The Americans are in Fiji

Because you must be so interested in how the Americans get along in the down under’s holiday zone…. I noted this up on my phone during the cab ride back to the resort on night four or five. You won’t find any pictures actually associated with this evening because I deliberately chose not to take any and forbid Colin to post any. If a picture is worth a thousand words and these words are words of disgrace and shame… then posting a picture with this story would be like a thousand deaths by disbarment. Read on with caution. It would also be most appreciated if you read this without hearts of judgement as our egos can’t handle the same abuse as our stomachs.

Yours truly,

Lindsey and Colin

Fiji is the new Mexico | Lindsey Talerico-Hedren

Tonight we went to a pizza place – “Mama’s Pizza”, a nice little joint at the marina, had a bit of a Pita Pit look to it. And mama sounds like just the person you want to make your pizza, right?

In my stealth ways I managed to convince a very hungry husband that a large pizza was better choice than a medium, you know, for the price. Only FJ $5 more. And I hadn’t eaten a salad in so long it was nearly beckoning for me to order it. And hubby loves pasta and I could eat spaghetti for brekky, so… here we are, at the crossroads of a predicament. What do we order?

The Americans think to themselves why order one when we can order it all?! And so we did, along with a beer and a diet coke because you can’t really expect to wash down all those carbs with bland, flavourless (sugarless) water. The waitress seemed confused when we ordered like maybe our friends are still going to arrive, and I did manage to say to her in the middle of our order, “just wait, you’re about to be wow’ed.” Who talks like this to a waitress?!

We polished off the spaghetti before the salad even arrived. But when the salad did find itself in front of us, it was absolutely beautiful with all its local greenness, baconness and shaved parmesan. It was like healthy heaven stared at me from a bowl. It would be a shame to waste it when it was the single healthy bit of our meal. So I made a good dent in the salad when a pizza the size of a 2XL from Round Table rolled its way from the wood fired oven to our table. Jared would be so ashamed of us.

Colin and I have an unspoken bond over pizza. It’s one food item that we don’t see as a contest between the two of us (he’s not good at sharing, eats too fast) but rather as a challenge where we are one team vs. the pizza. And we will win!

Which we did, of course. Naturally. Because we’re winners. Because we are Americans. And we can be President or Al Pacino or pizza devourers, should we desire so much in life.

But we got stared at. Even pointed at. A staffer and a dining guest actually turned to us from across the room and pointed at us, like they were telling Jesus who the sinners were, before returning to their conversation, which, I can only guess, must’ve been about something more important like global warming. So I learn cultural standards for staring and pointing at guests have no bounds here. Must be sort of like no personal space in Japan or something.

Even our waitress gave a disapproving eyebrow raise when she came to clear our table, only a few lone slices left. At that moment, I seriously did this: I looked at her, put my hand on my stomach and said, “oh, yeah.” Is there a more disgraceful way to leave a restaurant than as the couple who ate more than the Indian family of nine at the table next to us? I doubt.

So we may weigh three-four pounds more each now, but let me tell you, we haven’t felt so American in so long.

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And if you’re still looking for photos, try here instead: Fiji is the new Mexico (a new flavour of homemade Instagram jam)

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