Hello Dr. X!
This is Andrea Fender, recent returnee from Europe, and owner of the coolest Gmail address ever. Notice the similarity? *
I was just told by the office of International Programs that I need a faculty member to be something called my “Segment III Adviser”.
As far as I can tell, this means that you occasionally sign stuff. I’ve already completed the darned Segment III, and lots and lots of signatures have already happened, so there is, of course, no earthly reason for this. Unless there’s some sort of bureaucratic signature-breeding program happening at State, with Our Great Leaders embroiled in some kind of trans-Atlantic cold war to develop the Superior Signature Gene.
They gave me a letter to send out to you, but I lapsed into a boredom coma partway through, and decided to write my own.
Anyway, I thought you’d be a good pick, seeing as you’re (surprise!) my regular adviser and all, and that you’ve
1. Written the kickass Adviser program, which appeases my occasional OCD twitch, and also my dad, when he yells,

“How the HELL much longer are you gonna be in school?!”

(I know he’s on the phone when he hollers like this, but I always imagine him in his undershirt, cleaning one of his guns with the cat in his lap.)
2. Distinctive mutual good taste in selecting e-mail addresses
and
3. I’m taking your Biomech class this semester, so we’ll be in close proximity for the necessary signature-gathering process.
I’ll set up a duck blind and bring tranquilizer darts and tracking devices.
See you in a few weeks!
Andrea Fender

*His address begins with Biomech. Mine is mechanicalbionic. We rock.

I hate being hollered at.

Generally, I’m so overwhelmed with being in a different country every few days that I just don’t have the energy to muster up a nod and smile.

So I pretend I’m Chinese.

Pretending to be Canadian, a long held Americans-abroad tradition, isn’t really a good long-term strategy. You’ll be caught out as soon as someone asks you anything. Like, say, who the prime minister is.

So no.

My strategy is to pick a language that none of the locals would reasonably speak, and pretend to be fluent. If you have the inclination to learn a few phrases in said language, excellent. There is very little in life that gives me as much satisfaction as ordering chicken fried rice* at an overeager guy. In Mandarin.

If you don’t have the time to learn any of your chosen dialect, just make one up, and tell everyone you’re from Boswana. This is particularly effective if you’re white.

Case in point (fanfare please):

The Italian Welcoming Committee!

Def: Comprised entirely of aggressively helpful young men in tight pants. On seeing a foriegn white girl, they begin to collect, attaching themselves to her person and clothing much like man-sized wads of mucus. They will then, en masse, accompany her to her stated destination, and, on arriving, attempt to buy her drinks. This will be accompanied by sucking sounds.

Antidote: The female must mention her Big Scary Boyfriend in every sentence, vis:

“Why yes, I am from Botswana. My boyfriend Raoul works in the prison there. He’s meeting me later. With his gun.”´

If the female would prefer to get to her destination sometime this week, a swift punch to the throat is recommended.

*with one egg