Reading the Cultural Landscape
By Kas Clark
30 March 2025
The bus pulls up to the stop with a screech of brakes, its yellowed headlights flickering in the cold, smog-filled dusk. I step up, my boot slipping on the metal stairs slick with muddy slush. Before I can reach for the handrail, the bus lurches forward, and I stumble, catching myself just before falling into an old woman wrapped in layers of wool. The driver shifts gears with an audible grind, wrestling the shift stick into place. As we merge into the chaotic flow of buses, taxis, and private cars gliding over ice-riddled potholes, the passengers bob and bounce with each jolt.
A woman selling tickets elbows her way through the crowd, maneuvering a heavy bag filled with coins and tissue-paper-thin tickets. She moves with practiced efficiency, exchanging money for tickets in quick, rehearsed motions, slipping coins and bills into her apron with one hand and producing correct change in the other. I fumble for the right change, trying to watch how others do it. When she reaches me, I hand her my coins and, in return, she presses a tiny slip of paper into my gloved palm before disappearing into the sea of passengers.
Inside, the air is thick with the mingling scents of wet fabric, diesel exhaust, and cigarettes, though no one is smoking. The windows, clouded with condensation from our collective body heat, obscure the city beyond. Some passengers wipe small clear patches with their sleeves, peering out into the dimly lit streets where snow piles along the sidewalks and kiosks dot every intersection.
Seats are few and reserved for mothers and the elderly. Most people stand, gripping the overhead bars, swaying with the motion of the bus. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers, I take in the diversity of faces around me—old men, children, teenagers, mothers with babies. Different facial features adorned with different hairdos and styles. And yet, despite the proximity, I realize I cannot decipher the social landscape before me.
Directly in front of me, a woman wears a spectacular fur coat. Is it fox? It must be fake, I think, because the color is an almost surreal magenta. No—it's real, just dyed. I scan the other passengers: fox, mink, sheepskin, leather, thick woolens. Fur hats and dark scarves. Ice-pick-heeled boots and curly-toed leather shoes.
What is it that I don’t understand? It isn’t just the language. There is something more profound at play.
Back home in the United States, I would have instinctively associated fur coats with luxury, with the ultra-wealthy and glamorous. But here, in the frigid climate of Ufa, Russia, fur is not the same status symbol—it’s a necessity as much as it is fashion. And we are all on a public bus. None of us are rich. My usual cues for reading people—clothing, style, demeanor—no longer apply.
Even the silence unsettles me. Public spaces in the U.S. hum with constant conversation. Here, the bus is nearly silent. The dominant sounds are the grinding gears, the wheels roaring over the ice, and the driver’s euro-pop disco playing in the background.
At that moment, I become acutely aware of something I had never questioned: my subconscious reliance on a culturally specific sensory language. I had always assumed I could make quick judgments—about status, safety, belonging—based on surface-level observations. But here, those instincts fail me. This realization would forever shape how I perceive others.
A Thought Experiment
Picture a street in your own neighborhood. Imagine different people walking past your home, each wearing one of the following:
A medical uniform
A dress with a floral pattern
A military uniform
Religious attire from a specific faith
A wedding dress
A business suit
Swimwear
A construction vest and hard hat
Antique, vintage, or outdated clothing
Now, depending on where you live, some of these might seem perfectly ordinary, while others might stand out. But what assumptions come to mind?
What do you imagine about their personal economy?
How might they vote?
Would you expect to meet them at a party? Would you avoid them?
Who among them would you trust with a secret? In an emergency? In a business deal?
A vast body of research explores how first impressions shape our perceptions. Our ability to "read" social cues is influenced by whether we come from a more collectivist or individualist culture—a distinction that shapes everything from social trust to communication styles (source).
Interculturalism invites us to examine these unconscious judgments by confronting foreign ways of being. While I may never be an expert in another culture, I can become more aware of my own. And in doing so, I open myself to a deeper, more nuanced understanding of the world.
Back on the Bus
Just as I settle into my thoughts, the ticket seller’s voice rises above the quiet murmur of the bus. She is making her way back through the crowd, checking for tickets. I reach into my pocket, my coat, my bag—nothing.
My heart pounds as I realize I must have lost it, the tissue-thin slip misplaced amid my sensory overload. Why is my heart pounding? It’s not like I’ve committed a crime. When she stops in front of me, I try to explain—gesturing, searching again, willing the ticket to appear. But she isn’t convinced. Her expression tightens, and I see suspicion in her eyes. She thinks I’m lying.
Aware that I stand out as a foreigner, I feel the weight of the other passengers' attention on me.. My mind scrambles for a way to resolve the situation, but the words fail me.
Then, as if by some quiet grace, I notice the bus slowing. We are near my stop. Without waiting for the situation to escalate, I slide toward the exit. The rear bus doors hiss open, and I step out into the cold, relieved that I’ve avoided further trouble.
As the bus pulls away, I exhale, watching my breath crystalize into the lamplit winter air. I had been so consumed by my inability to "read" the people around me that I had lost my bus ticket. But maybe that was the point—losing my assumptions, losing my certainty, and, in doing so, gaining a new way of seeing.
