By Naomi Meints ’25

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

Matthew 25

What does the word hospitality mean to you? Sometimes, I think of hospitality as a biblical value, an action one can take. I also hear the word thrown around a lot when discussing travel. You hear it paired with a lot of cultures’ values, as many nations seem to boast of their uniquely hospitable people. The “hospitality industry” describes an especially lucrative business, marketing off of the fact that we all need a place to sleep and something to eat when we find ourselves far from home. But what does home mean anyways, and what does it mean to open one’s home to a stranger? When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and host, to give someone the gift of safety, warmth, and company to those who need it, it is easy to see the goodness of each other. To me, the actions of hospitality, such as opening up your house or making someone a meal, is one way of showing God’s love to another.

 Recently, I’ve received the gift of being welcomed into another’s home, to have a space when I was on my own, out of my comfort zone. It’s taught me a lot about how different cultures show hospitality, but more importantly, how you can see kindness and community anywhere in the world. Specifically, I think back on my time living with homestays during my study abroad in various countries during my time at St. Olaf College. When I found myself in Norway, Ecuador, and Vietnam, I met different families who taught me something about the place I was in and what it meant to be welcomed. 

But what does home mean anyways, and what does it mean to open one’s home to a stranger?

I like to think my family was quite hospitable growing up. A classic representative of the Minnesota nice archetype, my mom regularly had the door open, a warm meal cooking, and fresh blankets folded, ready for kids’ sleepovers and extended family passing through for the weekend. I remember the hours of dusting and sweeping before hosting the massive family Christmas gatherings, and helping make pancakes with grandma in the morning (though they were pretty mediocre when I was left in charge). I didn’t really appreciate the idea of an open door or the joys of crashing on a couch until college. I decided to bring some friends to my hometown for a break once my freshman year, and I saw my parents quickly act as if they’d just adopted four new twenty-something-year-old children. And in return, my friends’ families returned the favors, with rooms to sleep in over breaks, rides from the airport, and kind birthday messages. The network of familiar faces and values from my family has given me a love for hosting.

I am very blessed to have had the chance to travel during my time at St. Olaf. I acknowledge that traveling for education is a great privilege, which became evermore clear to me as I saw more of the world outside of the small, liberal arts bubble. I am very grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, as someone who didn’t travel much as a child. I felt the itch to leave the country as soon as I turned 18. I would like to say it was to expand my mind, but really, I think I had an image in my mind of the adventurous, fearless young girl that I wanted to embody so badly. My family jokingly call me the “brave” or the “jetset” one, but when I traveled for the first time I was absolutely terrified. I was leaving for two months in Europe, nothing unheard of for a college student. When I confidently said goodbye to my mom at the airport and turned my back, I was clutching my passport for dear life and tried to calm myself down as I thought of all the unknowns. I was scared of a lot of things… public transportation, strange men, etc.  I like to think I’m someone who is good at living outside my “comfort zone,” but that’s not always the case. What I have found myself being pretty good at is taking opportunities where I’ll be forced out of my comfort zone and hoping for the best. 

The first time I ever stayed in a homestay was February in Norway. I traveled as part of an international student festival. The other students and I sat in a large, circular theater resembling a circus tent in the middle of the student center. As we lazily messed around, chatting in the folding chairs and struggling our way through Norwegian language magazines, the leaders slowly assigned us to host families. With quiet panic, I overheard that they didn’t have enough homes to house everyone. I prepared myself to be stuck in a cheap hotel, or perhaps a local university dorm, while I waited to be called. After many hours, I was told that I was paired with a household, and I would leave immediately. My homestay was with only one person, an older Norwegian woman. Her husband had passed away, and her children are grown up. She told me she had hosted exchange students before, and doing it this year was a last minute decision. 

I felt like I was a part of something, even if it was just for  a short time while I was visiting.  

I’m happy she chose to. I couldn’t have asked for a better home during this scary time. A warm bed on a cold, dark Norwegian night (though the windows stayed open, the locals insisted to me that it was good for you), and a warm cooked meal were very much appreciated. However, it was the fact that I had somewhere to come home to that was the real comfort. That, despite my very broken Norwegian, we could talk about life and all kinds of things, and I felt like I had someone looking out for me. She told me about her life, her family, and took me throughout Trondheim to see important sites. I enjoyed meeting her friends as she introduced me as “her new daughter.” I felt like I was a part of something, even if it was just for  a short time while I was visiting.  

My next experience with a host family was when I traveled to Ecuador during the first leg of Global Semester, a St. Olaf-led program where students travel to multiple countries. These locations are usually considered to be “off the beaten path,” and further than any of us had ever traveled before. After many long, bumpy bus rides through stunning mountains and feeling the effects of hazy, unsatisfying naps, our group ended up in the city Baños de Agua Santa. If you’d drive a few more minutes from the city you’d reach the small, rural village of El Placer. This would become my new comfort zone for the time being, and I was the most out of my element that I had been yet. Four other girls from my trip and I lived with a family here. The large extended family was always coming and going from the house, and times were never boring. It seemed like all of the neighbors regarded each other as one big family, where everyone knew each other and everyone was always welcome. Coming from my snowy, quiet town, this was a sight to be seen. 

