And I'm proud to be an American?

My favorite juxtaposition about myself: I love a good frat party but would rather choke on a mentos, attempt to give myself the Heimlich, fail repetitively and permanently disable my vocal chords than saddle up with an ignorant meathead bound for Corporate Middle America.

After a minibus ride to Ho Chi Minh City via sardine tin backseat-age, Gina and I had befriended a Canadian unafraid of voicing his all-around Northern superiority and two good ol' Coloradans (the first Americans we'd come across in a long while) straight from the University. Read: A couple mega-church attending boys with hair gel and snowboarding tales that astoundingly made the word 'awesome' a noun, verb AND adjective. We'll call them Opie (one looked remarkably like Ron Howard) and Cory Matthews.

We arrive in HCMC and set out on the routine cheap hostel find. A backalley and a check for flea infestation later, we settle and agree to meet up later for a drink.

We drink, we eat, enjoying the chaos of the Vietnamese motorbike infatuation. We're on a second story balcony drinking cans of "333" (said: Ba ba ba) from a plastic bucket full of ice at the end of our table.

This doesn't sound high class, I'm sure, but in Vietnam is qualifies as a night on the town. A nation of habitual snackers, most meals can be consumed right off the street corner. In fact, the food is generally better while perched on a Fischer-Price colored and sized bench, taking care that motos don't storm over your tevas.

The boys give us the same formulaic itenerary we get from most backpacking men: In Cambodia, they paid ridiculous amounts of money to throw a grenade and shoot artilery at the nation's army training grounds. Off the coast of Thailand, they learned to SCUBA. They rode elephants. They ate a fried tarantula in Phnom Pehn. In every city they have their laundry done because they can't be bothered to do it themselves and while they wait for substitute Asian mommies to wash their tightie-whities, they take in the fabled Thai Ping-pong show. (This involves women who have discovered remarkable projectile powers in unmentionable places.) The boys revel in telling us as if we haven't met morons like themselves before this particular crossing.

It's only after several rounds (and terrible JoAnne jokes: What are we on now? 666? 999?) that we decide to hit the pavement. So far, a decent night with the 3 Amigos.

It's then that we find the Bia Hoi. The Vietnamese brew this lager in the same way they crank out kids and Nikes. Much like these overstocked items, this means you can sit on any number of street corners, drink a giant stein for the equilvalent of US 10 cents and the beer girls (outfitted in sponors costumes much like Steffi Graff) bring you peanuts and fruit all night...for free!

Happily, we cheers. But then Gina quotes Kanye and the smiles are over as we watch our plastic table instantaneously burn to wax. Our fellow Americans seem to think Mr. West is a black thug (what else do rappers know besides drugs and 'hos) who willfully killed his mother by funding her cosmetic surgery.

This leads to a convulted brawl that goes something like this:

Opie and Cory: Black Americans had to have voted for Bush so why the hell would Kayne say that our president hates black people?

Gina and JoAnne: Ever heard of the state of Florida? Faulty CHAD machines? A governor named Jeb? HURRICANE KATRINA?

Opie and Cory: Lies!
Gina and JoAnne: Racists!
Opie and Cory: Commies!
Gina and JoAnne: I'd rather be red than smelly like you!
*obviously, we were not throwing our best punches at this point, so I'll save ourselves the embarrasment of the rest of the name calling, but eventually, it is capped off by the following comment...

Canadian: You guys are messed up, eh?

So, lesson learned. Again. I really think we should change the cliche so that it's more like Marie Antoinette's cake: You can take the girl out of the middle America, and you can have most of middle American taken out of her, too.

Do not be mistaken: I love and adore lemonade, playing pool, bluegrass festivals, cut-off jean skirts, being overly polite and barbequed beef brisket. I hope to never stop attending graduation parties in people's garages and I would consider it tragedy if the clouds of dust that get stuck in your throat at the county fair were a phlegm issue now abandoned.

No, it's hardly the cool summer nights in the back of a friend's pickup or the Dairy Bar that gets me down. My real problem isn't even these boys we've just met. They are quite respectful, even when throwing down fourth grade insults (this is way Midwestern and should be a revered art-form, if you ask me). It's just that they represent a middle America that I love so much and still feel completely dismissed by. I feel like American can stunt your growth: My culture did the opposite of pushing me towards unique, quirky, world-conscious Christiane Amanpour-dom. Instead of crafting women with a sense of urgency, passion, drive and crealess khakis, middle America told me about the woman I "should" be.

So, you Coloradans, you 10-grade Advanced Composition teachers, you dream-squelching Cobber boyfriends: Please don't ask me to shut my eyes to the rest of the wrold. Don't tell me that it's even POSSIBLE to do a trip like this and count your best day in terms of gunsmoke. Don't hold me back, even when I overuse the semi-colon. Don't tell me that Nicholas Kristoff is never going to pick me to travel with him to Africa. (Which he didn't, but still...you could have at least been SUPPORTIVE for the sake of a good dream.) I want to drink and exchange ideas with anyone and everyone, but don't assume that you can strip off the beat-up v-neck I've been wearing for too many days in a row and find the same "I Heart Billy Graham" t-shirt you're wearing. Considering the large beer gut I now have going for me, it's just not going to fit anymore.

In the same breath, to my kindred spirits: Kirsten who said that Kristoff would be crazy not to take me and spent hours editing my essay, Mom and Dad who may have rolled their eyes but always followed it up with a hug, and countless other mid-Americans I love who ARE awesome (by it's proper definition): I am thankful that you pushed me towards the adventurous, the new, the creative. I wish you could be here too, sitting streetside drinking Bia Hoi, folding your legs protectively under your too-small plastic chair, just waiting until you make it to US $1 (and that happy, happy place facedown under said chair).

Here's to you.