The Ugly American

         I never liked ugly Americans. In all my trips to Europe and my one trip to Asia, they merely frustrated me. Who in their right mind would think that they could make themselves understood to non-English speakers simply by raising their voice? Why do they feel it necessary to continuously snap photographs on their whirlwind tour, when it means they ignore the tour guide and don’t even remember the building’s significance two weeks later? I always refused to be a tourist; I never carried a camera, wore a fanny pack, or bought a Coke. Even in countries where I wasn’t familiar with the language, I always made an effort to avoid English. When people asked me where I was from, I often lied and said I was Canadian, or put on a British accent and claimed to be from the Isles. I never displayed an American flag or berated shopkeepers who couldn’t speak English. Most importantly, I made an effort to become European. I preferred to sit in a café drinking an espresso and eating a croissant rather than fight the crowds at Notre Dame or La Scala. Perhaps it was the lecture we received at our exchange student orientation, encouraging us to be ambassadors to our country. I took them at their word, trying desperately not to fit the stereotype.

         Of course, as soon as they realize you’re an American, they’ll laughingly berate you for voting for Bush, for being a war-monger, for destroying the environment, for suffocating and annihilating cultures centuries older than your own. At this point, many people grow angry and start vehemently defending their culture, whatever “American culture” is supposed to be. I find it’s easier to just tell them that you didn’t in fact vote for Bush, that you’re a pacifist, that you recycle, and that you respect and delight in other cultures, especially since you don’t have a culture of your own. Once they hear this rhetoric, they settle down and accept that you’re not really an Ugly American. Just don’t say, “We saved your ass in World War Two.” That’s a quick ticket to deportation.

         My college roommate, having heard me gush for two years about my amazing experience in Switzerland, wanted to see it for herself. Caitlin had been to Europe on a school trip once before; I was determined to show her real European culture, one you couldn’t see from the window of a tour bus. Her best friend growing up had been English, so I assumed that she would be fairly open-minded concerning other cultures, despite having been raised by a traditional, close-minded Catholic family. I should have known better. Caitlin had never been incredibly open-minded, although she proclaimed herself an “educated” Catholic. She spoke poor French and had taken two years of Latin in college. Beyond that, she was one of the pickiest eaters I had ever met, her diet limited to lettuce, plain chicken, and potatoes. I had a little pity for her, since she was lactose intolerant, but most of the foods she turned up her nose at were simply due to distaste, not digestive troubles. I had minor concerns about this, since my host family had practically lived on cheese, being French, and had often served dishes at which even I had to do a double-take, although I was usually pleased to discover I liked them. Except for that shrimp pizza, and even that I forced down with a smile, trying not to offend the family that had volunteered to keep a roof over my head, albeit grudgingly once they found out where I was from. Caitlin, however, assuaged my fears by reminding me that hard cheeses normally didn’t bother her at all, and of course she would bring her Lactaid. So I relaxed and planned a two-week trip to my “hometown” so that Caitlin could see where I had spent what I considered to be the best year of my life.

         I should have known what I was up against after the first night, when we went out to the bar with Michelle and Caitlin asked for a Guinness. At least she didn’t order a Bud Light, but I was completely embarrassed. Later that week, Michelle’s parents invited us over for dinner, and Misch’s father, a chef, cooked up a delectable three course dinner. I was grateful, since we were on a tight budget. Leave it to Caitlin to completely offend the hosts and make me regret ever bringing her to Europe.

         She started by picking the corn, beans, and carrots out of her salad. I tried, unobtrusively, to tell her just to shove the damn things down her throat and wash it down with some wine. She flatly refused. As Misch’s mother cleared the salad plates from the table, I saw her look of surprise when she saw Caitlin’s neat piles of yellow, red, and orange, but when she shot a questioning look at me, I averted my eyes. How could she do this to me? To the Sommers? They offer their house to us. They cook a special dinner for us. They even pick us up in town and drive us home. And this is how she thanks them?

         The chicken fajitas went a little smoother. At least Caitlin could pick and choose what she put in her tortilla without attracting a lot of attention. There were still a few raised eyebrows when she rolled up her fajita containing only chicken, although there were onions and peppers, salsa and guacamole, cheese and sour cream, beans, lettuce, and tomatoes laid out on the table. But the crowning moment came when the flan was served. Caitlin took one bite and shoved the dish away from her, disgusted. I wanted to sink into the floor. I had spent an entire year convincing these people that Americans aren’t so bad, and she completely destroys it with one meal. Oh, and did I mention she told them she “didn’t really like white wine”?

         We stopped in London on our way back to visit her English best friend. That first dinner explained everything. I had presumed that she had some “cultural awareness” thanks to this international friend, but I soon learned that British Kate was just as bad as my Cait when her mother asked, “So you want hamburgers for dinner?”