SOUTH AFRICA is at war with rhino poachers. In 2009, 122 rhinos were shot in the country’s parks by poachers intent on hacking off the horn for sale abroad. In 2010, the figure rocketed to 333, and in 2011 the death toll stood at 448. Left unchecked, visitors to South Africa will very seriously have to contemplate exchanging the opportunity to see the “big five” for seeing the big four and a photograph in a museum.

Photo from Flying Rhinos

Rangers in many parks have been fighting a losing battle against well-resourced syndicates using high-tech gear to hunt down the dwindling populations of rhino. High-powered rifles, night vision goggles, and the ability to choose when and where to strike is making the work of conservationists all but impossible on the battlegrounds that the poachers have chosen.

One strategy that may yet pay dividends is the translocation of animals to various parks across the country, to spread them out too widely for poachers to systematically wipe out the entire population. Moving a black rhino, however, is the wildlife equivalent of catching an angry truck, sedating it, and moving it via a combination of airlift and flatbed truck.

It’s also possible, being done, and looks pretty inspiring.

THIS VIDEO IS PURE GOOD TIMES. I don’t know the people shown but I can’t help but smile at the clearly epic summer they shared. Shot in Seattle and beyond in the warm months of 2011, (270) Seconds of Summer is an ode to friends and fun that I felt compelled to share.

This video found me on the perfect afternoon. Turning towards the living room window I see fat globs of rainwater falling from cedar boughs and a haze of drizzle. This is what people think of when they think of shitty Washington weather.

(270) Seconds of Summer snapped me right back to mid-July, to days spent by the water and the commotion of people enjoying themselves.

Video created by Samuel Ebat

Author's sister's wedding

THE PHOTOGRAPH IS black and white. That is not surprising since it was taken 61 years ago. The edges are torn. The dark haired girl sits on a chair looking at the camera, unsmiling. Next to her, a tall man stands erect with his hands awkwardly clutching the back of the chair.

“I was 19 when I married your grandfather,” my grandmother tells me. “He came to see me; he asked me my name and what I had studied. Then, a few months later we were married.” Her marriage was arranged by her parents, as was my parents’ marriage, and as will be mine.

During my grandparents’ time, it was very orthodox. Girls were married in their late teens. There were not many women who pursued a career. From my perspective, the girls were duty-bound to be married. They did not even have a say in planning their wedding. The date, the venue, the menu, and, in some cases, the groom, were agreed upon by someone else. There was no courtship.

“There was no romance before the wedding,” reminisces my grandmother. “All that came after the wedding.”

Author's grandparents

There was hardly any chance to meet your fiance before the wedding. You could only wonder what he would be like, how your life together would be. Sometimes there was hardly any room to wonder, because in the short span from the time the marriage gets fixed to the actual day, there are a lot of things the bride-to-be has to learn. Traditional Kerala cuisine tops the list.

During my mother’s time, many things remained unchanged. She was enrolled in college for a Masters program when her great-aunt came with a proposal for a groom from another Syrian Christian family. The Syrian Christians of Kerala are a close-knit community with strong traditional values and an equally strong emphasis on family. To the Syrian Christians, a marriage is not simply the union of a girl and a boy, it is respected as the union of two families, two families from the same community with the same traditions and faith. Parents are wary of marrying their children into families they have not heard of.

When the proposal came, my grandparents started calling up people to inquire about my father’s family. There is a saying in Kerala that if you trace the family tree way back, you will find that everyone is related to everyone else. There is always someone you know, who was married into another family and who in turn knows someone else married into another family and so on. In our community, each family has a unique ‘family name’ along with the surname. It’s not really difficult to gather information about a certain person if you know their family name.

Family reputation, background, and financial standing matter a great deal. No one wants to marry their daughters into a family that cannot support them. At the same time, no one would want to marry their daughter into a family that is not reputable, no matter how wealthy they are.

During my mother’s time, courtship was not shunned, although it was not entirely encouraged. My mother met my father a couple of times. She still remembers my father rushing into the store where she was shopping for her wedding sari. They exchanged a few words under the watchful gaze of my grandmother. My father was too shy to come alone; he had dragged his younger brother along with him.

“He was the most handsome man I ever saw in my life, with thick dark hair,” my mother remembers. Looking at my father now with his near-bald head, the only proof that she is not lying is the photograph on her bedside table.

