How Much Is an Egg Worth?

One of the most common questions we get when talking about this journey is:"How will your kids get their education while you’re traveling?"

The answer is anything but simple. There are too many layers to consider. But one idea serves as our guiding principle: travel is a learning process in itself.

We set out on this journey with the intention of traveling slowly, even if that meant covering fewer places than we had originally planned. We drive for a day or two, then stay in one place for five or six days. Not only does this help us maintain a decent level of energy, but it also allows us to have meaningful conversations with the people who call these places home.

Faster travel often dazzled us with breathtaking landscapes, new flavors, and unique experiences, but it rarely gave us time to reflect on the human effort behind everything we consume—the small, invisible pieces that shape the memories we take with us.

So, how much is an egg worth? Not in terms of money, but in the work, dedication, and life of the person who produced it. In the way those lives are shaped by a thousand experiences, all distilled into something that is then shared or offered to someone else.

Spoiler alert: I don’t have an answer.

Arriving in Futa!

A few days ago, we arrived in Futaleufú. For the last three days of our stay here, we’re camping at Arroyo Quila Seca, about 30 minutes from town. It’s the perfect place to watch the mountains while listening to the endless murmur of the stream. The campsite sits on a small farm, worked by its owners.

When we arrived, we were greeted by Johana, the daughter of the farm’s owner, who was visiting her mother, María.

Doña María is a woman who tends her land, raises her animals, and welcomes travelers into a small piece of her world. She makes sopaipillas, bakes fresh bread, and sells vegetables—something surprisingly scarce in Futaleufú.

Today’s Homeschool Lesson

This journey is also our way of teaching. We decided that this year, our children wouldn’t follow a formal education but would instead learn through experience. I don’t know yet how it will shape them, but I do know that every moment is leaving its mark.

Today's curriculum went something like this:

• First class: tying fishing knots at 9:30 a.m. They practiced over and over for nearly an hour until they got it right.

• Then, a balance lesson—crossing a stream by jumping across the rocks.

• Next, a practical life skill: shelling peas and broad beans for lunch, followed by washing their own cups.

• The afternoon plan was a hike to a lookout, but we postponed it for something even better—a tour of the farm with Doña María.

We had planned to take a few photos of her greenhouse, just a couple of quick shots. But after she invited us to explore the entire farm with the kids, the session turned into an hours-long tour, filled with stories and moments that revealed the world she shapes daily with her hands—patiently, tirelessly.

This afternoon, we had the best lesson of the day.

We started in the greenhouses. María is part of a collective of women farmers who sell their products at a market in Futaleufú. She told us that the different farming groups in the region often compete with each other. Last year, the prize for the biggest zucchini went to the group from Palena. This year, María is growing a giant one in hopes of winning the 2025 contest.

Without taking a break, we moved on to the chacra. As we took in the scent of fresh herbs growing all around us, María bent down and pulled four carrots straight from the soil, handing them to the kids. She led them to a canoe filled with spring water and showed them how to wash the dirt off.

They devoured them instantly, their eyes widening like fried eggs as they tasted the sweetness. I think it was the first time they truly saw how a vegetable is pulled from the earth, cleaned, and eaten on the spot.

I couldn’t stop staring at María’s hands—rough yet tender. I’d seen hands like hers before, I thought.

As we walked, I noticed the barns filled with hay, ready for winter (around here, time is never wasted). Hanging from the wooden beams were old leather harnesses, just like the ones I used to see at my grandparents’ and uncles’ homes when I was a child.

The memories hit me with a force I hadn’t felt in a long time.

As a kid, whenever I visited my family in the countryside, I would sneak into those barns, jumping into the piles of hay or hiding between the bales.

Later, near the chicken coop, we watched a couple of roosters fighting while the kids placed their bets on the winner. Then, we headed to a wide-open field where the livestock roamed—one of their favorite parts of the day. That’s where we met Dolly, a bottle-fed sheep, proudly strutting around with a red ribbon around her neck like a model on the runway, standing out from the rest of the flock.

Then there was Paloma, the farm’s cow, who loves getting her neck scratched. The kids came back to visit her the next morning, bringing a handful of grass. She thanked them with a couple of friendly tail swipes.

Finally, María introduced us to her pig, Cochona. She had originally bought her to raise for food, but over time, she became part of the family. Now, safe from ever ending up on the dinner table, she responds when called and, with a single command, rolls over onto her back to get belly rubs.

As I watched my kids run, explore, and listen to María’s stories, I wondered if they were creating the same kind of muscle memory I once did in spaces like this.

Maybe more than learning, they were truly living this experience.

Memories That Bring You Back to Yourself

Back in Pucón, when I was feeling overwhelmed or stuck, I would turn to Courtney and say: "Let’s go to the ocean."

We’d walk along the beaches of Valdivia or Toltén, and a childhood memory would come rushing back—walking with my parents along the shore, playing as we dodged the waves.

That memory always calmed my soul and cleared my mind.

JT, a friend we met here, shared an idea from writer Barry Lopez. I don’t remember the exact quote, but it was something like:

"If I were to visit another country, before stepping into a museum, a bookstore, a factory, or a city, I’d ask a local to take me on a walk through the country of their youth."

That, in many ways, captures the kind of learning we’re seeking on this journey.

In college, a professor once introduced me to an idea from British philosopher Derek Parfit that makes even more sense to me now:

"We are just a bundle of memories."

We are not fixed, unchanging identities—we are always in the process of becoming.

And from a materialist perspective, that process is shaped by and with the world around us. The people we meet, the places we visit—they mold us, just as we, knowingly or not, leave an imprint on them.

If I had to sum up what I hope my children take from this journey, it would be this:

I hope they gather meaningful, positive memories. That when they one day navigate life’s inevitable storms (because they will), they have lighthouses to help them find their way back.

I hope they understand that memory-making isn’t a solo act—it’s a shared process, built alongside the people who, like María, open their doors to us.

And that as they collect stories to call their own, they also learn to listen—really listen—to the stories of others. Maybe then, when they go off into the world on their own, they’ll have a much better answer than I do to the question:

How much is an egg worth?