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I don’t like it any more than you do. However, we are better for having seen the rise of the Cape Verdean delegation and the breakout triumph of a 40-year-old man’s accomplishment on the world stage. No, this isn’t about Lionel Messi. Not really. This World Cup belonged to Vozinha, the goalkeeper whose own mother could not afford the legal loopholes of US visa strife.

As one commenter on TikTok wrote, “Cape Verde are the Jamaican bobsled team of World Cup 2026”. Thank you, random internet stranger for that metaphor. Now, let’s look back on CV’s journey before diving into that final, fateful game versus Argentina.

The road to World Cup qualification began in 2023 when FIFA conceded to the Confederation of African Football’s request to increase its representation. As such, FIFA expanded the number of African World Cup slots from five to nine. In a continent the size of Africa, snagging a spot out of nine was not easy. Cape Verde found itself in a qualifying match against Eswatini (formerly known as Swaziland), and in a style now synonymous with our boys in blue, they dominated Team Eswatini with athletic panache and expert goalkeeping in a 3-0 victory.

Despite FIFA’s concession to include more African teams, knockouts have proven a brutal battleground after a valiant group stage. Out of nine — Ivory Coast, Tunisia, Morocco, Senegal, Algeria, Egypt, Cape Verde, the DRC, and Ghana — only two remain (Egypt and Morocco). But this World Cup has zigged when commentators were expecting zags. Cape Verde proved itself to be the most tenacious zigazigahh.

In their very first match in the group stage against Spain, they pulled off a draw. Then they maneuvered another impressive draw against Uruguay, finishing 2-2 and scoring their first-ever World Cup goals. In their last match in the group stage, Cape Verde failed to lose, drawing against Saudi Arabia in a 0-0 finish that secured its place in the knockout stage. Only in football can you see so much forward movement without a win! There’s something very anti-capitalist in such a sports philosophy, but that’s a conversation for another day…

Without a single win under their belt, the Cape Verdean team faced the 2022 World Cup winners, Argentina, in what is most likely Lionel Messi aka the greatest-of-all-time, last World Cup. Under normal circumstances, Lionel Messi is a Goliath. For Cape Verde, the challenge was met with ebullience. They have their own millennial superstar. Sure, nobody knew his name a month ago. No matter! Cape Verde burst onto the pitch and thwarted early scoring attempts with vigor.

But, Messi has been on a world-record-breaking scoring spree. It was no surprise that he was the one to break the stalemate. In the 29th minute, he fired a shot into the top-right corner of the net, well beyond Vozinha’s long arms. Answering back, Deroy Duarte received a beautiful assist from Mendes then banked a zipper into the net, tying the game. Messi, bloodthirsty, came back in the second half, urgently firing at the net. Like a sentinel, Vozinha defended the goal. Attempt after attempt, Messi fired at the goal, only narrowly missing. In the 72’, Messi dribbled towards the net, drawing Vozinha out. It was only due to Pico Lopes’ quick defense that the score stayed 1-1. The fitness of Cape Verde was on full display as they successfully contained Argentina’s top scorers. It wasn’t until stoppage time that things got really hairy. Messi was granted a free kick, and Vozinha launched his body over it like a landmine, keeping Argentina at bay.

Then Martinez buried it high in the net - again, in that top right corner that Vozinha had missed with Messi’s goal in the first half. Ten minutes later, with the weight of their country watching, Sidny Lopes Cabral hit what could be the greatest goal of World Cup 2026. What happened next was equally iconic. He tore off the field, into the stands, eyes huge and searching as officials chased after him and fans slapped his back proudly. Through the crowd, a curly-haired woman appeared and wrapped him in a hug. The two stood there in a moment that will go down as one of the most romantic achievements of the tournament. Loverboys up!

After equalizing the game, Messi took a corner and Christian Romero bounced a header in, cementing Argentina’s place in the final 16. End of the road for Cape Verde. But only ten minutes from forcing a penalty shoot-out. This was not an easy win for Argentina, not by any stretch of the imagination.

Years ago, Liverpool FC’s manager Bill Shankly famously said, “Some people believe football is life or death […] But it is much, much more important than that.” This game proved to be that secret third thing. It is human. It is the thing that binds the mortal and immortal. It is the highway that we travel as homo sapiens on Earth.

And now we all pray that Vozinha secures a lucrative contract to finish out at least a few more years of play.

Obrigado, Cabo Verde. You did good!

Then came the really crazy matches of Monday night. Four-time champs Germany may not have performed to previous standards, but people did not expect a defeat at Paraguay’s behest. Fancy football people will say that Germany’s side has been on the decline since their win in 2014. I had to read many sports blogs to get the full scope of their deterioration, but simply put, I think because Germany balled out so hard during the Brazil World Cup when they beat Argentina that casual football fans assumed that they would go beast mode again. Surely, the European teams would dominate in a USA-hosted World Cup, with all their tiny teams and never-before-qualified countries. However, Germany’s last three World Cup performances have been poor. Which is not to minimize Paraguay’s win. It was still impressive despite some potential funny business when Jonathan Tah’s header was dismissed during extra time. Nevertheless, the match was won on penalties, and Paraguay pulled through with 4 to Germany’s 3. And, how’s this for a fun fact - this is Germany’s first-ever penalty shootout loss. Like ever. Fans were mad.

But not USA fans because in the group stage, the USA decimated Paraguay 4-1. Guys, guys, what if the USA, like, wins?? Could we actually do it?

Lemme chill…

I’m lying because last night was not chill. We saw the fall of the Orange Army, and all I can say is Africa is UP!!!!!

Again, I have hard feelings against Morocco because they beat Scotland but I can’t lie, I love a surprise upset more than I hold a grudge. Plus, Africa is performing so crazy good this World Cup that you have to smile.

Still, Morocco’s performance beat my expectations, and shame on me! I was razzle-dazzled by the Flying Dutchmen, who entered the competition ranked 7th overall. And maybe I shouldn’t have bowed down so quickly to the legacy teams. Especially since Morocco has done serious damage against Scotland and Haiti and drew against Brazil. They so easily stood out during the group stages that commentators have speculated that they might have the juice to go all the way.

After a strong showing, the Netherlands headed into stoppage time with the only goal scored when suddenly Issa Diop headed one into the right corner of the net. Off to penalties they went. And this is where things got really heavy. Netherlands scored, Morocco missed. Netherlands missed, then Morocco’s ball landed right into the goalkeeper’s gloves. Then both teams sunk whoppers, whizzing into the nets. The Netherlands shot a wild, mess of a kick, missing the post by a mile. Then, Morocco missed another crucial shot too! The Netherlands answered back with a shot that was deflected, and Morocco replied with the game-winning goal.

This is football, people! This is the end of colonialism!

No, it’s not, of course. But I’m having fun!

You’ve seen the videos of rival sports fans embracing each other in intimate, drunken devotion — spluttering plans that will never happen, making promises to visit the other’s home countries. Yes, yes, we know, this is more than a game.