At that moment, I was shown the most love from my Ecuadorian host family. In my fuzzy gaps of consciousness, I felt the care of a mother helping her sick child.

A few days into this homestay, I fell mysteriously ill. Now, it wasn’t anything that would end up being significant, but it was certainly enough to ruin my day. After terrible nausea and fatigue at school, I came home and proceeded to pass out for a blissful 24 hour hour nap. While my other American roommates laughed at me for my comatose state (and the fact that I had fallen asleep in my jeans), I was still well taken care of. At that moment, I was shown the most love from my Ecuadorian host family. In my fuzzy gaps of consciousness, I felt the care of a mother helping her sick child. As I became “pobrecita” for the time being, my host mom brought me fresh bread, mysterious tea (which she insisted would cure me), and lots of blankets. The big fuzzy kind of blanket that could knock anyone out into a deep sleep. It was simple, but it was an act of care. They went out of their way to care for me when I couldn’t. 

What mattered is that we tried, we were there, and we participated.

As time went on, I became more comfortable there. Though my Spanish was still broken as ever, we had a routine that brought great comfort to us travelers in these confusing times. As we became more comfortable, there were many nights after dinner where we gathered around the kitchen table. We all talked for hours, laughed at cultural mix-ups, and shared photos of our hometowns and families. Towards the end of the trip, we girls were helping our host family set up a birthday party for their son. We helped hang up balloons and put out snacks, but most surprisingly, we were tasked with the most important part of any birthday party: the cake. We four American girls were given some sprinkles and a tube of thick blue icing and were determined to create a piece of culinary artwork. Safe to say, we did not exactly achieve this goal. We all laughed in embarrassment as our decorating attempts became messier and less recognizable. But, despite the fact that we were clearly incompetent, the feeling in the air was light and familiar. What mattered is that we tried, we were there, and we participated. The birthday party represented for me a sight of great comfort during this trip, something that felt like home. A small piece of time in the grand scheme of things, but something that symbolizes joy. I take comfort in the fact that wherever you go, loved ones gather to celebrate another. I was grateful to be with a family, regardless of if I grew up with them or not. 

The last country of the Global Semester, and the second to include homestays, was Vietnam. By this point, I had thought myself to be a skilled explorer outside of my comfort zone. But, Vietnam continued to bring new challenges to me. I was in more need of a home and the kindness of others than ever before. I moved into a tall townhouse in the middle of the city with a mother and her four twenty-something-year-old children. I became quite close with them, especially my youngest host sister. You know, I never had a sister, so living in the house with a girl closer to my own age made this feel like a place of safety for me. When sharing our favorite music, doing nails, and  talking about the big wide world, I was grateful to have a sister for the first time. Some of my favorite memories were of hopping on the back of her motorcycle to explore the city, not really sure where we’d end up, but happy to be involved. The normal steps of my host family’s routine brought me wonder as I learned about a culture so different from my own, and I was grateful for them dragging me along.

Cooking a cultural dish can be a way to bridge a gap, to bring a gift to another that carries so much history behind it.

My attempts at learning Vietnamese, much like my other foreign language lessons, were futile but earnest. Still, I never got to the point where I could speak very well with my host mom. The breakfast table became our common ground. The only phrases I could master, and used in abundance, were “cảm ơn” (thank you!), “cay” (spicy!), and “rất vui” (very happy!). I think food can be one of the easiest ways to show love. At least it was in my household. My many years of being my dad’s second in command in the kitchen has taught me how cooking and sharing a meal together can be an act of love in itself. So, cooking together became a cherished way to bond in Vietnam. I think food is also one of the easiest ways to share culture. Cooking a cultural dish can be a way to bridge a gap, to bring a gift to another that carries so much history behind it. My host mom patiently walked me through the rigorous process of handmade dumplings and new desserts, and I made my own attempts at bringing American comfort food to the home. This resulted in the world’s ugliest pumpkin pie, but it’s the thought that counts. When words don’t cut it to tell someone you care about them, a home cooked meal will always deliver the message.

Every place, and more importantly every person, has taught me different things. If I had to choose one thing that was the most important idea I learned from traveling, is the fact that we’re truly the same anywhere you go.

I often hear hospitality being referred to as a “gift.” Sometimes when I tell people about the places I’ve been, they ask me “what did you learn?” When I hear this, my mind goes blank, as I seem to forget every event of the past few months of my life. But when I do answer, I say, “Every place, and more importantly every person, has taught me different things. If I had to choose one thing that was the most important idea I learned from traveling, is the fact that we’re truly the same anywhere you go.” 

While this is an easy idea to conceptualize at face value, it surprised me more than I thought. I expected to travel and have my mind blown by the culture shock, and be introduced to radical new ideas that’d change me forever. And sure, some of that happened, but what remains clearest in my mind are the moments that felt the same – when people felt like home, when I was so far away from it. Whether it was gathering around a table for a meal with family, celebrating a birthday, or feeling awkward about asking uncomfortable questions (that you’re dying to know from a foreign guest). Maybe it’s the comforting sight of a freshly made bed, or a mother’s strong opinions on how to keep her new young daughter healthy and looking her best. We all feel the same, think the same, are the same. In the ways that really matter, we are all the same. I frequently joke about how I miss my three new moms around the world. What I have learned is that the world is a bit smaller when you have people you love all around it.