With the passage of time, the mindset has changed considerably. My parents have given me a relatively free hand. I have studied to my heart’s content. I have traveled solo to different continents and done other un-Syrian-Christian-like things. But when it comes to the matter of my marriage, I still fall under the reins of the Syrian Christian community. “Are you serious?!” my friend from Atlanta, whom I met in grad school, asks. “Yes,” I say. “My parents will find the groom.”

However the world progresses, I have learned that marrying their daughters off is one duty every Syrian Christian parent takes seriously. No one, not even a “rebel” like me, can change how that is done. Like my grandparents, my parents will find a suitable boy for me. They will call up people, who will know people, who in turn will know someone else.

“Aren’t you curious as to how he is going to be?” I don’t find his incredulity surprising. He was born and brought up in the West. He is bound to find it unsettling. Even I found it unsettling at first. But the truth is, even without knowing the person, I do have a general idea as to how he will be. After all, he is Syrian Christian; I already know how he was brought up.

All my life I have been a go-getter. This sitting around waiting for a suitable boy is new to me. What if the person does not like traveling? What if he does not read classics? What if he is not the adventurous kind? There are times when I consider an arranged marriage impractical in modern society. But I am a Syrian Christian. I have been brought up to respect my family and my traditions.

“Pray to St. Raphael,” advises my aunt. “He is the patron of happy meetings.”

“Say three Hail Marys every night,” advises another.

That’s the thing with us Syrian Christians: we are strong believers.

ONE OF THOSE countries that isn’t really a country, Transnistria covers 1,607 square miles of eastern Moldova, along the border with Ukraine. It’s often described as “one of the last remnants of the Soviet Union,” or even the “North Korea of Europe.” Due to various guidebook/Internet warnings about bribery and corruption at the border, it took me three months to work up the courage to hop on a train from my then-home of Odessa to Tiraspol, Transnistria’s capital.

Did expectations match reality? Soviet and a bit kitschy, yes; authoritarian police state with little to no capitalism, absolutely not. As for getting hassled or hit up for money by Transnistrian officials, I had no issues whatsoever. Crossing the border by bus or car may be more difficult and time consuming from what I hear, but apparently the situation in general has drastically improved over the past year.

A bit sleepy by day, Tiraspol was bursting with energy at night on the particular weekend I was there in late October, 2011. Transnistria’s population — especially its youth — face some of the toughest restrictions in the world in terms of opportunity and travel outside their territory, but this is by no means holding them back.

Border

Welcome to Pridnestrovskaia Moldavskaia Respublika, or the Transnistrian Moldovan Republic.

History

Transnistria initiated its breakaway movement from Moldova once the Soviet Union began to collapse. Moldovans were interested in an independent state, while Transnistrians wanted to stay connected to Moscow.

This was due to the fact that the industrial area of Transnistria was mainly populated by Russian-speaking migrants from other parts of the Soviet Union, while the rest of the country held on strong to their Moldovan language and culture.

War

War ensued between the two sides in 1990. Transnistrians had a major advantage, as Cossacks and the Soviet 14th Guards Army were sent in to help them. Above is a tank still on display in Tiraspol's city center.

Status quo

In July of 1992 a ceasefire agreement was signed, and Transnistria has remained a de facto autonomous territory ever since. Not far from the tank celebrating Transnistria's victory is a memorial to the war's victims.

Mother Russia

The ties that bind Transnistria and Russia are not the strongest, but they certainly have helped maintain autonomy here for the past 20 years. Since 1992, Russia has been a huge source of support, militarily and economically.

However, in late December, Transnistrians voted Smirnov -- Transnistria's first and only president since its breakaway from Moldova, pictured above shaking hands with Russian president Medvedev -- out of office. Independent newcomer Yevgeny Shevchuk replaced him.

Relics

Often described as "frozen in time," Transnistria is full of concrete architecture, propaganda-like billboard art, and Soviet kitsch. These dated stands that once sold kvas (a fizzy low-alcohol beer, or "Russian cola") can be found all over the place -- unfortunately, no longer functioning.

Starting point

Imposing block of apartments above 25th of October Street, the city's main avenue. It's either on or off of this street that you'll find most of Tiraspol's points of interest.

Honor

Plaque commemorating Tiraspol -- "hero of the Soviet Union."