But, as a fan of the smaller teams, it’s not all cross-cultural jambalaya. Sometimes we eat the heartbreak of defeat like cold haggis fritters. I have learned this week that to be a Scotland fan, you must eat many cold fritters…

As an American (lightweight brag depending on who you ask, not me) from Los Angeles (overt brag, objectively), I am fortunate enough to boast two home teams that flaunt a combined 27 championship titles — I do not root for losing teams. When it comes to the Olympics, the USA is so obnoxiously goated that I don’t even want to waste any precious, quickly diminishing attention on it. Even this year, in a heightened state of irony that the USA must confront since we have visitors pointing out the contradictions of our country (everyone is so generous, but the government is so bad?) we are succeeding on the World Cup stage because of birthright citizenship.

And I have arrived at a theory that is half-baked and full of holes like a set of bagpipes. But hear me out. Perhaps, what is lacking on the Scottish team, is that big scary word that sends shivers down the spines of MAGA and Nigel Farage — diversity!

Diversity has pushed team USA to succeed (it’s kind of our whole brand!) yet Scotland is nearly without any racial diversity minus Che Adams who, in keeping with Scottish tradition, flaunts a lovely rash of freckles across his cheeks.

Simply put, where are team Scotland’s black people? England’s team is nearly half black. And I hate to use them as a reference, but I despise being behind England!

I for one have never rooted for such a white team before and I fear this is part of the problem. More than ever before, fans, and even casual watchers, of the World Cup are remarking on the world’s teams’ best players, from Australia to Belgium, to Japan to the Netherlands, all come from the African diaspora. It begs the question, can a football team perform at the top level without black athletes?

Black people have always succeeded at football (hello, Pelé). And now Mbappé, Bellingham, and Lamine Yamal are the next wave of black football superstars. It’s time that Scottish football broadens the scope of recruiting so that Scotland can compete with teams who are athletically and racially diverse.

However, as a resident of the fine country of Scotland, it is a shockingly white country. Latest statistics report, 1.2% of the population is black, but anecdotally that seems impossible. How could one out of a hundred people be black when I go entire days without seeing a single black person in Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland?

Comparatively speaking, the Netherlands reports a 3-4% black population and France is 3-8% black. I fear that Scotland is going to have to figure something out in terms of its team diversity or continue to suffer these losses again and again.

Now, I am someone who often believes that nearly all situations will improve with more black people. And, that’s just science. Using Elon Musk’s blind destruction of entire government departments who used DEI practices then the swift collapse of basic government functions like weather forecasting and airline standards monitoring, we have already learned this lesson!

But this Scotland team still has a sliver of a chance to make it to the next round, though I am not sure they deserve it judging their last two games. Sorry. Blame the heat all you want but we have watched more impressive defeats from arguably less-matched teams. Ecuador’s 2-1 victory over Germany, who some speculated could win the entire tournament, springs to mind.

So, we wait a few days to see how things will shake out for the Tartan Army. And potentially, Steve Clarke’s got three years to find some young black Scots who will elevate his team for 2030.

Now I know, you don’t like calling it football. We Americans have our own version of the sport with the same name no less! But let me counter you this - Australia has a sport called Australian football and doesn’t that sound utterly ridiculous?? Imagine an Australian person getting mad at you for confusing football (soccer) with Australian football (made-up sport played with kangaroo babies). You do not want to sound Australian, do you?

Plus, it is past time that we adopt the global verbiage for the sport with the shorts, the 11-man beast, the cleats who beat feet. It’s football, y’all. Sorry. Americans must embrace the international wave or be left behind.

Now, FIFA has bestowed us the honor in a rare three-nation hospitality fest that has already seen a generational love affair blossom between the city of Boston and the Tartan Army. We have also seen a cross-cultural, yet unbreakable bond in Guadalajara, Mexico between the premiere purveyors of grilled steak in carne asada and bulgogi form. Last but not least, we have seen Canada reveal themselves as the real villains we Americans have always suspected them to be.

But first, let’s catch you up on the facts…

This is the biggest-ever World Cup meaning that FIFA has allowed the most teams to ever compete. All 48 teams played qualifying matches but because FIFA has opened up the competition, we are seeing lower-ranked and much smaller countries enter the race. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a good thing. It means that teams with minimal budgets and weaker fan bases get to compete and I am only interested in the underdog teams. (If you’re rooting for England and can’t engage with the hardworking island nation of Curaco keep walkin’!)

Which brings us to the good people of Curacao who have the misfortune of being grouped in Sicko Mode Group E. They are playing alongside Ivory Coast, Ecuador and 5th-ranked team Germany. In their first match, which took place against Germany, they fared poorly in a traditional sense, yet you wouldn’t know it because despite the scoreboard boasting a 7-1 Germany beatdown, Curacao fans were hysterical with pride over their first-ever goal on the World Cup stage. Literally, fans were in tears, shouting, hugging, and jumping up and down for their home nation. The score didn’t matter. Being there. Making it. Having the world see you - in a sense, for the first time - that’s what mattered.

The other team to pay attention to is Cape Verde also known as Cabo Verde, another small island nation. But instead of the Caribbean Sea, the tiny country of half a million resides on the Western coast of Africa. The country was so underfunded and slapped together that they had to recruit one of their players via LinkedIn. Irish-born Roberto “Pico” Lopes works in finance and plays for the Shamrock Rovers. He thought the message was a scam and who can blame him? Cape Verde making the World Cup and asking him out of the blue to claim fealty to his father’s home nation - it sounds like a bait Netflix movie that The Rock would produce (no disrespect, I would watch).

But the real story of Cape Verde lies in their defensive performance in their debut match against Spain, the number 4 team. Bestowed with grit, ancestral pride and the hands of God, Cape Verde’s 40-year-old, goalkeeper, Josimar José Évora Dias, was like glue all over the damn net. He was impenetrable against Spain’s 27 goal attempts. It was not a great performance. It was a world-record performance. It was the sort of World Cup performance people will talk about for generations.

There are other gorgeous, heartwarming pieces of Vozinha’s story. Namely, the fact that his mother could not afford to apply for the special visa required to get to the US in time for the World Cup. Congressman Hakeem Jeffries has reportedly pushed through his mother’s paperwork to ensure she arrives in time for her son’s next match. It’s all very emotional and I’m eating it up like a Christmas morning breakfast.

The other apple of my eye is of course, Team Scotland. Returning to the World Cup after 28 years, this is a big one for the boys. Powered by superstars like Scott McTominay and beloved big-booty Judy John McGinn, these fellas are the sweethearts of Group C. FIFA claims that the groups are allocated by seed ranking and then randomized, but you have to wonder how Scotland found itself against powerhouse 5-time champion Brazil and 6th-ranked Morocco. The good news is they won their first match against Haiti but the bad news is they face-off against Morocco tonight and it’s sure to be a tough match. Yet, the wonderful thing about the World Cup is that the teams with less pressure on them seem to capture the hearts of fans despite their groups, their losses, or rankings. It’s not really about that. Not to me.

What it’s about is rooting for your country, and by your country I mean the country that you most spiritually align with. In my case, that is Ghana. And while I don’t have Ghanaian heritage in a biological sense, I like their dance moves and their fun hairdos. I also like their game-winning performance against Panama but I would be lying if I said it was all about their athleticism. I’m here for the vibes! And frankly, nothing is vibier than the World Cup. We get to watch games like Iraq versus Norway! Imagine another scenario where those people would be getting together! You just can’t!

