When I first moved here, absolutely everything was new – all the way down to my self-flush toilet (still not getting into the details of that). I think that it was difficult to process every individual thing that was different, because it would have required me to rewire my entire schema for understanding the world. Instead (it recently occurred to me), I blocked these things out, seeing them every day without ever noticing them. Now, six weeks after I’ve arrived, these things have passed into my realm of normalcy without me ever taking time to think about them. This realization itself has been pretty bizarre.

One example is that of restaurants. I’ve written about food and food culture, but it took me a long time to realize that I have never ordered a meal for myself. Friends and family at home have asked me what I choose at restaurants – how I can read a menu – and I haven’t really had answers (I know – this sounds peculiar on my part). My understanding was that all restaurants have the same few dishes, so we eat whatever they have that night (all restaurants, without exception, are Thai. It’s not as if some nights we go out for Mexican, some nights for Chinese…). This is mostly true, but what I was missing was that every time I eat out, it’s family style. The people I’m with order dozens of dishes without me realizing (menus are a rarity) and we all share. This seems like an obvious thing to notice – but in the U.S., I never order family style, or let anyone else order for me, for that matter. To suddenly have people exclusively order for me, well, it was such an extreme paradigm shift that I failed to notice it. This is the way my life is now, and I lost all recollection of what came before.

Another aspect of restaurants – and most establishments, in fact– is that they are set up like storage units or three-car garages: large, concrete buildings with square store faces, closed at night by rolling down the doors. There is no doorframe, there are no hinges, and there is no doorknob. There is only an open front, with goods spilling out into the street and extending backwards into the distinctly square shaped storehouse. I never thought much about the lack of opening doors to enter stores and other facilities – it just became part of the way of my life. When restaurants are open for business, their roll-up door is up, tables can be seen in the interior, and a grill sits out front. When they are closed, so is the roll-up door. Many homes follow the same format. It was actually upon dropping a fellow teacher off at her house that this entire building layout registered with me. She lifted the door to her house like we would lift a storage unit door, and then she rolled it down behind her. It’s these little details that went from curious to ordinary without ever passing through my conscious thought.

A different part of the culture that I’m adjusting to is the incessant commenting upon physical appearance. “It’s hot. Your hair is pretty. Your eyebrows could use some work. How many classes do you teach today?” When someone has gained weight, no one holds back in telling him. If someone is breaking out, it is commented upon. It’s seen as bland conversation; it’s taken as simple labeling of the way things are. A friend at home asked me if the criticism was at least constructive. My answer: it’s not; but even that question is thinking like an American. No one says these things to be mean, no one is offended, no one is embarrassed, and no one is worried about how to make their appearance better. Commenting that it is cloudy outside does not warrant awkwardness; neither does commenting that someone looks worse with her glasses on. It’s a commonplace part of daily life and daily conversation here. It’s hard to grasp, I know.

Due to this trend, I can tell you exactly what the people in my village like and dislike about my own appearance. They love my eyes and my hair, neither of which surprised me because blue eyes and blonde hair are nonexistent here. What has really taken me aback is the undisputed love of my nose. It’s my own least favorite physical feature, but I am told by at least one woman a day that she wishes she could swap with me. I tell her, gladly. I am also asked quite regularly if my nose is fake. Full disclosure: it’s not.

What they really don’t like about me, and tell me often, are my blonde eyebrows. They are too light, too undefined, too plain. Sometimes I resist these comments, and explain that my hair is light and my eyebrows match. Sometimes I concede, and let them pencil in brown brows for me.

Along with diurnal discussions of everyone’s appearance, there is an obsession with selfies and social media. I’ve touched on this, but I could write about it in every blog post and it would still fail to convey the extent to which people here love taking photos. Every morning before classes begin, we attend an outdoor assembly. All of the teachers take selfies together, in the same spot, by the same tree, every single morning. If we want to fit more people in the frame, a teacher will pull a student from the crowd to come over and fill the role of photographer. At big events and in public places, it has been the case many, many times that I thought one of my friends had spotted another friend – running into the street to stop this passerby – only to realize that this person (this stranger) was being stopped solely to take our photo. It’s ridiculous. It’s hilarious.

A typical day in my life begins with these assemblies. Announcements are made, photos are taken, prayers to Buddha are said, and the song to the King is sung. If we happen to be walking to assembly when the prayer is occurring, we must stop in place, turn toward Buddha, and remain still until it is finished. The same happens if one is in motion when the King’s song is playing.

After assembly, I either teach class or return to the office that I share with a dozen other teachers. Lunch is eaten in the school cafeteria amongst the students or buffets are served in the office, and the afternoon passes much like the morning. After school, Fang (the Chinese teacher, my neighbor, and travel buddy), Noi (a new English teacher from Thailand), and I bike to the market. We get our dinner at these market stalls most nights – bags of veggies, fresh fruit, meat on a stick, sticky rice, spring rolls, fried rice – and run into all of our students and fellow teachers. It’s quite charming. Sometimes we’ll make a stop at 7-Eleven. This establishment is beloved here. In my own teeny tiny town of Ban Phaeng, there are two. At 7-Eleven, you can buy snacks, phone credit, bus tickets, plane tickets, and pretty much everything else you could ever need.

After the market, we go jogging through the rice paddies next door, following in the tractor tire trails. In Thailand, there is a golden timeframe in which you can exert yourself physically. During the day, it is far too hot and humid. Once the sun has gone down, it is unbearably buggy. Right in the middle of sunset is the only opportunity. Following teacher runs, I wash my fruits and vegetables on my deck – the water alone is not potable, so we have to use special produce soap before consuming or storing for the week. From there, I read, write, and try to get my Internet to allow me to watch the new episodes of Gilmore Girls. It’s quaint, but very happy.

I am also taking every possible opportunity I can to learn Thai. If I meet anyone, anywhere, they always say, “I would love to learn English!” I always reply, “I would love to learn Thai! Here is my number. Let’s get together and practice tomorrow.” I want the practice, and I want the friends. It works to get me both!

Everyone here, teachers and students alike, have these rote phrases that they say all the time: “See you again next time” at the end of the day, and “I’m fine. And you?” when asked how they are. It never changes. Of course, the conversations often extend beyond that, but it always starts and ends the same, like we’re reading from a textbook.

It’s preposterous how many mundane statements I myself make to my coworkers on a daily basis, just to exercise my Thai language muscle. “Today is Monday. Tomorrow is Tuesday. My birthday is in February. My shirt is black. Your shirt is white.” Anything to practice speaking; to solidify the words in my mind; to train my ear and my mouth for habitual communication in Thai. The teachers seem to enjoy my persistence, letting me rattle off lists of months, food, and times of day. They take every opportunity to teach me new words, and the moment I expressed an interest in becoming literate in Thai, they left tracing books for learning the alphabet on my doorstep. It’s very kind. It strikes me as very Thai.

I have so much more to say about Thanksgiving away from home, a police encounter in Nakhon Phanom City, and events surrounding the King, but it is time for me to get to class. I’ll have to leave you on a cliffhanger.