Seeing Through The Other Side

It shouldn’t have been culture shock. They were speaking English, they didn’t look strikingly un-similar to us, there was only an average number of people populating the country, but all the same something still didn’t quite fit.

It was my first trip to America and everything had an odd side to it, something twanging in the back of the mind. Breaking into the airport in LA the crowds were bigger, the people louder, the intensity was in your face.

 Customs was demanding, arriving after a twenty hour flight; sleep was the only thing on my mind. But sleep was not to come as I was asked a multitude of questions, security guards glaring down at me the whole time, the only thing I could focus on was the bright red skating park sticker that had been plastered over the customs instructions.

Finding myself travelling down the road in taxi the people where driving on the right, doing turns that crossed all over the traffic in a sort of absent minded way, something else that didn’t really register. People who were living here wouldn’t think twice about traffic patterns.

The twang in the voice was different, a drawl that I had never heard before, arriving in shops and being asked questions I could only stare at them, the accent taking a moment to filter through my ears. I made a vague reply, instantly getting back a question on where I was from. I didn’t think my voice sounded different, but the same could be said for them. It became even more apparent when certain words were uttered.

There was friendly people always asking where I was from, all the way from there, they would often shake their heads in puzzlement, that’s a long trip. Not really finding locals, what local would hang around tourist attractions?

Clear blue days had a tint to them, the sun struggling to light the earth, not quite warming my shoulders, wind blowing but not really reaching through.

Food was different, it wasn’t exotic, wasn’t something I hadn’t seen before, but it was placed at different times. Donuts and too sweet rolls provided for breakfast, waffles with meat and swimming in sauce. It was always time for a meal, as scrambled eggs and bacon found in the nearest Denny’s could be had for dinner.

Convenience stores littered the streets all with different types of food. Rows and rows of lollies or rather candy, in every conceivable colour, packaging, shape and size, everything you could possibly want. Staring at the different ways to kill myself I spent over five minutes just picking up each different type of candy and reading what was in them. Peanut Butter Cups, Baby Ruths, Jolly Ranchers, Reeses Pieces, it all seemed too much.

Huge portions of food at every meal, ordering a small sandwich with chips and getting what I would call a jumbo packaging of chips and a sandwich that was on the thickest bread ever seen, too much.

People dressed in sweat pants and odd shorts that the older generation seemed to have a fixation with, or people dolled up to within an inch of their life. Big department stores were everywhere, all different types of people walking in and walking out with the same clothes.

We were driven around highways were there was nothing but concrete, cars and a lot of angry people. Dropped off at the city the tags of the local graffiti artists did nothing to hide the darkness of the city. The tourist glitz only managed to light a few buildings; almost blinking, real world descended the minute you left the area.

Homeless wander around the area, people walking straight past them, everything shiny and nice the next street over. People moving about their lives, not even looking at the person next to them, different from home, yet still the same.