There Ain't No Devil, It's Just God When He's Drunk

I know that I'm jobless, dirt poor, and trying my best to avoid all things consumerist, but every now and then, I get a notion in my head and obsess over it for days...weeks...even months.

Now, I really don't want to think of myself as another damn American consumer, and I've tried so so much to really think about how much I need things before buying them...but sometimes, I get obsessive. My obsession at the moment: Knitwear. Specifically alpaca knitwear. Weird, I know.

When I was up in John o Groats, they had that amazing knit wear shop, and I was in love with the idea that for once, I would be able to find a quality jumper, not cheaply made in a factory with poor quality wool, and since it was hand made, it would be unique, special, and hopefully last me until I was old and crippled, and I could look back and say 'oh, this sweater has done me good.' And then the chick was on holiday and that plan was foiled.

But somehow, I got to thinking about my hobby/passion- South American Archaeology. I had a fabulous professor who taught Pre-Incan archaeology and you can't learn about Peru without learning about llamas, alpacas, and vicunas. So some wires crossed in my head and suddenly I was searching the webernet for alpaca knitwear.

I found some great sites that bought handmade alpaca knitwear directly from Peruvian farmers and artisans, giving them a significant amount of the proceeds in the process. Yay! And alpaca wool is supposed to be softer and warmer than cashmere.

So first I bought some gloves. They were $8, handmade, and were those 'glitten' things that are fingerless gloves with a flap to transform them into mittens. And hot damn do I love them.

Now that the weather is getting colder there is a part of me that wants more. Envious, want want want. It's a horrible feeling- but if I can't get a sweater knitted by a little old tea drinking lady up in the highlands, then by golly, I am gonna get something from Peru/Bolivia.....when I get a job.

Damn you alpaca clothing!!! I know, kinda hippy-ish, but jesus is it soft! And warm! And...helps little old South American grannies who are sitting by their fires at night knitting away! Oh well...

One day, alpaca, you will be MINE! Muh ha ha ha ha....

I'm not sure if this happens to anyone else while either traveling or living abroad, but I find that I can't help being constantly reminded that I'm foreign. This normally isn't a problem when I'm traveling abroad because I'm obviously traveling- but when you've been living in a foreign city for more than a year (or two, or three), you can't help but want to fully acclimate yourself and sharpen the distinction between you and that obnoxious group of baseball cap, bin liner bag poncho wearing yanks over there who say embarrassingly loud things about the country and the people in the middle of the street. However, doing so has led me into sometimes uncomfortable spots that are completely my fault.

The accent: Now, I don't want to brag, but I can put on a pretty convincing accent, both English and Scottish, but English is by far easier. And it's something I tend to do only when speaking to other locals because let's face it, I sometimes get embarassed about my nationality. A lot. This seems to be fine when I'm dealing with the guy at the cafe or the woman in the shop- people I will never have to see again but for reasons unknown want to apprear local towards. Then there are those who I get thrust in a conversation with even though I know I will never see again. This is a bit more tricky, because if I use the accent, things go fine until the awkward moment where they ask where I'm from, and I have to either fess up or lie. When I fess up and say 'California', I get met with a surprised looked, almost always followed by 'Really? I couldn't place your accent, but I'd never guess American,' or ' Wow, you don't have a very strong accent, have you lived here long?' This again leads me to lie and say 'aye, about 4 years,' or come across as a weirdo who has only really be in the country for about two years and shouldn't have picked up the accent at all. Although honestly, there have been times, like when visiting the wee museum on Mull when I just lied and said I was from 'Edinburgh,' no questions asked.

I know, it's stupid, but I have to either continue the accent lie or get called out on it to wallow in embarrassment. But another factor is that I panic. Sometimes it's easier to lie when panicking than to just be honest. Take today for example.

I have an hour off to lunch and went up the road for a Quiznos sandwich. I've not had Quiznos since highschool and thought giving it a try in Scotland would interesting. I go up to the counter, order, pay, and sit down. Just as I'm finishing my ridiciously pricey meal ($10!!! For a sandwich?!?!), the man who made it came over to clean the surrounding tables and have a chat.
'Do you like your sandwich?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Have you been to Quiznos before?'
Quick, what do you say? 'Yes, in the capitalistic country that invented chain stores and mass consumer culture', 'No, never.' Crap, pick one.
'Err, yes.'
'Oh, where?'
'London.' What? London? You've never had Quiznos in London! You're lying!
'Oh, are you from London?'
Crap, now you've done it. Don't mess it up, be truthful.
'No, California.'
'Oh, California. They have a lot of Quiznos over there.'
'Yeah.'
AHHHHHHHHH. I know that there is no shame in going into a place like Quiznos or Subway or Starbucks in the UK, but for some reason, I hate myself for doing it. It's as though these places exist to cater to the horde of American tourists who want a sense of the familiar in a far away local. I don't want to be discovered for what I really am in one of those corporate chain cancers, especially after trying to hard to distance myself from the image of the visitor.

It doesn't make it any easier when you leave the shop, only to be met with 'Oh look, Frank, they have Subway over here,' or 'Thank God, a Starbucks! I am totally craving a Frap!' from the bumbag/camera wearing tourist who has abruptly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, obscuring foot traffic, and causing many hateful scowls from those trying to get by. Myself included.