hen did things get so expensive? Four dollars for cigarettes. Five bucks for a beer. Two dollars for a lousy bottle of water. Fifty cents for a payphone call. Do they think I'm made of money? Just a week back in the States, and I'm like some cranky old man, droning on and on about how it was in The Day. I want to write my congressman. I want to speak with the manager. I want to start a revolution -- people, we don't have to pay this much! All we have to do is give away our semi-stable government and first-world luxuries! I cannot afford this country. How do people afford this country? (Presumably, they have jobs or some type of steady income.) I can't deny that I'm glad to be back. Shucks, I missed this place and all the lovely English-speaking people in it. I missed half-raw hamburgers with juices that drip down to my elbow and the simple genius of a breakfast taco. But that doesn't matter, because at this rate, I'll be surviving on peanut butter and honey. Peanut butter and honey and four-dollar packs of those fine American Spirits. How will I feed my satisfying dependence on nicotine and coffee? How will I sustain my deep South American tan? How will I be able to stuff my face with cheese-heavy Mexican dishes, as is every American's right? I may actually be forced to get a job.

Man, talk about culture shock.