Out of Context

(Warning: I wrote this entry in a bout of culture shock. In my quest to be honest about my experiences, I have put Lithuania forth in an unflattering light. Please take this as what it is: not a commentary on Lithuania or its people but simply the ravings of a spoiled American out of context.)

I’m sorry, Lithuania. It’s not me; it’s you. Your buses stink, your people are rude, and your food, for those who actually eat anything in this godforsaken place, is enough to turn Cindy Crawford into a potato-shaped babushka. Let’s take these complaints one at a time.

Culture Shock Item #1: The Lithuanian Buses

Some smell like toilets, some like locker rooms, and the best like ancient attics drenched in diesel fuel. If you ride them after 7:00 am, you have to stand in the aisle and hold on to a greasy pole overhead while natives, mostly elderly women who have eaten too many potatoes, shove past, even though there is never any space in the back of the bus either. As they heave themselves forward, they knock me, my school bag, and all of the parts I am not supposed to rub up against people up against people. I imagine shouting, as I am thrust again and again into my wincing bus-mates, “This is what you get for sitting down!” Just when you think that it can’t get any worse, the bus police climb aboard.

If you think that “bus police” sounds like the equivalent of a Midwestern mall cop, think again. They may be all older women, and they may look all puckered and sweet, but if you don’t have a ticket, they will swarm around you with their little billy clubs and they will take your non-ticket-toting ass down. They will whisk you off to a van with shaded windows where they commit unspeakable acts of God-knows-what, but I’m sure it involves a scene like in Roald Dahl’s “Witches.” Another slippery thing about bus police: you never know when they’re going to show up. One minute you’re just minding your own business trying not to breathe through your nose and the next they’re invading the aisles in a spontaneous rendition of Charlie’s Angels meets the Golden Girls.

My first run-in with the bus police didn’t go so hot. I was standing at the back exit waiting to hop off at the next stop when the bus driver pulled over and failed to open the back door. At such moments, my Lithuanian abandons me, so instead of calmly requesting the driver to open the door, I began pounding excitedly on the Plexi-glass with my fists and yelling the Lithuanian equivalent of “Please! Please!” in a hysterical voice. It was only then that I realized we had been infiltrated, that I was trapped, and that in my present position of banging and shouting maniacally, I looked the slightest bit guilty. I then decided to confirm this by plunging around in the folds of my clothing for my ticket as though I were being attacked by a cloud of bees.

I am not the sort of person who cleans out her pockets on a regular basis, so when I reached for my ticket, I dislodged a linty nest of yes, bus tickets, but also store receipts, gum wrappers, bobby pins, grocery lists, and, somehow, the head of a broken potato peeler, which, though it did look vaguely threatening, didn’t stand a chance against their faithful clubs. After trembling through the scrunched wad like a woman condemned to die, I handed over the five tickets that looked the newest and prepared for the worst. Wouldn’t you know it, one of the tickets must have matched because the woman rolled her eyes (either a universal gesture of annoyance or a secret signal to the others that they’d have to jump me later), handed my tickets back, and went on to sweetly accost her next victim.

Culture Shock Item #2: The Lithuanian People

I am grateful to the bus police for one thing: They at least confirm that I exist. Other times I walk through this city and I could swear I’m invisible. Doors close in my face, people walk right in front of me and then stop, and pushing a shopping cart through the supermarket is like playing a virtual reality version of Atari’s Frogger. Yes, I know I’m supposed to be tolerant and understanding and blah blah blah, but at this point I’m just going to be honest: If one more person gouges me in the gut with a shopping cart, I’m going to look that person right in the eye, scream “AT-SI-PRA-SAU!” (EX-CUSE ME!) and gouge right back!

Culture Shock Item #3: The Lithuanian Food

I was reading an article about culture shock and discovered that one tell-tale stage is when you become fixated on food from your own culture. Lithuania doesn’t do much to help its cause, let me tell you. If Lithuanians were what they ate, this city would be full of gray meat torsos walking around on potato legs with dumpling arms and sour cream dollop heads. Because I am now completely obsessed with American food, I have been cooking more. However, this doesn’t work so well because I still have to buy the ingredients at Lithuanian grocery stores. Last night I baked corn bread. I imagined my mother’s fluffy golden cornbread clouds steaming with melted butter. Instead the texture resembled yellow Play-Do that’s been left out all night with the lid off. I’ve been so desperate to taste America I even went as far as making chili. Scott, bless his poor American heart, has been speaking about hamburgers like old, dead friends, and he’s even gone so far as to microwave hot dogs, which he’s then cut up and added to macaroni noodles in a powdered cheese sauce. I’m watching him go slowly insane, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Considering all of this, it’s really no surprise what came next. Some would say it was only a matter of time.

That’s right. We went to McDonald’s. And what’s more, we relished each and every bite. Because at McDonald’s, a Big Mac is always a Big Mac and fries are always fries and the Quarter Pounder with Cheese, although here it’s called the McRoyal, still contains enough saturated fat to clog a small artery. Afterwards, we felt both more dead and more alive. As we waddled back to the bus stop, we promised each other that we’d never do that again. At least not until Thanksgiving.