Arequipa (say it with me: ar-a-keepa) has turned out to be nothing like we imagined — and, honestly, one of our biggest adventures yet. We’re about 20 minutes from the city center, tucked into a neighborhood that… well, let’s just say has “character.” It’s dry, dusty, and every street seems to be mid-construction — and has been, apparently, since the dawn of time.

At first glance, the area feels a little rough around the edges. Many of the nearby homes look half-finished or crumbling, as if everyone collectively decided “good enough” and went on with life. But as we’ve settled in, we’ve realized that this is life here — and it’s beautiful in its own resilient way. It’s humbling, honestly, to see how much people create and thrive with so little polish or pretense.

Our place, by local standards, is practically a luxury resort: a washing machine (hallelujah!), full bathrooms with hot water, a real kitchen with all the works — oven, microwave, cooktop — and even a few comfy chairs that aren’t trying to sabotage your spine. Each of the kids have their own beds and separate bedrooms, which feels like a miracle of space.

Next door, though, life looks different. Many families cook in open-air kitchens — three walls and a tarp or tin roof if they’re lucky — and use large outdoor washbasins for dishes, laundry, and even hair washing. With the constant construction dust floating through the air, keeping things clean is basically a full-time job.

It’s hard to see sometimes — the disparity, the simplicity — but it’s also incredibly grounding. Arequipa is teaching us, day by dusty day, how to live with more gratitude and appreciation for what we do have.

Just a few miles from our house stands Alto Misti — an active volcano. (Because clearly, we like to live on the edge.) It’s usually quiet, but every now and then it lets out a smoky sigh, giving everything a soft, hazy glow. It’s Arequipa’s natural air filter… just with more dust.

Our home, perched on the second and third floors, could double as a walk-in refrigerator. Buildings here are made from cinder-block-style material that keeps things cool — great in theory, until you realize “cool” means cold when the sun goes down. Outside, the weather sits comfortably between 58–74°F year-round, but inside, we’re grabbing our sweaters, socks, and blankets to keep warm.

Even though the coast is only four hours away, Arequipa’s high-altitude attitude means thin air, big skies, and a sun that takes its job very seriously. 68 degrees can feel hot and intense under the sun — like a hair dryer set to “desert.” Forget humidity; we haven’t seen a frizzed hair since our stay in Georgia.

Three nights after arriving, we were treated to what sounded like a spontaneous battle scene outside our window. Fireworks? Gunshots? A volcanic tantrum? We weren’t sure. As we tucked the kids in, an alert flashed across our phones: fire near the base of El Misti — possible evacuation.

Cue wide-eyed girls clutching their stuffed animals, asking if we’d have to leave our few belongings behind. We reminded them gently that the things we carry are just that — things. What truly matters is us — that we have each other — and that God’s watching over us, even when the world feels a little shaky (or in this case, possibly on fire). That comfort finally calmed their hearts enough for sleep.

Thankfully, the evacuation never came. The next morning, we learned the truth: all those dramatic booms were just life in Arequipa. There’s a military base nearby (hello, mystery solved), and the locals never miss a chance to celebrate — with fireworks. Apparently, around here, any occasion deserves a sky show.

Getting around here is an adventure all its own. Most days, we walk or hop in an Uber, but when we’re feeling particularly brave, we take the local bus — which, for the record, is basically the Peruvian version of the Knight Bus from Harry Potter.

There’s no schedule, no route map, and definitely no “next stop” announcements. The buses come when they feel like it, and when they do stop, you’ve got roughly two seconds to leap aboard before they take off again — ready or not. The cost? Just 1 sol (about 25¢), paid when you hop off, assuming you can time your exit correctly. Miss your moment, and congratulations — you’ve just added a surprise detour to your day’s itinerary.

As for driving in Arequipa? Let’s just say it’s not for the faint of heart. Stop signs (pare) are treated as friendly suggestions, lane lines are decorative, and honking is practically a love language. Somehow, it all works — like a symphony of organized chaos that somehow doesn’t end in disaster.

Life here is full of little quirks that keep us smiling — the kind of everyday details that remind us we’re far from home in the best possible way.

Milk comes in plastic bags, rides go to the highest bidder, and instead of ice cream trucks, produce trucks roll through neighborhoods blasting announcements through loudspeakers. Arequipa’s famous queso helado (“cheese ice cream”) tastes way better than it sounds, and “fast food” here is a loaded (if you’re lucky) veggie with meat or cheese empanada or a hearty spread of rotisserie chicken, fries, and soup — which honestly beats drive-thru burgers any day.

One of the sweetest parts of our time here has been watching Gavin and Claire jump right into the local youth scene. They had the chance to attend the Stake Youth Conference and — get this — learned to sing “Disciple of Christ” in Spanish in just three days! (We even made our own video of them — it’s too good not to share.)

The weekend was full of all the good stuff: a fireside, a dance party, their song performance, and a service project at the temple. It was such a joy to see them connecting with other youth, engaging through language barriers, and growing in confidence and faith.

Our ward here has been amazing from the start. Every Sunday, we’re greeted with hugs, kisses on the cheek, and those genuine smiles that say “you’re part of the family now.” They’ve gone out of their way to make sure we’re involved — inviting the kids to activities, looping us into programs, and even recruiting us to help teach the Sunday English class. In return, they’re patiently helping us improve our Español (which, let’s be honest, might be the most divine act of service of all).

Life here is different — louder, dustier, and definitely outside our comfort zone — but that’s exactly what makes it such a gift. Sure, our noses are constantly stuffy, and we go through tissues and lotion like it’s our job, but somehow, none of that matters. The people here more than make up for the inconveniences. They’re kind, genuine, and overflowing with quiet strength and joy.

Every day, we find ourselves learning — not just Spanish, but gratitude, patience, and what it really means to live simply and fully. We thank God daily for this wild, wonderful adventure we get to call life right now — dust, volcano, and all.