We all have go-to places. Like when you want to suffer you go to the gym. And when you want a double scoop of momentary happiness you hang out at the ice cream shoppe. If you want to people watch you go to the fairgrounds. If you want to get married you go to a Christian college. These are places that, we know, have a guarantee to top off our glass half empty.
So when West coast Americans need some time off, they go to Mexico (or Las Vegas if they have a only long weekend or are 24-hours fresh of an intense break-up). When the Kiwis and the Aussies need a destination in which they can spend a little of their excess number of vacation days thanks to politicians who believe we should like our lives, they post themselves to Fiji.
Living in the south pacific with the fine government’s gift of four weeks annual leave, we’re practically forced to try out the Fiji thing for ourselves. It was actually a very confusing experience because from the moment we arrived every Fijian we met asked us where we’re from — or it was more like where frum?!!?! We told our first cab driver we were Americans, and the next one we were New Zealanders. Our day cruise captain greeted us Kia Ora (New Zealand’s native “welcome friend”) but our San Franciscan cruise mate knew the real us.
Never mind that…
We had seven days of Fijian sunshine and I have come back to Auckland with a special flavour of Instagram jam. Spare your Vegemite on your toast today and have a spread of this instead. After all, Fiji is the new Mexico.
*Coming tomorrow… a new tale from holidays in never never land: The Americans are in Fiji (now posted!), and why we are a big, fat disgrace.