The Budweiser flowed like water while the buffet table was lined with under-cooked hot dogs, greasy hamburgers and a variety of different kinds of chocolate chip cookies.
In true American fashion, we indulged in a few pre-game cocktails so our fashionably-late entrance was ill-timed.
As typical as a July 4 party in the Middle East can be -- held inside a heavily air-conditioned ballroom in one of Abu Dhabi's many gaudy hotels -- this one was not what we expected. Oh yes, all the fireworks, patriotic songs (ironically played by a sleepy British band) and rides on a rented mechanical bull would have to wait.
When we walked in to the party, we politely interrupted a formal speech by Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the UAE vice president and Ruler of Dubai, that pertained to the budding UAE relations with America.
It wasn't exactly like the record screeched when we walked in. The room was full of oil tycoons, investment bankers and other wealthy Americans living the UAE dream.
One look at us sent a clear message to the rest: We weren't interested in schmoozing; we were there to party. Hell, I even brought a vodka-drinking Canadian friend of mine along for the ride.
Since we showed up late, we never learned our assigned table so Mr. Canada and I slowly made our way toward the buffet tables. After the Ruler stepped down from the podium, the buffet opened up and we had a front-row seat for the carnage only a gaggle of hungry American folk are accustomed to.
In between plates of fried chicken drumsticks and cheese macaroni, we met everyone at our table. They were all older then us, well-traveled, and highly-accomplished. The men appeared to be tired weekend warriors and they kept their bored house wives close by their side.
Not surprisingly, we took to the dance floor and were some of the last stragglers to leave the party. On our way out, the servers suggested we take the complimentary Indiana Jones hats and America bandanas home with us. We had been drinking free booze all night so I thought, why stop there?
The next stop on our USA tour was a trip to Porter's, an English pub, in the basement of the Millennium Hotel. The place was packed with Filipinos dancing to American pop music. Due to the congestion, I decided to stash our Indiana Jones hats and bandanas in a dark corner near the staircase.
We danced. We drank. We celebrated America's independence, all while grooving to the fine sounds of Miley Cyrus. Then, when last call came, it was time to saddle up and get in a cab for home.
But as Miranda and I were sauntering through the Filipino crowd, I saw three Sri Lankans walk onto the dance floor wearing our hats and sporting our bandanas. It was obvious they had discovered my American cache and were now making a show of it.
Miranda also noticed them and when we locked eyes, she gave me a look that suggested, "Just let it go." I concurred. But only for a moment.
When we got to the stairs, I abruptly stopped. No way was I going to let these jackasses take the American memorabilia that I stolen fair and square. Not today. Not on July 4.
Maybe it was the tequila talking but I walked right up them on the dance floor and through a translator, I was able to get one of the hats back without any punches being thrown (Ask my fiance: I'm a lover, not a fighter).
I called it a peaceful leap of faith in foreign policy. Or maybe they just knew what day it was on the calendar and when they looked at me, they understood that this American was not going to lay down.
It was a victory for the good old USA. It was a victory for my emerging wardrobe. And Miley Cyrus even scored herself a new fan so it was win-win-win.
Indeed, a great day to be an American in the desert.