Replicators

Quirky row of old-school Soviet vending machines.

20 years

Russian, Moldovan, and Ukrainian are the three official languages of Transnistria, but Russian is most commonly spoken and is the language of government. Above is a huge celebratory billboard that reads: "20 years -- Pridnestrovskaia Moldavskaia Respublika Police."

Transnistrian scratch

Euros and US dollars are the easiest currencies to trade for Transnistrian rubles -- a currency which will become entirely useless once you leave this place. With unrecognized autonomy comes unrecognized economy.

Bureaucracy

Another novelty of Transnistria is a visit to the post office. There's one right around the corner from this spot on Lenin Street. Pick up some Transnistrian stamps if you're a collector, or to send a postcard to a friend in Bendery, Transnistria's "second city." Like the currency, stamps here only function intra-territorially.

Good news is if you want to send your dad in California a postcard instead, you can also buy Moldovan stamps that will get it there.

On foot

Tiraspol is not a big city, so if you're staying anywhere that says they're close to the center, odds are you'll be able to walk everywhere and won't have to worry about taxis or public transport.

Booze

Transnistria has been labeled the "North Korea of Europe," though I'm not sure that North Korea has free wifi in its parks, or this much booze on its supermarket shelves. Award-winning booze, I might add.

Kvint, located in the city center, produces wine, brandy, and vodka and gives daily tours. As one of Transnistria's largest exporters, the company's distillery graces the five-ruble banknote.

Green space

Speaking of parks, there are quite a few nice ones. This is one of the largest and most popular: Victory Park.

Soviet-era Ferris wheel

Although it wasn't running while I was there because it was too cold, I could definitely envision this place going off in the summer months. With no open container laws and an extremely low crime rate, partying in Tiraspol was a freeing experience, even in late October.

Western-style hangout

If you're going to party in Tiraspol, this is one of the spots to go -- 7 Fridays. It's been said that recently elected Yevgeny Shevchuk was a prominent late-night patron at this place not so long ago.

Market

Central Market is a prime spot for people watching and bargaining with babushkas.

Church

I'd read somewhere not to expect many churches or shows of religion while in Transnistria, which proved to be false. Right next to Central Market is the very large Orthodox Christmas Cathedral, where a wedding was taking place on the day I was there.

Also, just across the street from the offices of the president is this very tiny but beautiful church adjacent to the war memorials.

Hello, Lenin!

Quite the striking statue of Vladimir Lenin stands just outside the offices of the president.

House, or Palace, of the Soviets

This building now hosts Tiraspol's city hall. It also has another enormous bust of Lenin (not pictured) that you can't miss when walking down 25th of October Street.

REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE A KID and your teacher had you stick a potato in a glass of water and three weeks later a vine would grow out of it? Well, unless you have an organic farmer’s market nearby, those days are gone.

As it turns out, even so-called ‘organic’ fruits and vegetables in supermarkets contain pesticides, though the levels are lower than those of ‘regular’ produce. We all know that produce is sprayed with pesticides. Fortunately, we can’t see or taste it, so we can subconsciously block out the fact that we’re eating poison.

One thing I like about this video is that the girl actually shows us the effect Bud Nip (street name of the pesticide Chlorpropham) has on the regular sweet potato: it’s dead as a mackerel. One has to wonder if it contains any nutritional value whatsoever.

Photo: Rachel Zack

The other thing I like is the Fourth Grade Science Project feel to it. Sure, the girl’s grandma probably did her project for her, but it raises more important moral questions: Should food come with a warning label, such as on household chemicals? Does everyone deserve to eat safe food, or just those who can afford it? How much more are you willing to pay for food that won’t give you cancer?

Try this project at home to see if your potato grows vines.

Photo: gagilas

HI, I’M EVA. I have anger management issues. Or am I just angry? After all, in America, everything is a medical condition, from cancer to dandruff to being an asshole. Anger is an especially serious problem for our citizens; it leads to heart conditions; it makes our faces red and unattractive; sometimes objects get broken and people get shot. Anger has also been known to release tension, facilitate discussion, and make misbehaving children cry.

Please, everyone, I’m miserable. Just last week, I bit my tongue while I was yelling at a student. I don’t want to be angry anymore. Can I hold your hand? I’ll count to ten. Thank you all for being here for me. I feel loved. I feel special. But I still feel angry. Maybe if I identify the source of my anger I can learn to suppress it and become whole again. Please let me feel whole again.

