I'm in Fiji this morning for work. It's beautiful, balmy, welcoming and about as far from the two feet of snow we left behind as any place we could find on this green earth. But the swimming and the sunshine and the abundance of the Fijian people and their lush landscape isn't the best part of this visit. It's this: Every single person we meet-from the village elder to the Australian footballers playing the pool-comes up to us when they hear our accents and says, "Good job, Yanks. You did well."

What they mean to offer is a kind of congratulatory forgiveness. It feels strange and wonderful. People in the remote villages who don't speak English can still say, "Obama!" and it's a greeting along with the traditional Fijian "Bula!" once they find out we live "north of Chicago" (way, way north of Chicago, but everyone's heard of Chicago and makes a sign like someone using a machine gun to signify Al Capone).

 I don't often travel abroad -- probably more than most, far less than others. But travel abroad was a heartbreak for me in recent years. I love my country, but I would try to shorten my twangy, nasal "A's" and perhaps, even, conceal my obvious roots. Now, I feel that the world is holding a party-even as we in the U.S. are holding our breaths.

At least, we've been invited back to the party.