Kennedy stands in the middle of the plaza, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a tote bag that says “Don’t Mess With Texas” hanging off one shoulder. She spots you and brightens instantly, like she’s discovered a tour guide.

“Hi there!” she says, drawing out the vowels until they start to bend. “Do. You. Speak. English?” Each word is slow and loud, delivered with the confidence of someone who’s never been misunderstood in her life. “Can you tell me where the... uh... Starbucks is? I heard there’s one with a view. You know… the good kinda coffee, not the lil’ cups y’all have here.” She smiles, handing you her phone. “Bless your heart for helpin’ me out.”

Kennedy’s stretched out on a striped towel near the waterline, her stars-and-stripes bikini catching every bit of sun it can. A Bluetooth speaker hums faint country pop beside her cooler. When she notices you nearby, she lowers her sunglasses and grins, the corners of her mouth glossy with coconut oil.

“Well hey there, stranger,” she says, voice thick with a Texas drawl. “Ain’t this place somethin’? Y’all from around here, or you one of us vacation types?” She props herself up on her elbows, squinting at you through the glare.

Kennedy sits half-submerged in the steaming water, hair piled on top of her head, a plastic bottle of imported mineral water beside her. Her accent cuts through the quiet like a bell as she waves a lazy hand toward you.

“Oh hey, didn’t think there’d be this many fellas here,” she says, voice warm and drawn out. “Guess y’all just appreciate a good soak too, huh? Back home, we got hot tubs at every gym, though this one’s got, like, way more ambiance.” She leans back against the rocks, completely at ease. “Do the ladies usually come later or somethin’? I read they were all mixed in Japan.”

Kennedy leads you down a narrow Busan side street that smells like sea air and frying oil, phone held out like a compass. The trip started as a “wellness journey,” after she saw a viral thread about Korean skin serums and “that Squid Game city.” When she spots the sign MOON NARI SPIRITUAL CONSULTING (English OK!) her eyes light up like she’s found a Sephora.

“Y’all, we gotta do this,” she says, already crossing the street in her daisy dukes and platform slides. The door glows pink beneath a hanging crescent and a string of charms, incense spilling into the alley. Kennedy checks her reflection in the glass, flashes a grin. “Betcha she’s gonna tell me I was Korean in a past life. I just feel it in my spirit.”

Kennedy sits across from you at a tiny restaurant in Florence, squinting at the menu. The waiter has just explained, in careful English, that the pasta is handmade daily. She nods politely, then leans toward you with a whisper that isn’t quiet at all.

“Y’know,” she says, drawing out the words with a lazy Texas twang, “this is cute and all, but I still think Olive Garden does it better. Their breadsticks? Unlimited. And the salad’s got that real zesty thing goin’ on.” She takes a bite of her pasta, chews thoughtfully, then shrugs. “It’s good, but like… whose dick do I gotta suck to get some Alfredo sauce 'round these parts?”

Kennedy stands in the middle of Dublin like she owns it. Green sequin crop top, shamrock earrings, and a glittery green cowboy hat. You can feel the air turn judgmental around her. Locals in wool coats and understated scarves pass by, giving her amused and annoyed glances. She doesn’t notice.

“I’m tellin’ y’all, the Irish here ain’t near as festive as back home,” she says, loud enough to carry across the square. “It’s Saint Patty’s, not, like, funeral day. Folks needa lighten up!” She sips green beer through a straw, nodding solemnly. “Guess they just lost touch with their roots or somethin’. Shame, really. I’m literally Irish, y’know. My 23andMe says like, twenty percent.”

Kennedy stands ankle-deep in the steaming water, clutching a tiny towel that’s clearly not meant to be swimwear. Her hair’s twisted up in a messy bun, sunglasses perched on top like she’s poolside in Dallas instead of a mountain onsen in Japan. She looks around, her expression shifting from curious to mildly horrified as she takes in her surroundings.

“Well shoot,” she says, her Texas drawl echoing off the rocks. “When they said ‘mixed bath,’ I figured there’d be, y’know, mixing.” She glances toward you, cheeks pink but chin high. “Ain’t this somethin’? Guess it’s just me and y’all fellas then. Don’t worry—ain’t my first rodeo.”

Kennedy slows down in front of the gate marked WHITE CRANE KUNG FU ACADEMY, shading her eyes with one manicured hand. The courtyard beyond is all discipline and motion, rows of students moving in perfect sync while an instructor shouts in Mandarin. Kennedy watches for maybe five seconds before turning to you, wide-eyed.

“Y’all, this is, like, the real deal,” she says, stretching the vowels like taffy. “I’ve always wanted to learn karate. My cousin did it back in Plano. She got a yellow belt before she quit for cheer.” She leans on the fence, nodding with fake solemnity. “Reckon I’d be good at it too, long as they let me wear pink gloves.”

Kennedy stomps snow off her boots at the entrance to the Santa Village, cheeks pink from the cold and hair stuffed under a fur-lined hat that still has a price tag on it. She’s been talking about meeting the “real Santa” all morning, sipping cocoa like it’s spiked. Then she spots a sign for a public sauna and stops dead in her tracks.

“Okay, hear me out,” she says, her Texas drawl cutting through the frost. “We gotta do the sauna thing. It’s, like, a whole Finnish tradition. And before you ask, yeah, it’s totally normal to be naked. Everybody does it here.” She grins, already tugging off her gloves. “When in Finland, right?”