Turn us into a victim.

Ho boy, you’ve gone and done it now. You didn’t pay me back when you said you would. You took my dog! You dented my car! You left the lid off my to-go coffee cup! You sewed up my fake boobs wrong! You didn’t tell me that the moving sidewalk ends and now I stubbed my toe! It might be broken. I HAVE BEEN VICTIMIZED! I AM VERY UPSET AND I DEMAND AN APOLOGY! Cash or check will be fine.

Question: How can you tell an American is mad at you?
Answer: He calls his lawyer.

We are a sensitive people. We are also quite shrewd, having learned that if we make a big enough fuss, someone might pay us for our pain. Before I moved to Japan, I had failed to realize just how prevalent suing is in American culture. While in Japan, when a student of mine told me about a fatal accident at his steel factory, my immediate thought was: “Lawsuit.” Then the student told me that the parents of the deceased worker had thanked him for handling the death elegantly.

“No lawsuit?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “Why would there be? It was an accident.” I’m still a bit shocked. I mean, didn’t those poor parents realize that millions of yen would make the untimely death right? Someone should tell them. Maybe I will.

Take away our food options.

Photo: kretyen

One of the most beautiful things about capitalist American culture is plentitude and the prevalence of choice. Even in the midst of a bleak economic depression we still have more food than we know what to do with. We have so much goddamn food here, that you really can have it “Your Way, Right Away!”

Want romaine lettuce instead of spinach? Gluten-dairy-peanut-animal-free dressing on the side? Five pieces of bread on your sandwich instead of two? Whole grain spaghetti instead of good-tasting spaghetti? Well, you have come to the right country, my friend! Our restaurants are well-trained to counsel you through whatever eating anxieties you may have, whip up an appropriate dish to your exact specifications, and then serve it to you in a trough.

For an American, the trouble starts when you remove those choices. Maybe the restaurant is out of non-milk milk and grass. Maybe you’re in a foreign country where a “vegetarian” plate means chicken salad and every menu item is not endlessly customizable. But I have a water allergy. I don’t like blue-colored foods. What do you mean they don’t have Super Size? What the hell am I supposed to do now?!

Use racial epithets.

Oh, don’t get us wrong, we Americans can be just as racist as the next culture…we just hide it a lot better. Political Correctness — the late 20th century backlash to old school racism and bigotry — has pervaded our collective consciousness to the point where, in many cases, our gentlest euphemisms for race, medical conditions, and religion have become insults (except when it comes to making fun of whitey; you can do that all you want and it’s totally cool).

Even when we’re “chill” enough to be able to poke fun at the charming differences between the members of our multi-cultural group of friends, one of the quickest ways to make us squirm is to drop an outdated cultural epithet and mean it. My brother is dating an oriental girl. Is there a bathroom for cripples here? Hey, sweetheart, mind being a good little girl and passing me the stapler, if it’s not too heavy for you? Wouldn’t want you to ruin your manicure. NOT cool, buddy. Not cool. The day my Irish ex-boyfriend recited the traditional version of eenie meenie miney moe* in front of me and another American, we almost shit our pants.

*”tiger” is replaced with a word that rhymes better with the Pooh character Tigger’s name. And oh, it begins with an n.

Tell us we can’t have something.

There’s an insidious problem that is sweeping the current generation: entitlement. Today’s American children are being taught that there are no winners or losers in life, that they are inherently wonderful because they were born that way, and that each of us merits the very best.

These are, individually, lovely sentiments, but if applied carelessly, what do they get you? A generation of people who don’t understand what it is to work for what they want. People who always want the special treatment. People who will go into debt for a plasma screen TV because, well, don’t they deserve HD? Tell an American that they didn’t get the job, that there are no holiday bonuses this year, that they can’t get the iPad3 before Easter, and you’re risking a tantrum. High class problems, folks. High class problems.

Withhold tips.

Oh man, we hate this. Even if we logically understand that a tip is something a serviceperson earns for a job well done, we can’t let go of the fact that slumlord employers around America pay their employees in dirt. It’s up to us to help them, you guys. Most of us were waitresses or busboys in school, and we remember all too well how hard it is to deliver service with a smile for $2 an hour. We are compassionate, we are well-trained. We want to respect people who are trying to get ahead.

