One of the things I am used to, being a commie from the land where you smoke weed with a prostitute on your lap (not my words, not made up either), is that old people know their place. It’s most likely the seat on the bus you were in a minute ago. Despite their own whiny opinion, I think we have a lot of respect for our senior citizens in my socialist country (again, not my words). When they turn 65, we make sure they can spend their well-earned money on everything they need (new hips, probably) and if they enter a bus, we get up to let them have a seat. Or at least I get up. Old people don’t have to work. We respect the work they put into our society and let them have their well-earned retirement fund. If they didn’t manage to get one because they were cleaning our toilets and making less money than the tax payers, we’ll support them with our government retirement fund. Ron Paul, if you’re reading this, I won’t be offended if you stop here.
I landed in Chicago to start my six-week tour of the United States and had to transfer to another flight. I had to check in my baggage, so I went to the belt that mysteriously goes into the wall, where leprechauns mix up your underwear. Next to the belt was an old man. He had somewhat of a hunchback and looked at me from behind his glasses. His grey hair was swept across his head to cover the baldness. Standing seemed to be a challenge for this man and he was the one that had to put my 55 lbs bag on the belt. My first encounter of America’s back-up retirement system. As with a lot of things, it’s just a different culture. I wasn’t used to it and it broke my heart. Every time I saw someone that should be home playing Scrabble, but wasn’t, I felt bad. Sometimes, being from Europe can be though if you’re emphatic like me.