The word barbeque doesn't mean the same thing over here, says W. over dinner. Nor does the word ribs. He's right. What have we been served? Vast oval plates of red-cooked meat. Chips (they call them French fries) in enormous piles, greater than we've ever seen. It's frightening. I must be in heaven with my enormous greed, W. says. My life must have peaked at this point – has it? I've finally found a country where I won't feel perpetually starved to death.
We watch a band on Beale Street who are playing for tips. There are preppies everywhere, all round us. W. hates them. What are we doing here?, he says. Between songs, the band come round the crowd with a hat. People have to promote themselves in America, we've noticed that. They're not ashamed of it, as they would be back home. There's no welfare state, that's what does it, W. says. But playing for preppies! It's the ultimate indignity, W. says over our pints of Big Ass Beer.
It's my birthday today, reads the sign on the windshield of the taxi driver carrying us home. This is a terrible place, he says of America, when we tell him where we're from. In America, he says, your teeth rot in your mouth, because you can't afford healthcare. There's no minimum wage here, he says, not like in Europe. People are paid five, six dollars an hour, that's all.
It's the preppies, W. says. He blames the preppies, he says, when we get back to the hotel.
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