American tipping culture is appalling to many other people in the world. You just tip them no matter what, even if they were rude? 25%? That’s madness. Taxi drivers? Bartenders? Why do you have to tip the hairdresser? They already make a wage. The system totally gets abused. Think of those cheeky Starbucks employees who put a tin can out for tips. Why, because they opened the register properly? How dare you! Our job is hard! Show me a job that isn’t. Maybe I’d like a tip for using nice-looking font, with an additional dollar for each joke I make. But I digress.

To the American, a bad tipper is an asshole. On the terrible occasions where we don’t have enough cash to leave a good tip, we feel like pond scum. When I invited my Irish then-boyfriend to visit me in New York, he was furious at the idea of having to give extra money “for nothing.” How about I just give her two dollars in nickels? What? It’s the same, isn’t it? That should have been a red flag for me right there.

Require us to speak any language other than English.

These damn immigrants — they come to our country, take our jobs, and invade our culture. What is this “Press 1 for English and 2 for Spanish” bullshit? You’re in America, dammit. Speak English!

Never mind that as soon as most Americans set foot out of the country, they expect everyone else to speak their language back to them. What’s the point of learning other languages? Everyone speaks English. While the vast majority of world citizens do learn English in school and a good number of people in the tourist industry will have a grasp of business English, the assumption that “everyone” in the world speaks English is patently false (let’s leave northern Europe out of this; they’re linguistic genius freaks).

Visit any other country and step out of the urban centers to see just how many people really speak English well. Think back to your own schooling — you were made to learn French but as soon as you left school, how much did you retain? You’re familiar with the concept of “use it or lose it.” It’s the same for everyone else. In the small Italian town where I live, very few people speak English. In my mother’s family, no one speaks English. On my father’s side of the family, only my cousins do. When I lived in Osaka, it was extremely rare to find a service person who spoke English beyond “Herro” and “What you want?”

Americans don’t want to believe this. Hollywood films have taught them that foreign countries are like Epcot — full of costumed individuals who speak charmingly-accented but perfect English. Honey, why is he talking at me in French? I don’t speak French. Why doesn’t he speak English? Everyone is supposed to speak English! French people are so rude! Polly-voo? Goddammit, I hate this place. And then you get the Americans who expatriate and refuse to learn the language of their new country. It’s too hard. They can’t expect me to learn a whole new language. Why aren’t there more signs in English? There should be more signs in English. Exactly.

Tell us nothing America does is any good.

Hey, I get it — our government has done some shady-ass things and our people can be really loud and obnoxious. We don’t have thousand year-old buildings. We don’t have a secret language that no one but us knows how to speak. Our chocolate tastes like rubber, even born-and-bred Americans are confused about what exactly constitutes our cuisine, and “traditional craftsmanship” isn’t the first word that comes to mind when you think of American exports.

One of the things that most irritates other cultures about us is that we tend to have a narrow grasp of world events. It’s not an entirely unfair stereotype: many of us are quite bewildered to learn that, outside of our borders, we are not exactly the world’s favorite party guest. What do you mean they don’t like us? I don’t understand. But we’re nice. We gave the world Nike, Hollywood, Elvis, Michael Jackson, and the iPad. People love our shit, but they don’t like us? Well, fuck them! Americans have feelings, too, y’all.

Tell us we’re “just” American.

Photo: ohdarling

For centuries, immigrants who came to America felt the pressure to assimilate, to erase their roots. Names were changed, children were not taught their parents’ languages, and traditional recipes were bastardized to suit American tastes and make use of local ingredients. But in the past couple of generations, it’s become acceptable, even desirable, to have ties to other cultures — better still if you’re an “exotic” mix (I’ve heard friends glumly admit, “I’m just white”).

In our melting pot nation, a popular question is “What are you?” The question is meant to discover a person’s ethnic origins, but in recent generations Americans tend to equate ethnicity with culture. Americans like to harken back, identifying directly with distant ancestors they’ve probably never met. The fact that where you’re born and where you grow up — not your DNA — most directly defines your culture escapes them. Even the most die-hard “Real American” will probably tell you, “I’m British/Irish on my mother’s side and Dutch on my father’s.”

