It took a little while for mine to sink in, but as Jeff so sagely predicted, it happened. I'm...weirded out, to say the least. Everybody I've passed on the street is speaking English; I have to watch what I say. If I have a bit of trash in my pocket, I can just throw it into a trash can; I don't have to go hunting for somebody's garbage bag left out on the curb. The shops all carry food I recognize; I'd better be careful not to blow all the money I saved on Three Musketeers bars and Progresso Soup. And that's not to mention the food I've had since I got back. First thing after my folks picked me up from the airport, we went out for Mexican. Now, I'd had some pseudo-Mexican in Korea. There were the nachos at Mix (a club in Busan) and the enchiladas at El Paso (see Day Eight: Jeju). At the time, in the absence of the real thing, and being so long removed from said real thing, I'd thought the pseudo-Mexican was pretty good.
Boy, was I talking through my hat. I don't even remember the name of the place we went to; tiny ten-table sort of establishment, in a shopping center just off Mariposa Road in Victorville (same complex as the old Cinemark theater, Michael's, and Red Robin). I ordered up some chicken enchiladas, and they came, served up with Spanish rice and a great heaping helping of refried beans. I bit into the tortilla soaked with both its contents and its covering, and promptly sank into a year's worth of Mexican withdrawal, which fortunately was quickly remedied by what was already in my mouth. Ay carumba, that was bliss. So good to have something real, or at least as close to real as I could get north of the border (and this side of the Pacific).
Things haven't changed. At home I was treated to one of Dad's quesadillas, whipped up Post Family style: Swiss cheese. He also added some leftover chicken. Boy, was that ever a trip down memory lane, and darn delicious to boot. I have since had a ham and Swiss on homemade buttermilk bread (awwwwwwwwwwwww); some of my Mom's nachos (smack smack); my Dad's hot wings (yummy yummy...hot hot hot); raisin bran (which I didn't even realize I'd missed); and, well, yeah. Just being back, and having the option to have all this stuff (even if I haven't had it yet) is blowing my mind at this juncture. Not to mention I'm still freaked out by everything I've mentioned above. There's more yet to come. Imagine how weird it'll be to start seeing some of my high school friends again. Or order a pizza from Papa John's. Or drive. Today Dad gave me my first lesson in how to drive a stick-shift, and dang if that wasn't like learning to drive all over again. That, too, has compounded my RCS.
Wish me luck...Saturday we go to Big Bear, a place I've been millions of times but not in four years, for my Mom's birthday. Now, if that won't be a trip down Memory Lane...the long, sinuous drive up the San Gabriel Mountains to the secluded lake in the midst of a verdant pine forest on the mountaintops...I don't know what will.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
reverse culture shock
It exists.
It took a little while for mine to sink in, but as Jeff so sagely predicted, it happened. I'm...weirded out, to say the least. Everybody I've passed on the street is speaking English; I have to watch what I say. If I have a bit of trash in my pocket, I can just throw it into a trash can; I don't have to go hunting for somebody's garbage bag left out on the curb. The shops all carry food I recognize; I'd better be careful not to blow all the money I saved on Three Musketeers bars and Progresso Soup. And that's not to mention the food I've had since I got back. First thing after my folks picked me up from the airport, we went out for Mexican. Now, I'd had some pseudo-Mexican in Korea. There were the nachos at Mix (a club in Busan) and the enchiladas at El Paso (see Day Eight: Jeju). At the time, in the absence of the real thing, and being so long removed from said real thing, I'd thought the pseudo-Mexican was pretty good.
Boy, was I talking through my hat. I don't even remember the name of the place we went to; tiny ten-table sort of establishment, in a shopping center just off Mariposa Road in Victorville (same complex as the old Cinemark theater, Michael's, and Red Robin). I ordered up some chicken enchiladas, and they came, served up with Spanish rice and a great heaping helping of refried beans. I bit into the tortilla soaked with both its contents and its covering, and promptly sank into a year's worth of Mexican withdrawal, which fortunately was quickly remedied by what was already in my mouth. Ay carumba, that was bliss. So good to have something real, or at least as close to real as I could get north of the border (and this side of the Pacific).