So, choose your fighter. Which country are you rooting for?

You might be an Argentina girly (basic), or a French queen (more basic), or a Dutch baddie (alternative basic). That’s fabulous! We get to lean into these stereotypes in a rare allowance of patriotism that doesn’t feel racist. Rejoice, white people! You have been begging for this!

If you want to celebrate like me, crack open a medium-good bottle of wine and furiously google facts like “USA best player stats” and “Where do black people in Australia come from?” You know, important things!

As the weeks go on, I will be here to update you, my fellow sports fans. And until then, go Scotland!

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For writers, Ireland is Mecca — a destination for all the macabre baddies. And extra special if you’re one of the lucky ones who watched Normal People.

But the truth is, and I hate to constantly be leaning into the big, dumb American stereotypes, Ireland did not exist as a real place for me. I fear much of that had to do with the whole Lucky Charms leprechaun…

I did not know many Irish people growing up in Los Angeles. In fact, I don’t think I met a single one.

As an experiential learner, I did not get much hands-on Irish experience. No Irish-themed restaurants, no Irish people backpacking. Never even knew anyone who studied abroad in Ireland. Never heard of Irish romances or Irish lovers. Well, beyond Hozier, who serves as an ex-boyfriend to the world…

This is all a very convoluted way of saying that I had no experience with the Emerald Isle but was endlessly curious, if not purely from a writer’s perspective. Why the fuck were the Irish so good at writing? What was in the water to make such a small country a nation of storytellers? Most importantly, would I be able to taste a little of this magic during a quick trip, and could it (please God say yes) be so contagious that it would inspire me to finally finish writing my first book?

Fast forward to May of 2026, and my last remaining American friend from my graduate program is moving from Edinburgh back to the States. As a bon voyage trip, we have planned an overnight trip to Dublin for the two of us. It is a foolishly short trip, we know that, but we are hopeful that we can get a hit of that sweet, funky stuff. We recklessly charged two flights to Dublin then booked the cheapest hotel we could find. It’s not until the hotel sends me a confirmation that I learn that the hotel is located inside a Wetherspoons… I am scared but intrigued. I love hash browns - this could all be fine!

Immediately upon landing, my travel companion and I remark on the physical similarity to Edinburgh. We laugh that we have chosen somewhere identical to the place we have just left. I panic because she leaves in three days for Texas, and in one of her last days abroad, I have brought her to a place with the same ancient buildings, cobblestones, and mumbling old men reeking of stale beer. No matter, I laugh it off. Dublin’s charms were not to be found in its architecture or its dusty old farts.

This was the land of raconteurs, of misery, of mischief. We were in Ireland for 36 hours, and we were hungry (yes, physically), but mostly hungry for life. What stories could we possibly glean in such a short amount of time? We set off into the city, searching for our Wetherspoons Hotel and some memories to last us a lifetime.

As we exit the airport and make our way onto the Dublin Express shuttle, we feel confident in the way that you do only at the very beginning of the journey. The man who sells us a bus ticket is missing some teeth and barks at us crudely but we are charmed by the strangeness of this. He course-corrects his gruff impression and allows us on as the last two passengers aboard. We smile as if to say, We barely even noticed your missing teeth, kind sir.

As we make our way into the city, we notice some ugly, modern buildings that could belong to any European town. Are we in Prague? Glasgow? Lyons? We notice a river. We laugh that we have actually not googled anything about Dublin. We did not expect a river. What is the population of Ireland, we ask each other. The geographic size? We are delirious with excitement.

Suddenly, we are at the end of the line, but the driver did not announce our stop. I approach him, and he scolds me. Our destination was two stops ago. Surely not. We were looking for Wellington and he mumbled Temple Bar. Those don’t sound anything alike. He shoos us away and we get off the bus with a bruise to our optimism.

The added distance amounts to another fifteen minutes of walking, so we trek the thirty minutes to our hotel as the sun shines on us warmly. It is hotter than we expected. Not actually hot, but hot for this corner of the world.

People frown but the day could not be prettier. We pass a church, then another, then a big, green park, and then another. Dublin is in fact quite beautiful. No one ever mentioned this. We see yet another church and an even more beautiful park. I ascertain that this park will be the prettiest one so we must stop here. I don’t know where I get this notion but I am sure of it. Then, across the park, past the children in school uniforms, I spot a cafe selling ice cream. I insist that we get ice cream and we do. Kind, Brazilian baristas welcome us. We charge our phones and rest our feet. The ice cream, sunshine, and kindness do wonders for our moods.

We set back off and arrive on Camden Street, a bustling and colourful avenue full of restaurants, organic grocery stores, and pubs. We see Wetherspoons in the distance and pick up our pace, excited to check in. But when we enter the restaurant, the wait staff scowls at us. When we ask to check in, a woman mutters something to her co-worker about the red door. She scoffs as she stares us up and down. I ask her to repeat herself and the man responds for her. “Go next door,” he huffs. Again, we are confused as to why everyone is angry with us but we carry on.

We arrive at the correct door and find a lovely young man who is sarcastic but helpful. He gets us checked in a wee bit early and we locate our room easily. Dropping off our bags feels exquisite. We are boosted by this early check-in favor and think our luck is turning around.

We locate a nice Japanese restaurant that looks promising. But I have a hard time getting my phone to work so we pass the restaurant and have to double back. We find St Stephen’s mall which is very disappointing and head back to the Japanese place.

The meal is superb and the restaurant is packed. We settle in with the lunch crowd and finish our bento boxes in record time. I chug a beer and my buddy slurps a plum wine. We are a little drunk and ready to shop.

We find a good Zara across the road from the mall. Almost immediately, I spot the leather jacket of my dreams and take it downstairs to purchase. Next to the till is a cubby with bags, cloth and paper. I read a sign that encourages shoppers to reduce waste with a reusable bag and remark at how considerate this is. A free bag and helping the environment - double win! The payment process is straightforward enough, even though it is completely automated, but when I leave the store, I set off the security alarm. The security guard is a short, scowling man who waves me back in to talk to a sales associate. The blond, young woman who finds my eyes commands me downstairs, but the woman downstairs tells me to go back upstairs. I am growing more frustrated because everyone is bossing me around and not being helpful, plus, I have no service, so I cannot yet locate my email receipt which makes me look suspicious. Finally, my receipt pings my inbox and I approach the first young woman and explain what happened as if for the first time. She scans my jacket across her till and this time it doesn’t beep. She tells me that I must’ve followed the correct steps downstairs, and I tell her that all I did was talk to the woman who told me to go upstairs. I’ve had enough of Zara, so I take the jacket and leave. It beeps again but I do not stop. My friend realizes that the bag that I thought was free was in fact, not free, and this was the issue all along. Instead of turning around, I decide that this accidental theft was justified because of their poor customer service. She is horrified, but I apologize and she forgives me.

We find our way to St. Stephen's Park where the sun is still shining and we are blissed out from the excellent Japanese meal and even more sunshine. We are a little drunk from the beer and plum wine and St Stephens’s Park is bursting with activity. Placards to Jame Joyce abound. A pond with bright, green ducks sparkles as tourists smile for photographs. The sun washes away my sins and I wear my new jacket proudly.