What’s so terrifying about keeping it real and calling yourself an American, anyway? The Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders don’t seem to have this problem. There is a widespread feeling throughout the country that we don’t have a unified culture, that we only steal from our ancestors. If this is so, then why are we some of the most instantly recognizable people on the planet?

While most of our inhabitants have ethnic roots in other continents, one thing is for sure — born and bred Americans share a unique language and accent, belief in the power of the individual, fear of serial killers and germs, firm adherence to measuring things in Fahrenheit, inches, and pounds, a love of convenience, and the unshakable knowledge that anyone can do anything they set their mind to. Yet, this is what usually happens when you tell a born-and-bred American that, culturally, they are just American:

What are you?

I’m Irish and proud!

What? No you’re not. You’re American.

Excuse me?!

You were born and raised in America, you’ve never been to Ireland, and you have an American accent.

How dare you! I’m Irish on both sides. That makes me 100% pure Irish! So what if I’ve never been there? It’s in my blood. I have red hair! I feel Irish! Who are you to tell me I’m not?

Tread very lightly with this one. You could make a little “Polish” girl cry.

Photos by author.

BANFF, ALBERTA IS A BIT of a party town. Considering that much of its population consists of short-term visitors from overseas (especially Australia and New Zealand), this probably isn’t much of a surprise. It’s touristy as heck, but the nightlife is intense and it’s perfectly acceptable to get sloshed at 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon. Or it is when you’re me, at least.

On my first drive through town, I was introduced to The Eddie Burger + Bar. It’s a tiny spot, but it’s home to some epic burgers, including “The Edward” with a beef patty, pork patty, chicken patty, and hot dog. Yeah, a hot dog. I opted for the more refined Rocky Mountain Burger, a large elk patty which I tried to balance with the healthy salad option. It didn’t work.

But despite an onslaught of the meat sweats and a stomach bloated with protein, I could not resist The Eddie Trashcan.

It’s as ridiculous as it sounds: a massive beer mug containing 2 ounces of vodka, gin, rum and triple sec, 1 ounce of Blue Curacao, lime juice, and a full can of Red Bull. And I do mean a full can of Red Bull: the liquid itself is poured into the mug, and then the can is crushed up and placed in the liquid as well. The whole thing costs about $9.

It tastes delicious, and it will probably make you go blind.

The Eddie Trashcan also creates a lovely illusion whereby you think the drink is finished, and then you lift the Red Bull can to release a crapload of more booze. It’s like Christmas Day when you discover that one hidden present behind the couch.

A Pickleback, better than Nickleback.

If you’re really trying to impress your friends, or if you want to break your own personal record of debauchery, follow up the Trashcan with a Pickleback shot: a shot of whiskey followed by a shot of pickle brine.

Apparently this is the kinda thing that stays off the menu — perhaps due to some liability issues concerning potential death — but I assure you the Pickelback is nothing to sneeze at, and all you have to do is request it at the bar. It tasted surprisingly delicious, although this may have been a result of deadened taste buds caused by the infusion of six different types of liquor.

Swing by The Eddie Burger + Bar in the early evening to grab a seat, as the place can get crowded in the evenings (especially weekends).

The Eddie Burger Bar
#6 137 Banff Avenue (on Caribou St. between Banff Ave and Bear St.)
Banff, Alberta T1L 1B7, Canada
(403) 762-2230

Hours
Monday, 12pm – 2am
Tuesday, 3pm – 1am
Wednesday, 12pm – 2am
Thursday, 3pm – 1am
Friday to Sunday, 11am – 1am

To add this infographic to your site, use the following embed code: <div style="text-align:center"><a href="http://matadornetwork.com/change/infographic-why-were-losing-the-war-on-drugs/" target="_blank"><img src="http://cdn1.matadornetwork.com/blogs/1/2012/02/warondrugsinfov3.jpg" alt="Infographic: Why we&#8217;re losing the &#8216;War on Drugs&#8217;"></a><br />Via <a href="http://matadornetwork.com">Matador Network</a></div>

Photo: sludgegulper

I KNEW APPROXIMATELY THREE phrases in Polish before I arrived in the country. Although I would learn more — including several obscenities taught to me by friends, who found it hilarious to hear an American swear in their language — none proved more useful than przepraszam.

The word, which translates to “I’m sorry,” is perhaps most valuable on an invitation to a Polish home — a minefield of potential faux pas.

