The World Is Flat And Intensively Farmed

I like the Midwest. It is a superstimulus for something – call it “Americana”. There are trees everywhere, big puffy clouds, white picket fences, big red barns, and burger joints with single-syllable names. Also, I am pretty sure I spotted an amber wave of grain yesterday, although it was far away and could have just been reeds or something.

My father came with me as far as Detroit, where he stopped to help me search for a new car in the Motor City. He is wise in the ways of the world, though sometimes a little too practical. I remember back when he came to visit me in Japan. Come dinner time, he asked “Is there anywhere you can get good Italian food in this country?”, and when I protested that he might want to try some sushi, or noodles, or dumplings, or tempura, he just shook his head and started looking through the index of his guidebook. I think we had Italian six of the seven nights he was there.

Admittedly, when Japan does Italian, it goes all out.

But I will give him credit where credit is due; he eventually made it up to the poor Japanese. After he perused all the cars that one of the world’s greatest automotive centers had to offer, he made me a final well-informed recommendation and I am now the proud owner of a new Subaru.