We head back to the hotel and take naps. We wake up some time later, begrudgingly, and decide we should get more food. We do not get far and settle into the pub across the street called the Bleeding Horse. The name sounds morbid and cruel but somehow impeccably fits Dublin. I get chicken tenders and two pints of Guinness. I am so full that my head hurts. We stumble out into the evening and are a bit sleepy but remember that neither of us has packed face wash. We run around Dublin, trying to find a pharmacy that is still open. It’s 8pm and the only stores are in opposite corners of town. We do not find any travel-sized face wash, so I suggest buying a bar of Dove soap instead. On the way to Tesco, my friend is accosted by a soft-spoken man who tells her she is pretty. He is speaking so softly that I do not notice him for a few seconds. By the time that I do, I am waving him away like a seagull. She is rattled, and I feel guilty even though it is not my fault. She tries to laugh it off, but I can tell he has soured her mood. We talk about him and poke fun at his approach. She relaxes a bit but I feel like the day is now ruined because of this strange man.

After all the walking, the accidental stealing, the weird men, and cranky service workers, neither of us can bear loud music, so we head to a lovely gay bar that looks like an oasis, welcoming us in gently. Upon entry we are greeted with smiling faces and a bewitching cocktail menu. I get some sort of spritz drink with cherries and my partner gets a fruity margarita. We buy another round and sing along to Elton John songs, then perk up when they unload a Beyonce playlist. At this point, it’s getting late, and we want more food. My companion searches for pizza and we find a place with excellent ratings, except the outside looks like a club. In fact, we know it’s a club because there is a bouncer. He asks us if we want to come in and flaunts his stamp in our faces. We shake our heads. All we want is pizza. A young man approaches the bouncer but gets rejected. We aren’t sure why. The bouncer motions to his shoes which look fine to us. We ask the bouncer if there is pizza inside and he confirms that there is so we let him stamp our wrists. Young kids with Friar Tuck haircuts and baggy jorts bop around to deafening techno music that is so loud, I instantly feel 100 years old. My friend asks the bartender if they sell pizza. He says, “Yeah, in the alley around the back,” as if this is all very normal. We find the pizza stand after walking through the crowds and up the steps. Crowds of drunken young people are clamoring for slices of Detroit-style pizza which I take to mean it must be good, so we wait. A cop van arrives and sounds their alarm but the crowd doesn’t budge. The police approach a man, frozen on the ground. It’s clear that this man has passed away just as my friend’s number is called. It is somber but the pizza is good.

We walk back and laugh at this crazy adventure. Drunken tour groups stream past us. We pop our heads into other stores just to have a look around and balk at the inflated price of imported food. Eleven euros for a pack of ramen!

It’s been a jam packed day and we get home and shower and wash our faces with the Dove bar.

In the morning, we get up slowly, shower, and put on our faces. The plan is to visit Trinity College, which we do after stopping for coffee. We arrive at Trinity with our very full backpacks and move slowly. My feet are sore and we have packed so lightly that I don’t have an extra pair of sneakers or even an extra pair of socks. I wince as we make our way through the campus. It is pretty but I think Edinburgh is prettier.

We sign up for a tour that starts at 2pm so we have a few hours to kill. Over lunch, we have a glass of wine and promise to stay in touch. The food, again, is outstanding. After the meal, we stop at an Oscar Wilde-themed pub and get boozy coffees that are sweet and delightful. It is time for our tour and we are excited to learn about the Book of Kells, which is an ancient Christian book from 800 AD. Neither of us is religious but we appreciate this special artifact. By the time the tour finishes, we are too early for our flight home, so we decide spontaneously to check out the William Blake exhibit at the National Gallery. It is 15 Euro which is not too much but I start feeling anxious about timing. We should get the bus at 4 and it is suddenly 3:30. I speed through the exhibit, take in the gift shop then buy a return ticket on the Dublin Express for the airport. Surely it will be easier on the way back since we know the routine now.

My pal stops for an ice cream cone, and I start to hurry us towards the pickup point. But once we arrive there, we cannot find any Dublin Express signs. She points across the road, and across the river, where many Dublin Express shuttles are going the opposite direction. Panic sets in as the sun beats down. Time is now moving at warp speed as we run across the bridge towards the buses. As soon as we get there, the buses pull away. I look around frantically. We have three minutes to find our pick-up point, but there is no sign informing us where that is. There is a man at a kiosk selling tour bus tickets. I ask if he knows where the Dublin Express picks us up. He nods. I ask him where that might be, and he cranks his arm back, and throws it very far, indicating that we are not close. “At the dome!”He points five blocks away and I check the time. We have two minutes to run five blocks. This is not good. Like Mary-Kate and Ashley in a made-for-TV-movie, we turn to each other and shout, “Run!”

We shove passersby out of the way and haul ass. There is a bus just ahead of us that we start catching up to. After two blocks it pulls over and lets a few people on. We get stuck at a light and it isn’t safe to cross so we have to wait and watch as the bus pulls away again. We are not yet at the dome, so we keep running. At the next light, we are bent over and panting. The bus pulls over again, sort of at the dome but not exactly, and we run some more. This time, I know we can make it. I feel it in my bones. A line of travellers wraps down the block. It will take long enough to allow them to board. We just need to hurry. I kick my legs as fast as I can and as we get to the bus doors, the driver twists her mouth at us. “Tickets,” she sputters like a slur. We show her our phones and we are happy to have made it. Peeling our jackets off, we plop into our seats and catch our breath. The first words we say are, “Thank God.”

We laugh because we know some of that good Christian dandruff flaked off onto us for visiting the Book of Kells.

“Give it up to the big guy,” we point overhead. We are quiet much of the way to the airport as we pant like overheating St Bernards.

At the airport, there is absolutely no one in line. It is suspiciously fast. The security guard has to do a full body check and shoves her hands around my waist. It is so violating and yet I find that I do not care. I am happy to have arrived as early as we did. She lets me go and my friend and I enjoy our last cocktail in Dublin.

Finally, it’s time to head to the gate and we descend a creepy set of stairs into a forgotten basement level of the airport where we board a shuttle and head off to a regional Aer Lingus plane. It is so small that I am worried that the large man in front of us is throwing off the balance of the machine. I keep this thought to myself as we take off.

But as we lift off the ground, I see Dublin recede behind me. A sadness lumps in my throat. It is the end of something.

We have had an exciting, strange time. Eaten some excellent food and consumed roughly two dozen units of alcohol. The denizens of Dublin were surly but, in a way, charming. I will miss my friend. And I surprise myself to admit that I will also miss Dublin.

And while I do love dipping my hat into the theory that “Bravo is the Feds”, I want to discuss a few big news stories of the weekend that are not related but share similar themes: fools behaving audaciously.

First, Summer House.

This scandal got even juicier with the most recent audio leak that tore through TikTok on Friday, April April 24th. More interesting is the mystery around the leak. Internet sleuths have come to several conclusions.

First, what happened?

