I suppose anyone whose family has been blown apart feels it especially acutely around the holidays, but for me, Christmas is a particular touchstone. I always came home for it; no matter where I was in the world, I’d make the trip. And whatever else was going on with Penny, even in the later years, things always seemed to go back to being good between us, at least for a few days. Nowadays, most of the time my feelings about Penny are so complicated that I can’t extract a single emotion from the morass, but on Christmas, I just miss my sister.

Liz Is an Expat

I MAKE IT through my first few days limpingly. My luggage arrives three days after I’ve landed, and I’ve already had to wash my hated new clothing once to get me through. I take long walks around my new neighborhood each day just to have something to do. Walking and being outside is meant to help and it does temporarily. It’s late spring, and the city has the feeling of coming alive; there is no hour when the tables that spill out onto the sidewalks of the cafés are not occupied and the streets off the Plaza Serrano are not bursting with life; there are twentysomethings everywhere selling interesting clothes and artsy jewelry. I venture to the grocery store for staples and a small market stall for produce—an unexpectedly intimidating experience fraught with mysterious labels and arrangements. I return to the little bodega for the greasy empanadas, and the old men are still there—seemingly they have always been there and will always be there. When I get back to my building, it feels like a sterile and lonely fortress.

I study maps and landmarks to prepare for my tours, and in the evening I drink Malbec and watch American television with Spanish subtitles. How strange that they have all this American culture here; in the mall and in the McDonald’s, every song I hear is American: Taylor Swift or Justin Bieber, and on television it’s all of our shows repackaged. Do they think this is what we are? What a rude awakening they must have if they visit.

I feel relieved three days in when I have my first day of Spanish classes in the morning and my meeting with the woman from the tour-guide company in the afternoon—it gives me some structure. The adrenaline of coming here has faded, and if I didn’t have a reason to get out of bed today, I might not. My classes are on the third floor of a baroque shopping arcade where there are several classrooms surrounding a small interior courtyard. I eat my lunch alone in the courtyard, surreptitiously glancing at the other students, who all seem horribly young.