Not to be too cliché, but when I moved to the States at 18, I came with a dream.
And it was a quintessentially American one.
I grew up in the Middle East — dividing my time between the UAE and Beirut — bombarded with pop culture that dictated what the American Dream was, and it mostly entailed a rags-to-riches success story. But my dreams were more subdued. After watching far too many hours of “Gilmore Girls,” I decided to set up shop in Boston and explore the things that people living in the States might not realize are the real American dream.
I arrived with some clothes and a list on my phone of things I had to do.
Go to a frat party
The idea of Greek life always fascinated me. Young men and women in college already have so many interpersonal struggles, but then they create a new hierarchical system that judges everyone on the basis of looks and status. Admittedly, my upbringing at BU was not the ideal setting to stumble into a crazy “Project X”-style frat party, and I quickly learned that the reality was less glamorous — and so much sweatier.
At 18, I left my humble abode (a jail cell–reminiscent dorm room) and ventured out to see what all the fuss was about.
I soon came to realize that a frat party is really just a complex sociological study mixed with a good case of Stockholm syndrome. All 18-year-olds complain about the frat-boy archetype, but in the throes of a way-too-small, way-too-packed Allston basement, they somehow became the center of all the commotion as they locked lips with far too many women in one night.
As girls like me danced, these infamous men planned their mode of attack. Like a pincer movement, they approached from either side, engulfing the enemy (us), and instead of spears, they deployed pickup lines.
They were never memorable enough to recall, and certainly never memorable enough to work. But the smell of cheap wine and the sheer cacophony of a frat-party playlist will stay with me forever.
At a certain point, inevitably, the cops would show up, and the “Shawshank Redemption”-style escape from the party would begin.
The best part, without fail? The burrito at El Jefe’s and a 2 a.m. debrief with your girls.
At 22, I’ve decided the frat was never the dream — it was the nightmare.
Go to Margaritaville
My obsession with Margaritaville is complicated. I don’t know exactly how it started, but it did.
It’s a place dedicated to a single drink — but also a song? And they have food, too?
My American friends warned me that Margaritaville was not the place to be, insisting there were far better spots to unwind with friends. That never stopped me.
(I will also take a pause to mention that I did not know “Margaritaville” is a song by Jimmy Buffet, a fact my American friends will never let me forget and would be mad if I omitted.)
In New York City, freshly 21, Margaritaville appeared before me like water in the desert. After my first Broadway show, I wandered into Times Square and marveled at what I can only describe as late-stage capitalism. I walked in and endured what felt like the longest escalator ride of my life.
At the top, I’d never seen a real place so devoid of color — or floors so sticky. I sat at the expansive bar and, well, the rest is history.
The drinks were not good. The energy made me feel like I was drinking in a straitjacket, and I decided it was finally time to start listening to Americans.
My oddly specific piece of advice: don’t post-game “The Book of Mormon” at the Times Square Margaritaville — unless that’s your vibe.
Explore Costco
If you’re American, there’s one thing you should know about living abroad: never tell a non-American that you can bring them a few things from the United States.
Your cup will runneth over — and by cup, I mean your allotted baggage space.
Outside this country, we idolize almost anything American. Case in point: when my cousin started selling Logan Paul’s energy drink, PRIME, for $20 a bottle, it became his most successful business venture to date. (I, one of the people buying the PRIME, unfortunately wasn’t cut in on the profits.)
In my own selfishness, I decided to go straight to the source: Costco.
It was hard for me to believe people weren’t preparing for an apocalypse. Holy convenience — I still love it.
Why would anyone need so much of one thing? Toilet paper? Gummies? Most immigrants love the place for its convenience, and I’m more than happy to jump on that bandwagon.
But be wary of the hot dogs.
Go thrifting
Another thing Americans should know: when I lived outside the States, and someone on Instagram had the most drop-dead gorgeous outfit, nine times out of 10 they would tell you it was thrifted. Tough luck!
While thrifting culture has since taken the world by storm, it wasn’t always like this. We were all forced to watch Americans uncover the most spectacular designer pieces for less than $20. When I moved here, my closet deserved that kind of TLC.
OK, it’s a little glamorized.
Most of the time you’re sifting through an 80-year-old’s wardrobe, and very few racks hide a perfect tweed Chanel suit. But if you’re willing to commit to the hunt, you will strike gold.
My personal favorites so far? A denim Dolce & Gabbana skirt and a baby blue vintage Desigual top.
Never give up. Your American wardrobe is waiting.
Do the Fourth
My most patriotic pursuit to date — and I only did it a few weeks ago.
I’ve never stayed in America during the summer because that’s the one time each year I get to go home. But this summer, in my post-grad lock-in, I stayed.
I spent the Fourth at a friend’s house in the Hamptons — there was no better place to do it. So many people packed into the house that some ended up sleeping outside in tents. We spent the day watching everyone partake in relentless day drinking, endless food, and fireworks.
No one really reflects on America’s birthday. It seems almost like an afterthought in the day’s drunken haze. But if you look — or drink — hard enough, you might find the American insight you’re searching for.
At 11 p.m. on the Fourth, the Hamptons erupted into a devilish storm. Everyone outside was forced indoors, scrambling to rescue their belongings and collapsing into an already overcrowded house. We sat around, soaked through, some still drunk, reflecting on our collective misfortune and laughing despite it all.
As the storm battered the windows, I looked around at 40 damp 20-somethings sharing chips, towels, and stories.
Happy 250th, America.
It turns out the American dream wasn’t in the frat basement or Times Square Margaritaville. Thankfully.
Celine Hijazi can be reached at celine.hijazi@globe.com.