My British relatives love all things American.  It if smacks of Americana, they immediately sit up and take notice.  Fourteen seconds after arriving in the U.S., my cousin Iain asked for a Bud Light.  While I couldn’t immediately accommodate, I did have to stop so they could get some “American” Marlboro cigs.

In the past few days, I’ve seen their penchant for the good ol’ US of A grow by leaps and bounds.  Union Jack, Schmunion Jack.  I took them to see the Royals play out at Kauffman Stadium.  And even though they had no idea what was going on out in left field, they knew this was a typical American pastime.   Mercifully, they sold Bud Light, which, of course, is globally known.   I was genuinely surprised they didn’t understand the concept of American baseball.  And when they asked what was going on at home plate … I had a difficult time of explaining it to them.  “Well, when you bunt the ball, it’s because … blah, blah, blah.”

The last time I went to England I found American products were in bountiful supply.  But, apparently, American things just taste better IN America.   Some things are not, however, universal.  Iain has asked for … and been denied … Fanta several times.  While he has yet to guzzle a Coca-Cola … he seems quite perturbed that America (the land of plenty) has plenty of everything BUT Fanta.

To date, they’ve “discovered” tater tots, chili dogs, cowboy hats and Tequila, which I know is NOT American … but margaritas are.  (Or so they think.)  Iain has mentioned several times he wants to get a tattoo of an American flag on his shoulder.  His mother conveniently reminds him that he’s British, which makes Iain almost wrinkle his nose in disgust.

In England, Americans are like rock stars.  People would fawn over me wherever I went.  It’s the exact same over here.  Between Angela’s delightful accent and Iain’s English football shirts, they are revered like saints.   But without his Fanta, Iain is like a king without his castle.