USA, As Is

Chapter 1: The American Dream (and the Credit Score Nightmare)

The phrase “American Dream” conjures images of white picket fences, college diplomas, and two-car garages – the promise that anyone can make it big in the land of opportunity. Immigrants and locals alike grow up believing that with hard work and gumption, you can climb the socio-economic ladder from rags to riches. And indeed, three out of four Americans still view homeownership as part of this dream (because what’s a dream without a mortgage?). Yet, lurking behind that shiny dream is a three-digit bogeyman: the almighty credit score. In modern America, your fate isn’t just determined by your talent or hustle; it’s dictated by a numerical summary of how you handle debt. “Whether you like it or not, Americans are defined by their credit scores,” as one financial expert quips. Want to rent an apartment, buy a car, or sometimes even get a job? Better have good credit. The land of opportunity runs on credit – the American Dream is powered by Visa and MasterCard.

It’s a delicious irony that the “land of the free” runs on borrowed money. Take a stroll through any suburb and you’ll find families living in homes they technically don’t own (mortgages), driving cars that the bank does (auto loans), and swiping credit cards for everything else. As of early 2025, Americans’ total credit card balances reached a record $1.21 trillion. Yes, trillion with a “T” – that’s a lot of avocado toast charged to the card. In fact, America’s household debt in all forms (mortgages, student loans, cars, etc.) has ballooned to over $18 trillion. It turns out chasing the American Dream often means financing it. By the time many young Americans don a graduation cap, they also don a shackle of student loans; nearly 43 million Americans collectively owe about $1.6 trillion in student loans. For millennials, the dream of owning a home might be eclipsed by the dream of one day paying off that college debt (the “Homeownership can wait, I have Sallie Mae to feed” plan).

The Credit Score Nightmare is that adulthood becomes a game of managing debt without letting the system label you “irresponsible.” About 150 million Americans have poor or no credit, roughly two-thirds of the adult population. Think about that: in the wealthiest nation on Earth, half the people are effectively second-class citizens in the credit system, trapped paying higher interest or getting denied loans. A single missed payment or medical emergency can tank your score – there goes your “freedom” to get a decent apartment. It’s almost comical that a country that preaches individual liberty has its citizens’ lives so tightly choreographed by Equifax, Experian, and TransUnion (the three credit bureaus that hold our fates). Credit scores are the report cards of grown-up life, and just like in high school, a lot of folks are stressing to get an “A” so they can get into a good…apartment.

Americans still believe in the Dream – sort of. Polls show just over half of U.S. adults think the American Dream is **“alive and well” (about 53%)**, although many doubt it’s attainable for themselves. The definition of the Dream has evolved: for some it’s owning a tiny home outright rather than a McMansion with a giant mortgage; for others it’s the freedom to switch jobs or start a business without drowning in healthcare costs (we’ll get to that in Chapter 9, Modern Hell). But one classic pillar remains: homeownership. Despite sky-high real estate prices, around 75% of Americans say owning a home is part of the Dream. Achieving that often means taking on a hefty 30-year mortgage – effectively promising half your working life to a bank. The white picket fence might as well be collateral.

“In the USA, you can be anything you want – except debt-free.”

The contradictions are plentiful. America advertises itself as a meritocracy where anyone can make it, yet wealth inequality and systemic barriers mean the starting lines aren’t equal. We celebrate rags-to-riches stories, but seldom discuss riches-to-rags (which can be one layoff or medical bill away). The cultural ethos tells you to “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” but if you can’t afford boots (or education, or healthcare), well, good luck. Even success can be precarious: one day you’re living the dream, the next day a recession hits and you’re living on credit cards and prayers. Americans cheer the idea of freedom, yet tens of millions live paycheck-to-paycheck, bound by monthly payments and credit scores that feel as inescapable as gravity.

And oh, the national obsession with buying stuff – perhaps to soothe the anxieties of that precarious dream. The U.S. economy is two-thirds consumer spending; shopping is almost a patriotic duty. “Financial responsibility” in America often means managing a labyrinth of credit lines responsibly: that is, using credit but not too much. It’s a high-wire act. No wonder personal finance gurus and budgeting apps thrive here – people need coaches to survive the credit game. Meanwhile, the notion of the American Dream still fuels motivational speeches, political campaigns, and Hollywood scripts. It remains a powerful cultural mythos that keeps people striving. Cynics might say the Dream today is on life support via loans, but it is still alive – if a bit groggy and heavily medicated. Americans, eternally optimistic, keep chasing it, even if it means dragging a ball and chain of debt behind them, humming “The Star-Spangled Banner” as they check their credit score for the third time this week.

Chapter 2: Food: Everything Is Supersized

Americans have a love affair with food that’s as deep-fried as it is supersized. If you land in the U.S. from abroad, one of the first culture shocks might be the sheer size of American portions. Here, a “small” soda could drown a goldfish and a “regular” coffee might fuel you for days. Walk into a fast-food joint and order a combo meal – you might need two hands for the drink alone. Famously, 7-Eleven’s Double Gulp was a 64-ounce cup of soda (about 1.9 liters) – literally larger than the human stomach’s capacity. (They even sold a 128-ounce “Team Gulp” – a one-gallon bucket of cola for the truly devoted.) It’s no wonder the documentary Super Size Me struck a chord; here, everything from popcorn to pick-up trucks seems to come in XXL by default. “Would you like to supersize that?” was once a fast-food catchphrase, but in the USA, it feels like most things are already supersized by design.

This obsession with bigness has consequences: America is grappling with an obesity rate over 40% for adults. Picture 4 out of 10 adults carrying significantly extra weight – it’s a public health crisis, but also a cultural norm. The portions have grown in parallel with waistlines. In the 1950s, a typical burger was a modest thing and a cup of coffee was 6 ounces. Today, a “small” at Starbucks is 12 oz – double the size of that 1950s cup. A single restaurant meal in 2025 might equal what our grandparents ate in an entire day. On average, Americans consume about 2,670 calories daily now, which is 20% more than in 1970. It’s as if the national motto became “In More We Trust.”

American food culture is one of extremes and contradictions. On one hand, this is the land of drive-thru everything – from burgers to pharmacy prescriptions. Roughly 36% of U.S. adults eat fast food on any given day, and about 3 in 4 Americans grab fast food at least once a week. There’s a McDonald’s or Taco Bell off almost every highway exit, feeding our busy, car-driven lives with quick, greasy satisfaction. The menu items themselves are often over the top: burgers with doughnuts as buns, milkshakes topped with entire slices of cake, fried chicken sandwiched between more fried chicken (yes, KFC’s infamous “Double Down” replaced bread with chicken filets – because why not?). In many American eateries, if it’s not slathered in cheese or double bacon, it’s not finished yet.

On the other hand, America also birthed the organic, farm-to-table movement and a wellness industry obsessed with green smoothies and kale. It’s not that Americans can’t eat healthy – it’s that the default settings are all pointing to indulgence. You’ll find a vegan cafe with quinoa bowls in the same city as a diner serving pancakes the size of hubcaps. This juxtaposition is perfectly American: freedom means you can choose tofu and kombucha or a triple-stack of deep-fried Oreos at the state fair (heck, why not both?). And oh boy, state fairs – the deep-fry Olympics. Every year, vendors compete to fry the unimaginable: Twinkies, butter, Coke (how do you even fry Coke?!). It’s as if Americans said, “We’ve conquered regular food, now let’s deep-fry anything that sits still.” You haven’t lived until you’ve tried a funnel cake dusted with sugar, served with a side of insulin (just kidding… sort of).

The supersize mentality isn’t just in fast food. Take casual dining chains: the plates are huge, refills are free, and “all-you-can-eat” deals are a staple. Unlimited salad and breadsticks? Endless shrimp? Buffets where the only limit is your intestinal fortitude? Yes, please. The result: many Americans have distorted perceptions of portion sizes. A bagel today is often double the calories of a bagel 40 years ago; a single restaurant burrito can be the size of a newborn baby. We’ve normalized excess to the point where leaving food on the plate feels almost unpatriotic (think of the starving children elsewhere!). Restaurants have responded by offering take-home boxes assuming you’ll have leftovers – a tacit admission that “yeah, we gave you way too much.”

Yet, amidst this cornucopia, there’s a dark humor: diet fads are perennial. We supersize our meals and then spend billions on weight loss programs, diet books, and exercise gadgets. It’s a cycle of indulgence and guilt. One month Americans are all on the Keto diet, shunning carbs like they’re the devil; the next month it’s intermittent fasting or paleo or some celery-juice cleanse. It’s almost as if we can’t decide whether to worship food or fear it. The collective national eating disorder, perhaps, is treating food as both celebration and sin. We have TV shows that are basically food porn – from competitive barbecuing to cake baking – while news segments simultaneously lament obesity rates.

And let’s not forget American ingenuity in food marketing. This country turned sugary breakfast cereal into a morning staple (yes, those rainbow-colored marshmallow bits are considered a “part of a balanced breakfast” if you read the fine print). We’ve given the world processed cheese that can survive an apocalypse, and a pantheon of snacks with neon-orange dust that sticks to your fingers (looking at you, Cheetos). In America, anything can be a “meal” if you’re bold enough: a 64 oz soda and a pretzel counts, right? (At least, many a teenager at a mall might think so.)

All joking aside, Americans are slowly waking up to the downsides of supersizing. There’s a growing movement for healthier school lunches, transparent calorie counts on menus, and awareness that perhaps diabetes isn’t a myth after all. But the cultural inertia of big food is hard to overcome. After all, bigger feels like value, and Americans love a good value. Why get a 12-ounce steak for $15 when a 20-ounce is $18? More bang for your buck! It’s practically economic patriotism to get the larger size. So the country trudges on, with overflowing plates and overfilled bellies, in a complex dance with food that’s equal parts love and self-sabotage. Everything is supersized, including our dilemmas about health versus temptation. In the end, the American ethos might be summed up at the dinner table: “Too much of a good thing is simply the American way.”

Chapter 3: Dating, Friendships, and Ghosting

Americans approach dating and friendships a bit like they approach a buffet: plenty of options, a tendency to sample, and sometimes regretting that last choice. The social scene in the U.S. is at once remarkably open and notoriously flaky. On the positive side, it’s easy to strike up a casual conversation – Americans will chat about the weather, comment on your T-shirt, or toss a “How’s it going?” with a smile (granted, “How are you?” is more of a greeting than a real question – the expected answer is “Good, you?” even if your day has been awful). But forming deeper connections? That’s trickier. By some surveys, 12% of Americans report having no close friends, up from 3% decades ago. It’s an odd paradox: in the age of hyper-connectivity, genuine connection can be hard to find.

Let’s start with dating. If you’re single in America in the 2020s, chances are you’re on at least one dating app – probably several, cycling through Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, maybe even the quirky ones like FarmersOnly (yes, that exists). Meeting people “in real life” at bars or through friends still happens, but increasingly love (or let’s be honest, hookups) are found by swiping right. It’s practically a cultural rite of passage now: crafting a profile with your best selfies and a witty bio, then navigating an endless stream of small talk in DMs that often lead nowhere. And oh, the terminology! Ghosting – when someone you’ve been chatting or dating vanishes without a trace – has become so common that it’s just accepted behavior, albeit obnoxious. In fact, about 75% of single people say they’ve been ghosted at least once. That means if you go on four dates, odds are at least one will end with you wondering if your phone suddenly stopped working.

