Last weekend, I set out from Clemson to visit my aunt in Piedmont, South Carolina.  You may be wondering how this journey does indeed count as a cultural event, but let me assure you, the thirty minute drive between my college pad and my aunt’s home is only the beginning of the many things that set her culture apart from my own.  First of all, in my own home, there are remnants of fast food wrappers and dirty dishes galore, not to mention the cat hair that my roommate and I have given up on trying to control (Not to gross you out, guys, or discourage you from visiting.  Give me some notice, and I’ll clean up).  Also, my life is filled with books, papers that multiply on my bedroom floor, and frequent obscenities streaming from my roommate’s mouth (often in the form of song).  Pan back to my aunt’s house.  When I enter the side door, I enter my aunt’s pristine residence.  Her immaculate kitchen sports pictures of her grandchildren on the fridge, and all the trimmings my kitchen lacks: an electric mixer, a food processor, cups other than Solo cups.  She has a pie in the oven, and something in the crock pot.  Her rotund forms approaches me with a pleasant smile on her face, and her Southern drawl greets me as my arms encircle her.  We enter the living room to talk, and we have a quiet conversation, because my uncle, his shirt untucked and his mouth hanging open as he snores, is sleeping in the recliner.  Bull riding flashes on the television screen.  Occasionally he wakes up with a start and contributes a line or two to our conversation, then quickly falls back into slumber.  As I continue to talk with my aunt, two deer heads stare at me from over the fire place, and a bass looks in my direction from the adjacent wall.  After my aunt finishes telling me about the new landscaping at the bank where she works, how Aunt Mamie’s cancer is affecting her, and what the latest news at her church is, the conversation lulls.  We watch the bull riders uncomfortably for about fifteen minutes, each remarking on how dangerous it is and how we’ll never try it.  Finally, everyone starts to show up.  Cousin Jeff and his wife Amy, and their two kids, are first to arrive.  I give their boys big hugs and let them show me their new toy John Deere tractors.  Wayne is next to come, and no one is quite sure how he is related to us, but everyone seems glad to see him.  A few more filter in, everyone bringing a dish to contribute to dinner or dessert.  We eat dinner, and I am quiet most of the time.  Various people ask me about school, but I stick to the basics, because when I start talking about Updike or Hemingway, they smile and nod, and turn to the person on the other side of them.  After dinner I help clean up and make my way out.  When I arrive back at home, I feel a sense of relief to be back in my comfort zone, and I am in my own culture again.