Travel Advisory

"Don't fuck with me--I'm an American.

I am a PROFESSIONAL asshole."

A Riz Original

OK, let's lighten it up a bit... those last two posts were sodding intense.

If I want to crack up my friends from other countries, I have only to say those words. They're my words--I came up with that statement, so don't try to cop it without giving me credit. I will hunt you down and kill you because, as it says above, I'm an American.

Hmmmm... that may have to be one of the official Kinsale Chronicles t-shirts when the logo is done and the website goes live... (Yes, I am going to have a website very soon. Much fuckery, mayhem, and marketing of the book and the self to ensue...)

Now, I am seldom taken for an American by people who don't already know I'm an American.

This is NOT a bad thing.

This is actually a VERY, VERY GOOD thing.

I usually get taken for Canadian--I like that. Technically, with three great-grandparents who came here from Ireland and France via Canada, I can claim to be a Canadian-American. I'm very, very good with that. Even the Canadians take me for a Canadian.

Until I get pissed off--then, there's no question about where I'm from, but that's another story.

No, I'm pleased to be taken for a Canadian because honestly, folks, we don't always represent well when we leave our borders (actually, many of us don't represent well within our borders, but that's another story as well). I have friends who work at the Halifax Citadel, and they have a lot of American tourists inflicted upon them.

Those of us from the New England area tend to rep the best--many of us have ties to the Maritimes, and visiting Halifax is a bit of a homecoming.

Those of us from south of the Manson-Nixon line, however... NOT so good. *sigh* And I find that really surprising, considering the legendary Southern hospitality, but it's true, kids. Aside from the stories, I've had to deal with it directly (like the tourist on the ghost tour in Annapolis Royal who kept taking flash pictures left and right until I threatened to shove my walking stick up her arse if she did it again). She had a Southern accent thicker than ice cold molasses.

The stories from the Citadel... wow. When I was there in October of '09, the girls from the Coffee Bar and the Gift Shop would come into the Soldier's Library and sit at my table ("my office"... LOVE those kids and miss 'em) and every day, there was a new story of Southern American Tourist Stupidity.

I'm not kidding. There was the the man from Georgia for whom his traveling companion apologized for making REALLY stupid statements about health care and not listening when the Canadian piper honestly answered about the great quality of his health care. The family that did not control its three miserable little offspring until they happen to overhear the person in the next room threaten to shove their kids down an oubliette. (Wonder who that was?) There was the tourist from Alabama who told the girl at the register that they were going to Canada the next day, and when she was told that she was in Canada, replied, "Oh, no, we're in Nova Scotia! We're going to Canada TOMORROW."

Yeah.

But the worst example? *sigh* A tourist asked if they could walk to the ferry terminal from the Hill. The girl at the register said, "Sure, just walk straight down the hill and you'll get there."

"How long will it take me?"

"Oh, about ten, fifteen minutes."

"Is that in Canadian minutes or American minutes?"

I shit you not.

So please, folks, when traveling, remember that you're representing all of us. Please don't let down the side.

And could the State Department revoke the passports of anyone who has run on the Tea Party or Grizzly Mama tickets? They make us all look retarded.

Actually, let me share one story of how I showed my nationality... about three, four years ago, I was up in Hfax for a visit in the spring. I was directing a show at the time--Guards! Guards! the only show I've ever done where I wanted to slaughter the techies and adored the actors--GODS, WHAT A FRIGGIN' NIGHTMARE!--anyway, the trip had been planned before the show was slated, so here I am, in the middle of rehearsals, disappearing for a week and a half. I wasn't happy about it, but I needed the vacation.

Soooo... here we are, it's Monday, I'm at the airport, ready to get on my flight that will deliver me to Logan within an hour and a half, where I will grab a cab and head right for rehearsal. RIGHT! I am Director Woman! I am on-the-go and on-the-spot! I am at the airport two hours prior to departure! My FUCKING FLIGHT HAS BEEN CANCELLED!

Now, I usually fly Air Canada. I like their service--it's awesome. I've taken them to Canada and England, and I really like traveling with them. This time, however, Air Canada let me down. There was no one at the check in desk, no information, nada. And now I have to walk the length of Hfax Airport to get to the ticket counter.

At that point in my life, I weighed another 100+ pounds and my arthritis was ridiculous. Walking more than a few dozen yards left me fagged and shagged and ready to die. However... I was pissed off. I HAD SHIT TO DO, GODDAMMIT! and there was no one at the checkin counter. So, with Vicki in my enraged wake, I marched the length of the airport, pushing the overloaded luggage trolly, ready to kill.

I get to the ticket desk and there are three active lines: the First Class, the ordinary people line, and the business class line. Well, there is no one at the First Class window, the business class has a few people in it, and the person at the ordinary people line disappears trying to take care of the person at the window at that moment.

I wait.

The line grows behind me. The First Class bitch takes the Canadian Forces person in front of me; I'm down with that. What I am not down with is when she's done with him, she doesn't help anyone in the ordinary person line. And the business class guy is doing the same.

And the line is growing behind me.

The pain in my knees and back is growing. There is no place to sit, and I have been on my feet a little too long for comfort, especially after the enraged traverse through the airport. Vicki is standing off to the side and has ceased to remind me to be calm. There are two security men standing near her, watching me carefully, as I am spouting off to her.

I am beyond furious at this point; my rage has reached the point of incandescent and I am making it clear that I am going to make someone's life a holy fucking hell if I don't get some service. I have been told four times that the agent for the ordinary people line will be back as soon as possible. It has been half an hour. I am NOT HAPPY.

And I should mention my accent--my accent has gone from Standard American to Thick Nahth Shah Bahstin to Ghetto Harlem to Southern Virginia to Alabama. And it's headin' for NOLA.

Vicki explains this to her hubbie on the phone. Now, Craig is the cleanest speaking guys on the planet. When he asked her how far south my accent had gone and she said, "She just hit Alabama," Craig replied, "Oh, SHIT."

The crisis came two minutes later when a Quebecois cunt cut in front of me and went up to the counter and tried to get served at the business line. I lost it.

"Excuse me, bitch, but I DON'T FUCKIN' THINK SO! That's right, I am talking TO YOU, get your Quebecois ass out of that line and wait your turn like the rest of us, or I will personally KICK YOUR ASS ALL THE WAY BACK TO MONTREAL!"

Now, I have not had any alcohol, nor have I taken any other alternative substance. I have just nearly been pushed over as this woman shoved past me, and because I am an American and I am tired and my schedule has been fucked up and I am going to miss a rehearsal for a play opening in two weeks, I AM DONE.

And I don't like certain strains of the Quebecois (like most of Canada--it's a prejudice I've been taught, it's not nice, but it's yet to be proven unfounded outside of dealing with the lovely personnel in the Montreal airport).

She is still trying to ignore me when I announce, "Bitch, don't even think about it--I am an American and a professional asshole. I WILL DO IT."

At this point she looks over her shoulder and sees 5'9", 430 lbs of enraged American glaring at her and taking a heavy step forward. She got her ass out of line, and the little man in the business class line--who looked like he needed to change his trousers--said to me in a shaking voice, "Can I help you, ma'am?"

At which point, my veneer of civility returned, I smiled sweetly, and all was resolved.