Ghosting exemplifies a broader trend: Americans (especially younger generations) often avoid direct confrontation or uncomfortable conversations in dating. It’s easier to just not reply than to say “Sorry, I’m not feeling it.” This can drive foreigners crazy – in some cultures, a blunt “no thanks” is preferred to ambiguity. But in the land of social convenience, we’ve decided that silence (however cruel) is golden. There’s also orbiting, where someone stops seeing you but keeps liking your social media posts, haunting you like a digital ghost. The modern U.S. dating scene is a minefield of such semi-relationships: situationships, texting buddies, friends-with-benefits arrangements, and people who act like a partner one day and a stranger the next. If it sounds confusing, that’s because it is. We basically took the normal human courtship process and said, “Let’s add more uncertainty and sprinkle in anxiety, it’ll be fun.”

Interestingly, technology has made dating both easier and harder. Easier because you have access to hundreds of potential matches in your area literally at your fingertips – no need to rely on your aunt’s matchmaking at family weddings. Harder because, well, you have hundreds of potential matches at your fingertips – which breeds a paradox of choice. Many Americans develop a sort of dating ADHD, always wondering if there’s someone better a swipe away. It’s common to hear people complain they’re stuck in a cycle of first dates. Commitment can feel elusive when the next option is so readily available. The joke goes that dating apps are where you go to find someone until you think you can do better, then you both go back to the apps. Savage, but not entirely untrue.

Now, onto friendships. Americans are often very friendly on the surface. You might hear a lot of “We should totally hang out sometime!” or “I’ll call you!” followed by… silence. It’s not that these invites are insincere, exactly; it’s that Americans are busy and often prioritize other things (work, family, romantic partners) over deepening new friendships. Making friends as an adult in the U.S. can feel like dating itself – you “hang out” a few times, test the waters, and hope not to come on too strong by texting too often. Americans also move around a lot – changing cities for college or jobs – which means many friendships are transient. You bond intensely for a few years and then someone relocates to another state, promising to keep in touch. Sometimes they do. Often, they don’t beyond a few social media likes here and there.

There’s a concept known as the “friendliness gap” – the difference between American friendliness and friendship. Foreigners often note that Americans seem very warm and interested in meeting you initially. And that’s genuine – we love the novelty of new people and sharing our life story in five minutes at a party. But that doesn’t necessarily translate into a lasting connection. It’s like a fireworks show: a big bright display of warmth, and then darkness until the next event. Some blame the individualistic culture – people here are raised to be self-reliant and pursue personal goals, sometimes at the expense of communal ties. Others point to the sheer sprawl of American life – in the suburbs, you might have to drive to see friends, which requires scheduling rather than spontaneous drop-ins. (Contrast with countries where people walk everywhere and bump into friends daily.)

That said, Americans do form strong friendships, especially through shared activities or interests. Workplaces, gyms, churches, fandoms (believers in the same sports team or TV show) all serve as fertile ground for buddies. There’s also the phenomenon of the “best friend” – many Americans have that one or two super-close friends they confide everything in, a ride-or-die companion. Those relationships can be as strong as family. But beyond a couple of BFFs, a lot of people’s friend networks are wide but shallow. You might have 500 Facebook friends and yet feel lonely on a Saturday night. Emotionally, Americans often hesitate to burden others, so they might not reach out when they’re feeling down, thinking it’s more polite to keep to oneself. Ironically, everyone doing that results in a lot of isolated individuals mutually wanting connection but unsure how to ask for it.

And then we have the new social lexicon: ghosting isn’t just for dating anymore – friends can ghost too. Someone you used to hang with regularly stops responding because life got busy or they made new friends. In professional settings, even recruiters ghost candidates after interviews (rude, but it happens). So the behavior has seeped into general culture. It reflects a certain conflict-avoidance; rather than say “I don’t have time” or “we’ve grown apart,” people just fade out.

Despite these challenges, Americans remain optimistic and humorous about social life. We swap war stories of bad dates or flaky friends with a sense of camaraderie – it’s almost bonding to share how unbonded our society can be. We make memes: the group chat that never finds a date to meet, the friend who always cancels last minute, the absurdity of trying to interpret a one-word text from a crush (“They just said ‘hey.’ WHAT DOES IT MEAN?”). And there’s a resilience in how people approach relationships: if one connection doesn’t work out, on to the next. The cultural mentality is not to brood too long; there are new people to meet and tomorrow’s another day.

In the realm of dating, many still find love and meaningful partnership – it just might start after wading through a sea of weird experiences. As for friendships, the ones that do stick are often cherished deeply. Americans may not call friends every day, but in a pinch, a true friend will drive across state lines to help you move or support you in a crisis. We might not be the best at everyday consistency, but when it counts, many show up. It’s the casual commitments we’re bad at – not the serious ones. In a way, the flakiness is a filter; those who persist become tried-and-true.

So if you’re navigating American social life, bring your sense of humor and a thick skin. Don’t take a ghosting too personally (it usually says more about them than you). Initiate plans if you want them – everyone’s waiting for someone to do the asking. And when an American friend says “let’s hang out,” pin them down to an actual time and place on the spot. Otherwise, that plan will float in limbo forever. It’s not that we don’t mean it; it’s that life moves fast here and social calendars fill like cups at a soda fountain – quickly and sometimes messily. Learning to dance in this peculiar social choreography is part of understanding America “as is”: enthusiastic, busy, open-armed but sometimes slippery-fingered. We want connection, even if we aren’t always great at maintaining it. And when those connections do happen, amidst the ghosting and flaky phases, they’re all the sweeter for having survived the chaos.

Chapter 4: Race, Politics, and “Freedom”

America loves to bill itself as the “land of the free” – a place where liberty is the defining national trait. The irony is not lost that this very nation has had some of history’s most egregious un-freedoms: slavery, segregation, mass incarceration – you name it. Freedom is the brand, but freedom (for all) has been a work in progress. Perhaps no topics reveal America’s contradictions more than race and politics, all wrapped up in that loaded word “freedom.” It’s a messy, loud, and often uncomfortable arena, but also quintessentially American: we argue about these things constantly, for better or worse, in a cacophony of voices that is itself a sign of... well, freedom.

Let’s tackle race first. The United States is one of the most diverse countries on Earth – a true melting pot of ethnicities, cultures, and languages. It’s a nation that twice elected a Black president, yet still grapples with systemic racism born from centuries of oppression. This dual reality can baffle outsiders. You might see a corporate ad celebrating diversity and inclusion one minute, then news of yet another racial profiling incident the next. In summer 2020, millions took to the streets in Black Lives Matter protests after George Floyd’s murder, forcing a nationwide reckoning (again) on racial justice. Conversations about privilege, inequality, and representation surged in every sphere from Hollywood to the boardroom. America was built on ideals of equality, yet the lived experience often tells a different story for people of color.

One could fill volumes on the black-white racial dynamic alone, but of course it’s broader: Latino, Asian, Native American experiences, etc., each with their own triumphs and trials. Immigration adds layers too – from historic waves (Irish, Italian, etc.) to newer ones (South Asians, Africans, Middle Easterners). Each group faces the paradox of being welcomed for their labor or talent, yet sometimes marginalized for their difference. America touts E Pluribus Unum – out of many, one – but getting to “one” has been a journey of fits and starts. Schools still de facto segregated by neighborhood, disparities in wealth stark across racial lines (the median white household wealth far exceeds that of Black or Hispanic households – a legacy of discriminatory policies). And yet, cultural intermixing is ubiquitous: cuisines, music, slang, fashion all constantly blending influences from all races. It’s common for an American to enjoy tacos for lunch, listen to hip-hop on the drive home, and watch an anime show at night – often without realizing how many cultures they just sampled. Diversity is America’s spice, but also its tension.

Now, politics – strap in, because it’s a wild ride. American politics nowadays is a full-contact sport. The two major parties (Democrats and Republicans) are more polarized than a magnet factory. They seemingly can’t agree on the color of the sky. The joke is that the only thing that unites Americans is how much they distrust politicians. Partisan divides have gotten so extreme that nearly half of Republicans would be upset if their child married a Democrat, and vice versa – a sentiment that has skyrocketed from negligible levels in the 1960s. It’s like the Montagues and Capulets, but with yard signs and Facebook memes. Thanksgiving dinners in mixed-political families can feel like diplomatic summits (or war zones).

Each side often accuses the other of betraying “American values” or threatening “freedom.” Conservatives might say freedom means free markets, gun rights, and freedom from government interference. Liberals might emphasize freedom of expression, freedom to vote without suppression, freedom from want via social safety nets. The same word – freedom – becomes a tug-of-war rope. You’ll hear it a thousand times in political speeches: freedom, liberty, rights. It’s practically a verbal tic. Meanwhile, America’s political reality has some glaring contradictions. This is a country that champions democracy worldwide, yet our own elections are rife with fights over who gets to vote and how votes are counted. We extol freedom of speech, yet “cancel culture” debates rage about what one can or cannot say without social consequences. People on the left and right both claim they are defending freedom, sometimes from each other. It’s freedom-ception – a freedom fight about freedoms.

A particularly loaded issue is the Second Amendment – the right to bear arms. To many Americans (especially in rural and conservative circles), owning guns is the ultimate symbol of personal freedom and a safeguard against tyranny. To others, the fact that there are more guns than people in the U.S. (about 393 million firearms, roughly 120 guns per 100 residents) and a daily toll of gun violence looks like freedom gone mad. The debate is endless: one side waves the flag of individual liberty and constitutional rights; the other side points to the tens of thousands of gun deaths annually as an unacceptable price for that liberty. And each mass shooting (which happens far too often) triggers the same political script, with very little resolution. So “freedom” in this context becomes a dark joke: you’re free to live in fear of being shot in a movie theater or school. It’s a heavy contradiction that many Americans themselves find infuriating and tragic.

And what about “freedom” on the global stage? Americans love to think of themselves as the good guys championing freedom against oppression. Sometimes that’s true (World War II, the Civil Rights Movement internally). Other times, it’s more complicated (Vietnam War, supporting certain dictators during the Cold War because they weren’t communist, etc.). Ask people in different countries and you’ll get varied answers on whether U.S. influence increases freedom or not. But domestically, that self-image persists strongly: we are the freest, we are the example. In fact, Americans often find it startling to learn that other countries have more freedoms in some domains – for instance, freedom from crushing medical debt (since many nations have universal healthcare), or more freedom to take time off (Europeans with their legally mandated vacations must seem practically libertine to U.S. workers). It’s like the American definition of freedom prioritized certain rights (speech, religion, guns, property) and kind of forgot others (freedom from want, as FDR put it, or simply the freedom of a slower-paced life).

Racial politics and general politics intersect in messy ways. Issues like immigration, policing, affirmative action – these spark fiery debates. There’s a whole faction that insists “I don’t see color, we’re all just Americans,” and another that says “we have to see color to fix the inequalities.” Then someone will inevitably yell “freedom!” as a mic drop – e.g., freedom to not be discriminated against vs. freedom to associate or speak without being called out for bias. The word does a lot of heavy lifting. It’s the go-to for protest signs on all sides: “Freedom from oppression!” “Freedom from government overreach!” “Freedom to love who I want!” “Freedom to not bake a cake for someone I disapprove of!” If you’re confused, you’re not alone – we all live in this ideological soup and sometimes it’s exhausting.

Let’s not forget patriotism, which ties into both race and politics. Displays of patriotism (flags on porches, national anthem at sports events, pledges in school) are common, yet the interpretation of patriotism varies. For some, protesting injustice (like NFL players kneeling during the anthem to highlight police brutality) is patriotic – exercising freedom of speech to push America to live up to its ideals. For others, that very act is sacrilege, an insult to the flag and those who died for it. So even the act of loving America becomes a contested space: do you show it by unwavering loyalty or by constructive criticism? Probably a bit of both, but try telling that to Twitter on a heated day.

