You only realize how much of a liberal you are once you go to a place like Wilderness, Mo.

An hour on a gravel road and after dragging a tree out of the way, we come to the woods man’s castle. It is barely morning, with the moon in its quarter phase showing off her not-too-well disguised shyness. In your way to the glades you get to appreciate the amazing view (at least for a city girl) of countless bare trees that extend their reign until the sight reaches no more.

At this time of the year the trees dress the ground in the many golden shades of dead leafs. Still, the pine trees refuse to let go of theirs, surviving through the cold season just to delight your eyes with green every once in a while. You find numerous hunting signs or lavender spots painted on the trunks of the trees along the road to stop the wandering hunters of exhausting the resources of Mother Nature.

That’s how we come to the Smith’s cabin. A warm welcome and many cups of coffee to keep us awake for a conversation of issues and anecdotes not discussed for more than a year.

A frozen thermometer over the table reminds me of Iowa. Its never-changing reading of 65 degrees Fahrenheit seems an illusion, a dream of my long gone tropical weather. The shamrock-patterned tablecloth seems to be there as an announcement of all the good luck that it is to be in Wilderness, of the simple things to appreciate during our stay away from civilization.

You get a sense of total quietness in this small valley where the few existing houses stand apart from each other. Apart as to not interfere with the neighbors’ business in any sense, apart as if to respect each other’s very personal space and the desire to not be bothered.

The woodsman’s castle is full of new and enriching encounters.

The enticing flavor of fried breaded deer meat results in a contradictory experience. Its delicious flavor makes me forget about my continuous criticism of the hunting affair.

Wild turkeys and deer wander freely into the road and out trying to hide before the morning brings the furtive hunters who shoot at anything that moves. Some horses await to be trained while grazing through one of the few pastures that you get to see once you go deep in the forest.

The flags displayed in every possible shape or size are the theme in Wilderness and on the way there. A Florida man with arms turned into living works of the tattoo art and dying teeth announces the tornado warning issued for Springfield, the city we were headed to. The people saying “howdy” and waitresses calling you “hon” let you know you have reached a different zone.

The continuous references to the Taliban and Arabs in general are to be the salt and pepper of the weekend; the vinegar too, when confronted with the opposite feelings of the need to stand for a gentler look at political matters or the desire to let go of my liberal opinions for this once. There is no better time to figure out the meaning of picking your battles.

After all, the American culture boot camp I am attending stands as an invaluable learning experience. Lisa and Tom show me there is life and love, after 17 years of marriage. Yuri, the Japanese gal, and Steven, the ex-Marine, offer me a glance at the possibilities of an intercultural couple.

Mike Smith teaches me a lesson never to be forgotten. His radical views of government, the war and many other issues, as opposed as they appear to my viewpoints, are to be respected and let alone. You are socialized to think in a way that you can’t abandon. That is Mike’s case. The same goes for me. My trip to Wilderness is a great lesson. It is a teaching about the uniqueness of every one of us and the gallantry needed to not intervene with your friend’s opinion.

A white rose stolen from a grandma’s garden reveals that patience and tolerance are to be rewarded in the most unexpected ways.

Zayira Jordan is a graduate student in journalism and mass communication from Hato Rey, Puerto Rico.