The Summer House cast filmed their reunion which turned heated. An audio recording was leaked by someone in the cast, on set, or employed by Bravo. (I have my suspicions…)

On the recording, Mia is heard lambasting Amanda’s decision to go from Kyle’s wife to one of West Wilson’s many hoes. (Brutal.)

But there was more.

In the chaos that ensued, KJ Dillard is heard asking where Ciara’s apology was in the joint statement Batula and Wilson released. Good question. Amanda didn’t reply. Then, the altercation heated up between Ciara and Amanda, and Amanda didn’t sound apologetic. In fact, she sounded indignant, annoyed, and dare I say, condescending.

Ciara asked Amanda why she chose West out of the millions of eligible men in the world. Amanda’s reply was telling.

She used Ciara’s words against her and responded, “You said you can’t choose who you like, right? Right?” Her voice was loud and her tone sounded smug and self-assured — clearly thinking this was the ace in her hand.

However, Ciara’s reply cut to the quick. “You’re a snake…you’re silent but you’re fucking deadly.”

Wow.

Any woman who has been wronged by a friend was struck by Amanda’s lack of apology. It smacked of white privilege. The audacity to be wrong and loud belongs to a very small group of people in the US.

But this is what binds the three stories of the weekend. Amanda Batula, Klay Thompson and Donald Trump are emboldened by their decision to be bad because they are unfairly privileged. They are wearing their shitty behavior as armor — a dare — a cigarette behind the ear to shout, “I’m bad.”

That leads us to the other side of the media universe where the people’s princess, Megan Thee Stallion, and her awful, no-good ex-boyfriend, Klay Thompson, have split up.

In an Instagram story, Meg spilled the beans on Klay, revealing he was a cheater and got “cold feet”. The global female gasp was gusped.

Who cheats on Meg Thee Stallion? A multi-millionaire, talented, kind-hearted, animal-loving, businesswoman and artist whose face and body are envied by entire swaths of the human race. She is a queen amongst mortals. And Klay Thompson is a NBA has-been past his prime.

But we liked Klay because Meg loved Klay. We were dubious but optimistic. Hoping that at long last, Meg was due for her happy ending.

She cooked for him and his family, learned to play golf, and wrote him songs. Her social media presence expressed glowing, grateful messages of love and we were happy because after the death of her parents, and the Tory Lanez bullshit, she deserved a man to treat her well. And for a time, it appeared Klay was up for the task. He was running off the court to get back home to her! We all saw it.

But now we have to reconcile the truth that mediocre men dating exceptional women are just as disappointing as the men at the peak of their careers.

Klay was an NBA star, and to many, he still possesses a certain, nostalgic power because of the gilded years with Steph Curry on the Golden State Warriors. Despite his waning athleticism, Klay Thompson holds a lot of power in some circles. Many women likely pursued him during his relationship. We all just wished he was better than this.

Klay Thompson, we were all rooting for you!

Where are people getting the audacity?

It might have been found Saturday, April 25 at the White House Correspondents Dinner.

A second bogus assassination attempt was thwarted against Donald Trump. The footage looks like The Office fire drill episode. Cameramen are on their marks like a dress rehearsal of CATS.

Unfortunately, even if this were a genuine threat nobody would believe it due to the political fatigue that the American populace is experiencing at Trump’s behest.

Plus, after the first fake assassination attempt it all feels old hat! Frankly, Trump’s rule book stinks of crime and stale reruns! We don’t want another Trump spinoff — we want Obama era optimism. Give us 2012 with socialist Democrats in the vein of Zohran Mamdani. These Trump storylines are played out!

Trump has cried wolf too many times. And even MAGA doesn’t know who to be mad at anymore.

It’s been flop after flop, and I fear the false assassination attempt has soured many people’s opinion of him.

In the first year of Trump’s second term, we’ve seen astronomical White House spending (and a new gold ballroom that no one asked for), historic cuts to national parks, government agencies, federal research grants for cancer research, AIDS funding, and Africa-focused charities.

And while he’s been slashing budgets, Trump has doubled the expenditure for things like ICE raids, pardoning January 6 criminals, and blocking the Epstein file investigation.

It’s all such a mess and we, the people, are sick of assholes who think being an asshole is interesting.

Privilege is boring and we are begging for new systems where good people get treated well and bad people shut the fuck up.

The accent? An unfamiliar but charming blend of Boston and New York.

The location? A state, a small one, known for its — Rhode Island. Neither a road nor an island. A beachy cousin to Massachusetts, I presume, but one can never be too sure. We don’t teach geography in the United States.

Th…

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“It’s happening!” TikTok commenters reply gleefully. The “it” being revolutionary action, or a tongue-in-cheek nod to the schadenfreude many of us are feeling towards corporate gre…

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As a millennial, much has been said about my generation as the last people who lived before the internet. Even more discourse surrounds the generation wars between millennials and Gen Z. Our side parts and our skinny jeans, the millennial pause, millennial grey, millennial kitsch (“Don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee!”) We are an easy target. And look, I get it. We’re dorky. We’re cringe. We’re earnest.

But we’re also deeply community-focused people who invented social media to profess our love to our friends. Like, literally. Friendster, Facebook, MySpace — all borderline creepy confessions to our besties.

So, in the spirit of honest reflection, if you find yourself in the population of young people born between 1997 and 2012 known as Gen Z, please find this as an invitation to navigate the murky waters of introspection. Let us forge a path where those approaching middle age can impart some wisdom to those who still have their 20s and 30s ahead of them.

As lovingly as you behold a big sister, hear me when I say that you, my dear, sweet Gen Z friends are awkward. But…hey! Slow down — people love awkward.

Take for instance Michael Scott. He makes for a hilarious Regional Manager on TV.

It’s just, in real life, we crave leadership who possess social graces. Someone to smooth out the edges and communicate stalwartly. Good social skills make for an environment where people can navigate the prickly peaks of company politics with a sense of humor. Mistakes happen, deadlines are missed, meetings are blown, so to compound those hiccups with fumbling social mishaps make for a messy environment.

Put in even more bleakly capitalistic terms, without the padding of check-ins and soft skills, we are left with the cold reality of work, life, the neverending rise in global temperatures...

And until someone leads the revolution towards a four-day work week or universal healthcare (and by all means, please do this sooner rather than later), it is our shared responsibility to keep the vibes up and meet someone’s eyes when they’re talking to us. The day to day is just too hard without it.

Let me be clear, I am in no way pointing the blame at neurodivergents. In my 40 years of life, I have come to recognize the many social benefits surrounding the straightshooting, honest communication that folks on the spectrum bring to the table.

The ability to say no and the lack of phony posturing to fit in, in fact reveal a safe space to discuss real passions and interests. It’s as if people on the spectrum are so unable to fake it that they possess a superpower to bring people in. “I don’t like that, but here’s what I am really enjoying…” This self-actualization allows others to assert themselves more wholly.

So, no, the awkwardness I am writing about is a different thing entirely.

What I am discussing is the lack of basic social skills that I fear Covid unfairly deteriorated. Things like the “Gen Z stare”, lack of eye contact, difficulty enunciating words, an inability to make phone calls, order food, approach people, navigate crowds, and travel public spaces — all of these were delayed when young people were forced indoors for mandated shutdowns between 2020 and 2023.

