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.
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.
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.
One minute I was breezing through immigration in Spain, practically handed a glass of Rioja with my stamp, excited to start the Camino de Santiago and wondering why everyone made international travel sound so complicated.
A few months later, I was stuck at the Polish-Ukrainian border, passport in a grim-faced officer’s hand, customs agents tearing through our humanitarian vans like we were smuggling gold.
It happened in Kyiv. I was on my way to meet some friends for a few pints on a Friday night in a small basement pub back in the day called “The Drum” or “Baraban”.