And now, Part II of the Thanksgiving arc: Travel.

As I have said before, it is not my intention to offend anyone.

Where the Wind Comes Sweepin'

Although they knew America was much more than just New York City, Los Angeles, and D.C., many of the nations still failed to fully register just how big the U.S. actually is. You see, if one doesn't count Russia as part of Europe (and, let's be fair, Russia has always been more like a continent unto himself), the United States alone was almost the same size as all of Europe. But even after so long and even after learning that they couldn't simply drive from Point A to Point B as quickly as they had assumed, the other nations still failed to fully grasp the concept.

That was how England, France, Germany, Japan, China, Russia, and the Italies ended up lost in the middle of the desert.

They had made the mistake that many people who weren't familiar with the true breadth of the U.S. frequently made. Even those within the group who had gone on the G-7 trip to Wyoming had forgotten that America, in terms of land, was larger than all of them, except for Russia. You see, having learned that America had changed the location of the conference from the usual building in New York City to Houston, Texas in order to ensure people could make it to his Thanksgiving party, but figuring it wasn't worth the extra hassle to change the tickets they had all already purchased or to purchase tickets for an additional flight, they had figured they could make the journey by car (opting to all travel together in a large van) to save a bit of money.

It was a hellish experience. Stuck in a small space with people they could barely tolerate on the best of days, driving kilometer after kilometer, not understanding the road signs, getting confusing directions from locals, and taking the wrong exit which had led them very, very far off their route and into the Oklahoma panhandle, where their van promptly broke down. It was stark, dusty, and, to be honest, terrifyingly isolated. The closest thing the western and central European countries in the group had by way of comparison was No Man's Land.

Ironically, their vehicle happened to break down right in front of a billboard that read: No Man's Land, Oklahoma Panhandle.

"Ve~ Germany, we're going to die," Italy said tearfully. "We're lost in a big, scary desert with no way out!"

"Italy, we are going to be fine," Germany tried to reassure his friend.

"Shut up, Potato-Bastard!" Romano screamed. "We're lost in the middle of a God-damned desert and it's your fault!"

"Aiyah," China said with an annoyed roll of his eyes. "You Westerners are weak, aru. This isn't anywhere near as desolate as the deserts I have back home."

"What does comparing it to other places matter?" England snapped. "It doesn't change the fact that we're stranded in the middle of bloody nowhere with no way of getting help!"

"I can't believe I'm saying this," said France worriedly. "But England is right. Mon dieu, the world must be coming to an end."

The group continued to argue about what to do until Germany finally snapped and yelled at them all to shut up.

"This bickering will do nothing to solve our problem," he said sternly. "Now, everyone, remain calm. I am assuming someone brought a cellphone."

"My battery is dead."

"I still don't know how to work mine."

"You cannot possibly expect to get reception in the desert."

"Ve~ Mine locked me out."

"I am beginning to feel somewhat dizzy."

This last comment was given by Russia who, dressed in his normal heavy coat and scarf, suddenly fainted from the heat. While China reluctantly attempted to provide first aid, Germany got one of the other nations to turn over the only functioning cellphone.

"The signal is weak," he said after checking it. "Perhaps, if I can get higher up, I may be able to get through to someone."

"Well, Potato-Bastard, we are in a flat desert," said Romano. "What, are you gonna fly up into the air or something?"

"Ve~ Romano, don't be so mean to Germany," said Veneziano. "He's just trying to help. Ve~ Germany, what about that billboard? Is that high up enough?"

"Perhaps," said Germany. "Here, someone give me a boost."

"Ve! All right. You are a good person and people say nice things about you."

"…Not a morale boost, Italy."

Eventually, Germany managed to climb up to the top of the billboard. Balancing carefully on the narrow structure, Germany began to check for a signal. Then, as if sensing the wishes of the nation holding it, the cellphone began to ring. Seizing the chance, Germany answered it.

"Yo, Japan, you there, buddy?" came the familiar voice of a certain world superpower.

"America, thank Gott," Germany said.

"Germany? Sorry, I must've dialed the wrong number. I was trying to get Kiku."

"Wait! America, don't hang up! We are in serious trouble. We went the wrong way driving to the conference and have broken down in someplace called the 'Oklahoma Panhandle.'"

"Wow, you really got off-track, didn't you, dude? Have you tried hitch-hiking? I find that's pretty effective and I only run into serial killers about forty percent of the time."

"America, this is no joking matter! We are stranded in the middle of a desert!"

"Okay, dude, just calm down," America said patiently. "I know someone who can help you out. Do you have a precise location?"

Germany described everything he could about where they were, right down to his estimation of their geographic coordinates.

"All right, Germany," America said. "I'll get this through. With luck, I'll have someone out there in about thirty minutes to an hour. When you see a truck pull up with the words 'Nash's Auto Repair' written on the door, you'll know."

"Danke," said Germany.

"Oh, and tell Allen that I said 'hi.'"

Before Germany could ask who 'Allen' was, America hung up.

