Cape Cod - no wonder all the Pilgrims died

Last week, Phileas Fogg and his faithful servant Jean Passepartout ventured to the very end of America’s east, and the very beginning of Europe’s West. The cruel birthplace of the United States, the one and only, Cape Cod.

And cruel the Cod was. Allegedly, half of Father Pilgrims who came to Massachusetts on the proclaimed Flower of May died after a few harsh winters. Allegedly, they first ate the dogs; then they ate the natives, then they ate their wives, and last but arguably most significantly, they ate each other. Christian values seem to lose much of their allure when temperatures drop bellow zero, the Flower of May burns to dust, and the food sucks. Good thing the Fathers signed the compact before they emerged as avid cannibals. It would, however, be interesting to see the interplay of the true survival of the fittest in the US legal system.

Despite its ruthless winters, Cape Cod is swell during the warm months. It is in fact one of America’s prime location for the rich and liberal, the Kennedys and the Kennedy-wannabes. And like America’s upper bourgeoisie, Fogg and Passepartout were drawn by the mythic calling of the Cape in the shape of a Cod.
They were lucky enough to borrow one of their patron’s jets. Cruising in the clear air of Massachusetts with their own air of glamour and glitz, they finally understood the true meaning of the true identity of Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. In the presence of our cannons, all the Cape Cod chicas were jel; all the bros felt like failure. Fogg and Passepartout put on their very best outfits, hoping for an immediate recognition by the Kennedys. The season however, seemed to be a bit off for a Kennedy reception. As such, the two travelers had to satisfy their thirst for social promotion by secretly invading the yard of the Kennedy compound. Initially, Fogg was little distressed by the prospect of infringing on the privacy of the Kennedys (after all, he, too, is Irish-Catholic). In the end, nevertheless, Passepartout was true to his name and managed to get the two of them to the very epicenter of the compound. Stepping on the scene of the Kennedy Compound proved totally disappointing. Like totally disappointing. The flag waving above the Compound was shaggy and sort of dirty; the house had an air of an enlarged MacMansion. There was no one to hang out with; and no one to be hanging on to. No jealous chicas and sadness-stricken brothers to admire the boys’ jet.

And so, Fogg and Passepartout got on their machine determined to leave the Cape. In their search for Mrs. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, the two avid voyageurs ran into a few shackles of the long forgotten American aristocracy. The spirit of Mayflower, however, still seems to bear its influence over the entire region. Afraid of harsh winters, the CapeCodians seem to leave their sociality behind. Some should perhaps inform them that today’s hot dogs are not as bad as those of 1520s.
In the meantime, Phileas Fogg and Jean Passepartout are still on their search for Britney. Maybe, next time, they should try Asia. I’ve heard that Miss American Dream tends to sneak away to the Philippines – not Cape Cod. The Pilgrims are probably turning upside down in their graves, thinking “Oh My God, that Britney’s shameless.”