My British relatives stumbled in to town over the weekend, and they were positively GIDDY despite traveling for nearly 24 hours. The minute they landed their heads started swiveling off their necks. “LOOK! An American school bus! LOOK! An American mailbox! LOOK! An American police officer!”

I’ve been playing tour guide extraordinaire the past few days and traipsing around Kansas City with wild abandon.  Odd to think I’ve been here 10 years, and I’ve seen more touristy stuff this week with them than I have in the last decade.

The first couple days were spent acclimating them to the time change and the weather.   (Read that:  we spent the first 48 hours eating and shopping.)  Iain, my younger cousin, had several fairly attainable goals —1) get drunk and 2) make-out with an American “lass.”  Yes, the British invasion had begun.

They’ve been staying on the Country Club Plaza which is right in the heart of the city. Lots to see. Lots to do. And, apparently, lots to drink. Imagine my surprise when I found out my cousin went out and got completely blotto on his second night here. Uh, not. But a big thanks to the considerate Kansas City police officers who very nicely got him back to his hotel at 4 a.m. after a night of binge drinking and God-knows-what-else.

According to the officers, Iain was staggering down the street singing a Chelsea football fight song.  (Well, duh—what else would he be singing?) His first words to the officers? “Don’t touch me, I’m ENGLISH!” They managed to get him back to his hotel safe and sound where his mom (my other cousin) was patiently waiting. (Read that: outside of the hotel in a furious panic.)

Iain spent a majority of his third day in America wishing he were never born. Between bouts of nausea and a blinding headache, he spent the day parked on the patio saying things like, “I’m never drinking again.”

Ah yes, the American dream.