
Half of the lobby of the Chicago Hilton – a gorgeous hotel!
When I was 21, in my senior year of college, I went to Quito, Ecuador to student teach at the American School. I had planned for months, and although I had minored in Spanish, I was exceptionally nervous about being immersed in the language. But I had the plane tickets, the student teaching assignment, and the contact information for my host family, who, I was assured by the director of placement at my university, knew when I was arriving and would be waiting for me at the airport at 11:30pm when I arrived.
Only they weren’t there.
Because no one had told them when I was coming.