Whether I’m being pulled on rickshaws through the Indonesian countryside, stuffed into rush-hour Moscow Metro cars, or experiencing a two-hour layover in Toronto, when some helpful local sees me looking a little jetlagged and lost, they offer me one thing: a hamburger! Maybe it’s the eagle on my passport. Maybe it’s the fact that I measure temperatures in Fahrenheit. Maybe it’s the giant American flag I tattooed on my forehead. No matter what, I’m always immediately pegged as an American, a country that the rest of the world seems to think eats burgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner, Let’s own it! I might blow my worldly cover by confusing what “football” entails to a Dutchman, or I can just get it right out there by attaching this fluffy little sandwich of Americana to my backpack! U-S-A! U-S-A!