When I first got back to the US at the end of April, I was excited, happy, and ready to be home. I had a really cute puppy on the way, friends, boyfriend, and family to see, Vegas plans to plan, an iPhone which I very much missed using, and the entire genre of Mexican food to be reacquainted with. As a matter of fact, when I had a layover in Washington DC, I ran to the nearest mediocre Tex Mex place that I could find for anything with beans and cheese and wrapped in a tortilla as soon as my passport was stamped.
|A tender moment between my burrito and me.|
"Oh, you bad, bad boy," I told the burrito as I devoured it ferociously. My dad, who had accompanied me on my voyage, clearly regretted his decision as he cleared his throat a lot and uncomfortably avoided looking at his crazy daughter, who was enthusiastically spilling salsa all over herself in the terminal with a slightly frenzied expression on her face, letting out blissful exclamations like "Oh, the guacamole... Sweet, sweet guacamole..."
Being surrounded by English was warm, comforting, and so blessedly simple. No more having to figure out how to say what I wanted to say, or wondering if I should use the formal or the informal, the masculine or the feminine; I could just talk. I was also once again surrounded by fat, poorly dressed, loud people and felt slim and stylish in comparison, even in my baggy, airplane-riding ensemble. After so much being "shhhhhhh"-ed on buses for talking too loudly, being stared at for wearing shorts when it was hot (what do the French have against that, anyway?), I was finally in my element. With access to In-n-Out as a bonus.
Within the first two minutes of touching down on the soil of my homeland, I swear to god, I saw an obese, mustached cop eating a donut, being propelled by one of the moving sidewalks. "Ah, America," I thought to myself. I'd have said it out loud, but my mouth was stuffed full of pico de gallo.