There’s nothing more humbling than being an American in a country that is not America. This summer I traveled to London where I stayed for a month and then for 10 days after, I traveled to Switzerland, Milan, Paris, Amsterdam, Rome, Florence, and Venice. My travels lasted for about five weeks but gave me enough knowledge to last a lifetime. I first realized my Americanness when I was in London standing on the Tube — the subway equivalent for you American folk. Me and my friends were all laughing about something hilarious. Amidst the heavy laughter, I stopped and looked around. We were the loudest voices on the Tube. The babies around us had not even touched the sound decibels we had reached. Another incident like this was on July 4th. Of course, on this day, I was in London. Even though we talked loudly and there were about 30 of us in a pack, I thought my friends and I were good at flying under the radar. I put myself in the shoes of a local and thought, “Ah, yes, it’s just another normal day for us Londoners.” This ended rather quickly when someone on the street wished us a “Happy Independence Day.” Rats. I would never fit in here.
When venturing to Paris, I had a big ego. I have been taking French since middle school, almost 10 years now. I had always told my relatives that I was fluent in French and most certainly could hold any conversation. On our train ride from Amsterdam to Paris, I voiced in my head how to order different meals at restaurants. I even practiced scenarios where I negotiated prices at markets and shops. No matter how out of place I might look — I never went anywhere without my fanny pack — or feel, I would blend in easily. Only being in Paris for a day or two, there were slim opportunities to use my French. It’s like everybody knew we were Americans. It was like when you finally turn 21 and the bartender doesn’t even ask to see your ID. They always know. On our final day in Paris, me and my travel buddy set off to the train station. Our next destination was Zurich, Switzerland. In a final feeble attempt, I stopped at a nearby café. With rising fear and anxiety, I approached a sweaty and overwhelmed French man behind the bar. “Je voudrais un pain au chocolat et — ” cut off, in a thick French accent. “Please, order in English, it’s easier.” Ah! The utter shame. What a stupid American I am!
For the rest of the trip, I was even more aware of my American identity. On our train ride from Basel to Zurich, we sat across a Swiss man and a Parisienne man — this is not an assumption, but a fact gathered from extensive eavesdropping. After a full day of traveling and lugging two 40-pound suitcases upstairs, I was a little delusional and big-mouthed. My introductory question to the Parisienne man was, “Do people from Paris hate Americans?” The man laughed. The answer was obvious under his wide smile and averted eyes. In the corner of my eye, I saw a woman snickering at our conversation. Oh, I had forgotten that I was the loudest person on the train. After some moments, the Parisienne man looked at me and said, “I can’t speak for all French people, but I think you are okay.” Even though this was a basic and almost expected answer, it lifted my heart.
This whole trip, I had been gleefully assuming that I was a nuisance to the countries I was entering. I had been hyper aware of myself as an American and I didn’t like it. But it’s not about me, is it? I had entered these countries and aside from the customs officers, no one had invited me to enter these places. Entering these countries was a self-commitment to be present in different cultures and respectful of the spaces around me. The people on the Tube didn’t tell us to quiet down; they just put in their headphones and probably prayed for us to shut up. These men on the train had no concern about where we were from; instead, they met us with smiles and laughter. Considering the French man behind the counter, maybe my French pronunciation was just hard to understand, and he wasn’t in the mood to be patient. We are all different. Sometimes in more ways than not. What makes us different makes our conversations more interesting and the journey to understanding more fruitful. You’re not a dumb American. You’re someone on their journey to understanding. You’re working to understand the cultures and customs that are different from yours yet beautiful in their own ways. Maybe, a quiet Tube ride is what most people need in the mornings. Noted.
Izzy Wollfarth is a Rhodes College student and intern at Contemporary Media, Inc.
