Community Essay : A Crash Course in Americana : To a Nepalese student, life in the U.S. means exploring the mysteries of restrooms, mastering water faucets and learning the joy of junk mail.

When I came to the United States last year, I was given a crash course on how to get by. I was flooded with tips to tide me over any cultural shock. Before I had time to recover from jet lag, I had learned about the Boston Tea Party, seen a Native American museum, eaten barbecue, listened to Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech and watched a rodeo.

I was told not to be offended if most Americans didn’t look me in the eye while replying to my questions. I was advised to feel comfortable calling elders, including professors, by their first names or nicknames. “It’s OK to eat chicken with your fingers,” they said, “provided it’s not a formal dinner.” They told me not to alarmed if just-introduced males kissed or embraced me. They taught me how to protect myself against aggressive males with the “slap-grab-squeeze-and-yank” routine to their vulnerable parts.

My orientation advisers taught me the important things, all right. But after living here for nearly a year and a half as a graduate student, I still find myself trying to fine-tune myself to the new lifestyle. These are small things, nuances that probably seem insignificant to those who have lived here longer. But to me they are constant irritants, sand in my shoes. Coming from Nepal, a country where people drive on the left side of the road, I received ample warnings to be careful while crossing the street. But people failed to tell me that in this country even pedestrian traffic flows the wrong way. Walking in malls or down school corridors, I constantly seem to get in the way of people going the opposite direction. The situation gets more tricky when the footpath--sorry, pavement--is used by people on roller blades and skateboards. “Go to your side!” the wheeled ones hiss as they whiz past. It is no better in department stores. I seem to swerve instinctively to the left-hand side of the aisles and the oncoming carts.

I still have not been able to fathom some of the mysteries of bathrooms, or restrooms. (I haven’t even figured out when a bathroom becomes a restroom.) It’s taken me a long time to get used to (these) plush-carpeted, heavily scented and color-coordinated rooms that put to shame many living rooms back home.

Public restrooms? I have to admit I am still not (comfortable with) the semi-open stalls crammed too close for comfort. Nor have I gotten used to little girls peering under the partitions to see if my legs belong to their mommies.

I have yet to come across two water faucets that operate in the same manner. How many ways can there be of opening a tap? Too many! Some have handles that have to be twisted; others have heart-shaped knobs that must be coaxed around. Some have to be pushed down, some up. Some need a gentle glide to the side, others need to be unwound. Then, of course, you have to figure out which direction to turn for the hot water.

Shower controls are no better. I have spent precious minutes trying to explore their working. Once I failed completely: I pushed, pulled and swiveled the knob in all directions but couldn’t get the water to come out. Too

embarrassed to call for help, I ended up squatting down under the tub faucet. Sometimes, because I haven’t been able to turn the hot water on, I have shivered through ice-cold baths. Other times I have scalded myself with water hot enough to cook prawns.

I have still not perfected the art of drinking from a water fountain. Each tap I have encountered seems to have a mind of its own. Some are content to bubble over the top, others squirt up with a vengeance and aim for my nose. It’s always a bull’s-eye.

Then there is the junk mail. Nobody warned me about this. I answered a couple of “once-in-a-lifetime” offers. My name now seems to have been entered into some sort of data bank and I receive a spate of fabulous deals every week. They offer me a vacation in the Caribbean or say I am one step closer to winning a brand new Cadillac. Receiving such mail instead of letters from loved ones back home has been frustrating. But I have to admit that I still cannot throw away unopened an envelope that has my name in big, bold letters on the front and promises of a free gift and a chance to win a couple of million dollars. Living thousands of miles away from home, it can be comforting to find something in the mailbox--even junk mail.