So all Americans care about is work...

(from 2000 or possibly 1999)
I left the funeral home at 3am exactly, an hour after I told Alex and Vanessa I'd be seeing them. Not that I really wanted to stay, but talks of electrical theory and the sweet European makeup girl jamming on her Walkman kept me tied up longer than I'd hoped.

And so we left together. She was heading for 9th and B, I think. I'm not sure exactly. I had a hard time understanding her as she asked if I was leaving and which way I was walking. But we eventually agreed to walk together,Probably to 9th and 1st, where I went left and she went straight. And the whole time she's talking and I'm talking -- and lemme get this straight, I don't think it was just bullshitting. There's a certain barrier that comes down when talking to foreigners. Like certain social norms get thrown out the window. Nothing offensive, just certain formalities don't exist for me and I feel like I can really talk about culture and society and get down to what really interests me about people.

So again, the whole time I'm talking and she's talking and we're engaged and all that. Then all I can think is, "now what was her name? Maria? Naria? Dammit, I had her spell it for me even! Why am I so bad?" as if it's important. And while she talked about Americans' obsession with work after I asked her if she had trouble relating to people of a different culture and background on a a personal level, I though about how happy I was that I got a job for the following day and what exactly Billy Joel meant when he said "some people sleep all alone at night instead of taking a lover to bed."

And is it not a good thing that Americans think about work all the time? My intuition tells me so, but I really do like working and I'm happiest when I'm doing a lot of it. Long hours. Days and nights spending three hours of it at home, sleeping two of them.

So we laughed all the way to 9th and 1st and she did that kiss-on-both-cheeks thing when we parted. That's sweet, I thought at the time. Then she said something about Spaniards never asking how old each other were. I didn't think Americans did either. I thought that was my thing. Oh well. I guess I'm more of a typical American than I thought. At least according to ma petite, sweet Mlle de Tocqueville here, the omniscient cultural observer. But that kiss! Oh, my. And she sings along to her Walkman.

So we parted and I thought again how it's been two days since I brushed my teeth and my mouth tastes like garlic and I'm sweating vodka.