It's very desirable by people who've tasted it, and those who haven't, for that sake. But there are some who doesn't like how sweet it tastes, or how colourful the food is.

There are some who are used to potatoes, not fried, but boiled. They may be used to meatballs in brown sauce, and maybe a pizza on Saturdays. At least, that's what Anikka's used to.

She's not used to strangers approaching her on the streets to strike a chat, and she's definitely not used to being wolf-whistled at. Because to her, there are two types of Americans.

The best kind is those who're kind and inviting, not caring about her strange accent, but still pointing out that their great- great- great- something was Norwegian.

The worst kind is the arrogant ones. The Americans who think she's naïve simply because she's not from around there.

They think they can man-splain something to her, as if females are the inferior gender, because it's usually men that do so.

As Annika walked down the streets of New York City, looking up at the skyscrapers, her mind flying about, she didn't see the young man jogging until he was right in front of her, and that was too late.

As they laid sprawled out on the dirty streets, the citizens of the city bustling past them, she looked up at the sky, in no hurry to get up.

Later, after being helped up and apologising and being apologised to, she learned that the young man's name was Angel.

Although, he didn't look like one. He was a scrawny man, tall and gangly, with a sunken, tired face and saying ''sorry'' way too much.

All Angel could see, though, was a beautiful, young woman sitting on the street in her gray jeans.