I Am an American

Last night I had a drink with a friend from school who was in town for the day. She brought along her British friend that she'd done some theatre with in Edinburgh. The bulk of the conversation was basically me saying: "So, wait, how do people do _____ in the UK??" He was very nice about it and answered all my questions thoroughly. But I couldn't help but feel like a bit of a rube. Why is it that whenever I meet someone foreign (friends of friends, deli store workers, cab drivers) I feel the need to probe them about their strange customs and ways of dressing? Has my love of the Old Timey Times really gotten so bad that I feel the need to act like some seafaring explorer who has just stumbled upon Africa?

What I did eventually determine last night was that, as we all know, The Europe will not make you pay for health care. Being godless Communists has its benefits, I suppose. If anyone reading this would like to come to the New World, I'll happily take you on a tour, showing you where freedom was invented, and then I'll break your leg so you can get a taste of free market capitalism medicine. All I ask in return is that you explain to me what an American accent sounds like.

Now, go about your silly little foreign way. I have a steak to eat.