Living with a host family is a weird thing.

First of all, it’s weirdly intimate. I knew these people before this year, but now I am entrenched in almost everything they do. I know what Muriel’s morning robe looks like, what brand of deodorant Nemo uses and that Luis prefers plaid pajamas. And it goes both ways: they know that I use a Venus razor, that I rarely, if ever, make my bed and that I don’t do laundry nearly as often as I should. We share a small house, and even though we all have our own rooms, parts of us spill past our bedroom doors, fall into the hallway for everyone to see.

That was kind of dramatic but it’s also true; I’ve seen Muriel upset, frustrated, worn out. I’ve seen her and Luis fight with Nemo more times than I can count. They’ve made me laugh, listened to me complain about my classes, probably heard me cry to my sisters over Skype.

Intentionally or not, we share our lives together, so we can’t stop from letting things overlap.

Fundamentally, living with a host family is a cultural exchange. I’m supposed to immerse myself in their culture, and, through discussions and whatnot, they’re supposed to learn about my culture too. It’s a strange dynamic—I’m not part of their family, and they’re not part of mine. And as much as they’ve welcomed me, as much as I feel at home with these people, some days I still feel like an observer. And there are some days when I feel like things are too intimate—like I know them too well, am too close to their lives, to their family drama. On the other days, however, I love being that close. I like coming home and sharing my day, feeling like a part of something when I feel homesick, or just a little bit lost.

So this has been a kind of weird entry, but honestly living with a host family is a weird mix of bad and good. What should you take from this? I’m not sure. Enjoy your roommate? Love your suitemates? Try to appreciate the RA who cites you for noise violation? How about you eat some soup in a bread bowl and we just call it a night.