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In an instant, young people were barricaded in their homes and forced to attend school through a screen, therefore making inside safe, and outside unsafe. It stands to reason that, of course, young people find face to face communication tricky. They were basically forced to fear it. However, much of society still requires these communications so the lack of social skills makes for clumsy encounters that the rest of us are noticing.

The numbers support this as well. Harmony Healthcare IT, a health data management firm, surveyed 997 Gen Z (ages 18 to 26) and found that 1 out of 2 Gen Z struggle with anxiety. Of those who struggle with anxiety they found that beyond the age-old triggers of finances and the future, 3 out of 4 Gen Z get anxious making phone calls or talking on the phone. In fact, Emory University published a study through the Rollins School of Public Health, “Gen Z, Social Media, and Mental Health”, which found that even before Covid, anxiety and suicidal ideation was on the rise — mainly due to increased social media use. The idealized versions of people’s lives online have led to an inability to cope with personal shortcomings and led to a more insulated life.

There are many organizations dedicated to helping anxiety for young people. The National Social Anxiety Center affirms that Gen Z struggle with social encounters — work, relationships, crowds — but 30% of Gen Z feel that not only do their bosses lack empathy so do their family. So then, for the sake of our communal mental health, older people must atune themselves to the young people who are clearly struggling with a world that they’ve absorbed in an idealized fashion via their phones. Our duty as good millennials is to offer an empathetic ear first, then invite them to a party — where we really thrive.

Let’s face it, the ability to have fun is our superpower. Millennials are the band playing “Nearer, My God, To Thee” while the Titanic sinks. We’ve survived 9/11, George W Bush, the War in Afghanistan, then Iraq, the 2008 financial crash, the rise of ISIS, #MeToo, then your global world events like Covid, the election of Trump, the new war in Iran, and whatever else he is cooking up in Venezuela, Cuba, the ICE raids, etc. The world has always been ending! Let’s have some fun!

I have TikTok metrics and anecdotal data to support my thesis. When my friends in their 20s go out with millennials, they remark upon how much fun we have. We are really dancing and getting sweaty on the dance floor. Pictures come out blurry and our foreheads look greasy and late night food choices are regrettable. It is not cool or glamorous but we are free.

I think part of the issue with Gen Z is obviously the anxiety, but also a one-sided approach to the world that feels self-centered. To clarify, I do not mean self-centered as a perjorative, but in the literal sense that they are occupied with their own perspective.

For an overly-online generation used to talking to the screen as the viewer, they carry their in-person persona much the same way. They are talking at people as if they are a vague audience, not a specific person in their presence. More pointedly, it seems as though Gen Z is caught off guard by the other side of that interaction — the public side.

Enter the “Gen Z stare,” a blank, flat affect that we, not them, are looking upon because they are used to seeing out — not seeing in. They are focused on being perceived through a digital lens not a physical, public lens. But being in the world is a two-way street.

Apologies for being repetitive, but I am really sorry that the world became so scary during Gen Z’s formative years. I understand that Gen Z’s development did not unfurl like the generations prior. It is unfair to expect them to shed those habits and assimilate into society how I know it.

But connecting some sociological dots, I posit that interacting on the street and building real life community is how we win the war.

Which war? You ask.

All of them.

The war against AI. The war against conformity. The war against fatphobia, homophobia, and transphobia. The war against the cops, state violence, state-run media.

We only win with community. Taking to the street. Seeing each other. Smelling each other. Touching each other. Marching alongside each other. When we take to the street and surround ourselves with other humans, our power is impossible to ignore.

But how do we build community when young people hate going outside?

You’re really going to hate this, but you must get off them damn phones.

I know Gen Z well. In 2023, I returned to graduate school at 37 years old, more than a decade older than the average student in my program and even older than some of the staff. I was faced with the humbling differences that generational divisions provide. During the first week, I recall going around a picnic table when a young man asked everyone their ages. I ripped the Band-Aid off.

“I’m 37.”

“No!” They cried, real terror in their faces.

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “I’m 37.” Proud of how they’d assumed I was younger but humiliated by their reaction.

“Well,” a young man with a choppy haircut shook his head. “As long as you have your health.”

I was propped up as a wise old sage — a one-woman advice center, fielding questions about America, dating, writing and wine. I did not resent the role because I felt a little sad about the young people around me. I felt responsible for assuaging their fears about aging but I regarded them, as people who battled lots of fear — not just about aging, but in a general sense. Soon enough, I realized that the chasm between us wasn’t the decade plus of life, but our general outlook. I was optimistic. They were pessimistic.

The world had betrayed them when they needed it the most. Covid had isolated them, and now they were stuck facing a world they were not equipped for.

Now, I am not suggesting that I have a minimalist relationship with my phone, but I bridge the pre-digital world and bear the remnants of that time. I remember a world where you had to call a service up to get movie times for the cinema. Restaurant reservations were only acquired from mastering the art of people skills — sometimes even waging a bribe to snag a seat. And don’t get me started on clubbing. Going out benefited the bold. You had to hop a fence, lie to a bouncer, slide under partitions and engage in a fair bit of hijinks to sneak into the hottest clubs.

These things benefit people like me who enjoy leaving the house, making friends, and, gasp, even making small talk.

I know, I know. Why?

Well first, we must address the lost art of going online.

Back in my day, going online was just that, somewhere we went— a journey. In the early days, there was a ritual whereby every household faced the limitations of telecommunications and sacrificed our family phone line to enter the world wide web with strangers.

My online ritual consisted of inserting a a free AOL trial CD-ROM into my family computer’s disc drive. With trepidation, I downloaded temporary software that granted five, ten, thirty hours of online access. I held my breath while the cacophony of internet dial-up crashed and squeaked out of the speakers like tin cans from outer space. There was an air of danger but we did it anyway. Peer pressure motivated us to monopolize the family phone line but there was more too. As a pre-teen, I was motivated by one thing and one thing only, chatting with boys from school. Like a wildebeast traversing rushing rivers, I threw caution to the wind and answered a primal call to migrate from the familiar and forge ahead to the new, sated only by the titilating creak of AOL Instant Messenger doors opening.

But the kingdom of AIM was a supplement, albeit a rewarding one, to the real life gallivanting of horny junior and senior high school students. We entered the online sphere with the goal of securing dates to school dances or building an IRL boyfriend. Online relationships used to have the stigma of loserdom in the vein of “You wouldn’t know my girlfriend. She goes to another school.”

AIM chats were the dessert that followed the main course happening during school hours. Even when we perpetrated secret online flirtations, they were brought to light in the hallways of school.

The transportative nature of going online in the 90s and 2000s meant that you had a physical world in which you attended school and where your family lived, but then you ditched that to enter a digital world in which your friends lived after school and where you chatted with strangers.

But the uibquity of the internet has transformed how we socialize and hang out. Exchanging memes supplants going out. Chatting flirtatiously replaces first dates.

Yet Gen Z is lonely. Something’s gotta change. Especially since everybody’s talking about bringing back third spaces.

Well, I fear we cannot encourage people to go to a third space while also continuing with the current model where we have the primacy of the internet.

