As I was watching the video, I was reminded of a lovely business trip I took last year. When we travel for the job, we are forced to use the company’s hateful travel agency whose sole directive in life is to pick the travel itinerary which creates the most hassle and unpleasantness, at the most inconvenient time, with the most connections, and that will most make us miserable, even if an alternative travel arrangement more to our liking is less expensive. It’s not because they’re getting kickbacks or anything. That would be cynical of me.

Last year, I went to a conference in Miami Beach. For reasons I’ll never understand, our request to stay at the Marriott which was walking distance to the Convention Center was denied. Instead, the travel agent booked my boss (who is rather high up on the food chain), three of my other colleagues and me at a place I’ll call MSBR, a hotel/condo that preferred to charge by the hour. Our company has plenty of deals with the big hotel chains, but no, instead we stayed in a “resort” as they had the nerve to call themselves, with rooms that not only had stained upholstery and bedspreads, but little sex kits that helped you understand how the furniture got that way. The kits had a variety of lubricants, labeled according to the particular purpose for which you might use them, suggestions if you will, as well as prophylactics. Seems like there was something else in the box, but I can’t remember now. I snapped it shut as quickly as I opened it and have tried to block out the memory as best I can. Miami Beach is a colorful place, granted, but I’d be willing to wager money that the Marriott at least looked clean and its rooms didn’t conjure up images of orgies which may have taken place the night before.

After watching that video showing what happens to glasses in reputable hotels, I’m really grateful now that the MSBR charged for the coffee in the room, so my lips never touched anything from the hotel. Except the wash cloth and who knows what was on that.

It’s enough to make you never stay in a hotel again.

One further note about the MSBR, a couple of weeks after we returned home from that trip, all of my colleagues discovered extra charges from the MSBR on their credit card.

Let’s just say that I wouldn’t have wanted to be our travel agent. I think she learned a new definition of wrath.

Here’s an example of what I mean. Any self-respecting American will tell you, breakfast is about sweets: pancakes, syrup-covered French toast, waffles, toast with jam, Pop Tarts, Captain Crunch, Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops, donuts, and maybe a side of eggs with a meat. We believe in jump-starting our day with a sugary boost.

Any self-respecting woman will tell you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. So while my husband and I were still dating, to ensure our matrimonial actualization (or some might say “ensnarement”), with invincible perspicacity and artifice, I employed a program of deceiving my husband into believing I had wifely characteristics and abilities. On weekends, I created elaborate breakfasts to help my husband figure out that he couldn’t live without me and our peaceful weekends filled with delicious offerings. A few of these, I was sure, were the key to eternal worship and admiration, namely the Napoleon Waffles and the Banana Liqueur stuffed French toast. After spending hours looking for recipes and then hours in the kitchen cooking, I was utterly crushed when he complained on all occasions, “It’s too sweet.” It took several mornings of disappointment before we figured out that the English don’t like sweet for breakfast. To them, French toast is “eggy bread,” another way to ingest eggs, not a way to ingest syrup.

Truth be told, I’m still trying to internalize and accept this fact and give up my idea that weekends are meant for luxurious beginnings. Now when I make plain, boring French toast, I look the other way and try to hide my disgust when my husband happily drizzles ketchup over what he regards as an alternative way to eat eggs, so contently believing this is the proper order of the universe.

Another thing the British don’t know about is squashes. Maybe they did once, but after we rebelled in what some have labeled, “The War of American Aggression,” they decided to cut off their nose to spite their face and refused to eat them ever again. Included in the list of things the British adamantly refuse to like no matter how you prepare or disguise them are pumpkin and sweet potatoes. Try though I do, I cannot find a way to make my husband like pumpkin, not in pumpkin pie, not covered in whip cream, not in gnocchi, not in pumpkin cheesecake and not even in the recipe I recently discovered as the best way anyone ever thought of to eat pumpkin - chocolate covered coffee pumpkin cheesecake in a graham cracker crust. Can you imagine? I’ve considered bringing up this point and testifying against him when he applies for citizenship. I don’t know how you can get more un-American.

Peanut butter, and particularly, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, the staple of American childhood — unknown and unheard of to the British! I never considered peanuts to be an acquired taste, but I can’t flavor any dish with them, no matter how subtly, without hearing a complaint. Should I dare to eat a handful, I always hear a sensitively delivered, “Eww, your breath stinks of peanuts.” Some days he’s lucky I don’t drive a knife through his heart.

This is how my husband used to be. I think he’s making his first small steps toward assimilating. Yesterday I had an eye appointment and couldn’t see a thing with my pupils dilated. I needed lunch, so I asked my husband if he would make me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from our supply in the company break room. Now, to you or me, this might seem a simple task that you could do blind-folded, but for my husband, it was his very first PB&J sandwich. He asked me to coach him through it:

Me, donned in sunglasses, standing a couple of arms length away and cocking my head backward to try to see better: “Now take the peanut butter and spread it over the bread.”
Him: Spreading a glob onto the bread, “Like that? Is that right?”
Me: “Did you get the corners? Not too thick. You have to spread it out, get it in the corners too.”
Him: “Okay now what?”
Me: “Take the jam, just a little cause this one has a lot of sugar, and spread a thin layer over the peanut butter. You have to add enough so that it keeps the peanut butter from sticking to the roof of your mouth.”
Him: Spreading jam, “Like this?”
Me: “That’s great. Great job, honey!”

I bet you took making PB&J for granted. Though he still won’t eat a PB&J, at least he knows how to make one, and for that reason, I’m reconsidering testifying against him. I’m still on the fence though. One more bad breath comment and he’s on the terrorist list. And that brings me to another key ingredient in having a successful marriage, in addition to accepting our differences as equally valid ways to view the world, always have a card you can play. If the man had any sense, he would realize that as an immigrant, he’s playing against someone with four aces.