After two monthes of living on a hospital ship, I have adapted these things into my schema of normal.
The weights in the weight room are in kilograms.
The routine series of beeps on the overhead proceeded by and Arnold-swartzaneger-like voice saying “this is a test of the alarm”.
A translator teaching parents malaria prevention in the ward.
“When did you last have malaria” being an admissions assessment question.
Seeing at least three men a week peeing in broad daylight.
Eating cheese sandwiches. Seven days a week.
Two minute showers.
Having your head hit the top of the ceiling whenever your driving in a vehicle.
Fitting over seven people in a four person taxi.
Drinking coca-cola light (rather than diet coke).
Always wearing a name badge.
Seeing UN workers with large guns outside the window.
Identifying myself as from America rather than Bucks County.
Being very excited about going to the tailor.
Paying 50 cents for a cappuccino.
Sharing a small-small room with five other woman.
Never exposing my knees before 6 pm.
Experiencing a nuetella love-affair.
Hearing the water rush through the plumbing system every time someone on the third deck flushes a toilet.
Never seeing a full length mirror.
Wearing jeans and being considered “dressed up”.
Meeting children who have never seen white skin.
Having people think I am cool. Oh wait, they still don’t think that.