I’ve never been one for overly strong feelings about my country, so I was as suprised as anyone at the giddy child sitting in my seat on the plane when we landed. I kept saying. “Ah-MER-i-ca. Caleb, we’re in Ah-MER-i-ca!” Walking off the plane into the Chicago aiport, quite possibly the most magical place on earth, I couldn’t stop smiling or gushing over and over, “Ah-MER-i-ca! We’re really here.” First stop? Starbucks. I used to think I was all about going local, but my “Grande, soy, no water chai” rolled off my tongue too easily for me to believe that about myself anymore. I am an American. Or Ah-MER-i-can. I missed it.
* To be pronounced as someone of the trucking profession from somewhere near Dayton, Ohio with a mouthful of chewing tobacco might attempt