When you leave the country, you learn to lie.
When you were 17 and leaving the 254 borders for the first time, heading out on a plane to the land of milk and honey, nobody warned you that it was not ALL milk and honey. More like really bad mala and horribly made molasses syrup. At first glance, it looks manageable but the longer you stay out and involved in the crazy cycle of trying to better yourself, the more you realize that it’s not as you believed when you were in your teens.
When you first land, everything amazes you. The blinking man who lives in that spot beside or under the traffic light signal who beckons you to cross when it is safe and, also, turns into a blinking hand that commands you to stop when it is unsafe for you to cross the road. When you go to the supermarket for the first time and you find yourself face to face with rows upon rows of different cheeses or cereal brands, and you are flabbergasted because you normally, for breakfast, drink black tea with a piece of Elliot’s bread, and cheese has never been a major part of your breakfast adventures.
The land of milk and honey is, indeed, quite different from what they say. They being some unknown entity that makes you think that stepping out from beyond your borders is akin to stepping into a golden river that is overflowing with pearls, diamonds and that elusive perfectly roasted chicken for dinner or perfectly fitted evening dress. Newsflash: In the U.S, the dresses don’t fit perfectly every single time, and the chicken may be a tad dry or undercooked every so often. And, no, there is no golden river filled with gems.
I remember going to Jack-in-the-Box for the first time, on my first night in the United States, and I got a cheeseburger that I nibbled at, hesitatingly, as cheese and I were not bosom buddies. I promptly threw up ten minutes after completing it but they reassured me, ‘Do not worry, you shall get used to it.’ The first lie. I never did. Continue reading
mkhana in transit 
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