We can count them on one hand. Today marks the one month checkpoint of our world journey. Five new stamps decorate the pages of my tattered passport. For thirty days we’ve tramped up and down foreign streets, eaten in countless restaurants, and explored more than a healthy dose of markets. We’ve slept in fifteen different beds. And we’ve only met five Americans (two of them were Kelly and Shomit). I’ve met more new people in the last month than I have in the last year, but none of them can sing the Star Spangled Banner.
The Fourth of July was nothing more than a day between the 3rd and the 5th. We toasted a Tiger beer or two, and I daydreamt for a few moments of a barbequed cheeseburger, but the day passed without a smile from a compatriot. It is quite surprising, really. And this part of the world is not void of Westerners—there are Aussies aplenty, the Dutch love the warmth, the Germans are easy to spot in their Speedos, and the regal British accent is easy to hear. Even the Canucks are well represented (we’ve found they want no relation to us).
Locals assume we are Australian. When we say California they stretch their necks and curl their brows. Then they sing a Michael Jackson hook. MJ is larger than life. I regret to think we are not present due to the economic times. We’ve all made concessions in the last eighteen months, but travel must remain a priority for us as a society—especially foreign travel. And there are bargains to be had. I get the sense that every downturn we’ve experienced at home has been felt twofold here. Prices on menus have been obscured with white out and scribbled over with reduced amounts. Domestic flights between destinations can be nabbed for the price of pizza delivery back home. And, as Jeannie has become rather familiar with, sixty minute massages on the beach require a $5 investment.
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