any of the questions I posed. Granted, this disconnect was probably felt stronger due to the lack of meals together, but even when we did eat together I was usually shut out of the conversation, with Mr. and Mrs. Smith preferring to talk to their own children rather than myself.
Now, I do not want to put anyone off on the possibility of staying with a host family. All of my friends here are living with families, singletons, and elderly people who are absolutely wonderful. I hear glowing reports, hysterical stories, and praise from many of them in regards to their hosts. And, since I have been moved, I can say the same about my new host parents. Never have I met nicer people and—though I am still a bit skeptical after my first experience—I plan to make the most of my new living arrangements.
Although—as a word to the wise—go about leaving in a gentler manner than I. I did not tell Mr. and Mrs. Smith I was going until I was ready to walk out the door. I will admit, it was a freakishly poor idea. I only decided upon it because I didn’t want to live for days with them in a terribly awkward situation. To use a rather childish metaphor, I pulled the band-aid off in one quick tug and didn’t prolong the suffering. Yes, they’ll feel the sting, but so will I. For as long as they live, they’ll think of me as the rude American girl who departed without so much as a warning.
I would also like to mention that if you do make the decision to move to another home stay you will have someone very influential in your corner. The director for the London Program—Sara Levine—acted on my behalf within minutes of hearing me say I wanted to switch. In fact, she was the one who encouraged me to stick up for myself in regards to my unhappy living situation, saying that it was better I be content rather than miserable. Upon my final decision Sara went into immediate action and I had another home stay within days. She checked up on my regularly and even offered to be there with me when I told Mr. and Mrs. Smith that I was leaving.
Take what this post what you may, just know that as a student whose university is employing these families, you have rights. You have the right to ask for proper meals and to be in a situation where conversation and friendliness is encouraged, not forgotten. I am not saying that Mr. and Mrs. Smith are bad host parents; in fact, our university has used them before and has gotten excellent reviews from previous students. I, however, am not one of those students. I did not feel the click and though I feel bad for putting Mr. and Mrs. Smith out, I do not feel bad for leaving.
My new home stay, by the way, is worlds better than the last. I felt the click at once and after two days in residence already feel like an adopted daughter.
American Student in London 