Lying

People I meet are interested me, especially waitresses. It’s not because of smarts or my beauty (in the way Esmerelda finds Quasimoto beautiful) or because my freckles, when connected by sharpie, form an image of a velociraptor. They want to know about my travels. They can tell instantly that I’m a tourist. Maybe they recognize my accent isn’t local, or that I’ve got a distinctive bulge in my pants (my digital camera), or that I stare at my plate with a combination of confusion and fascination.

I never tell them the truth? Why should I? How can I explain that I’m from New York but I go to school in Missouri and I’m going all the way to the East Coast to scuba dive like some spoiled rich New York jew? Too much explanation.

And I can’t tell them I’m from Missouri, atleast not until I reach North Carolina. People will instantly call ‘bullshit’. No, I have to tell them I’m from New York. But how did I get to where I am? Where am I going? I can’t say I’m going to North Carolina without it becoming instantly apparent that New York to Raleigh via Memphis is fetal alcohol-level retarded. No, I must go west, young man.

All of a sudden, I’m going cross-country, up and down, to Memphis, to Chicago, to San Diego! I’m going scuba diving. Or I’m moving. Or I’m becoming an actor (gay porn?). It’s become a game really. The goal: To not give any two people the same story. Next time someone asks, I’m a researcher from University of Southern Delaware traveling to Fable, Texas to study the endangered Long-Nosed Rattlesnake. They’ll eat it up.

Lying: It's more than just a way to avoid statutory rape prosecution. It's fun!

However, there's no better deception than the truth. As my backup plan/pickup line, I am, in fact, a travel writer.