The Chinese, and Tapioca

are surrounding me.

I love being the minority.

It is a bit like travel, only it doesn’t take very long and it’s much less expensive.

Houston continues to surprise me, in terms of cultural diversity.

I am currently sitting in the Tapioca House, soaking up my minority-ness and sipping / chewing an earl grey milk tea, with tapioca of course.

I am sitting in a high chair, next to a floor to ceiling window in full sunlight.

As I look around the place, and into the adjoining parking lot, I cannot seem to find a single English word. A great deal of Chinese and Korean, no English.

As I was writing the last sentence 2 men having an argument / conversation sat at my high, round bar table with me. No acknowledgment that I am sitting here. No refrain because it’s such a small table, and I have spread out over most of it. No awkwardness about entering and exiting the Western concept of “personal space” without so much as a glance in my direction.

There were 2 empty seats. And they sat.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t feel like any of this is strange or wrong, I just can’t help but be amused by being forced to confront my own upbringing and culture. Those hardwired modes of operation that make us who we are and yet remain invisible when around like minded, like spoken, and like appearing individuals.

During that last paragraph I attempted contact by saying in “perfect” Mandarin, “how are you?” Which prompted a very broken but perfectly enthusiastic English response of “good, thank you.” Apparently I was sized up as not being able to continue in the conversation much farther than “how are you?” in my “perfect” Mandarin.

It’s a beautiful day in Houston.

The sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and the Chinese, and Tapioca, are surrounding me.