Last year, I celebrated the Fourth of July at the residence of the US Ambassador to the UN Agencies in Rome. Sure, there were hamburgers, hot dogs, and a bluegrass band doing their very best Americana, but it wasn't truly American. This year's celebration, on the other hand, had AMERICA all over it.
To begin with, as we were loading cars to drive to a local lake for the party, one guy showed up wearing the Confederate flag as a cape. "It's not hate," he said, "It's heritage."
"Says the racist," replied someone else. Everyone let that slide, but the guy kept the cape on. No shame in the South.
Up at the lake, we had an enormous bonfire and a terrifying pyrotechnic display produced by highly untrained and possibly drunk amateurs. Nearly everyone wore plaid, there was a keg of home brew, and even though it was only in the mid-fifties, quite a number of folks wound up going for a swim. The National Anthem was sung, or slurred, on multiple occasions, and just about every time a firework went off, someone would shout, "America!" I finally began to understand why other countries are sometimes alarmed by the depth of our patriotism. It is cultish.
The party ended early, since most everyone had work in the morning, but judging by the mess we found the next day, it was quite the sizable shindig. Go big, or go home! AMERICA!
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