American

Every now and then I’m super American and I think I’m finally getting to the point where I can admit it without feeling too guilty. Take right now as an example. I’m sitting in a restaurant not far from my house; I’m wearing flip-flops, jeans, a long-sleeved Clemson t-shirt and a baseball cap; I’m eating chicken nachos and drinking a beer (granted, it’s an Egyptian beer); and I’m typing away on my laptop using the wireless internet. Do I care about the fact that I’m blatantly American? A little. But not so much that I’m going to change anything about what I’m doing.