We packed up. And left. I'm re-learning my parents' house; my mom peels potatoes with a bread knife, there's no place to store spoons, my dad has been trading clunkers for cars, and they both keep a bottle of champagne in their bathroom. This house confuses me.
Dear DC:
I appreciate the warmth, the humidity, the fact that servers ask "How is everything?" instead of "How's it tasting?" and knowing that the guests will tip 20%. Our road together is going to be longer than I would like. I don't know how long it'll last, or what we're going to do, but maybe we can amuse each other. I'm looking forward to salty beaches. I'd ask if everyone could be kind about my new accent, but that's no way to break a bad habit.
Dear MPLS:
It's been great. I'm going to miss the rivers, the lakes, and the cheap beer, and most of all, how it was always fun. I'd like to say we'll see each other again soon, but I'm not sure when or for what reason I'd be back. Miss you.
photo courtesy Rebecca Lang. Or as I like to call her, Lecky Bang.
I'll continue keep you posted on incidents of social dissonance. You know, that ol' cross cultural moments schtick.
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