The Year We Hosted an Exchange Student

In August, a sixteen-year-old named Lukas arrived from a small town in Bavaria to live with us for a school year. He had one suitcase, perfect manners and absolutely no idea what a s'more was.

We taught him. We taught him about Thanksgiving, which he called "the potato holiday," and Halloween, which he approached with the seriousness of an anthropologist, dressing as a "typical American dad" in my cargo shorts and a baseball cap. He taught us to make proper pretzels, to say "Prost" correctly and to take Sunday walks with no destination.

He joined the school soccer team and became a minor celebrity for his free kicks. He learned to drive in our minivan in an empty church parking lot, gripping the wheel as if it might escape. My youngest daughter, who is seven, decided he was her brother on day three and never changed her mind.

In June, at the airport, everyone cried, including Lukas, who had sworn he wouldn't. My daughter gave him a crayon portrait of him holding a flaming marshmallow. He gave her his soccer jersey.

He video calls every Sunday. Last week he told us he'd made s'mores for his family in Bavaria, over a little camping stove on their balcony. His mother said they were "too sweet and wonderful." His father had four. We're planning to visit next summer. My daughter has already packed.