Oh Sing, Sweet Nightingale

When I was about 4 years old, I went through a phase where all I wanted was to be Cinderella. I'd wear my hair pulled back with a blue ribbon and try to mop the floor and refer to my bedroom as "my attic," and although my mother was patient with me, I'm sure it wasn't the easiest of my phases she had to deal with. I outgrew it, sort of, and moved on to pretending I was other people, but Cinderella always had a special place in my heart.

Yesterday, I was taking a nap when all of a sudden I was woken by a huge thunderclap and something that sounded like grains of rice being thrown against my window. Turns out Cusco was jealous of Los Angeles' little hailstorm, so we had one of our own. Only problem? My host family's living room is sunken down a little below ground level, so when the rain kept coming and coming in torrents, our living room started to flood. Eventually, it looked like a little swimming pool in there, with the rug beginning to float and the hardwood floor looking decidedly soggy.

Leo and I panicked a little bit. There were plugged-in electronics everywhere, 3 inches of water on the floor, and more water coming in through the patio door. Eventually, she got a good idea, went outside with a shovel, swept away all the ice blocking the door, opened it, and started sweeping the water from the living room out onto the patio. My job? Mopping up the little puddles with a rag and bucket. Without realizing it, I started humming the song Cinderella sings while she's wiping the floor. I caught myself in mid rag-wring thinking, "I'm glad this family doesn't have a cat."

And that's when I realized that I can move to the other side of the world and pretend I'm a grown-up all I want, but I'll still always be a 4-year-old at heart.