So this is me?

So this is me? Fresh off a flying boat from the distant shores of Cheeseland. I planted baguette trees, raised a couple of pooddles and cows that only make Camembert, living the happy life of the expats' in my ersatz of community, now re-baptised New-Paris. But who knows for how long? So heck, I take advantage of the poor natives by offering them whisky in exchange of pretty pearls and spicy nights... One day maybe, the flying boat will have to go back home. So I keep a journal while I am here, a testimony of my journey abroad to recount how peculiar the trip has been. Something that will be published as a local history book with a soon yellowing tag. Once in a blue moon some ethnology students will flip through it to try to envision how life must have been on that side on the Ocean, back in the day when France had kings. Or was that later on ? (Ethnology students always got bad grades in History.)
And maybe this is a One way ticket. Either because I will miss the boat or because I will chose to mingle and disappear among the weak and innocent natives. Who knows ? Then I just write to remember, for myself, and share with my friends how hard I tried to fit while preserving what is left of my identity. Nothing ever serious about what I write, I guess what I really have to say is barely hidden between each line.