Would you be more likely to integrate yourself into the culture of your host country, or to remain separate from it? Why?

I think there can and should be a middle ground where this is concerned.  The beauty of diversity among people adds interest to our interactions, but for that delicate balance to survive these interactions need to be made possible by a common ground.  I feel like if I am living in a host country I am expected to know something of their language so that I can communicate my own personality, opinions, and beliefs while acknowledging the culture generous enough to host me.  There needs to be a respect for the culture within which I have chosen to live, and part of the experience is trying new things such as food, activities, and other aspects of living.  There is a fine line between resigning myself as a minority and expecting my host country to change itself to accommodate little old me.

Nothing but dirt composed the path that lead into the knot of trees while grass began to encroach upon the trail.  Trees framed the view as they filtered the sun into spot lights.  Boughs reach towards hikers as they take in the nature.  As the branches bow over the road, their leaves add dimension to the canopy above the visitors' heads.  When the path bends, it weaves through the collection of trees and carefully avoids the valleys and creeks while slowly climbing the hill to Winterset's Tower.

Biography for guy #1 (The one convincing his friend to go to Mug Night)

My name is Brett and I’m a twenty one year old business major from Kansas City. I’m tall, dark, and definitely handsome. I work out every day because I am always trying to look good for the ladies. I would have a girlfriend but I can never choose which girl I want to be with. I come from a well off family and drive a really nice car that my parents bought for me as a graduation present. When I'm not working out, I like to party with my boys and pick up the ladies on the weekends. I like to play sports, especially football and basketball with my roommates. I like to have fun and am up for anything

--Emily's Blog

This blog reminded me about the jock in young adult fiction.  We read about him all the time, but it was kinda fun to see it in first person.  When I was in high school, my friend did a murder mystery party where we were each assigned a character, and one of them was the "good for nothing play boy".  This biography reminded me of the costume that person created for the character.

Tipping her Italian soda as she tried to catch herself, the girl stumbled into the booth .  If her "friend" only knew she had already found her ninja master.  In fact that was her first assignment when she decided to accept her invitation to the assassin academy.  She was in the middle of her final exam before her black suit ceremony where she would be given her traditional ninja garb.  Her mission was to find the marked student on campus.  When she discovered him or her, they would have a small X just under their right ear.  It was simple and probably cliche, but the X served its purpose.  She also bore the X tucked behind her ear partially obscured by her hair.  The two students were pitted against one another to determine which was worthy of the ninja suit.  The winner would attend their ceremony while the opponent would be place in another environment to try again.

--Two friends in Java City--

You could practice stealth killing. That's a work out.
*Snorts* I’m too much of a clutz they would see me coming...may as well embrace that fact.
That's why you practice. Get better. Show them corporate douche-bagels the art of work-out-killing. DO ITTTT.
*Laughs* I’ll get right on that. Know anywhere I can sign up for ninja classes?

--They grab their food and come back to their table--

So you gonna take those ninja assassination classes?

Of course, but ninja masters are so hard to find.  They’re just so ninja-ee
Let me know if you find one.
Oh I’m keeping my eyes peeled.

Walking down a street typically traveled by cars, you skirt a barricade and continue down the wet pavement.  The rain is merely a drip on your skin, but it slowly makes your clothing cling damply to you.  The smell of cinnamon and freshly baked dough wafts toward you, so you beeline to a small enterprise situated on the street corner.  You have to duck under the canvas awning which droops with the weather.  The breakfast you purchase sticks to your fingers as you start to pick apart the roll and taste the family recipe exclusive to the vendor.  Staying tucked under the shelter to finish eating, you notice carts roughly your height housing trays and trays of baked goods creating a back wall while three adjacent tables complete the enclosure.  Two entrepreneurs lean over the tables competing with a babble of voices on the street to make sales.

Perched on my desk stool, I absentmindedly bounce my foot with an urge to get out of my dorm.  My roommate had gone ho me for the weekend, so the emptiness puled around me.  I could hear my pen tapping anxiously, echoing as the only sound in the empty loft.  Abruptly my phone started to dance on my desk top as it vibrated and sang.  Without letting my phone finish the ringtone's chorus, I jumped to answer the call and cursed into the phone when I fell off my seat.  My best friend's laugh emanated from the speaker in recognition of my infamous lack of grace. 

"You comin home this weekend?"
"I am now." Anything to free myself from the moment of boredom.

Within five minutes I was in my car headed to the back roads that begin my two hour drive home.  My open windows blew my barely packed belongings around my back seat where I had thrown them while my hair whipped in my face.  The air smelled fresh after last night's rain.  The sunshine colored the fields a lush green, and if my radio were not cranking my current favorite band, I would have been able to hear the farm equipment and seasonal birds. 

A) About an hour into my drive I was thoroughly enjoying myself as I raced my dark cloud home.  My back pack was supplied for my short schedule of Friday classes, not a weekend at home.  When I settled into doing my homework on Saturday morning, my computer blinked angrily at me as its battery quickly died.  Reaching into my bag, my hand scrapped the bottom as I came up empty.  I hadn't needed my charger for my solidary class.  I had hardly needed my laptop.  I closed my notebook and forgot about my assignment for the weekend...that is until about nine o' clock on Monday.

B) About half way home, my phone started ringing against the cup holder.  The racket was loud enough to cut over my music, and I reached over to turn my radio down.  Picking up the phone, I heard my assistant manager somewhat frantic on the other end of the line.  My coworker called in sick, and she had already called all the other local employees to find coverage.  I started doing the math in my head.  I could potentially work an eight hour shift and replenish my dwindling checking account.  I happily accepted.  When Tash called to do a movie on Saturday, I could say yes guilt free.

Introduction

My name is Lauren Gilliard, and as of yesterday I am twenty years old.  I am in my third year at Northwest Missouri where I am majoring in English education.  I have taken several composition classes while meeting my degree requirements, but this blog is for my first creative writing class.  My other interests include reading, running, music, sketching, and traveling, but like most college students I am still learning how to be me.