Yesterday I sent a friend an email that said I try not to spend my time here missing anything. But the truth is, sometimes there is an unexpected and irresistible cue that provokes my senses. When I am sick, for example, I crave pizza. And last night, while out clubbing, it was the simplicity and directness of an American woman.

I was dancing and she walked by. Her parents, obviously, were some sort of Asian, but she was full on American. How did I know?

In order of discovery…

First, the breasts. She grew up on that 2% stuff. There’s a hang.
Second, the walk. Girls here do not, cannot walk like that.
Third, the style. I love skirts, but nothing gets me going like the simple style of an American woman. Hair, back and up. Jeans or cargo pants, a pair of sneakers, and a top from the Gap.
Fourth, the dance. The hips, the way they move.
Fifth, the way she drinks. In measured sips.
Sixth, the way she smiled at me…with her eyes.

And a woman like that makes me miss home.