ONE OF MY STUDENTS, Maria, invited me to her village for a weekend. From the bus stop we walked to her parents’ house, where she lived with her husband and their two young kids. The road was unpaved and it was muddy from an October rain shower.

Three construction workers in vests were filling a pothole. One of them called out to Maria. She laughed and said something in reply. I noticed she clutched her six-year-old son’s hand tighter.

Photo: macieklew

There were chickens in the yard. Maria’s dad put down his armload of firewood. He hugged his daughter and grandson. I said miło mi, nice to meet you, and he laughed heartily and kissed my hand.

The kids chased each other through the living room. Maria’s mom yelled at them to be quiet. She greeted me with a hug.

She brought us bowls of deep pink beet soup, barszcz. It was fragrant and spicy and light, not the heavy, murky purple stuff I had imagined was borscht. The second course was a cut of pork doused in thick gravy, with a heap of mashed potatoes and a tangy red cabbage salad on the side. I tackled it in earnest, but in the end couldn’t finish it.

“Przepraszam,” I said to Maria’s husband, who was sitting beside me. “Do you want the rest?” He laughed and waved my offer away. Apparently wasting food was not as serious an offense as I’d thought.

ANETA RENTED a second-floor student flat a few doors down from me. One night she invited me for dinner. I left my snow-caked boots by the door, beside Aneta’s and her roommates’. The snow had begun to melt off them, creating a dirty puddle on the floor. There was a heavy warm aroma from the kitchen.

I sat at the table and sipped tea while Aneta cooked. She had lived in Greece and learned how to cook there. She opened the fridge and took out a fish, shrink-wrapped on a foam tray. She tore off the cellophane and declared, “You are beautiful!” and laughed and kissed the floppy wet fish before dropping it into the pan. She fried the whole thing, head and all, and we ate it with rice on the side. The bones prickled as I picked them out of my teeth.

Aneta left the fish head, with its cold staring eyeballs, out on the balcony for the cat. I told her the new phrases I had recently learned. “Przepraszam!” she exclaimed. “That is a good word!”

ON CHRISTMAS EVE, my friend Renata’s babcia made pierogi. She motioned for me to help.

Photo: Author

We rolled out the dough on the countertop, coated in flour so it wouldn’t stick. Then she showed me how to make little circles of dough with the rim of a glass. The filling, minced cabbage and mushrooms, was folded in, and the pierogi sealed around the edges so there would be no escaping during the boiling process.

We laid them out in rows on a towel. Her dumplings were neat and perfectly shaped. Mine were lumpy, with bits of cabbage sticking out. “Przepraszam,” I said, blushing at my incompetence. Babcia chuckled.

IN THE SPRING my father visited, and we traveled to the village of our ancestors, along with a translator we’d met in Krakow, to meet some long-lost relatives we’d tracked down. The cousins offered us a welcome feast worthy of visiting dignitaries. My cousin’s wife had laid the table with breads, pastries, deli meats, potato salad, and cheese.

We sat and talked through our translator. My newfound cousin opened a bottle of sliwowica, a potent plum brandy, to toast our arrival. We raised our glasses and drank a healthy shot. There was laughter and another round. And another. We ate and laughed and drank some more. My head was swimming in the brandy.

After some time my cousin’s wife brought out platters from the kitchen, heaped with meat and cheese, pasta, and a whole fish trapped in gelatin like a bug encased in amber.

My father and I glanced at each other. Our stomachs were full of alcohol and pastry and bread and cheese. I couldn’t conceive eating another bite. But our new family looked at us expectantly. Our translator smiled and nodded encouragingly.

I held out my empty plate.

Photo: seantoyer

I DON’T CARE much for American football, but I do love the Super Bowl. Ten years ago, I approached my only friend who had been in a fraternity (and totally generalizing here), asked him what this whole “Superbowl” thing was about. He brought me to a local sports bar for the full effect, where we screamed at TV screens, scored some Mardi Gras beads, and got really drunk. And I’ve been hooked ever since.

It’s not just the frenzy of food that I rarely put in my body (Cold cuts! Cheese fries! Iceberg lettuce!), but also the blood-sweat-and-tears narrative that culminates in the multimedia vortex of the NFL season’s final game.

