Culture shock in the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport

Back in the U S of A. The Dallas Fort Worth International Airport, to be exact. Culture shock is a real thing, folks. Flushing toilet paper is worrying, drinking tap water is absolutely terrifying, and I'm converting dollars back into quetzales, Guatemala's currency, to see whether or not I can afford (or am willing to pay for) the overwhelming display of food options. Can't I just get 3 tostadas with guacamole, queso fresco, and picante for 5 quetzales ($0.75)? That's all I'm hungry for. Unfortunately, this airport lacks street food and I am forced by my growling tummy to support one of the many food chains. I choose Texas Roadhouse BBQ and order a pulled pork sandwich because I was craving one the other day. The man behind the counter is wearing a hairnet and changes into a new pair of latex gloves to serve my food and removes them again to take my $8.99 (70 quetzales, yikes). Then he washes his hands and repeats for the next customer. I think about ordering pupusas from vendors in Xela where I watched the women hand make them. Pat, pat, patting the dough between their bare palms and tossing them with a hiss onto the larded grill. They would take the money and go back to cooking without sanitizing anything, no sink in sight. Luckily, I never got sick from any of those places and the food was incredible.

I can't help but notice how clean it is here. It smells like nothing and I don't even see insects in the potted plant next to me. Most everyone in this airport is white, wearing nice clothing, and carrying designer handbags. I long for the excitement that goes hand in hand with transportation in Guatemala. In Guatemala, most of the bus stations are behind markets. Vibrant colors paint the energy of the place. Indigenous women selling fruit announce prices, "¡Aguacates dos por cinco!" and "¡Naranjas tres la mano!" while you wade through the sea of textures towards the buses. The colors nor energy dwindle upon entering the bus terminal, usually a dusty parking area full of exhaust spitting vehicles. The mixed smells of exhaust, pineapples, urine, homeless dogs, and fried chicken from Pollo Campero fill the air. Chicken buses, the main form of public transportation in Guatemala, compete loudly for passengers. Ayudantes, the drivers' helpers, holler the buses' destinations to passersby. "¡Guate, Guate!" for the capital city, "¡San Pedro! ¡Lago, lago, lago!" for San Pedro la Laguna at Lake Atitlan. The buses are lined up like proud roosters with their tails feathers displayed. Each bus is a contestant in the imaginary television show, "Pimp my Chicken Bus". From what I've observed, the shiniest bus with the most pictures of Jesus usually wins the most customers and the ratio to sexy silhouetted ladies to Jesus figurines is usually 3:1. Once at the correct bus, the ayudante tosses your backpack onto the roof and you find a seat. You wait as the bus fills with people and probably a few baskets of squawking hens. People squeeze 5 to a seat and filling the aisles without complaint. How many people can fit in a Guatemalan chicken bus? One more. 

I smell a whiff of strong cologne and look up. Alas, reality sinks in and I am not in Guatemala surrounded by women balancing baskets on their heads, I am in the Dallas Fort Worth International airport surrounded by people who got a little too perfume happy in the duty free shop. This world already feels more comfortable to me than it did an hour ago. I don't like the reality that within a week I will probably feel completely at ease in this type of sterile, wealthy, Amercan environment. In about 6 hours I'll be back in Oregon. I'm curious to see what I notice is different there.