Every year, about this time, they come: the Americans. They are easily distinguishable from the people who live and work here from their attire. The men, of a delicate age, and, one would think, knowing better, wear, even on these cool, early May mornings, brightly colored shorts that are stretched around their lumpen rumps like plastic meat wrap. Their wives are either much better preserved (or perhaps a more recent acquisition?), radiating a youthful glow and vitality, or are in the same broken down state as their husbands. The teenage girls that follow them are energetic, talking on their cell phones, flipping their long, darkly colored hair, and electric with the power that they now know they have. The boys, on the other hand, appear distracted and clueless, imagining, perhaps, the final duel that they'll have with their parents involving wrap around sun glasses, rocket launchers, and other heavy artillery.

They come here to see their elected officials at work, to see the museums, to eat fast food sold by national chains staffed by "guest workers". They come to see their tax dollars at work and secure in the knowledge that all is being watched over and protected by The Department of Home Land Sincerity. They come to smell the roses.

Stumble It!