Parking lot. Processed cheese. Parking lot. Bad coffee. Parking lot. In Boston, we endure the ripple effects of culture shock from having flown from Kosovo to an airport hotel near a medical ward in Sommerville Massachuesetts. It is a bit bleak out in these heavily paved boonies despite the shiny signage and catchy restaurant mottos and chipper concierges. I feel immediately like I’m being hoodwinked by inauthentic staff and the hoax of the American dream. Uncle Sam might be a charlatan. But in downtown Beantown, after a long night’s rest and an expensive cab ride to the city centre, we are reminded of what makes America great: Overspending. Way beyond our actual means, Dan and I putz through the haute-couture shops on Orchard street; ruffling the feathers of Chanel employees in our wake, making immediate friends with an Albanian Valentino rep, trying on Jimmy Choo shoes (wincing them over my blistered and calloused heels) and ogling Diane Von Furstenburg’s new patterns. Along the way we dismiss Hugo Boss and Armani as too conservative – “We wouldn’t even if we could,” Dan’s most stiff upper lip raises for snobby affectation. But we do buy discounted Marc Jacobs jeans and Korean costume jewelry and order things that are seared and organic and fricasseed and garnished. Dan pokes at an “heirloom tomato” in his salad and laughs at the perversity of prosperity. “What does that even mean exactly?” And we have a pretty deliciously decadent time. Our clothes still have their stink but a little eau de toilette can cure that with one “hot ginger and aniseed” spray. Life is immediately and appropriately pulled back down to our speed at Brighton Music Hall when a scruffy professional props open the side door and helps us lug our gear into the empty black room. (Ahhhh: home sweet home.) During the show, we either push the monitors to their limits or we are fully deafened by the Bostonian applause. It hits hard. The crowd slams us repeatedly. Their spiritedness has us feeling the most welcome we have felt since our arrival back on North American soil. It is invigorating. It is this dynamism, of course, that is the true American Dream. These sweat and tears. Thank you, Boston, for gratifying your country. For being genuine and full of integrity. For getting down and dirty. I would, and will, brave your parking lots and Nescafe for as long as I can possibly endure just to receive one ioata of the zeal you gave us. The returns are high.