One cannot talk freedom and politics without mentioning that America, with ~4% of the world’s population, has about 20% of the world’s prison population. Land of the free, indeed. That’s one of those stats that makes everyone pause. Harsh sentencing laws, the War on Drugs, and systemic issues have led to mass incarceration, disproportionately affecting Black and brown communities. So you have this painful paradox: a country that markets freedom so much that the word starts sounding like a brand name, yet literally deprives a large number of its people of liberty at rates far above other democracies. In recent years there’s been bipartisan agreement (a minor miracle) that this is a problem, leading to some criminal justice reforms. But the wheels of change turn slowly, and the prison population remains huge. It’s a sobering reminder that slogans aren’t reality.

In everyday life, how do these lofty issues manifest? Often in casual arguments and identity. Americans increasingly sort themselves socially and geographically by politics – “red” (conservative) vs “blue” (liberal) areas. People curate their news to match their views (Fox News vs MSNBC, etc.), leading to alternate realities under one nation. A person watching one channel can have a completely different perception of events than someone reading another. It’s as if we’ve fractured into parallel Americas that overlap physically but not mentally. Race issues similarly permeate daily interactions – from trivial stuff (debates over cultural appropriation in Halloween costumes) to serious ones (a person of color worrying about a traffic stop turning dangerous). And through it all, the word freedom is invoked like a shield or sword in any debate. It’s practically the national tic: “It’s a free country, I can do/say X!” – often retorted with “Well, my freedom matters too!”

Despite all the strife, one might marvel that America holds together at all. And yet it does, partly because of an underlying creed shared by most: a belief in the idea of freedom, even if we violently disagree on what it means or how to get there. The First Amendment (guaranteeing free speech, religion, press, assembly) is like holy scripture across the spectrum, though we test its limits. There’s a common reverence for the Constitution, albeit with different interpretations. And there’s also a shared (if battered) commitment to the democratic process – elections as the way to hash out differences. Yes, even that was tested by events like the January 6, 2021 Capitol riot, where a mob tried to overturn an election result they falsely believed was fraudulent. That was a shock to the system, but ultimately the institutions held and the transition of power happened. America’s immune system kicked in: courts, state officials, even some in the offending political party pushed back and said “No, the vote stands.” It was messy (and scary), but it underscores that for all our partisan vitriol, the country has a deep bench of people who do care about the rule of law and liberty not devolving into chaos.

In summation, America is loud about freedom because it’s eternally insecure about it. We had to fight for it at the founding, then define who gets it (spoiler: initially just propertied white men, then gradually expanded), and now we tussle over what it entails (negative rights vs positive rights, individual vs community). It’s a nation perennially arguing with itself – which is, in a way, the point of the whole experiment. Freedom includes the freedom to argue about freedom. It’s very meta. If you come to the U.S., don’t be surprised to see protests in the streets – it might be neo-Nazis one week and anti-fascists the next, or gun rights activists at the Capitol while anti-gun students march downtown. It’s jarring, it’s often infuriating, but it’s America. As the saying goes (usually attributed to Winston Churchill about Americans): “You can always count on Americans to do the right thing – after they’ve tried everything else.” We stumble, we clash, yet somehow (so far) we end up inching toward a more perfect union. It’s not pretty, but it’s profoundly human – and in that messy process, freedom occasionally finds its true meaning in practice, not just in platitudes.

Chapter 5: Road Trips: The American Religion

The call of the open road runs deep in the American psyche – highways slicing through vast landscapes, beckoning travelers with the promise of freedom and discovery. Nowhere else is the road trip elevated to such a mythic status as in the United States. It’s practically an American religion: pilgrims hitting the road, seeking enlightenment in roadside diners and cheap motels, with asphalt as their altar. The country’s enormous size (crossing it by car coast-to-coast takes days) and geographic diversity make road-tripping not just feasible but essential to really see America. From the long, lonesome highways of the West where you might not see another soul for miles, to the bustling interstates of the East Coast where tailgate-to-bumper traffic tests your patience, hitting the road is a rite of passage.

The infrastructure certainly encourages it: the Interstate Highway System spans over 48,000 miles, connecting virtually every major city and region with multi-lane ribbons of concrete. These highways were built in the mid-20th century (thank you, President Eisenhower) and have since become the arteries of American commerce and leisure. For many Americans, driving is second nature. 92% of American households have at least one car, and in a lot of places owning a car isn’t just convenient – it’s mandatory to have any sort of life. Public transportation outside a few big cities can be laughably sparse, so people drive everywhere: to work, to the store, even across the street (no joke, there are folks who will drive from one end of a strip mall to the other rather than walk). All this driving primes people for the ultimate drive: the road trip.

There’s something almost poetic about America’s open road. Countless songs pay tribute to it – from “Route 66” to “Born to Run” – and countless movies too, where protagonists find themselves on a cross-country journey. It’s embedded in the culture that to drive is to be free. Want to reinvent yourself? Hop in a car and move to a new state, no one’s stopping you. (There’s a reason the road novel is a genre here, think On the Road by Kerouac or The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck – travel as transformation.) Even family vacations often involve piling into the minivan and driving to see Grandma several states away, or touring the national parks out West. Flying might be faster, but road trips are considered more authentic, a chance to bond and also to argue over radio stations and AC settings – a true test of any relationship!

The classic American road trip often has iconic waypoints: The Grand Canyon’s majestic vistas, the kitschy “World’s Largest Ball of Twine” type attractions, neon-lit downtowns of small towns, Stuckey’s pecan rolls at a rest stop, maybe a brush with a state trooper if you have a heavy foot. Route 66, the historic highway from Chicago to LA, epitomized this until the interstates bypassed much of it. Still, nostalgia for Route 66 is huge – people still travel its remnants to experience “classic” America: diners, motels with vintage signs, little towns that seem frozen in the 1950s. In fact, foreigners often come to the U.S. specifically to do road trips; it’s the best way to grasp the scale and variety of the place. Where else can you drive for 10 hours and still be in the same state (looking at you, Texas) or drive through a half-dozen different ecosystems (mountains, plains, desert, forest) in a single day?

Car culture feeds into the road trip obsession. Americans are in love with their cars – not just as transport, but as extensions of identity. The kind of car you drive (rugged truck vs sleek sports car vs eco-friendly hybrid) often reflects something about how you see yourself. The open road is where that relationship really thrives. There’s a certain romance to the idea of throwing your belongings in the back, rolling down the windows, and just driving with no firm plan. “Finding yourself” on a road trip is a bit cliché, but plenty of folks will tell you about the time they drove cross-country after college or before starting a new job, and how those solitary hours behind the wheel gave them perspective. At minimum, you’ll get a good story about the roadside café with the amazing pie or the creepy motel with suspicious stains on the carpet.

Road trips are also a great equalizer in some ways. You’ll find all sorts of people at rest areas: truckers hauling goods, families with restless kids, college buddies on a summer adventure, retirees in RVs (recreational vehicles) living the nomadic life. Ah yes, RVs – talk about taking the home on the road. Retired Americans often buy these apartment-sized motorhomes to spend months traveling. You’ll see convoys of them heading to national parks or warmer climates (the “snowbirds” fleeing northern winters for Arizona or Florida). It’s like a subculture of modern pioneers, except with GPS and onboard toilets. They gather in RV parks, form communities, and chase that horizon together.

Let’s not ignore the quirkiness of roadside America. Part of the fun of road trips is the random attractions you pass. Giant fiberglass statues of cowboys or dinosaurs to lure you into a gift shop. Billboards advertising “Rock City” or a “Mystery Spot” with gravity-defying tricks. The countless Waffle House restaurants along Southern highways (a cultural institution in their own right, open 24/7, with hashbrowns “scattered, smothered, and covered” – if you know, you know). And of course, gas stations with convenience stores where you stock up on beef jerky, candy, and questionable coffee. These pit stops are the pilgrim’s chapels, places to refresh and reflect (or relieve yourself) before continuing the journey.

There’s even a spiritual aspect locals ascribe to driving long distances. Many will tell you that the road is therapeutic. Stressed about life? “Take a drive.” Need to clear your mind? A few hours on a quiet highway can be oddly meditative – the steady thrum of tires on pavement, the changing scenery, the control you feel behind the wheel. Out West, especially, there are roads where you might drive miles without seeing another car, just you and an endless sky. It’s hard not to feel a sort of transcendence in those moments, a connection to the vastness of the country and a sense of personal insignificance (in a good way). In a land where people often feel pressured by time and schedules, the open road offers a taste of freedom (there’s that word again) – you set the pace, you choose the destination or lack thereof.

Of course, not everything is rosy on the interstates. The joke that Americans measure distance in hours, not miles tells you something – we’ll casually say “Oh it’s a short 5-hour drive away,” and think nothing of it. For someone from a smaller country, 5 hours might traverse nations; for us, it’s a day trip. That can be exhausting. And then there’s traffic – the bane of the road. Get stuck on I-95 near NYC or the 405 in LA at rush hour and you’ll experience nirvana in reverse. Road rage is real; patience can wear thin. Also, not every road trip is the Instagrammable dream – sometimes it’s kids screaming in the backseat, a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, or arguments over directions (yes, even with GPS, trust me). As much as the road trip is romanticized, it’s also mundane at times: lots of sitting, sore butts, and greasy fast food because that’s all there is at the exit.

Still, ask Americans about their most memorable vacations or life experiences, and road trip stories inevitably pop up. It could be the classic post-college cross-country drive, the family trip to Disney World complete with the Grand Canyon detour, or that time a few friends rented a car just to drive up the California coast on Highway 1, ocean on one side, cliffs on the other – pure magic. Road trips make us feel connected to this giant land and to each other. The car becomes a little bubble world where deep conversations happen (“Are we there yet?” doesn’t count), playlists are perfected, and silly games like “I Spy” or counting state license plates pass the hours. You learn a lot about people when you’re stuck with them in a car for days – sometimes too much (the snoring, the music tastes, the bathroom habits at rest stops). But that’s intimacy, folks.

To say road trips are an American religion is only slight hyperbole. We have our holy scriptures (Rand McNally atlases and now Google Maps), our rituals (snacks, playlists, roadside selfies), and our Meccas (National Parks, Mount Rushmore, Route 66). In a land so vast, the road trip is how many of us make meaning of the space – turning geography into narrative. It’s travel democratized; you don’t have to be rich to do it (some do it on a shoestring budget, sleeping in the car or camping). All you need is wheels, some gas money, and a willingness to embrace uncertainty. Because no matter how meticulously you plan, the road always holds surprises – a detour, a hidden gem of a restaurant, a breathtaking sunset somewhere in Kansas that you didn’t expect to move you, or a random chat with a local at a gas pump that sticks in your mind.

In an era of cheap flights and virtual reality, the road trip remains stubbornly analog. It’s physical, it’s real, and it’s a reminder that the journey matters as much as the destination (yes, cheesy, but true). As long as there are roads and people with a streak of wanderlust, you’ll see cars heading out, luggage on the roof, that gleam of adventure in the driver’s eyes. It’s the call of the open road – and answering it is perhaps one of the most American things one can do. So, next time you’re stateside, consider this invitation: take the wheel and explore. Join the unofficial congregation of the American road trip, where the only pews are bucket seats and the hymns are whatever’s playing on the radio. You might not find God out there on I-80, but you’ll certainly find America – sprawled out in all its perplexing, beautiful, open freedom.