I’ve always caught the game in New York City, but found myself in Park City, Utah last year, chowing down on an Italian sausage sandwich and cheering with fellow snowboarders and skiers — and it made me feel close to home. So, for you U.S. expats and travelers, both fair-weather football watchers and fanatics alike, here are places where you can also share in the experience, and perhaps consume less artery-clogging food, if you so choose — I wouldn’t.

Photo: jakeprzespo

Shanghai, China

Airtime: Monday, February 6 at 7:00 PM.

The Texas style-BBQ joint Bubba’s in Shanghai is just that, plus it’s where the particularly large ex-pat community in the city will likely convene for an authentic experience. And when I say, “authentic,” I mean American. Admission is free, they have three locations throughout Shanghai (The Beach, Hongqiao, Expo Village) and the menu will include smoked meats for breakfast… including chili cheese fries! Last year, they offered 20RMB wristbands that got patrons a free beer every time a team scored, which may also be the case this year, although details are not on the website.

Chang Mai, Thailand

Airtime: Monday, February 6 at 6:00 AM.

The Chang Mai Saloon, another Texas-style BBQ joint, suggests partying all night to make it to the big game’s kickoff. For about 200 Baht patrons get an All-You-Can-Eat breakfast buffet (score), so come for the football, stay for the burgers and wings, or pad thai, which is probably what I would do.

Paris, France

Airtime: Sunday, February 6, Midnight

With live music starting at 9 PM, the Super Bowl party at Wos Bar will supposedly be “massive.” No word on drink or food specials, but who cares at that point? You’d be better off with an espresso considering kick-off is so late.

Photo: danmilbrath

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 8:00 PM.

Sugar Bar in Palermo, a US and British ex-pat owned cave / bar, will be the spot for Super Bowl rowdiness, particularly because the party will start later in the evening, and because the owners specifically opened the place to be a “party bar.” For $40 USD, you’ll get 2 drinks or “1 national drink.” I don’t know what that is, but who cares? There’s Buy One-Get One Free special of nachos, fries, onion rings or chili! Or, since you’re in Argentina, better to spring for the burger special.

Sevilla, Spain

Airtime: Monday, February 6, 12:25 AM.

Fear not, all you American kids studying abroad: Sevilla’s oldest Irish pub Flaherty’s has you covered. Except, you might be too drunk by that point, since airtime’s around midnight. So you might have to skip your Monday morning classes, and no word on whether there’s a special Super Bowl menu, but it’s free, and there will be nachos (and tapas).

London, England

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 10:00 PM.

There will be many places in the UK airing the game, but Roadhouse has this: free admission before 10 PM (and 10 pounds after) plus four giant screens and nine plasmas. Admission is free, and there will also be “delicious” food. Ehrm. Go for the TVs. (For those looking for more Americana, less rowdiness, Bodean’s BBQ has what you need. The 25 pound entry will get you lots of pulled pork, but as of the time of this article, the event is sold out.)

Santiago, Chile

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 8:30 PM.

The gringo spot California Cantina in the city’s Stgo section knows what its role is: to provide a space where people can scream and consume beer, wings and pizza. That’s it. For a general admission price of 3,000 CLP and one Corona, fans will get a spot, but they also suggest purchasing a “primo” spot in advance.

Photo: seantoyer

Aruba

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 7:30 PM.

If you’re in Aruba in February, I’m jealous. Especially of the fact that you’ll be able to catch the game on MooMba Beach on two 10-foot screens for only $15 per person (or $65 for VIP seats), which includes a buffet with typical football fare plus fish tacos.

Belize City, Belize

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 5:00 PM.

Average Joe’s in San Pedro sounds like the exact place in Belize City that I’d want to find myself. With wings going for 75 cents a pop, a “100% All-American chili cheese dog” and $20 pitchers of beer, it all sounds about right, but may not feel that way the next day.

International waters

Airtime: Sunday, February 5, 5:00 PM.

As if the level of consumerism surrounding the Super Bowl couldn’t get higher, someone had to raise the bar. A Caribbean cruise devoted solely to watching the the game? Even I have standards. But if you have some cash to kill or no qualms about your carbon footprint, it may not be too late to get on a cruise like Royal Caribbean’s Super Bowl 2012 journey. For $510 for an inside cabin, you’ll get to spend five days on a ship, catching the game somewhere between Florida and Belize.