Germany was left to hope that America would be successful and not leave them to die in a desert. He edged down the side of the billboard and handed the cellphone back to Japan. After Germany explained what happened, the nations sat around impatiently as they waited for the arrival of the truck from the repair shop. England and France became increasingly agitated, as they usually did when stuck in a place with each other for too long, and seemed increasingly close to starting a fistfight. China continued to make sure Russia didn't die from the heat, occasionally jabbing his pressure points a little more sharply than strictly necessary. Italy attempted to lift everyone's spirits by singing, telling stories, or trying to play I Spy, only for the others to lose their tempers and snap at him.

Finally, after what felt like ages, a cloud of dust on the horizon heralded the arrival of a banged-up, old, blue tow truck. Printed on the side were the words: Nash's Auto Repair. The nations all heaved sighs of relief.

The driver door opened a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and rather intimidating. He had dusky skin, an aquiline nose, narrow brown eyes, and long, dark brown hair. He was wearing a simple, blue, oil-stained uniform, on which was sewn a nametag that said his name was "Nashoba."

England and France shifted a bit in nervousness as they realized the man was an American Indian. The two nations did not exactly have the best track record with America's native people, England considerably more so than France, and they couldn't help but feel as though the man's gaze was fixed specifically on them, as though he knew exactly who they were.

"I take it that you're the ones Alfred called me about," Nashoba said.

"Ja," said Germany. "Our car broke down and-"

Nashoba just held up a hand.

"I got it," he said. "I prefer to see the problem myself." He then turned back to the truck and called out, "Hey, Al, get the tools!"

"Sure thing, boss," a boy's voice replied.

The passenger door opened and a boy of maybe thirteen hopped out. Like Nashoba, he had a somewhat dark complexion, brown eyes, and brown hair, though the boy's hair was short and windswept and had the faintest hints of red where the sun hit it. Like Nashoba, he was wearing a blue uniform with a nametag, with his reading: Allen.

"Oh, you are Allen," Germany said once he saw the boy's nametag.

"Yes, sir," Allen said brightly.

"Alfred asked me to say 'hi' to you for him."

"Oh, you're Dad's friends? Nice to meet'cha. I'm Allen T. Jones. The state of Oklahoma. Where the wind comes sweepin' down the plains. Also, maker of the best dang red velvet cake and pecan pie in the whole U.S., no matter what Arkansas and Texas say."

"Allen, the tools," Nashoba said insistently as he began to inspect the car.

"On it, boss."

Oklahoma quickly dashed to the back of the truck and got out the toolbox. The man and the state carefully looked the car over, noted to themselves what was wrong, and got right to work while the nations watched on. Oklahoma would frequently look up and start talking at the nations in a very fast-paced and almost excessively friendly manner about whatever happened to enter his mind, which did more to make them uncomfortable than it did to assuage their worries about the situation.

"Here's your main problem," Nashoba said after a while. "You've got a faulty battery. Whoever rented you this car was either an idiot or a jackass. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't break down sooner. Alfred told me you lot are supposed to be headed to Houston. Well, good luck with this piece of junk."

"Is it really that bad?" France said. "I do not know much about cars, but-"

"If you don't know much about cars, then you don't really have much to argue with me about. And you ain't going anywhere on this."

"Now wait a second, aru," China spoke up. "We have to be at an important conference. Can't you just-"

Nashoba silenced him with a look. China couldn't help but be reminded of Mongolia, back in the days when Mongolia was a force to be reckoned with as the Golden Horde. It was a kind of cold, hard look that seasoned warriors often had that basically commanded attention from those around them and more or less implied that someone should shut up or else something very unpleasant would happen.

"With all due respect, buddy," Nashoba continued in a firm tone. "This car won't be moving anytime soon. Now, if you all had waited for me to finish, I was going to say I can have someone get you to the train station, which is your best option at the moment if you want to make it to your conference on time."

"What're you thinkin', boss?" said Oklahoma.

"Call in Galegenoh to bring the van around. He's not doing anything important."

"I thought he was reviewin' the entries for the next Sundance Film Festival?"

"Like I said. Nothing important."

"All right, I'll go get him on the radio."

Oklahoma went back over to the truck and pulled out an old-fashioned CB radio. He put on a set of headphones and then began to fiddle with the knobs and dials on the device.

"Breaker, breaker, this is Eagle One calling Stag Three," he said. "Come in, Stag Three. Over."

While Oklahoma was busy talking, Nashoba went ahead and hooked the car up to the tow-hook on his truck. After a moment, though, he turned and looked at the nations.

"I've been meaning to ask," he said. "What's with the passed-out fat guy?" He pointed at the unconscious form of Russia.

"Not fat…" came a weak response from the large nation, who was not quite as unconscious as believed. "…Big-boned."

"He was wearing a heavy coat, aru," said China. "He has heat-exhaustion."

"What, in this?" Nashoba said incredulously, holding up a hand as if testing the air. "This is nothing. Not even any humidity. I used to live on the east coast and, believe me, that was much worse."