Chapter 6: Guns, Flags, and Pickup Trucks

If you had to caricature America in one image, you might draw a burly guy in a pickup truck, an American flag flying in the back, a rifle rack in the rear window, and a bald eagle perched on the hood for good measure. It’s an exaggeration, sure – but like all stereotypes, it’s rooted in some truth. Guns, flags, and pickup trucks are more than objects here; they’re potent symbols, practically their own language. Together, they evoke a particular vision of America: rugged, proud, and maybe a little in-your-face. Let’s unpack this holy trinity of heartland iconography.

First up: guns. We touched on it in the freedom chapter, but it bears repeating – America has a unique gun culture. There are about 120 guns for every 100 Americans in civilian hands, which blows every other country out of the water. Many Americans grow up with guns as a normal part of household life, especially in rural areas: hunting deer on weekends, shooting cans off a fence for target practice, the old shotgun kept for “home defense” in the closet. The sound of the national anthem could very well be pew pew. To outsiders, this is one of the hardest things to grok about the U.S. – how a developed society tolerates so many firearms and the attendant violence. But inside the American psyche, guns are tangled up with ideas of self-reliance, frontier spirit, and mistrust of authority (the idea that an armed populace keeps the government in check). The Second Amendment to the Constitution enshrines the right to bear arms, and many interpret it as near-sacred. The result is a country where you can legally buy an AR-15 rifle at 18 in many places, but you can’t buy a beer until 21. That contrast speaks volumes.

Now, not every American is gun-toting, of course. In fact, ownership is skewed – a smaller percentage owns lots of guns. And there’s a stark urban-rural divide. In big cities, you might never see a gun (aside from police) and many urbanites favor strict gun control. In contrast, in the countryside guns are tools and toys – for work, sport, and protection. Political battles over gun control are continuous. After every high-profile shooting, there’s an outcry for change; opposing that, a well-organized gun lobby and millions of enthusiasts dig in, saying “guns aren’t the problem, people are.” It’s a cultural stalemate that often leaves other nations shaking their heads. But within the U.S., gun pride is a real thing: going to the shooting range is a hobby, passing down Grandpa’s rifle is a cherished tradition, and owning a firearm is, for many, a point of pride in being a “true” American (independent, capable of defending oneself). As bumper stickers joke, “I carry a gun because a cop is too heavy.” It’s dark humor, indicative of the view that ultimately you are responsible for your own safety.

Next, flags. The American flag is everywhere. It’s one of the most recognized symbols worldwide, sure, but inside America it’s almost an obsession. Many countries fly their flag on government buildings; Americans fly it on their homes, wear it on their shirts and swimsuits, plaster it on pickup truck decals, and stick little flag toothpicks in cupcakes on July 4th. Owning and displaying the flag is extremely common – over half of U.S. adults have an American flag at home. The flag is treated with a kind of reverence (there are even official guidelines: don’t let it touch the ground, illuminate it at night if flown, etc.). Yet at the same time, it’s often stylized, altered into art, or used in marketing – which might seem irreverent but is widely accepted. You’ll see flags in front of Walmarts, flags on construction cranes, flags everywhere after a national tragedy or during patriotic holidays. It’s as if flying the flag is a way of saying “I’m on Team America.”

But as with everything, context is key. In, say, a diverse city neighborhood, the flag might be just a benign display of national pride or celebration of Independence Day. In a polarized climate, some see an over-abundance of flags as a kind of signaling of a particular conservative or nationalist sentiment. (For example, far-right groups often wave oversized flags at rallies, so some minorities have voiced that they feel uneasy seeing too many flags in certain contexts – because they’ve been claimed by groups that don’t represent inclusive patriotism.) Still, by and large, Americans of all stripes use the flag positively. Post-9/11, flags sprouted on every surface as a show of unity. When an Olympic athlete wins, out comes the flag cape. When an American astronaut steps on the moon – darn right they plant the Stars and Stripes. The flag has star power (pun intended). It’s also heavily present in schools; kids pledge allegiance to it daily in many schools, a ritual that foreigners sometimes find odd (it’s like a brief secular prayer to the nation each morning).

One funny contradiction: the U.S. Flag Code actually discourages using the flag image on clothing or merchandise, considering it disrespectful – yet ironically, wearing flag-patterned shorts or bikini on July 4th is totally common. Americans don’t see that as disrespect; it’s more like enthusiastic celebration. Flag swimsuits, flag sunglasses, flag everything – patriotism can be kitsch here. The commercialization of patriotism means one can grill a hotdog with one hand and hold a flag-themed beer koozie in the other, feeling very proud indeed.

Lastly, pickup trucks – oh, the beloved pickup. The Ford F-Series pickup has been America’s best-selling vehicle for decades. Not just truck – vehicle, period. In a nation that gave the world the Mustang and the Cadillac, the humble (well, increasingly not humble in size) pickup truck reigns supreme. In rural and suburban areas, pickups are ubiquitous. They’re practical for hauling stuff: lumber, tools, boats, you name it. But they’re also a lifestyle symbol. Owning a pickup can signal that you’re down-to-earth, maybe a bit outdoorsy or handy. In country songs (an entire genre basically built on Americana tropes), the word “truck” appears almost as often as “love” or “beer”. A shiny pickup truck is often part of a young man’s identity – sometimes comically so, with lifted suspensions and big tires to assert dominance (and perhaps compensate for something… who knows).

The pickup ties into the idea of rugged individualism. It’s the modern horse of the cowboy ethos. The popularity of trucks extends beyond those who “need” them for work. A corporate executive might drive a massive RAM 1500 on weekends to tow jet skis, or frankly just to have a commanding view on the road. Trucks have gotten extremely luxurious too – heated seats, touchscreen infotainment, you name it – but the image projected is still that of toughness. It’s not unusual to hear truck owners talk about their vehicle with the kind of affection others reserve for pets. And indeed, in Texas and many Southern or Midwestern states, a pickup is almost an expectation – it fits the wide roads and wide-open spaces. Parking one in dense cities, on the other hand, is like trying to dock the Titanic at a canoe slip.

Now, put guns, flags, and trucks together, and you have a specific cultural tableau often associated with small-town or rural Americana, especially the South and Midwest. It’s the domain of country fairs, Fourth of July parades with flag-festooned floats, and weekends spent hunting or fishing. Patriotism and firepower often go hand-in-hand in this image: think of photos of families where even the kids hold rifles in a holiday card, all smiling in front of an American flag backdrop (yes, those exist). Some Americans see that and think “proud, traditional, heartland values.” Others might think “yee-haw, here come the rednecks.” The truth is, symbols can mean wildly different things depending on who’s perceiving them.

For instance, a big pickup with a giant flag flying off the back – for many, that’s just an enthusiastic display of patriotism (common on holidays or at pro-America rallies). For others, especially if it’s not a holiday, it might read as a sort of aggressive nationalism, maybe even a middle finger to certain progressive values. It really depends on context and the social environment. In recent years, flags have also been used to signal political allegiance – e.g., the proliferation of flags with specific slogans (like “Trump 2024” or the Confederate flag – which is a whole other polarizing symbol beyond our current trio). But sticking to Old Glory: it’s usually intended positively by the displayer, though received variably.

Gun rack in the pickup? That’s a classic movie image, but indeed in many rural areas, it’s normal. Some high schools even have policies for students driving trucks to campus with hunting rifles during deer season (locked and unloaded, ideally). This is unimaginable in other countries or even other parts of the U.S. But that’s the patchwork of local norms here. One town’s normal is another city’s scandal.

There’s also an element of political theater with these symbols. Politicians donning flannel and hopping in a pickup to prove they’re “one of the folks” – it happens all the time in campaign season. Photo ops of candidates holding guns or standing in front of an oversize flag – the pandering is blatant. Why? Because these symbols resonate emotionally with a large chunk of voters. They evoke tradition, strength, and reliability. It says: “I love America, I work hard, I’m not some fancy elite.” Even if the politician flies back to DC and hasn’t shot a gun in 20 years, the image is what counts.

Let’s not forget the cultural exports of these symbols. Hollywood often uses guns and trucks to signify American-ness in films (the hero’s got a trusty shotgun and an old pickup – you instantly place him as an all-American good ol’ boy). And American tourists abroad with flag patches on their backpacks? A bit gauche perhaps, but it happens (though many smart ones wear a Canadian flag patch instead to get friendlier treatment – a travel hack!). The point is, these things are shorthand for America in many narratives.

Humor and satire also latch on. Comedians joke, “You might be a redneck if... you have more guns than teeth” or “if your truck cost more than your education.” Late-night hosts poke fun at political rallies that look like country jamborees drenched in flags. And who can ignore the entire meme-iverse around American excess: someone in a pickup doing donuts with flags flying, captioned “Murica!” (the colloquial, exaggerated slang for America).

Amidst the humor and controversy, there is a positive interpretation too. Guns (when used safely) can mean self-sufficiency and a connection to nature through hunting. Flags mean community and unity – at sports events when everyone sings the anthem together, it’s a goosebump moment of collective identity regardless of differences. And pickup trucks often mean neighborliness: how many times has a friend with a truck helped someone move apartments or pulled a stranger’s car out of a ditch? There’s a reason trucks are associated with being a good neighbor (hence all those truck commercials emphasizing dependability and altruism, like helping someone in a flood – cue the sentimental country music).

So, Guns, Flags, and Pickup Trucks – individually and combined – form a sort of holy imagery for a swath of Americans. They represent freedom, pride, and toughness. Critics might say they also represent obstinance, nationalism, and machismo. Both can be true in their own way. This trifecta can be comforting or threatening, depending on who you are. A soldier’s funeral with flags and a rifle salute is solemn and respectful. A convoy of trucks rolling into a city blaring political slogans might be intimidating to some. Context is everything.

One thing’s for sure: these symbols aren’t disappearing. They’re deeply woven into the fabric of U.S. life. If anything, they wax and wane with the cultural tides. In times of crisis, flags multiply as people seek unity. In times of fear, gun sales surge as people seek security (gun sales hitting records in recent years, millions in 2022 alone). And in times of cheap gas (like the 1990s), big trucks proliferate – when gas is pricey, maybe a few people swap for smaller cars, but Americans’ love for trucks has proven remarkably fuel-price-inelastic (they’ll complain but keep buying).

For a foreign friend trying to understand, I’d say: imagine these objects as totems, each carrying historical weight. The guns harken back to minutemen and wild west cowboys. The flags to revolution and unity. The trucks to blue-collar work and exploration of the frontier (wagon trains modernized). They’re charged with history and myth. To engage with Americans on these, tread carefully – you might step on a landmine of sentiment. But also, feel free to ask polite questions; many Americans love explaining their hobbies or symbols, especially if you show genuine curiosity rather than judgment. You might find the gun owner also loves cooking for the neighborhood barbecue (grills are another sacred item, but I digress), the flag waver might volunteer at the local charity, and the pickup driver could be a tech geek in disguise. Stereotypes only go so far.

In closing, this trio can be summed up in a hypothetical scenario: It’s a summer afternoon, somewhere in small-town USA. A guy finishes work at a construction site (his trusty pickup dust-covered from the job). He throws his hunting rifle in the back because later he’s going to go see if the deer are moving at dusk. He heads home, where his porch proudly flies the American flag. He cracks open a beer, sits on the tailgate of his truck, and watches the sun dip low over fields that his granddad used to farm. He feels content – he’s got his wheels, his rights, and his country. That feeling, that scene – that’s the warm glow of a certain American ideal. Agree or not, it’s a slice of what “USA, as is” looks like for many. And as long as that ideal lives on, so will the guns, flags, and pickup trucks that symbolize it.

