My host father simply cannot believe that although there is seaweed in the oceans of America, we don’t eat it.
With dinner we ate seaweed from Piyangdo, the little island off the coast of our neck of the big island, and I made it a point to remind myself that this seaweed was probably hand picked off the rocks by ajummas in waders and enormous visors, then carried in sacks on their permanently bent over backs. It took a minute to sort this fact out, since the electronic dictionary entry he handed me was “(outdoor) bathing; swimming.”
Later he looked up the word for dinner table, and maybe now thinks that Americans don’t eat breakfast on the same table. And pulled out a scrap of paper that might have once been a poster or flyer, that on the white side of he had written some handy phrases he wanted to learn like “I will pray for you” and “I hope you will be happy.”