The old joke about Los Angeles was that you could never have a conversation with anyone because they were always looking at the door. (The implicationg being that they were looking for someone better to talk to.)

But now we are all LA, looking at the door, waiting for the next best thing. We are all so afraid of being left out of the culture but this is precisely what we must welcome in order for us to return to better mental health.

The internet must be a supplement — a destination to visit — not the backdrop. We have got to have more fun, in person, with each other.

And sorry if that’s cringe but I’m kind of cringe. It’s a generational thing.

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I was 11, and the summer before, me and Brendan, his older brother, Robin, and their mother, Sue, did a bucket list trip — a cross-country excursion where the boys, 12 and 14, did much of the driving.

At ten years old, I felt left out so my aunt decided it was only fair to let me get behind the wheel for a taste of the open road.

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Tea and biscuits

When people say “biccy” for biscuit

When people say “choccy biccy” for chocolate biscuit

Gogglebox

Born Slippy

Waitrose

Body 2 Remix

“Fifty p”

“Jammy”

“Tatties”

Jamaicans

Alan Carr

White boys with caesar haircuts

“Faff”

Maya Jama

The NHS

Indian food

Pakistani food

Greek food

Turkish food

Old ravers

Silver teeth

The pub

Tracksuits

Public transportation

How people let each other get on the bus in order of arrival

Drunk grannies

Sade

Zadie Smith

Steven Merchant

Miranda Hart

Roast potatoes

Victoria sponge

Cadbury’s chocolate

Scottish tap water

“Brolly”

“See it, say it. Sorted.”

Brick Lane Biegel

Double decker buses

Danny Dyer

Jade Thirlwall

Red wine before noon

Delroy Lindo

Josh O’Connor

Paddy Pimblett

Foxes

Horses

Cashmere sweaters

Wool coats

Christmas crackers

M&S cookies

Fred Again

Dalston Superstore

Alison Hammond

Scottish accents

Queen Street Station

Walking in the rain linking arms

Walking tours

Walking through cemeteries

Long walks by the sea

Petrichor

Greyfriars Bobby

Men in kilts

The Grassmarket early in the morning before anyone wakes up

The vennel

Big sandwiches from the Painted Rooster

Lannan

Soderberg

Coffee from Twelve Triangles

Rose Sreet

Hating England

The Hermitage of Braid

Walking through the Meadows on a sunny day

Water of Leith Walkway

Roseburn Path

Crossing Cramond Island

Squishy baps

Beef gravy

Yorkshire pudding

Fried chicken sandwiches at the Pitt

Burgers from Lioness of Leith

Calling candy “sweeties”

Babies with British accents

Everything they’re doing at Nile Valley

Gay pantos

Lighthouse Books

Highland coos

Tilda Swinton

Lucky Liquor

The Street on Picardy Place

Portobello Beach

Ernest & Bob

Argonaut Books

Leith Walk

Tallie Pilates

Paradise Palms

Chorrito Chilaquiles (RIP)

“Hiya, pet”

Tracks Mondays

Walking along the canal

Harrison Park

Margiotta

Hajar’s Shawarma Loaded Fries

Chaskaa Biryani

First dates at The Ventoux

BEATNIK coffee

The Tourmalet

Cameo Picturehouse

The City of Edinburgh

I really, really hate that he wrote a children’s book series promoting a Trumpian king to be worshipped by our most vulnerable readers.

I hate that he thinks that his girlfriend actually likes him.

I hate how his personal travel caused delays in serious investigations like the shooting at Brown last December.

I hate that he’s covered up for Trump, redacted his name thousands of times from the Epstein files and diverted the FBI’s resources to intimidate those brave enough to stand up to the tyrant in the Oval Office.

But what I hate most about him are his desperate social maneuvers that barely conceal his desires to gain white acceptance.

Simply put, I hate that Kash Patel wants to be white.

“Can’t a guy chug a beer with his bros after they won gold at the Winter Olympics?” You ask. “What does being white have to do with any of this?”

Well friends, let’s take the last days of Black History Month to discuss some fundamental lessons that black people have taught us about interracial dynamics…

First, if you see a group of black people running, run.

Second, white peole have the freedom to party frivolously. They can deny reality for the sake of vibes while black and brown people are forced to reckon with reality’s savagery, ie the police, deteriorating social services, threats posed to the global south via global warming, etc. I’m not suggesting that black people do not have the capacity for fun, but they are rarely afforded the same freedom to let loose and shirk professional obligations, which leads us to the Kash Patel of it all...

The third lesson of this article is this: if you’re the only black person (or POC) in a room, you are not lucky to be chosen, you are the sacrificial lamb. And no, I don’t mean literally. Most of the time you will not be murdered by your trusted colleagues but there are grim exceptions (Tamla Horsford, Kendrick Johnson, Justin Johnson).

His sublimation of white culture over his own goes well beyond the normal code switching that we are all party to. Doctor’s visits, buying a car, meetings with your boss, we all put on a voice and manner of comportment that is asked of us as members of a white-dominated society. There are rules to the game, and we are all players. But Kash Patel is not a player, he is a mascot. He believes in the system and is begging for the system to believe in him too.

Kash Patel thrives in these rooms because he is devoted to white supremacy. He has ingratiated himself for the benefit of a larger political agenda. He is using white hand emojis and referencing Valhalla, the mythical Norse land roughly 7,000 kilometers from his parents’ homeland of Gujarat, India. Kash eschewed his professional duties as FBI Director in a style reserved for the most reckless of white boys, the frat brother. But Kash never pledged a fraternity, he is only playing the role. Like the country singer girlfriend, the white hand emoji, Valhalla, and gold medal hockey team locker room antics — this is whiteface. Maybe one day, these spaces will have racial equity but for now, Kash is the Indian Clayton Bigsby. A man stuck in the tragicomedy of racial psychosis.

Despite his best efforts, he is not getting away with it because he is not white. He is weathering major media scrutiny and backlash because he forgot that he is not one of them.

What’s more, his delusion has heavy ramifications for the world at large. It is costing us a fair investigation into Donald Trump’s crimes against children. The Epstein cover-up will go down as one of the most famous miscarriages of justice in the US’ history — and it’s happening under Kash Patel’s incompetency.

For all intents and purposes, Kash Patel has whited too close to the sun. He has gambled away his FBI oath to “support and defend the U.S. Constitution against all foreign and domestic enemies” by remaining loyal to his Daddy.

And for what?

Seemingly to become the clown of the Trump administration — the rascally puppy, the idiot brother, the waterboy getting jockstraps thrown at his face. This is the unfortunate conclusion for many who assume his position as the token.

Kash Patel is a pick-me.

And the worst part of all of this is that he could have been cool.

He is the son of Gujarati exiles who fled Idi Amin’s Tanzania in the 1970s. He was a public defender for eight years then a Miami prosecutor. Then somewhere in his professional journey, he became a “Trump loyalist”, creating the Kash Foundation to pay for the legal costs of January 6th rioters.

It doesn’t make sense how he got here, but do these sorts of delusions ever make sense? Why does Myron Gaines go by that name when he was born Abrou Fudl, child of Sudanese immigrants? Why did Clarence Thomas use his own affirmative action success story to then turn around and advocate for its destruction? Why did Candace Owens’ own racial bullying experience radicalize her against black empowerment movements like Black Lives Matter?