Chapter 7: Hollywood vs. Real Life

The iconic Hollywood sign overlooks Los Angeles, a beacon of the entertainment world’s glamour and fantasy. But how much does Tinseltown’s image of America match the everyday reality of its people? If you learned about the United States only from Hollywood movies and TV shows, you’d have a rather skewed picture. According to Hollywood, American high schoolers all look 25 and break into choreographed dance at prom. New York City apartments are gigantic and affordable on a barista’s salary. Every small-town girl can move to L.A., get “discovered” while waitressing, and become a star. And apparently, a shocking percentage of lawyers, doctors, and cops are irresistibly attractive and have snappy dialogue at the ready. Hollywood sells a dream – or rather, a reel – that often clashes with real life.

Let’s start with the glamour vs the grind. On screen, even the struggles are often romanticized. Take the classic striving artist trope: in movies, a young hopeful arrives in Hollywood with big dreams, faces a montage of auditions and rejections, then lands the breakthrough role. In reality, Los Angeles is teeming with tens of thousands of aspiring actors, writers, and directors who toil for years (often indefinitely) waiting for that break that statistically will never come. The phrase “Hollywood is full of waiters who are actors” is no joke – being a server, bartender, or Uber driver is the gig between auditions. For every starlet on the red carpet, there are thousands of talented people hustling in anonymity. Real life Hollywood is less champagne and caviar, more coffee and hustling side jobs. There’s even a bit of dark humor locals share: “Welcome to LA! You’re not an actor, you’re a content creator now.” The social media age pressures hopefuls to build a brand on TikTok or YouTube, adding another layer of grind.

Hollywood also tends to depict American life as disproportionately affluent and exciting. The reality: the average American watches nearly 3 hours of TV a day, likely sitting on a basic couch in a home that does not resemble a designer loft. Those detective shows where crimes get solved in an hour with high-tech gadgetry? Most real police work is paperwork and waiting on lab results that take weeks. Medical dramas where the brilliant surgeon yells a catchphrase and saves the patient in the nick of time? Real hospitals are more mundane, and the doctor probably spent 30 minutes on the phone with an insurance company to get that procedure approved. Even our comedy depictions of family life – think sitcoms – often have folks living in nice suburban houses or huge city apartments while their job descriptions don’t match that income. (The eternal joke: how did the cast of Friends afford that Manhattan apartment? Answer: they didn’t, a grandma’s rent control is the flimsy explanation given.)

Then there’s action movies. According to them, America is an endless parade of car chases, shootouts, and world-ending crises thwarted by buff heroes. Real life: if your day involved zero explosions and only a moderate amount of traffic, it was a good day. One could argue Hollywood’s biggest special effect is making America seem far more dramatic than it is. Most American towns are not Gotham City levels of crime-ridden, and most American workplaces are not as adrenaline-pumping as The Wolf of Wall Street or Suits. In fact, many Americans might say life can be a bit too boring – the daily routine of commute, work, errands, Netflix. The real America has a lot more “daily grind” and a lot less “third-act climax.”

One amusing discrepancy: high school. Hollywood high schools are basically model agencies with lockers. The actors are often much older, with perfect teeth and wardrobes. Real high schoolers deal with acne, dress code rules, and pimples of insecurity, not full faces of makeup at 7am. Sure, there are cliques and drama as portrayed, but not everyone looks like Zac Efron or has a musical number in the cafeteria. And while teen movies often show a wild party when parents are away, more often actual teens might be found... playing video games or making TikToks. Speaking of TikTok, Hollywood is sometimes slow to incorporate how digital life has changed social interactions. For instance, rom-coms still love the meet-cute at a bookstore, but in reality a growing number of couples meet on dating apps or social media. (How many rom-coms show two people swiping right and then ghosting each other a week later? That script probably wouldn’t sell.)

City life in Hollywood is usually hyper-stylized. New York is either glamorous (Sex and the City) or gritty in a cool way (Taxi Driver, Joker), rarely the mundanity of everyday New York where people stand in long lines at Trader Joe’s and take out smelly trash. Los Angeles on screen is endless beaches and convertibles; real LA involves a lot of smoggy commutes and finding parking spaces. Rural life? Often shown as quaint or backward, depending on the narrative need – like either a Hallmark movie’s idyllic small town with Christmas magic, or a horror movie’s creepy backwoods. Most small towns are neither; they’re just quieter, slower, and people’s lives revolve around local schools, churches, sports, and Walmart. The drama is more local gossip than ghostly ghouls or serendipitous love triangles.

Hollywood vs. Real Life also plays out in how Americans sometimes perceive themselves. There’s a phenomenon where people feel their lives are inadequate because they’re not as exciting or picture-perfect as what they see on screen. Like, why isn’t my friend group constantly hanging out in a coffee shop swapping witty banter like on “Friends”? Why doesn’t my house look like a HGTV renovation? Social media’s curated images add to this, but Hollywood set the stage. The truth is, sets are meticulously designed by professionals – real homes have clutter and mismatched furniture. Friends in shows have writers providing snappy comebacks – real friends sometimes just scroll on their phones together in silence. It’s okay; reality has awkward pauses and laundry day.

Hollywood has also shaped non-Americans’ expectations of the U.S. Many visitors are surprised that the U.S. isn’t exactly how movies made it seem. A common reaction: “There are so many boring strip malls!” Indeed, American daily landscape is often chain stores and parking lots, which get little screen time in favor of picturesque or dramatic locales. Another one: “Where are all the super fit, beautiful people?” – to which Americans might laugh and point out that Hollywood casts the fittest of the fit, whereas the U.S. actually has diverse body types and the aforementioned high obesity rate. Also, background extras in films are deliberately chosen to look a certain way, whereas actual crowds have a wonderful variety of fashion fails and quirky individuals.

One stark Hollywood myth: Cowboys and the Wild West. You’d think half the country rides horses and has shootouts at high noon if you watch Westerns. While the cowboy legacy is real history and there are ranchers and rodeos still today, the average American’s cowboy experience is maybe wearing jeans and watching Yellowstone on TV. The frontier spirit persists in ethos (entrepreneurial risk, love of wide-open spaces), but practically, no, we don’t all carry lassos.

Superhero culture is another: Marvel and DC movies dominate globally, giving the impression Americans are obsessed with heroes. Actually, yes, comic book heroes are popular – but it’s a relatively escapist hobby. Real life heroes are more likely to be a beloved teacher or a community firefighter than an Iron Man. Yet, interestingly, the near-religious fervor for superhero franchises shows how Hollywood fantasies become a shared national (and international) conversation. There’s almost a parallel reality – the Marvel Cinematic Universe – that millions know intimately, while perhaps not knowing their neighbor’s name. There’s something to be said about that: how fiction can overshadow reality in cultural importance.

And what about Hollywood’s portrayal of relationships and family? Often simplified or idealized. Sitcom families exchange zingers but ultimately hug it out in 22 minutes. Real families might harbor grudges or have issues that don’t resolve neatly. Dating in rom-coms features grand gestures and clear-cut happy endings, whereas real dating can be messy (Chapter 3 Ghosting shows that!). The danger is when people expect Hollywood outcomes – like thinking a grand airport chase will fix a relationship, when in real life it might just get you detained by TSA.

However, Hollywood does get some things right or at least provides aspirational targets. It has increasingly shown diverse casts and stories, reflecting the real melting pot of America. It can challenge social issues – films about racism, inequality, etc., can spark real conversations (though some accuse Hollywood of patting itself on the back too much for it). Also, Hollywood has painted such a powerful picture of American cool that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy in some ways. Cities like New York and LA maintain a mystique that draws ambitious people – life then imitates art as those cities do become centers of dramatic endeavors. Likewise, shows about, say, tech geniuses (The Social Network or Silicon Valley) feed into the narrative that America is the place for innovation, inspiring more actual innovation.

But for most Americans, the contrast is acute: life is mostly ordinary moments, not cinematic scenes. A typical weekday might involve packing the kids’ lunches (not very Hollywood unless a raccoon snatches the lunchbox and a CGI chase ensues), commuting while listening to a true-crime podcast, working at a desk (how many movies show someone diligently doing 8 hours of office work? Hardly any, unless it’s a depressing montage in a drama about breaking free), then microwaving a frozen dinner and watching – yep – something on Netflix or cable that likely depicts life more entertainingly than one’s own. Americans love Hollywood precisely because it isn’t real life. It’s escape, it’s aspiration, it’s something to talk about. The Oscars get huge attention – glamorous stars and fashion – even though we logically know it’s a bubble. It’s fun to gawk at the spectacle precisely because our lives are sweatpants and takeout in comparison.

Now, Hollywood vs. real life can sometimes collide in unpleasant ways. Tourists in LA roam around looking for celebrities and are shocked that Hollywood (the neighborhood) is kinda grungy and full of souvenir shops and costumed street performers hustling for tips. And celebrities themselves? They’re real people, not the characters they play, but celebrity worship is strong. Some Americans track every move of the Kardashians or Marvel stars as if it were important news. Celebrity gossip magazines fill supermarket racks. It creates this odd dynamic where fictional characters and real actors blur – people project fictional personas onto real actors and then are disappointed when the real person is different (or does something human like have a bad day).

In everyday communities, you can see subtle Hollywood influence: people quote movies all the time (“Houston, we have a problem”, “May the Force be with you”, etc. – lines from decades old films that everyone just knows). Some try to emulate fashion they see on TV. Even humor is influenced – a lot of friends banter by referencing funny scenes or imitating comedic actors’ styles. It’s a common cultural currency. This all underscores the sheer reach of Hollywood in shaping what Americans laugh at, dream about, and consider “normal” to say or do.

Yet, Americans are also aware of the gap. We joke about how movies aren’t like reality. We roll eyes at tropes (like how LA characters never seem to encounter traffic – ha!). There’s a thriving online snark community that points out goofs and unrealistic moments. So it’s not that Americans are deluded; most know fiction is fiction. But it does create expectations that sometimes clash with reality – like why our justice system doesn’t wrap up cases in a week like on Law & Order, or why our love lives don’t have background music swelling at just the right moment.

Perhaps one of the biggest Hollywood illusions is the notion of constant novelty and change. Movies and shows rarely focus on what happens after the big reunion or the big win. But real life goes on. The camera doesn’t cut after the wedding kiss – the couple has to deal with married life. The sports hero, after winning the championship, has to figure out retirement or next season. Real life is what happens after the climax, something Hollywood seldom portrays because it’s less exciting. There’s a reason there’s no popular sequel called “After Happily Ever After: The Mundane Married Years.” That’s left to our imaginations – or to reality TV (which, ironically, is often scripted or manipulated too, so even “reality” TV isn’t quite real).

In sum, Hollywood is like America’s dreamy reflection in the mirror – recognizable, but airbrushed and dramatized. It captures American themes (ambition, love, conflict, triumph) but polishes them to a shine that everyday life doesn’t have. It’s both an escape for Americans and a soft-power export shaping how others see us. And sometimes, it loops back – inspiring people to actually change their lives (someone sees a travel film and decides to road trip, or watches a legal drama and goes to law school). But for the most part, when the credits roll, Americans turn off the TV and sigh – back to reality, which has fewer clear story arcs and more laundry. We relish Hollywood’s visions, but we live in a world of grocery store runs and dentist appointments.

The trick is to enjoy the fantasy while keeping one foot on the ground. As the saying goes: “Movies are magic, but life is the real adventure.” It just has a lot less background music and a lot more scenes of brushing your teeth. And that’s okay – because if life were as intense as the movies all the time, we’d all be exhausted. Hollywood gives us the highs and lows in concentrated form, whereas real life stretches them out with lots of breathers in between. Maybe that’s for the best.

