If finding an apartment felt like victory, actually living in America turned out to be a whole new adventure. The daily routines that Americans took for granted were for us a comedy of trial, error, and culture shock.

First thing Tuesday morning, we tackled banking. We walked in with traveler’s checks and our international student IDs, ready to become respectable clients.

“Do you have Social Security numbers?” the clerk asked.We exchanged blank stares. “We have passports?” I offered.“Proof of address?”We proudly waved our lease, which listed an apartment with rented furniture and a fridge older than Nixon.

The clerk smiled the way you smile at lost children. By the end of the hour, somehow, miraculously, we had a checking account — complete with starter checks that looked like play money and a bank card.

Our first real grocery run to Alpha Beta (like AB in Greece) was a disaster in slow motion. We grabbed a cart the size of a small boat and wandered into what felt like an aircraft hangar disguised as a supermarket. Endless aisles, fluorescent lights, and so much food that it was overwhelming.

But food was only part of it. We needed everything else too: cleaning supplies, kitchenware, pots and pans, towels, bedsheets, you name it.

We walked up and down the aisles as if waiting for divine inspiration. And then I had an epiphany:“Let’s find an American yiayia (Grandmother). Whatever she buys, that’s what we buy. She knows!”

It worked. We ended up with milk by the gallon, a loaf of Wonder Bread, Kraft Singles that looked like orange rubber, and a jar of peanut butter, just to say we had tried it and a mismatch of other essentials. No tiropita. No feta. No olives. By the checkout, our cart looked like it belonged to Martians trying to blend in.

Now came the real test: paying. I proudly took out our newly acquired checkbook and wrote a check for $72.33. The cashier turned it over, looked at me suspiciously, and said:“This is not an approved check.”

“Huh? What? We have money! This is a good check!”“This is not an approved check,” she repeated, deadpan.

The line behind us grew longer, the stares sharper. Just when I thought we’d be thrown out, the Manager arrived.

“Clear them on my account,” he said, then asked us to follow him. He was cordial and patient as he explained the mysterious ritual of American check-writing.

“You walk into the supermarket,” he said, pointing to a machine in the corner. “You use your supermarket card, which I’ll give you, and put your check into the machine. The machine approves you. Then you shop, pay, and everything is fine.”

He used his own card to approve our check for the first time, then marched us back to the cashier. This time, the process worked.

“Do you need cash back?” the cashier asked.

“Why not?” I answered playfully. I wrote a check for $100, got $27.67 in change, and rolled out with a mountain of groceries.

Michael and I were in shock. We kept laughing, imagining his father back in Greece, already in his late seventies and who had never used anything but cash in his life.

“Imagine,” we said. “See us go to the supermarket, load up a cart, hand the cashier a piece of worthless paper, get money back, and walk out!”

It felt like magic. Or fraud. Or both.

Ah, the phone!

We walked into the local General Telephone (GTE) office to request a landline. Approaching the counter, I told the clerk we needed a phone line.

“What’s your number?” she asked.“We don’t have a number,” I explained patiently. “We need a number.”“Yes, but what’s your number?” she repeated.

After a few rounds of this Abbott-and-Costello routine, she finally lifted her hand and showed me a small piece of paper. On it was printed a number.

“We are now serving number so-and-so,” she said.

For the first time, we discovered the American system of order: take a number, wait your turn. Not like the havoc queue back in Greece, where elbows, cousins, and a little baksisi (bribe) decided who got served first.

When our number was finally called, the clerk explained that installation would take longer because it was the first phone line in our newly built apartment. “Oh, never mind,” I said casually. “We’ll only be here four months.”

She looked confused. “No, sir. I mean we cannot complete the installation today. You will have a phone line in four days.”

Four days! In Greece, you might wait several years unless your uncle knew someone at OTE. This felt like a miracle.

Then came the fun part: we were directed to another counter to choose our phone. Like picking out a car. We flipped through the options — black, beige, avocado green — and in a burst of boldness, we chose salmon pink. Why not? It was America.