Things haven't changed. At home I was treated to one of Dad's quesadillas, whipped up Post Family style: Swiss cheese. He also added some leftover chicken. Boy, was that ever a trip down memory lane, and darn delicious to boot. I have since had a ham and Swiss on homemade buttermilk bread (awwwwwwwwwwwww); some of my Mom's nachos (smack smack); my Dad's hot wings (yummy yummy...hot hot hot); raisin bran (which I didn't even realize I'd missed); and, well, yeah. Just being back, and having the option to have all this stuff (even if I haven't had it yet) is blowing my mind at this juncture. Not to mention I'm still freaked out by everything I've mentioned above. There's more yet to come. Imagine how weird it'll be to start seeing some of my high school friends again. Or order a pizza from Papa John's. Or drive. Today Dad gave me my first lesson in how to drive a stick-shift, and dang if that wasn't like learning to drive all over again. That, too, has compounded my RCS.
Wish me luck...Saturday we go to Big Bear, a place I've been millions of times but not in four years, for my Mom's birthday. Now, if that won't be a trip down Memory Lane...the long, sinuous drive up the San Gabriel Mountains to the secluded lake in the midst of a verdant pine forest on the mountaintops...I don't know what will.
It took a little while for mine to sink in, but as Jeff so sagely predicted, it happened. I'm...weirded out, to say the least. Everybody I've passed on the street is speaking English; I have to watch what I say. If I have a bit of trash in my pocket, I can just throw it into a trash can; I don't have to go hunting for somebody's garbage bag left out on the curb. The shops all carry food I recognize; I'd better be careful not to blow all the money I saved on Three Musketeers bars and Progresso Soup. And that's not to mention the food I've had since I got back. First thing after my folks picked me up from the airport, we went out for Mexican. Now, I'd had some pseudo-Mexican in Korea. There were the nachos at Mix (a club in Busan) and the enchiladas at El Paso (see Day Eight: Jeju). At the time, in the absence of the real thing, and being so long removed from said real thing, I'd thought the pseudo-Mexican was pretty good.
Boy, was I talking through my hat. I don't even remember the name of the place we went to; tiny ten-table sort of establishment, in a shopping center just off Mariposa Road in Victorville (same complex as the old Cinemark theater, Michael's, and Red Robin). I ordered up some chicken enchiladas, and they came, served up with Spanish rice and a great heaping helping of refried beans. I bit into the tortilla soaked with both its contents and its covering, and promptly sank into a year's worth of Mexican withdrawal, which fortunately was quickly remedied by what was already in my mouth. Ay carumba, that was bliss. So good to have something real, or at least as close to real as I could get north of the border (and this side of the Pacific).
Things haven't changed. At home I was treated to one of Dad's quesadillas, whipped up Post Family style: Swiss cheese. He also added some leftover chicken. Boy, was that ever a trip down memory lane, and darn delicious to boot. I have since had a ham and Swiss on homemade buttermilk bread (awwwwwwwwwwwww); some of my Mom's nachos (smack smack); my Dad's hot wings (yummy yummy...hot hot hot); raisin bran (which I didn't even realize I'd missed); and, well, yeah. Just being back, and having the option to have all this stuff (even if I haven't had it yet) is blowing my mind at this juncture. Not to mention I'm still freaked out by everything I've mentioned above. There's more yet to come. Imagine how weird it'll be to start seeing some of my high school friends again. Or order a pizza from Papa John's. Or drive. Today Dad gave me my first lesson in how to drive a stick-shift, and dang if that wasn't like learning to drive all over again. That, too, has compounded my RCS.
Wish me luck...Saturday we go to Big Bear, a place I've been millions of times but not in four years, for my Mom's birthday. Now, if that won't be a trip down Memory Lane...the long, sinuous drive up the San Gabriel Mountains to the secluded lake in the midst of a verdant pine forest on the mountaintops...I don't know what will.
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