So next time you see a Hollywood blockbuster or binge a series, remember: the United States “as is” might not have that constant gloss or melodrama, but it’s where the genuine, unedited stories happen. And sometimes they’re even better than fiction – just with more potholes on the road to get there.

Chapter 8: Suburbs, Cities, and the Middle of Nowhere

America is a vast patchwork of urban sprawls, suburban seas of houses, and wide-open rural spaces (a.k.a. “the middle of nowhere”). Each comes with its own lifestyle and culture, almost like parallel universes coexisting in one country. An American’s day-to-day experience can be drastically different depending on whether they live in a Manhattan high-rise, a cul-de-sac in Ohio, or a farmhouse in Kansas. And yet, these environments are all quintessentially American in their own ways. Let’s take a road trip through each.

Cities: The U.S. has some of the world’s most famous cities – New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, etc. American cities are often big and sprawling, with downtown skyscrapers and miles of surrounding neighborhoods. They’re magnets for young people seeking jobs or adventure, immigrants starting a new life, and businesses chasing talent. Cities here can be thrilling: cultural events every night, diverse communities, iconic landmarks. New York City truly never sleeps; at 2 AM you can get pizza, see people walking dogs, and catch the subway (it might smell funky, but it runs 24/7). San Francisco has techies sipping gourmet coffee while discussing startups (and sadly, a visible homelessness crisis juxtaposed against extreme wealth). New Orleans pulses with music and history but also grapples with hurricanes and infrastructure issues. Every city has its vibe, but there are common threads: high energy, higher costs. City dwellers pay a premium to live in shoebox apartments (often sharing walls with loud neighbors or the occasional vermin). They sacrifice space and sometimes serenity, but they gain access to opportunity and excitement.

City life in America means public transportation if you’re lucky (NYC, DC, Chicago have decent systems), or constant traffic if you’re in the likes of LA or Houston (where public transit is meh, so everyone drives). It means having ethnic cuisines at your doorstep – from Ethiopian injera to Korean BBQ tacos – a reflection of immigrant communities and foodie culture. It also means dealing with social issues up close: inequality is stark in cities, where a banker in a suit steps over a person sleeping on the sidewalk. Yet, cities are where movements are born: protests, Pride parades, innovations in art and technology. The density fosters creativity and confrontation alike.

American cities can awe foreigners but also confuse them. Some expect a gleaming metropolis and find parts of our cities quite rough. The U.S. doesn’t have the uniformly beautiful city centers of say, Europe. We have shiny new buildings next to crumbling ones. Our history is shorter, so “old town” might mean 19th century. But the trade-off is a feeling of vibrancy – cities here reinvent themselves constantly. Take Detroit, once the poster child for urban decay after the auto industry decline, now slowly rebounding with art and entrepreneurship. Or look at Seattle, transformed by tech giants like Amazon from a rainy grunge-rock town to a mega-boomtown (with housing prices to match).

Suburbs: Ah, the American suburb – land of identical houses, lawns, and strip malls. After World War II, suburbia exploded as millions pursued that fabled house with a yard. Today, about 55% of Americans live in suburbs (depending on definition) – making it arguably the default American experience. Suburbs vary regionally, but often they mean single-family homes arranged in subdivisions, shopping centers with big parking lots, schools and parks sprinkled about, and a near-total dependence on cars. The image of a suburban morning: a line of SUVs dropping kids at school, Starbucks drive-thrus doing brisk business, moms and dads commuting to city jobs or nearby office parks.

Suburbs are often criticized as boring or conformist – “suburban hell” in some lexicon – but many Americans love them for the very reasons detractors sneer: quiet streets, predictability, a sense of community (or at least security). It’s where kids play in cul-de-sacs and ride bikes to a friend’s house (if they exist outside of screens nowadays). Public schools in suburbs are often better funded than in cities or rural areas, which is a big draw for families. There are usually sports leagues, Little League baseball games on warm evenings, maybe a community pool. It’s a somewhat sheltered life – you’re not likely to see extreme poverty or ultra-wealth up close, as suburbs tend to be economically sorted (middle class in one, wealthier enclaves in another).

Of course, not all suburbs are cookie-cutter Pleasantvilles. Some are very diverse (especially those close to cities or where immigrant communities settle – you might find an Indian grocery next to an American supermarket in a New Jersey suburb, for instance). Some are struggling economically, especially older suburbs where jobs left. But generally, suburbia stands for a comfortable, if car-centric, middle ground. The downside? Car-centric indeed – you often can’t walk to anything except maybe a neighbor’s house. Want milk? Drive to the supermarket. Want to see a movie? Drive to the multiplex by the mall. The joke is that in suburbs, everyone has a big backyard but no one is in them; they’re all out driving to Target. There’s truth to the monotony critique: many suburbs have identical chain stores and restaurants, so you could be in suburban Atlanta or suburban Minneapolis and not tell the difference from the big-box landscape. Hence “Generica”.

Suburban social life revolves a lot around home and kids. Backyard barbecues, Halloween trick-or-treating down the block, PTA meetings, maybe a neighborhood Facebook group (where people get oddly passionate about trash pickup schedules or someone not mowing their lawn). There’s also the infamous HOA (Homeowners Association) in some subdivisions – essentially a local body that enforces rules like what color you can paint your house or whether you can park a boat in your driveway. People have epic battles in some HOAs; petty suburban drama can be very real (like that neighbor who complains your fence is two inches too high).

Now, the Middle of Nowhere – which we should more politely call rural America. This encompasses small towns, farmlands, mountains, desert hamlets – any place far from major urban centers. Roughly 1 in 7 Americans live in rural areas. These are places where you might drive 20 miles to find a grocery store, and where nature is close and neighbors are distant. The middle of nowhere can be idyllic or challenging or both. On the plus side: space, tranquility, tight-knit communities (everyone knows everyone, for better or worse). People take pride in self-sufficiency – maybe they have a vegetable garden, maybe they hunt deer and actually eat the venison, maybe they fix their own tractors. There’s a lot of community interdependence too: when someone’s barn burns down, neighbors rally to help; when snowstorms hit, folks check on the elderly.

But rural life also means limited access – to healthcare (the nearest hospital could be hours away), to jobs (industries like farming or mining dominate, and if they falter, there aren’t many alternatives), to education and amenities (you might not have a fancy gym or a museum nearby; the big event might be the county fair or a high school football game). A phrase often heard is “small-town mentality” – which can imply traditional values, suspicion of outsiders or change, but also could mean genuine neighborliness and community support. It’s nuanced. Some rural areas are struggling with population loss as young people move out (the lure of cities or suburbs for better jobs and more excitement). There are ghost towns dotting the map where mines closed or interstates bypassed a town and it withered. Others, however, might be thriving on modern farming, or tourism (think small towns near national parks), or becoming retreats for remote workers who want an escape.

Culturally, the rural U.S. is often associated with country music, church on Sundays, and a slower pace of life. Front porches and sweet tea in the South, pick-up trucks (we covered that) bouncing on dirt roads, and an impressive knowledge of weather patterns – because when you’re closer to the land, you pay attention to nature. A farmer can tell you exactly when the first frost is likely or how the drought is affecting crops.

However, not all rural places are the same: New England villages (with white steeple churches and foliage tourists) differ from Midwest farm country (endless cornfields and grain silos) which differ from Appalachian hollers (houses nestled in mountains) which differ from frontier Alaskan outposts (where the “neighbor” might be a bear). The “middle of nowhere” is a catch-all that belies this variety. But a common experience is isolation – physical and sometimes ideological. Rural Americans often feel overlooked by the coastal city-centric media and politics. They have grievances about lack of infrastructure (like why does my internet still crawl at snail’s pace? Yes, broadband can be lousy out there). They might be more socially conservative typically, holding onto older ways as urban areas zoom ahead with progressive trends. This urban-rural divide is a big factor in U.S. politics and culture wars – each side sometimes caricatures the other (cities see rural folks as backward; rural folks see city dwellers as arrogant and out-of-touch). Bridging that divide is a challenge.

Interestingly, some people’s life journeys go through all three zones. Perhaps born in a small town, move to a city for college or work, then settle in a suburb to raise a family. Or vice versa: city kid moves to rural area to get off the grid. The mobility is there, but people often stick to what they know. Visiting each can almost feel like visiting different countries. The language might even shift – not literally, but accent and slang do. A Brooklynite talking with a Texan rancher is both speaking English, but with different twangs and idioms (“fuggedaboutit” vs “y’all come back now”).

Each environment has its romantic image and its reality. Suburbs were idealized as the American Dream (your own plot of land) but critiqued as soul-crushing monotony. Cities are shown as places of opportunity and glamour, but come with rats (literal rats) and high rents. Rural life is painted as wholesome and natural, but can be isolating and lacks convenience. Many Americans harbor a bit of grass-is-greener about the others: city folks daydream of a quiet country cabin; country folks wonder about exciting city nights; suburbanites think maybe ditching the car and moving downtown would be nice, while some city dwellers envy the space of a suburban house (until they remember the horror of mowing lawns).

One must mention exurbs too – those far-flung suburbs nearly rural but still tied to a city’s orbit. These grew as people sought cheaper housing even if it meant long commutes. It’s like a suburb plopped in cornfields. America keeps expanding outward where land is available, making the boundary between suburb and rural blur in some regions.

Then there’s the truly middle of nowhere – like parts of the Great Plains where cattle vastly outnumber people (Wyoming has about 2.2 cows per person). Drive through states like Nebraska or Montana and you’ll hit stretches where radio goes silent, your phone loses signal, and you realize what empty means. For some, that’s terrifying; for others, that’s freedom. The big sky, the quiet – it’s meditative. These places have tiny communities that might be 50 miles apart. Some children take the bus over an hour to get to school from a ranch. There is beauty in that solitude, but it’s not for everyone.

Demographically, suburbs often lean middle-class and somewhat diverse (more so now than in the 1950s archetype). Cities contain extremes of wealth and poverty and a lot of diversity (ethnic, racial, religious, etc.). Rural areas are more homogeneous and have higher proportions of white population in many areas (though the rural South and Southwest have significant Black and Hispanic communities respectively, and many reservations have Native American majority). This plays into cultural perspectives and conversations about representation and identity.

One cultural quirk: the suburb vs city sports fandom. People in suburbs or rural areas often root passionately for the nearest city’s sports team (even if that city is hours away). It’s a way to connect. On a Sunday in rural Wisconsin, you’ll see everyone in green and gold for the Green Bay Packers, even if they live far from Green Bay.

Also, suburbs and rural areas have more space for big-box stores, so the consumer experience differs. City folk might shop at corner markets or walk to Trader Joe’s with a tote bag. Suburbanites load up at Costco with a trunk full of groceries for the week. Rural folks might have a Dollar General and a feed store and make occasional runs to Walmart in the next town. These differences seem small but shape daily routine.

Transportation too: City = public transit or walking/biking; Suburb = car, maybe a commuter train if lucky; Rural = car/truck or tractor (and maybe ATVs for fun or farm utility). A rural teenager counts down to getting a driver’s license at 16 because that’s their ticket to independence (there’s no bus to take them to see friends). A New York teen might not bother learning to drive until much later, if at all.

