How Leaving the U.S. Taught Me More About Being American Than Living There Ever Did!
I didn’t realize how American I was… until the mayonnaise hit the pizza.
I didn’t realize how American I was… until the mayonnaise hit the pizza.
Imagine standing in a snaking line outside the Alcázar of Seville in the dead heat of a Spanish July.
The loneliest I’ve ever felt wasn’t after a breakup or at some tear-filled funeral.
I used to think everyone iced their drinks. Like, religiously. I mean, what kind of monster drinks a lukewarm Coke?
Then I moved to Ukraine in 1999 and ordered a soda at a café in Kyiv.
I had just arrived in Phuket, and I was convinced I’d cracked the Instagram code to life.
It started in a musty Kyiv office.
When I first moved to Europe, France, specifically, I was ready to embrace the food revolution.
I pictured myself in a sun-drenched Toulouse apartment, grabbing a baguette from the corner boulangerie, one so fresh it hadn’t met a preservative since Marie Antoinette’s head rolled off the guillotine.
They told you to avoid these places. I’ve told you to avoid these places! But here’s what locals know that you don’t….
Four months. That’s how long I’d been living in my mom’s basement. Not figuratively, literally.
It was somewhere between the third “Genius Packing Hack” and the fifth “Travel Tip You Need to Know Before Your Next Flight” that I realized I’d been duped.