Money, surely. But is there something more? Something in the confusion, itself?

I do not know but I look to those smarter than me for answers.

George Saunders, American writer and winner of the Booker Prize and MacArthur Fellowship, might have said it best when he postulated that this administration relies on “incoherence” as its strategy. The ability to make no sense in the face of impending doom is pretty white, I guess.

The freedom to make no sense and still be taken seriously — perhaps that is the greatest privilege of all.

Between us, American violence is so rampant that it’s grown easy to ignore – a hum like a refrigerator’s purr, a hole in your sock, a light in the hallway that you can turn away from and drift back to sleep. Anodyne.

But America, the one that I daydream about, is better than she ever really was. She’s softer and the sky is bluer and the mountains are higher and the people are more colorful.

Time does that to memory.

In my memory, America is America. The land of opportunity. The place immigrants used to sail seas for. Destiny manifest.

I am half white. The other half is Black and Japanese. I am divided by race and optimism. In my half-white sensibility, it is easy for me to access a blissfully ignorant, eternally optimistic side of myself. In a sanguine, small voice, a girl whispers that everything was going to be alright because… it always is!

But the other side of me, the colored side, knew that Trump’s election in 2016 was an omen not to be ignored. Beware the ides of March, 70 million Americans said. “I like that rapist!” They said. I left as soon as I could.

It took seven long years. I had spent my 20s goofing around and starving myself, trying and failing to get my headshot and screenplays in the hands of people who could change my life and pay me a lot of money. I made a meager living as a fitness commodity, landing employment at the hottest exercise studios in Los Angeles who got by paying very little despite charging very much.

I had developed a cross-diagnosis of restricted eating and overexercising that, looking back, was quite sad. But I justified it all – the poor wages and the poor self-image – because I enjoyed the proximity to celebrities. Eric Andre took my class! Lykke Li! Sandra Oh! Robin Wright! The list goes on…

But when the pandemic arrived in 2020, I was terrified that fitness was dead.

Who would invest in their bodies when the world was gasping for air?

As it turned out, everyone.

I had never made so much money. I could afford to move out of my parents’ home for the first time at the nubile age of 34 and, gasp, compile savings and plan for a future. The extra money afforded me time to make a real plan away from Hollywood.

I set my sights on the publishing world. Only there, in the world of letters, would I find serious people who shared similar ideas about white supremacy and American imperialism. My scripts had been bloated with such ideas and nobody wanted a mixed girl with too much identity in their writers’ rooms. Black, white and Japanese? No. I would write a novel.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and before I knew it three years had gone by and the manuscript had solidified into a real book (sort of). I took writing classes where my fellow amateurs begged me to do something with this thing that had grown into a funny takedown of Hollywood and the white morés that confined it and defined it.

I submitted the synopsis and writing sample to many writing programs. Then, I got accepted into the University of Edinburgh in March of 2023. I barely had time to celebrate because costs were quickly adding up. I needed many thousands of dollars to move, study and live. Applying for a student loan was a process full of urgency and tedium. Forms needed to be filed quickly and signatures needed to be repeated at the bottom of many, many pages.

Then, in some ill-advised decision on the part of the US Department of Education, I was approved for a $50,000 loan to be paid off at terms I did not understand. I had never been responsible for so much money and, frankly, I had no intention of paying it back.

For four months, I wrapped my life up in LA and looked ahead to the future. I could taste the Baltic wind and rain. I was headed somewhere that embraced female leadership, national healthcare and free tampons in restrooms. A land of rocky shores and Robert Louis Stevenson. I was going, going back, back to Scotland, Scotland.

And fuck me, was it good.

Right off the plane, the streets of Edinburgh felt like home. The August weather was unseasonably warm. I got by without owning a proper coat and the legendary rain seemed exaggerated. I was taken with the sights — the cobblestone streets, the spires, bridges, neverending stairways to hole-in-the-wall pubs. Strangers were funny and smart. I thought, yes, I can do this.

For a whole year I was high, vibrating with energy and enthusiasm, buoyed by my risk-taking, floating through classes, achieving top honors in my masters program. I had never performed so well academically and the achievement gave me a boost of self-esteem that made me feel invincible.

Normal problems existed. Low wages and shitty showers. A complete absence of quality Mexican food, peculiar interpretations of Chinese cuisine, a devotion to sweet beans. Then the winters kicked my ass so completely that my self-determination buckled like an old ship.

The reality of my own cultural shortcomings presented itself to me rudely.

The problem is…I like being American. Saying hello to the mailman. Joking around with people on the streets. Ope, watch your step! But friendliness is viewed as a cousin to stupidity. Only a fool smiles when the world is shit.

And while the gratitude I have for the NHS is limitless, and I mean that genuinely, no amount of free healthcare can perk up the British proclivity for misery.

Like a true American, I hate complainers. In my opinion, it’s not radical honesty, it’s just bad manners. A wise woman said, dust yourself off and try again. We are all living through the relentless parade of pedophilic billionaires colluding to abuse young girls. Do not add to my pile of problems with your problems – Ma’am this is a Wendy’s!

I am being glib for the sake of brevity. I can’t recount every interaction where an English or Scottish person commiserated when the opposite seemed just as suitable. Why share the horrible experience about your coworker when your kids are excelling in school? As someone who’s lived here for three years and gone to university here, I hope this is a fair assessment. Most of the UK admits to being miserable. Plus, I recognize its merits.

Being grumpy lends to a skepticism about celebrities and politicians that is refreshing. More importantly, using the recent arrest of Prince Andrew as an example, cynicism can breed change. By contrast, not a single arrest has been made in the US regarding the recent Epstein release. The collective delusion is fun for a while but it is past time to snap ourselves out of the pink fog of wishing and hoping and get active.

So many Americans are unburdened with the reality of America’s descent into fascism. We are used to the lies our government tells us but I wonder if that goofy, white cheerleader who lives inside my heart represents a larger, cultural pathology. A willingness to forget.

Paul Robeson, the mighty actor and activist whose livelihood was crushed by McCarthyism said, “A people without a history is doomed to political incompetence.” Do we as Americans all agree to let things go for the sake of vibes? Is our good-natured forgiveness stalling us? Worse still, have the Brits, in their stubborn reflection, created a pathway towards a reckoning?

God, the irony.

Is the country whose finest export its structure and monarchy, the one who’s able to let it all go?

I have never felt more American than I do living in Scotland. I have come to defend America like sports fans defending their beloved and relentlessly dismal teams. She is my embarrassing country – not yours. You can poke fun all you want because you never knew her like I did.

I love America so much and I am afraid of who I will be if I don’t go back.

I’m afraid of who I will be if I do go back.

I’m afraid of what happens to loud, opinionated women like myself who criticize the country openly.

But what if I stay and develop an affected pseudo-British accent like Madonna?

There is no easy answer here and it’s one I’ll think about, I guess, forever. Until then, I am an American in Scotland making my own salsa and drooling over the tamales I see on Instagram. I’ll continue saying hello to strangers and enduring the rolling eyes and snickers. Maybe it’s worth it.

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