Not Enough Sand on the Beach

Posted: August 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

When I woke up, chairs were in strange places, the sun was on the other side of the globe, and jet lag thumped its way like a dance club bassline through my body. I was hungry for sopapillas specifically, the light flaky dough barely containing enough honey to drive a bear mad. They were sticky, and messy, but my grandpa always said you judge the course of your day by how willing you are to get messy during breakfast. And so with the Southern Cross high up in the sky behind me, my fingers practically ached for some kind of sauce, a skewer of meat just dripping or some kind of bizarre native waffle that’s meant to be consumed with the hands. It’s hard to get used to not living life at the speed of America, but every day I try and make it work in a different country, I feel the country pushing back, forcing its spirit into me. I also feel more lonely the more American I behave. So I’m out and walking the streets with the locals, doing my best to sneer at the tourist traps and trying hard to go to parts of the city I should really be avoiding.

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