I've been back in San Francisco for a week now, getting used to English signs and filthy streets once again. Ah, sweet home. Just don't drink the water or lick the sidewalk.

This week has been an eye-opening counter-point to my last letter. I'm back among familiar surroundings and my native language, and I had forgotten how nice those things are. I like that my friends get the joke that comes from a subtle turn of a phrase. I like that I can walk around my apartment naked and my friends don't even blink. And, y'all have burritos here.

It's the social aspects of California society I'm going to miss. The rest of it I can't stand - the government, the lax business regulations, the moral enforcement citizen patrol, the police state. When the revolution comes, Whitey is going to be the first against the wall.

I have a growing group of friends that I call "the ex-pats waiting to happen". One by one, they've lived or traveled abroad, fallen in love with another land, and once home, don't know where they belong. They live with half their heart on this continent and half on the other. When you're here, you miss there. But when you're there, you eventually miss home. Wanderlust gives birth to a sense of displacement. If I seem more detached these days, it's because I am. I no longer have the security of knowing I'll be here at the same time next year. Because I'm not sure I really want to be.

Greenpeace has offered me a permanent full-time position here in San Francisco, and I'm taking it. This ride is lasting a little longer than I expected it to. There's a good group of troublemakers here, and I'm having a hard time thinking of a better place to spend the recession and the War on Terra.

They opened that FBI file the day I filed my W-4 as an employee of Greenpeace. One of these days I'm going to file a FOIA request and see all those pictures of me at Greenpeace actions. Ah, something to frame for my grandkids.

Speaking of the War (pronounced "Wah!", with the proper amount of self-righteousness), I have to recount the tale of my landing in SF. As the plane pulled into the terminal, the pilot (a British Air employee, and presumably citizen of that nation) came on the PA to announce the following.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, uh, there are two delightful gentlemen from US Immigration waiting to meet you at the boarding ramp. Please have your passports ready as you exit the plane."

Sure enough, two armed and uniformed officers of the US INS were waiting, checking ID's as we went through. The one that checked me was well muscled, wearing a short-sleeve white uniform shirt and tight black leather gloves. He looked at my passport, looked at me, looked down again, and dismissed me. I really didn't like the guy.

A few minutes later they appeared in the customs area, escorting a man of apparent middle-eastern descent through the line. I never found out why they wanted to see him.

Perhaps I'm needlessly suspicious. Perhaps this guy was seeking political asylum and had notified a US embassy of his entrance. Perhaps he's just been whisked away to Guantanamo Bay for questioning without council or notice to his family. You do know you have no legal rights from the time you de-plane until the time you exit those arrival doors, right? Remember folks, that's not US soil, and Resident Bush can declare you an "enemy combatant" at any time.

Do you realize how funny American money is? It's kind of big, smells funny, and it's all the same size and color. The tip, taxes, and RAF (Random Acronym Fee) are never included in the bill. Oh, you wanted that $0.99 soda bottle? That will be $1.10, with tax and CRV, please. Huh?

On top of that, the bastards charge you just to spend your money!

ATM fees, credit card fees, merchant charges - this crap is killing me. Perhaps it's the just the frugal nature of the Dutch, but there is none of that in the Netherlands. Your ATM card works at every bank for free. PostBank doesn't charge me to use my US bank card, but my god-damned US bank does! And there's no way they fall for that "percentage of every sale" VISA crap. Warning to Americans planning to travel: they don't take your damn credit card. Get cash.