Formerly Upper Volta*

There was a point in my relationship, with the person I would eventually marry, that we pretended to be homeless and lived in a car for two nights.
It was actually very sweet because in the mornings we'd drive to the beach, watch the sunrise and eat bagels.

I contemplated whether I should collect soda cans and bottles and redeem them for a handful of nickels and perhaps borrow someone's metal detector and scour the beach early in the morning.

But then his vacation from work ended and I had to start school once more, so he suggested that I move in with him.

My conservative, Victorian virtues trembled and nearly fainted. That would mean living with a man in sin. Secretly the Filipino side of me cheered. Now was my chance to see how white people acted in the shelter of their own homes, what they ate, and if their poo really smelled. (More or less the same/not ham sandwiches like mom said/yes.)

I rallied my girls and had a long discussion with them. We finally narrowed it down to two choices:

I could just move in with him.

Or move to Burkina Faso.*

Ciao,

Me.