In terms of noise and nature: Cities have sirens, garbage trucks at dawn, and light pollution – you can’t see many stars. Suburbs have lawnmowers and maybe barking dogs, but generally at night you can see some stars and it’s quiet by 10 pm. Rural areas – quiet enough to hear crickets, coyotes, or absolute silence broken by the occasional truck engine or cow moo. And stars? On a clear night in the country, the Milky Way splashes across the sky brilliantly – a sight many city kids have never seen. These environmental differences affect people more than they might realize – some city folks can’t sleep without the hum of traffic (silence freaks them out), while some country folks feel suffocated by city noise and crowds.

When Americans meet each other and discover one is from a big city and another from a small town, there’s often mutual curiosity (and sometimes gentle ribbing). “How do you handle not driving everywhere?” “How do you handle having to drive everywhere?” “Weren’t you bored in that tiny town?” “Weren’t you stressed in that big city?” – and so on. But a funny thing: put them abroad together, and suddenly their American-ness unites them against the foreign environment. It’s all relative. Internally we have differences, but globally we have commonality (like appreciating free public restrooms or big cups of coffee – things Americans often bond over when outside the country).

In conclusion, the U.S. is many Americas in one: the bustling city, the placid suburb, the open countryside. Each has something special: cities with their skyline and cultural buzz, suburbs with their stability and space, rural areas with natural beauty and simplicity. Americans frequently move among these worlds, so most have at least a sense of the others. And increasingly, technology links them (that rural farmer might have satellite internet and binge Netflix too). The key to understanding America is knowing it’s not monolithic – Manhattan and rural Alabama could be different planets in some respects. Yet, no matter where Americans live, certain threads tie them together: a love of freedom (city folks enjoy diverse expression, rural folks enjoy independence), a sense of community (whether in a skyscraper or a silo, people look out for their own), and oddly enough, chain restaurants (because whether you’re in Phoenix or Peoria, you might find comfort in the same taste of McDonald’s fries).

So whether you find yourself on a city subway pressed among strangers, or driving a lonely highway flanked by wheat fields, remember – it’s all authentically America, as is. Each setting is a piece of the grand puzzle, contributing its lifestyle and perspective to the national story.

Chapter 9: Healthcare, Taxes, and the DMV (Modern Hell)

Every country has its share of bureaucratic torment, but there’s a special flavor to American life’s trio of modern hells: dealing with healthcare, taxes, and the DMV. These are the great equalizers – no matter who you are, these systems will test your patience, sanity, and perhaps your vocabulary of curse words. Americans joke that these are the necessary evils of adulthood, the price of modern living in the USA, akin to Hercules’ labors but far less glorious. Let’s commiserate on each.

Healthcare: For a country that boasts some of the best medical technology and doctors in the world, the U.S. healthcare system is, in a word, bonkers. Unlike many nations where healthcare is universal or mostly free at point-of-service, here it’s a complex maze of private insurance, employer plans, government programs, and out-of-pocket expenses that can be ruinous. The experience of a typical American: You start a new job and have to pick a health insurance plan with a bewildering menu of deductibles, premiums, co-pays, PPO vs HMO, in-network vs out-of-network providers – it’s like learning a foreign language. Then, when you actually get sick or need a procedure, you may face hefty bills even with insurance. People have cried upon receiving hospital invoices – a band-aid for $200, an x-ray for $1000. It’s notorious: an aspirin in a hospital can cost $25 or more. Why? Long story involving administrative costs, lack of price controls, and profiteering – but the result is Americans live with a background anxiety about healthcare costs.

Consider this: over 8% of Americans have no health insurance at all (about 27 million people). For them, getting seriously ill is not just a health crisis but a financial catastrophe. Medical bills are a leading cause of bankruptcy. Even those with insurance often delay care because of cost (like “Hmm, this pain is bad, but do I want to pay the $50 co-pay plus whatever lab tests cost? Maybe I’ll wait…”). It’s a sad irony that in the richest nation, people have to crowdfund for life-saving treatments; sites like GoFundMe are full of pleas to help pay medical bills. That’s our de facto social safety net sometimes.

The actual care can be excellent when accessible. If you have good insurance and live near top hospitals, you can get cutting-edge treatments. But the bureaucracy around it is hellish. Pre-approvals, claim denials – insurance companies may say “we won’t cover that MRI your doctor ordered” and you have to fight it out. Hours on the phone with an insurer (on hold, transferred thrice, explaining and re-explaining) can feel like battling a mythological beast. And God forbid you get a surprise bill because some doctor in your surgery was out-of-network (you often don’t have control; it’s not like you ask the anesthesiologist mid-surgery “Hey, you on my plan?”). Laws are being made to curb surprise billing, but it still happens.

There’s a gallows humor among Americans about healthcare: “Don’t get sick, you can’t afford it,” or “In America, breaking your arm is cheaper if you also break your wallet.” People swap strategies like trading war stories: “If you get that lab test, ask for the cash price, sometimes it’s cheaper than using insurance.” Or “Always double-check the bill, they might charge you for something you didn’t get.” It’s a part-time job managing healthcare. The frustration crosses the political spectrum – everyone agrees it’s a mess, but not on how to fix it. So it lurches on.

Now, Taxes. They say nothing is certain except death and taxes, but in the U.S., taxes come with a side of headache. It’s not that Americans pay more tax than everywhere (our overall tax burden is lower than many European countries actually), it’s that filing taxes is a dreaded annual ritual. The tax code is famously convoluted – thousands of pages of rules and deductions that change frequently. Many other countries have straightforward filing or the government pre-calculates it for you. Here, most people have to file a return each spring, and if you screw up, well, hello IRS audit. The kicker: the average taxpayer spends 13 hours and $250+ preparing their tax return – gathering forms, maybe using software or hiring an accountant. Collectively, Americans spend billions of hours on tax compliance – a productivity sinkhole the size of a black hole.

So every year, around March-April, you’ll see Americans sighing about “ugh, I gotta do my taxes.” Tax-prep companies advertise heavily (they basically profit off the complexity). It’s a running joke that the U.S. tax system is like if a bank sent you a letter: “We know how much you owe us, but you have to figure it out. If you guess wrong, you’re in trouble.” Indeed, the government often does know (from employer pay reports, etc.), but due to lobbying by the tax prep industry, we still self-report with possibility of error. It’s bonkers, and we know it, but here we are.

And the forms! W-2s, 1099s, 1040s – they sound like droid names from Star Wars. People have manila folders labeled “TAX STUFF” filled with receipts and forms by January, prepping for the marathon. Some procrastinate until April 15 (deadline day, which has an aura of doom). Post offices used to stay open late that night for last-minute filers dropping off mail – nowadays electronic filing is the norm, so we hit “submit” on software at 11:59pm perhaps.

Tax refunds – many Americans actually overpay during the year and get a refund, which they treat like a mini windfall (“tax refund time, gonna buy a new TV!”). It’s basically an interest-free loan to the government you gave, but people like the forced savings aspect.

Then there’s the emotional aspect: Americans disagree on whether taxes are too high or not used well. Some resent taxes bitterly (“the government is wasting my hard-earned money!”). Others don’t mind if they see it as contributing to society. But nearly everyone hates the process of doing taxes. That’s something of a unifier. Politicians often campaign on “simplifying the tax code,” but little changes – likely because each deduction or credit (for home mortgage, for having kids, for energy efficient windows etc.) has its constituency. So we’re stuck with a Jenga tower of a tax system.

Finally, the DMV – shorthand for the Department of Motor Vehicles, the state agencies where you get your driver’s license, vehicle registration, etc. If there’s one place that epitomizes bureaucratic purgatory, it’s the local DMV office. Long lines, longer wait times, grumpy clerks, endless forms – it’s the stuff of legend and comedic sketches. Ask an American about the DMV, you’ll likely get an eye-roll and maybe a PTSD flashback. Why so bad? Perhaps underfunding, understaffing, the sheer volume of people who need services, and the drudgery of the tasks (imagine dealing with people’s incorrect paperwork all day – you’d be grumpy too).

A typical DMV trip: You take off work (because they often keep banker’s hours). You arrive to a drab office with uncomfortable chairs and the ambiance of a cattle pen. You take a number – maybe you’re D92, and they’re currently serving D45. So you wait... and wait. The average wait is 44 minutes nationwide, but in some places it can be 2-3 hours. You watch the ticker, you listen to the monotone “Now serving B17 at window 4…” Occasionally someone huffs in frustration or tries to cut the line and is swiftly rebuked by staff or other patrons (“Hey buddy, we’re all waiting!”). You finally get called, only to find out you didn’t bring the right form of ID or proof of insurance, so you have to come back another day and do it again. That scenario is so common that Americans have developed almost superstitious levels of preparation for DMV visits – triple checking the document list, carrying every conceivable paper from their birth certificate to blood type.

The DMV is such a meme that in the animated film Zootopia, they portrayed all DMV workers as sloths – very on point. When someone is taking too long to do something, people quip “Ugh, move like the DMV employees already!” It’s a cultural shorthand for inefficiency.

Of course, not every DMV across all 50 states is terrible. Some have improved, adding online appointments or better customer service. But the stereotype persists because, like weather, everyone’s experienced a storm at some point. Even with appointments, you might wait; even with nice clerks, the system might be down right when you need it.

It’s not just driver’s licenses; similar dread accompanies any bureaucratic chore. Standing in line at the Social Security office, calling the cable company’s automated phone tree, dealing with building permits at City Hall – these are all mini-hells in their own way. But healthcare billing, tax filing, and the DMV are the unholy trifecta that nearly every American has to face.

There’s a unique American ethos of valuing customer service and convenience (we love our drive-thrus and friendly retail service), which is why these bureaucratic experiences sting extra. They violate the expectation of the customer being treated as king. At the DMV, the attitude is more like “We’re doing you a favor by letting you apply for this license, now behave.” It rubs against the grain of American consumer-centric culture. But maybe that’s inevitable when something isn’t a competitive business – the DMV is a monopoly, and the IRS isn’t winning any popularity contests either.

What do Americans do to cope with these hells? Humor, mostly. You’ll see cartoons in newspapers of a man turning skeletal in a DMV line, or a doctor handing a huge bill and saying “This will only hurt your wallet.” Stand-up comedians riff on tax season or insurance absurdities. It’s a shared suffering that binds us – you could start a conversation with a stranger, “The darn DMV took 3 hours!” and instantly have camaraderie.

On a more serious note, these frustrations fuel real stress. Think of an elderly person trying to navigate Medicare (government health plan for seniors) – tons of confusing mail and choices. Or a low-income family dealing with tax forms for earned income credits. Or someone on the phone with insurance while sick – it’s not just annoyance, it can impact well-being. The complexity can also breed inequity: people who can afford accountants or “concierge medicine” can offload some hassle, while others just slog through.

There have been improvements. The ACA (Obamacare) made insurance accessible to more, albeit with its own sign-up process headache. Some states auto-register you to vote at the DMV now, at least giving that civic perk for your trouble. Online tax software, while benefitting from the mess, at least walks you through in plain language (mostly). DMV appointment systems and even check-in apps exist in places – hallelujah. But, as of 2025, none of these hells has been fully gentrified into heaven.

A quick tour of the little hells: Pharmacy lines (ever wait at CVS behind someone arguing about a copay? Fun). Utility bills (mysterious fees and calling a labyrinthine call center to dispute a charge). College financial aid forms (FAFSA) – an acronym that strikes fear in students, a mountain of paperwork to get loans or grants. Airline customer service – not uniquely American, but dealing with a flight cancellation and the dreaded 1-800 number can feel Sisyphean too. It’s like adulthood is a series of bosses in a video game, each requiring patience and strategy to defeat.

