Culture Shock

It's December now, and the leaves are just starting to turn in the trees, and there's a slight chill to the evening air... Wait wait wait. It's December, and I'm wearing a t-shirt and flip flops. The tree in our backyard is just starting to turn yellowy gold, and on some evenings/early mornings, one does need a light sweater, but aside from that, it is not beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Guys, I saw my first tumbleweed yesterday. It was in a CVS parking lot.
And it turns out they're huge!

"Culture shock" seems a bit of a strong term. We knew Arizona was going to be different from our liberal, snow-covered, northeastern roots, but when our junk mail arrived last week advertising a sale on assault rifles (just in time for Christmas!), we started to wonder exactly where the heck we had moved. 

December in the desert is fantastic. Julia and I can still go for long walks every morning. We even saw people riding horses along our favorite walking trail today, and a rabbit, too. Everybody we pass says hello, and occasionally somebody even says howdy. Aforementioned advertisements aside, people seem friendly.

Thinking back to when we were settling into our new home, we didn't have much on hand for the first two weeks until our furniture arrived. We made do with a camping mattress by night and folding chairs for meals, and that was fine. But the lack of coffee proved to be a real problem. Our very first morning, we hadn't slept well because we were all still adjusting to the new place (read: Julia cried all night), and we needed some serious caffeine. I pushed my hair into a ponytail, pulled on some clothes, and asked Google to direct me and my feisty sidekick to the nearest coffee shop. It was a longer drive than I expected, but along the way I cheered when we passed a Dunkin Donuts that was under construction.

Google took us to a part of town with the word "utopia" in the name. We arrived at our destination, and the parking lot was slammed. I found a spot as somebody was backing out and Julia and I made the long trek to the entrance. This place was a lot nicer than I'd expected -- it was called The Coffee Shop, but it was a real restaurant serving its own organic food organically grown just outside its organic walls. I walked by a few outdoor tables and noticed all the men were in jackets and ties, the women wore dresses, and the well-dressed children were running magically through the grass. I looked down and noticed I had accidentally worn all black just around the same time Julia started pitching a tantrum. The post-church crowd turned its collective eyes on us, the unshowered and uncaffeinated heathens, and stared. After what felt like far too long, I found the entrance to Utopia and the line was out the door. Nope, can't do this. I steadied my unruly toddler with a spare hand, and we made the long, defeated march back to our rental car. After strapping my screaming child back in, I noticed a car was waiting for our spot. Well, they were going to have to wait some more because I needed time to ask Google where the next-closest coffee could be found. The driver honked his horn at us to hurry up. Google queued itself up and we left, just in time for the other driver to flash us a perfect hand gesture. Welcome to our new home, Julia. 

Mornings around here have improved dramatically. We bought a coffeepot later on that first Sunday, and Julia is just about used to her new home by now (read: she only screams all night sometimes now). We're slowly meeting people, and I know we just have to give it more time. Caffeinated time. Just like any place, some people greet you with a smile, some flip you the bird, and some probably own assault rifles. It's going to take some more time to acclimate ourselves to our new home state.

One thing's for sure though -- I love seeing these mountains every day.