A jetlag-free life, from American Gods to strip clubs.

Give me some time

Unusual places, where waiting is the only thing in common with the rest of this 2am population, are always the best location to stop for a moment and think. And remember. And, sometimes, write.

Here I am again. Miles and one ocean away from London, home.
Again in Atlanta, again in the airport. Like many of the people around me I decided to avoid the early morning rush and arrive in the airport just few hours earlier.
7 hours earlier.

Surrounded by zombies - smiling zombies with nice teeth I should say - I'm trying to make sense of another week in the US of A.
This is the second time in a month, the third time since the dawn of 2005. I should get used to all this traveling and working and fighting the jet lag sessions, but I'm not.

Fortunately my bore span is usually very short and I manage to find a way to amuse myself in many occasions.
And this is a very good thing if you, European, will ever come here for something more than a shopping / tourist visit.

Let's face it, Atlanta ain't the best and most famous tourist point of this huge land. People would probably decide to visit New York, or L.A., or Miami, but Atlanta?
Someone interested in seeing the Coca Cola HQ? I'd rather go to Lynchburg, Tennessee, and try to talk with Mr. Jack Daniels.

Europeans fly to the coasts. Period. There is a good chance to meet other fellow from the same nation and to not get afraid of the whole American spirit.

Well, Atlanta is very American.
Here with a nice English accent you can get away with murder from pretty much anything.
Here girls are still surprised that Englishmen aren't landing on the Mayflower.
Unfortunately, with my mixed accent I don't have all the luck that John and Rob have here. (By the way, John is the man who took me to America on my first great trip in 2004. Rob was already here, married with an American girl).

Every time I'm flying I see different aspect of a culture that still amazes and worries me in the same amount.
My only regular contact with Americans in London is my good friend Ian, who, funnily enough, has recently been more time in Italy this year than I did, while I traveled to America more than him.

Ian is (was) a college guy, short but solid and good at hockey (and sometimes at football, sorry, soccer), so my version of the American Dream created by mixing together his stories is a porno version of American Pie meets Animal House meets Remember the Titans: a glory of tits, drugs, alcohol, girls, easy girls, even easier girls, sport, blood and more titties.
And damn hot Tabasco chicken wings, obviously.

I've been lucky enough to experience some of the stuff that Ian told me in the my previous trips, but this time I wanted just to relax and work and go home soon, in time to play my Sunday football match (last update: we lost 1-4 and we're out of the cup. Life sometimes is shit).
The company I'm working with hates the fact that I don't want to stay over the weekend and pay less for the return ticket.
Sorry guys, football is too important for me.

Give me more tits next time and maybe we'll find an agreement.

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