I set out early the next morning, eager to explore more of the surrounding… countryside is the wrong word for almost any spot on the Mainland… cityside? Suburbside? Yes, that will do. I found myself tearing through the surrounding suburbside with a vigor and a single-minded purpose that I would not have thought possible the day before.
Perhaps, having survived such a torrid and shameless affair, my subconscious had finally given up and resigned itself to this business of walking up to a complete stranger, greeting them as one would an old friend, and firing a salvo of whatever conversation sprung to mind. Now more than ever, I was keenly aware that Natives were just people, and that these natives who I had called my hosts were good people.
Whatever the reason, I was downright jovial as I soared into the air, all but whistling a happy tune as I dodged skyscrapers and obnoxious floating signs. As I was passing over one particular building, I felt a wave of lag coming on, and sure enough, looking down, I discovered another group of strangers. They were visible through the glass ceiling of the public-house below me.
I dropped down to say hello.
The beer was strange, tasting more of water than of yeast or hops. The music was strange, a cacophony of a thousand booming notes accompanied by the raucous cries of an anguished native. And the dances I learned from the locals seemed almost designed to invigorate the dancers rather than provide merriment and entertainment.
But as I collapsed into the corner booth, my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the incessant music with its own whisper-quiet throbbing, I could not help but think of the whole experience as joyous.
I had finally gone native!