|
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.
Mr.
Lewis can be reached at jeff@babblog.com.
Copyright
Jeff Lewis, 2004 |
