It's a tale of tornadoes in Chicago and tears in Duluth, of luggage lost and friendships found, of late nights spent watching hour-long infomercials for Zumba in a half-crazy daze and disorientating early mornings spent chatting to mad folk outside a Shaumburg hotel about British History and why Jeramy Clarkson should (or should not) run for Prime Minister.
It's a tale set in the hometown of a hero, where a a legend was raised to bring inspiration to the masses, where the land was raped to bring iron to the industries and where some dude once invented a cartoon called Peanuts.
It's a tale in which the protagonist would frequently find himself accidentally locked in the hotel bathroom, emerging every now and again to lose heated debates on such crucial Anglo-American disputes as 'biscuits vs. cookies,' whilst Stace would chase turtles from the roadside, throw out Jazz Hands mid-sleep and mock her 'Damn Brit' for pronouncing 'bottle' as 'bockle,' and 'little' as 'lickle.'
It's a tale I could tell whilst laughing, whilst crying and whilst occasionally cursing my homeland for not having such high-brow shows as Repo Games.
It's a tale I'd very much like to tell, but since I haven't slept for two days and desperately need to, it's a tale I'll tell another time.
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