It's about time for my lazy butt to write something. . .

China is overwhelming; it instantly turned me into a shell shocked infant, unable to sort through information to find anything of remote relevance. The distinct sounds of Mandarin became a constant gurgle in the background, covered by car horns, construction crews, loud club music and a steady stream of “Hello, How are you?” I used to think this phrase was an attempt to foray into an actual conversation. I have since learned that if I am lucky my new companion will be able to make exciting comments such as, “Blue! Banana!” I live for the rapidly muttered “HellohowareyouI’mfinethankyou.” hastily thrown over a shoulder after the shell shock that my blue eyes seem to instantaneously induce has faded. In the last month, I finally reached a state where music is no longer my constant companion. For awhile I navigated the crowded streets and claustrophobic bus rides with my earphones on, drifting safely on the sounds of home. I’m beginning to find silence unnerving and can peacefully fall asleep to the sound of midnight drilling, police sirens and beer bottles crashing into concrete.
Now that I can actually understand some of what people are saying I’m privy to questions like, “Do you like S&M?”, “Are you Korean?”, and my favorite, “Do you want a Chinese boyfriend?”
I used to affectionately refer to myself as a minority in America due to my lack of appetite for men, but this is a completely different story. I am a wide eyed naive immigrant, suddenly turned into a helpless child by my ignorance of social customs, my inability to read and my serious lack of vocabulary. Every day I walk out into the world to cheerfully fall flat on my face. For some odd reason, I wake up every morning ready to do it again.
My girlfriend is a tall, Buddhist vegetarian. She steals my nose and doesn’t hesitate to ask me if I’ve missed her. We speak our own language that no one else seems to be able to understand. I enthusiastically slaughter Chinese in desperate attempt to communicate and she patiently slows her speech down to a slothlike speed. Instead of a joint account, we have joint culture shock. I want to push her into the deep end of acceptance, and she wants to toss me into small rooms with way too many Chinese people. She had to show me how to cook ramen noodles and I had to con her into trying Indian food. Regardless of the enormous differences, I think we’ve both got at least one fact straight. She might be Chinese and I might be American, but the most important thing is that we’re both people.

It's about time for my lazy butt to write something. . .

Xi'an, China