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I grew up
partly in Europe and partly in a quaint fog-shrouded town on
California’s central coast, where you could guarantee that
everyone wearing shorts was from out of town. For better or
worse, I’ve always made a conscious effort not to look like an
American tourist when I’m traveling.
If you are
an American traveling through Europe and don’t want to be
recognized immediately as a Yank, you merely need to avoid
wearing baseball caps and university t-shirts. Because
virtually every group of Americans has at least one person
wearing these items, the act of not wearing them
automatically makes you look like you live somewhere else in the
European Union. In France, you may be taken for English, in
Italy for a Dane. Consequently, I’ve excised all
university-themed clothing from my wardrobe, or so I thought.
(Of course, once you complain about the odd tasting ketchup,
avoid tipping the woman watching the urinal or fail to emphasize
the “Mac” in McDonalds, your cover is blown.)
On our
recent road trip, we made no attempt to look like locals, since
we seldom were far from our car, with its California license
plate and Sierra Club decal. We simply could not pass as
Montanans or Canadians and didn’t try. I consciously dropped
the “oat” that occasionally—inexplicably—drifts into my “abouts,”
and wore a baseball cap when we went horseback riding. My
working theory is that when I become a Bavarian, I’ll wear
leather overalls; when I become a cowboy, I’ll wear a brimmed
hat.
Midway
through our trip, we visited Waterton-Glacier International
Peace Park in northwestern Montana. The biggest attraction is
the Going-to-the-Sun Road, a breathtaking mountain pass across
the continental divide that shows off the park’s jagged peaks,
mountain goats that block traffic and bighorn sheep that pose
for photographs. The U.S.-Canadian border runs through the park
and visitors are encouraged to reach across the border and touch
a Canadian. It’s a neat experience because many have fine,
silky hair and soft cardigans. Some have scratchy beards, but
it’s still fun to tickle them under the chin, in the name of
world peace.
At one point
on the Going-to-the-Sun Road, we stopped at an overlook to watch
a goat maneuver across a craggy cliff. Other goats sat roadside
and a hoary marmot—a cousin of the Groundhog Day
co-star—posed for pictures. While Lynn wandered off to
photograph the marmot, I stood by the car and watched the goats.
A woman in
her early 30s approached. “Excuse me,” she said forcefully,
“Did you go to UCSD?” This surprised me into a quizzical stare,
rather than the broad smile that I generally reserve for
strangers at peace parks. Why does she think that I attended
the University of California at San Diego? I looked her over
critically. Do I know her? No.
Then it
dawned on me that the answer must lay about my person. While
she awaited my answer, I looked at my chest. It had a stylized
picture of Niki De Saint Phalle’s statue Sun God, a
landmark of the UCSD campus. I thought, “I’m wearing a
university-themed t-shirt.” I looked back at the woman, sensing
that she was becoming impatient, and then looked back at my
shirt. Under the Sun God was “UCSD” in small
lettering. I pointed at this and said loudly, “Yes.”
She replied,
“My husband and I went to school there,” and pointed at a tall
man on the other side of the parking lot. I glanced at her
husband and stared at her again, still trying to figure out if I
knew her. She clearly was awaiting some sort of
acknowledgement, so I considered asking when she graduated or
perhaps which college she attended. I wasn’t thinking very
quickly and no matter what type of first impression your
clothing gives, it cannot compete with a second impression that
insinuates “developmentally disabled.”
Finally
mustering my broad grin, I said with conviction: “THAT’S
WONDERFUL!” My voice cracked on the “AT’S” and—I guess because
I wanted to show goodwill—I put heavy emphasis on the “WONDER.”
She gave me
a look that said, “You are an idiot,” and walked away.
Copyright Jeff Lewis, 2004. |