So yes, American life has a lot of innovation and comfort, but also these pockets of Kafka-esque experience. Some Americans romanticize living abroad partly because “other countries have sane healthcare” or “you don’t do a bajillion forms for everything.” Conversely, some aspects of bureaucracy are worse abroad (try a multi-day process for a driver’s license in some places). But it’s telling that when ranked by citizen happiness or stress, these issues come up.

In conversation, you’ll often hear: “Why can’t we just [insert simple solution]?” For healthcare, maybe “Why not Medicare for all?” (debate rages). For taxes, “Why can’t the IRS send us a pre-filled form to confirm?” (again, politics and business interests). For DMV, “Why can’t they be more efficient or allow more online renewals?” Actually, some things you can do online now like license plate renewal, which people rejoice about – one less trip to hell. It’s getting better slowly, but not fast enough to quell the jokes.

Despite all this, Americans soldier on. We procrastinate, then we handle it. There’s almost a badge-of-honor in complaining about these – it means you’re adulting. You made it through another tax season, survived another insurance tangle. Then you go enjoy a cheeseburger or something as a reward, because dealing with such headaches definitely earns you some comfort food or a stiff drink.

To anyone moving to the U.S., a pro-tip: learn the ropes or find a friendly local to guide you. For healthcare – know which ER is in-network, question every bill. For taxes – maybe invest in TurboTax or a CPA if you can. For DMV – check if you can make an appointment or go at odd hours (mid-week mid-month tends to be less busy). And bring a book or have a good phone game to play while waiting, it helps.

Modern hell though it may be, these systems keep churning. They’re like the plumbing of society – rarely praised when working, but raising a big stink when clogged. As Americans, we take a weird pride in enduring them – it’s almost part of citizenship. You’ve got your passport, your driver’s license, and your 1040 form? Congrats, you’re a full-fledged adult in the USA. Just remember to renew everything before it expires and file everything before the deadline, or hell hath even hotter fires (penalties, fines, license suspensions – oh my!).

In the end, after navigating healthcare, taxes, and the DMV, an American might conclude: “Well, at least I live in a free country.” That’s the tongue-in-cheek refrain – free, except for all the forms, fees, and hold music. But yes, free to gripe about it without fear, and free to fight for change. And in that freedom, maybe someday these hells will freeze over and reform – one can dream. Until then, see you in line (I’ll be the one with a thick novel and a resignation on my face, waiting for D92 to be called).

Chapter 10: The Beautiful Side of America

After exploring all the quirks and contradictions, it’s worth ending on what truly makes America special – the beautiful side that inspires people to come here, stay here, and believe in its promise. And by “beautiful,” we mean both the literal beauty of the land and the spirit of its people.

First, let’s revel in America’s natural beauty. This country is a patchwork of stunning landscapes that can take your breath away. Think of standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon – gazing into an immense painted gorge that seems to swallow the horizon. Or driving along the Pacific Coast Highway in California, with cliffs on one side and the endless ocean on the other. Consider the tranquility of watching sunrise light up the red rocks of Utah’s Arches National Park, or the awe of a bison herd roaming Yellowstone’s steaming geothermal plains. The United States has 63 national parks (and hundreds of protected areas) spanning every ecosystem you can imagine. From the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies and Cascades, to the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, to the tropical paradise of Hawaii’s volcanoes and beaches, to the rolling hills and plains filled with wildflowers in the heartland – there is an almost unmatched variety of scenery. The scale is often epic. You can drive for days and watch the landscape morph from swamps (hello, Everglades), to cotton fields, to dusty deserts dotted with cacti, to towering alpine forests – all without crossing a border. America’s great outdoors inspire a deep love among its people. Camping, hiking, fishing, exploring – these are favorite pastimes. There’s a sense of freedom in the land itself: wide open skies and endless roads where you can feel the possibilities as vast as the terrain.

Beyond the well-known postcard spots, every state has its hidden gems – serene lakes at dawn, quaint farms at dusk, autumn leaves setting entire valleys ablaze with color in New England, or spring wildflowers blanketing Texas fields. Even in densely populated areas, you’ll find pockets of nature: a quiet creek trail in the suburbs or a dramatic overlook just outside the city. And Americans, for all our sprawl, are increasingly valuing conservation. There’s a growing awareness of protecting these natural treasures for future generations. Visiting national parks is almost a patriotic pilgrimage for many families – collecting memories (and those park passport stamps!) of America’s best idea, its park system.

Then there’s the cultural beauty – the uniquely American spirit and the tapestry of its people. For all our internal differences, when you zoom out, the diversity of America is something truly beautiful. Walk through a city like New York or Los Angeles and you’ll hear a dozen languages, smell a dozen cuisines, see a rainbow of faces. People from all over the world have come here and added their traditions to the mix. It’s why you can find a Diwali festival in New Jersey, a Chinese New Year parade in San Francisco, a Cinco de Mayo celebration in Texas, and a Juneteenth jubilee in Atlanta. That cultural kaleidoscope enriches everyday life – American kids grow up eating pizza (Italy), tacos (Mexico), sushi (Japan), and samosas (India) sometimes all in the same week. Our music is a fusion: jazz, blues, rock and roll, hip-hop – all born from the blending of cultures and experiences unique to this land. There’s real beauty in how different threads weave together into a dynamic, ever-evolving cultural fabric.

And when times get tough, you see the beautiful side of American character shine through. This is a nation of helpers and doers. Neighbors rally around each other in crises – whether it’s volunteers forming a “Cajun Navy” with their own boats to rescue flood victims, or massive charity telethons after a disaster, or simply a community potluck to support a family in need. By some measures, Americans are among the most charitable people in the world – consistently ranking at or near the top in global generosity indices. In 2022, even amidst challenges, Americans maintained a high rate of giving and volunteering. It’s not uncommon to see GoFundMe pages hit their goals thanks to donations from complete strangers who just want to help. There’s an ethos that if you have the means, you lend a hand – whether through church groups, civic organizations, or personal initiative. That community spirit, though sometimes obscured by headlines, is very much alive. From volunteer fire departments in rural towns to big-city folks distributing food to the homeless, people step up for each other. It’s a beautiful counterbalance to the rugged individualism: when needed, Americans collectivize care.

Another beautiful aspect is innovation and creativity. This is the country that put men on the moon, that fostered tech revolutions from the lightbulb to the internet. There’s a can-do attitude, an optimism that difficult problems can be solved with ingenuity and persistence. Silicon Valley may get flak, but it’s also a testament to imagination – people believing they can change the world from a garage startup (and sometimes actually doing it). American universities and research institutions churn out new discoveries in medicine, science, and technology that benefit the globe. And American popular culture – films, music, literature – resonates worldwide, often promoting themes of hope, resilience, and dreaming big. Think of the inspiring sports movies, the feel-good family films, the anthems about overcoming odds. They reflect an American idealism: a belief in second chances and new beginnings.

One cannot overlook the everyday freedoms that, despite our gripes, are cherished and beautiful in action. Freedom of speech means artists and activists can express themselves boldly. Whistleblowers can call out wrongs. Comedians can satirize leaders without fear of jail. Protesters can march down Pennsylvania Avenue advocating change. This openness, though messy, often leads to social progress. For example, social movements that began at the grassroots – from civil rights to LGBTQ+ rights – have transformed laws and minds over time. There’s beauty in a society continually striving to better align with its founding ideals of equality and liberty. It’s the beauty of an unfinished painting – full of rough patches, but gradually becoming more vibrant and inclusive with each generation’s effort.

Another lovely trait: Americans are a friendly bunch (most of the time). The stereotype of Americans smiling and saying “hi” to strangers often holds true. Hospitality is a real thing – from Southern charm (“Y’all come back now!”) to Midwestern niceness (“Oh, let me get the door for ya!”). People strike up conversations in elevators or grocery lines. They’ll compliment your band T-shirt or ask how your day’s going. Sure, it can be superficial sometimes, but that baseline of cordiality can make daily life more pleasant. And if you actually need help – directions, jumping a car battery, carrying a heavy load – often someone will appear to assist. That willingness to engage and be kind in small ways adds a gentle warmth to society.

Let’s also appreciate the little slices of Americana that are downright beautiful in their own charming way. A small-town 4th of July parade – kids decorated in red, white, and blue, the local high school band slightly out of tune but marching proud, veterans waving from convertibles – it can choke you up with its earnest sweetness. Or the way Americans come together on Thanksgiving, a holiday simply about gratitude and food and family (no gifts or gimmicks, just thanks). Or the tradition of fireworks on summer nights, filling the sky with color while crowds “ooh” and “aah.” Or something as simple as a road trip pit stop at a diner on Route 66, where the waitress calls you “hon” and the pie tastes like pure comfort. These moments, while small, create a mosaic of wholesome memories that many Americans hold dear.

Sports can be beautiful too – not just the games, but the camaraderie they build. Tailgating with strangers who become friends over the shared love of a team, or city rivals putting aside differences when Team USA plays in the Olympics. There’s a unifying thrill in collective experience, whether cheering a touchdown or singing along at a massive outdoor concert as fireworks burst overhead. Those times when thousands of people’s hearts beat to the same excitement – it’s kind of magical and reflective of a national kinship.

And we must mention the oft-overlooked beauty of American resilience and reinvention. This is a country that has stumbled and faced dark times – wars, depressions, internal conflicts – yet somehow manages to find its footing again. Americans have an almost stubborn optimism. After tragedies, you’ll hear, “We will rebuild. We will come back stronger.” And remarkably often, they do. A city hit by a hurricane rebuilds safer. Communities scarred by factory closures find new industries. Individuals re-invent themselves mid-life, moving across the country for a fresh start, going back to school, starting businesses out of a passion. There’s an ethos that tomorrow can be better, and you’re never too down to climb back up. That hope is beautiful; it fuels progress and healing.

In the end, USA, As Is is not just the challenges and idiosyncrasies – it’s also sunsets over the prairie, jazz music spilling out of a New Orleans bar, kids of all backgrounds playing together in a park, volunteers hammering nails to rebuild a neighbor’s home, innovative minds dreaming up the next big thing, and a prevailing belief that good can triumph. It’s the ideal that even if America isn’t perfect (far from it), it is always striving, debating, and pushing toward a “more perfect union.” The freedom to do that – to constantly question and improve – is itself a profound asset.

So, the beautiful side of America is that amidst the chaos, there is compassion; amidst the sprawling sameness, there is grand natural splendor; amidst the discord, there are harmonies being created. It’s a place where an immigrant’s daughter can become a CEO or a Vice President, where a kid from a poor town can end up curing diseases or writing a bestselling novel. The promise of America – the opportunity to chase dreams and be accepted as you are – while not uniformly fulfilled, shines in millions of individual stories.

At its best, America inspires not just its own citizens but people around the world – symbolized by that Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, torch aloft, lighting the way. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free – that message, and the countless success stories that followed, are undeniably beautiful. They remind us why so many still look to America with hope.

In this book, we’ve laughed at America’s absurdities and critiqued its flaws. But we end with this: America, at heart, is a nation of idealists and fighters, romantics and innovators, helpers and dreamers. Its beauty lies not in perfection, but in the striving – the constant reinvention and the underlying goodness of everyday folks. It’s in the way people from wildly different backgrounds can call themselves American and find common ground. It’s in the sheer vitality of a country that contains multitudes.

So yes, the U.S. can be a riddle wrapped in a Twinkie inside a pickup truck – but it’s also a place of soaring eagles and everyday angels. The beautiful side of America is what keeps the whole wild experiment going. It’s what leads us to believe that, no matter the challenges, the best chapters of the American story are still ahead – waiting to be written by the next generation, in the land of the free and the home of the brave.