Personal Narrative-Cultural Narrative

It was the depths of winter, and the view outside my window was not the familiar white sands of Kailua beach, but a thick blanket of snow. Nor was the sky outside a clear blue, but a stoic, steely gray. My German hadn't improved much, even though I had been in Munich for three months. My host family was nice, but no true relationships had been formed. Cabin fever permeated the household, and the irritation coming off of my host family was palpable. Back home, I was 'adventurous,' a 'risk-taker,' so I had figured that spending a year abroad would be no problem. But now, with homesickness seeping into my mind, I realized my hubris – I hadn't understood what being completely immersed in a different culture would entail. Perhaps I was not as brave and independent as I had convinced myself I was. The dislocation had exposed my faults: my introverted behavior and my inability to pick up a language. Conversing with my peers was torture, as I spewed out nonsensical German phrases. School was just as brutal; I sat in class analyzing the movements of my
With that in mind, I remembered my mother telling me that food is the easiest way to bring a group of people together. Desperate to make a connection, I decided one day to reintroduce myself to my host family with a traditional American meal: hamburgers and Coke. Initiating conversation was difficult at first. The words I wanted to say halted in my throat. Suddenly, frustrations and fears that were bottled inside for so long poured onto the table in a catharsis of conflicting emotions. My host family responded immediately with consistent affirmation that they wanted me to succeed and questioned what they could do to help. The hours spent at that dinner were a time of reflection and introspection. I left with a re-born determination: I realized how much I wanted, and needed, to finish the