Four days later, right on schedule, without the need of a technician to come inside the house, I lifted the receiver, and for the first time, heard the magical dial tone.

Our very own number.

Naturally, the first call we made was to the donut shop.

Here we expected pain: paperwork, stamps, signatures. Instead, Southern California Edison flipped the switch the same day we visited their office. Just like that. No bribes, no waiting rooms, no sighing clerks in undershirts. The lights came on, and we stood in the middle of the apartment like two cavemen who had just discovered fire. And yes we did take a number. You know the one that creates the queue.

Driving in California was its own religion. Freeways twelve lanes wide, cars flying like arrows, exits appearing without warning. In Greece, you drove with instinct and prayer. In California, you drove with nerves of steel and a Rand McNally atlas the size of the Iliad.

And then came the shock of shocks: pedestrians.

For some weird reason, Californians did not run them over like in Greece. They stopped. The moment a pedestrian set one foot on the road, traffic in both directions screeched to a halt. The first time we crossed a six-lane boulevard on foot, pausing casually between lanes like we did back home, I swear the local hospital recorded a record number of heart attacks. Drivers clutched their chests while we waved cheerfully and strolled across.

As for our Pinto, bless its rattling soul, it struggled to keep up. At 50 miles an hour it sounded like it was falling apart, while everyone else treated 70 as the minimum. Every honk felt like a personal insult. Michael, in the passenger seat, clutched the map like a holy relic and shouted “Exit! EXIT!” exactly three seconds too late, every single time.

We survived by miracle, by luck, and by confusing the locals just long enough for them to swerve around us.

In Greece, a man in greasy overalls filled your tank, wiped your windshield, and maybe gave you directions if you tipped. In California? “Self-serve.”

The first time we pulled up, I rolled down the window and waited. Nothing. I looked around. Other drivers were pumping their own gas like it was the most natural thing in the world. Michael leaned over and whispered, “Maybe they don’t like us.”

After several minutes of embarrassment, we realized the truth: in America, you pumped it yourself. A truly humbling discovery.

Eating out was equally shocking. Portions the size of Greece itself. A “small” Coke bigger than my head. Plates so full we could have fed an entire Athens neighborhood with a single order.

And the waitresses, smiling constantly. Not the polite half-smiles of Greece, but full-beam grins, as if we were long-lost cousins. We kept looking over our shoulders to see if someone famous had walked in behind us.

But food? Where was the real food? No tiropita. No spanakopita. No feta. Forget souvlaki? Forget pita with gyros? Impossible! America seemed to run on bread, ketchup, and melted yellow “cheese.” Until, that is, we discovered Burger King. Suddenly, “Have it your way” became our culinary philosophy.

And then came the check.

Our first time out, we did what Greeks always do: left exact change. The waitress returned looking crushed, as if we had insulted her grandmother. We thought maybe we had underpaid, or maybe she had made a mistake. Later, we learned the terrifying truth: tipping.

Suddenly, our cheap burger was 15% more expensive, and if you didn’t leave it, you weren’t thrifty, you were rude. In Greece, leaving extra money meant you didn’t want change back. In America, it was a civic duty.

Michael groaned. “Only in America do you pay extra for the smile.”

Then there was TV. Back home, two channels, government-approved, ending with the national anthem. In California: dozens of channels, nonstop commercials, and game shows where people won refrigerators by screaming into microphones.

We sat for hours flipping through channels, amazed. Michael declared, “This is better than the cinema.” I wasn’t so sure — but I had to admit, the commercials alone were worth watching.

Daily life in America was nothing like we imagined. Every little thing, pumping gas, paying the check, turning on the TV, was a mini-lesson. Sometimes frustrating, sometimes hilarious, always unforgettable.

Michael summed it up best one night as we sat on our rented couch, eating peanut butter sandwiches and watching a game show:“In Greece, life is complicated. In America, life is simple. But understanding the simplicity? That’s the complicated part.”

By the end of that week, our American life was humming: fridge buzzing, lamps glowing, TV blaring, and a phone ringing.

And we no longer had to eat donuts three meals a day.

The end…