"If I might ask a question of my own," England said. "How is it that you know Alfred?"

Nashoba gave him a searching look that left England feeling very much as though he was being put through some kind of test. A test he couldn't help but sense that he was failing.

"Let's just say that Alfred and I share a long history," Nashoba said. "In fact, I should be the one asking you how you know him."

Before England could respond, Oklahoma called out, "Right, he's on his way!"

Oklahoma hastily put away the CB equipment and, with a wide smile, began enthusiastically shaking the hands of each of the nations, including that of a barely-coherent Russia, with an almost painful grip.

"Well, I must say, it's been a pleasure meetin' you nice folks," he said. "And I hear I'll be seein' ya'll again at the Thanksgivin' party. I hope you can handle crowds, 'cause we always get a big turnout. After all, it's not like it's just me, Dad, and my sibs. That'd just be a small, sit-down supper. Not that I'd mind a quiet, little thing like that, but, the way I see it, I tell you, it's best to go big or go home when it comes to holidays like Thanksgivin' or the Fourth of July, 'cause they really are-"

"Kid, breathe," Nashoba said.

"Oh, sorry, boss. You know how it is."


Soon enough, an old van pulled up to where the group was waiting. On the back of the van was a large sticker which read: Proud to be Cherokee. The window of the driver's side rolled down and a man who appeared very impatient looked out at them. Like Nashoba, the man was clearly American Indian; though, unlike the mechanic, he'd shaved part of his head so that his dark hair fell straight down in the back and stuck up a little on the very top.

"Come on, people, move it," he said. "I've got places to be, too, you know."

"Just get them to the train station, Galegenoh," Nashoba said calmly. "Then you can go back to your television."

"It's independent films and they are art, Nashoba!"

There was a sudden flash and everyone turned to look at Japan who was holding his camera and looking very embarrassed.

"My apologies," he said. "I have been trying to restrain myself, but I couldn't help it."

"Do I look like a fucking tourist attraction to you?!" Galegenoh shouted.

"I am sorry. It was not my intention to offend but I have a compulsive need to take pictures of everything and everyone when I travel."

"Don't worry about my brother," said Nashoba. "He's just…sensitive."

"I have every right to be," Galegenoh continued. "After years of damn tourists pointing their fucking cameras at me and going 'Ooh, look, it's a real Indian' and asking me stupid questions about whether I hunt buffalo and say 'how' or ask me directions to the nearest casino, I am just so fucking sick and tired!"

"…Are you done, yet?"

Galegenoh gave Nashoba a scathing look and then glared at the nations.

"Just get in the damn car," he said. "And no more pictures or I swear I'll beat you with that camera."

"H-Hai, my sincerest apologies," Japan said, quickly stowing his camera in his suitcase.

The other nations got into Galegenoh's van with a considerable amount of trepidation, save for Russia, who was still out of it, and Romano, who actually got into a conversation with Galegenoh about things and people that pissed them off. As they drove away, Nashoba shook his head and turned to Oklahoma.

"Your father has such strange friends," he said.

"Yeah, but you know Dad," said Oklahoma. "He wants to be friends with everyone, so he ain't too particular."

"Something you've picked up on, Talako." He ruffled Oklahoma's hair affectionately before getting back into the driver's seat of the truck. "Well, let's get back. Best get our work out of the way if we want to make it to the party, ourselves."

"Right. Say, Uncle Choctaw, mind if I put some Carrie Underwood on the radio while we drive back?"

"You kids with your Carrie Underwood and your Toby Keith. Back in my day, we didn't have country music singers…"


Author's Note: Bet you guys didn't see that coming.

Yes. I've decided to include the Native Tribes as America and Canada's older brothers and sisters. I don't suppose that's going to cause any kind of trouble when the nations arrive for Thanksgiving.

The reason why I included the tribes was because they are legally recognized as independent entities within the United States, complete with their own governments, cultures, languages, and so on. They are not as powerful as they once were (weaker than countries but more powerful than micronations), but they have managed to remain alive and have even gotten stronger since more efforts have been made to preserve their cultural identities.

I did not know until after I chose the human name for Oklahoma that 'Allen' is the name typically given to 2P America. I actually named Oklahoma in honor of Allen Wright (a Choctaw Nation chief), the man who chose the name for Oklahoma.

My premise for this chapter is based on some articles I've read about assumptions foreigners make when they first come to the U.S. And the thing that shocked me most was how many people come to the U.S. and don't realize just how big it is. Many of them think they can travel by car from NYC to Orlando to Los Angeles within the space of a week (and still see everything!). We're the third largest country on Earth (not counting Antarctica), behind Russia in first place and Canada in second. And there's a lot more to the U.S. than what you see in movies.

From what I read, "Nashoba" is a Choctaw name which means "wolf" and "Talako" is a Choctaw name which means "eagle." "Galegenoh" is a Cherokee name which means "stag." Please correct me if these are wrong, my only resource is the internet, which isn't always reliable.

The Cherokee Nation participates in a number of film festivals, including Sundance in Park City, Utah.