Then began the horrible jetlag as I’d leapfrogged multiple time zones and my body’s circadian rhythm was busted. It took an entire week for me to feel better.
Like in movies, America appeared phenomenal—nay, intimidating. The high-rise blocks, skyline dominated by skyscrapers, colossal infrastructures, from eight to jaw-dropping 26-lane roads (Katy Freeway, Houston), gigantic flyovers, and bustling boulevards all knocked me off my feet. Greenery appeared as another facade to American character and culture. On long drives, I gawked at scenic lakes, woodlands, nature parks, and breathtaking rural America. After a week’s stay in Dallas, I left for Granbury, a two-hour drive from Dallas to my cousin’s place. The small city was a completely different experience from the hectic Dallas. My cousin lived in the suburbs next to a sprawling golf course with scenic ponds and cascading waterfalls. The picturesque surroundings became my regular evening haunts. To my great surprise, gaggles of wild Canada geese foraged on the lush turf or frolicked in the many pools. They were almost tame when approached. A few weeks later, trouble began. I had sleep disorders compounded by a phobia of air-conditioning. It made me claustrophobic. I slept with windows open back home in Kathmandu. Daytimes were fun, though, as my cousin took me around Granbury’s historical sites and on long drives. After one and a half months, I left for Findlay, Ohio, to my younger daughter’s place. Findlay turned out to be a small city with bracing weather than the humid Granbury. My daughter fussed over me since we had met after eight long years. Although busy at work, she took time off for sightseeing and eating out. It was a really fun time. Trouble followed though. I missed dal-bhat (Nepali staple food). I had had no problem with my brother-in-law and cousin in Texas because lunch and supper often consisted of dal-bhat, but it was a different story in Findlay. My daughter was married to an American; they never ate dal-bhat. Their everyday meals consisted of pizzas, sandwich wraps, salads, and whatnot. My fixation on dal-bhat increased exponentially when I had to go without it for weeks. At least one meal of dal-bhat would have been great. How I wished! When we went out to eat, near desperation, I’d make sure it was an Indian restaurant where I could gorge on rice and dal (lentils). But that did not happen every day. One day, there was a knock at our door. The visitor was a Nepali student, shacked up with three others in a rented house a spitting distance away. Curious, I dropped by their house one day. The entire apartment reeked of a typical Nepali kitchen when I stepped in. Pleasantries over, I learned they were about to have lunch. A sharp whiff of chicken curry waded through the room and I almost drooled. “Uncle, we’re having lunch; why don’t you join us?” one of them asked. Whoa! He took the words right out of my mouth. I ate like a pig that day. It looked like I’d found a panacea for my misery. My visits to the Nepali students’ place became frequent. To return the favor, I took along some goodies. All went well and the rest of my stay with my daughter passed without a hitch, followed by more fun after my elder daughter arrived from Georgia. I picked up good vibes in America, such as being polite, saying thank you, greeting people on the street, avoiding staring at people, and holding the door at a store for someone close behind. A lesson in humility? Disappointments? At first blush in Dallas, I felt America only had the elderly and morbidly obese people. The fit and the young seemed rare. Once driving through snowfall with my daughter in Findlay, my eyes met a bizarre sight. A couple of guys at a road curb held placards saying: Homeless, need food and a job. My daughter told me it was an everyday sight. In America? I couldn’t believe my eyes. In hindsight, my first American experience was one of a kind, completely different from what I had expected. [email protected]
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