The cafe opened their doors early. As I waited to pay the five euro entrance fee, a low, assertive meow sounded right next to my ear. A large, black manx stared at me from an eye-level shelf. The cat made unblinking eye contact and meowed again, letting me know whose house I was in. "Hi," I replied. The cat stared, a perfectly round, perfectly still ball of self-possession. I knew I'd come to the right place.
A yellow taxi took a left onto Las Vegas Boulevard and began to crawl sluggishly down towards the famous Strip. Lydia stared at the palm trees and neon signs gliding by the window with a wide smile on her lips, mesmerized by the dance of colorful lights and dark shadows between them.
I wonder what this culture looks like through her eyes and whether she feels at home here. Does she view our social reservation as a form of segregation or our diffident demeanor as indifference? I start rewinding the events of the past 20 minutes, feebly attempting to see the “normal” every-day occurrences of my bus ride as something strange and unfamiliar.
