When in Rome Part 1...Yankee Go Home?

When we travel abroad, we usually see people who make us shake our heads and feel ashamed to be Americans.  “When in Rome, do as the Romans do”. Come on, people­--let’s try to fit in.

We’ve seen Americans who are clueless, and others who are downright rude.  It’s scary and hard to work around the language barrier when you’re traveling in a foreign country, but almost everyone in Europe speaks English, unless you’re at some remote outpost.  So we Americans are the ones who are at a disadvantage, since most of us don’t speak a second language well. 

Before we went to France in 2007, I used a Rosetta Stone program to learn some basic French.  It was scary to speak it, but I felt comfortable reading signs when we were there.  The shopkeepers in Provence were not impatient or rude, in fact they seemed to appreciate that I was trying.  For example:

Me:  (walks into Patisserie) Bonjour!  Deaux petit baguette e un Coca light, sil vous plait.

Clerk:  (unintelligible, fast French response)

Me:  (smiles sheepishly) uhhh.  Shoot.  English please?

Clerk:  (switching seamlessly to English) For here or to take away?

See—I got very close to getting two small loaves of bread and a diet Coke—in French.  To go.  

Since Mike started traveling abroad for work about 15 years ago, I’ve been to Germany, Spain, England, Scotland, France, Austria, the Czech Republic, and Italy.  And that’s just European countries.  Here’s some things I’ve learned about how to fit in:

Dress

Daphni brought ten “fabulous” outfits to wear on our ten-day trip.  Her goal is to be mistaken for a French girl with her sense of style.  Or at least a Brit.  And she looked great every day.

Mike and I packed a little lighter, intending to wear things more than once.  I had fun putting together outfits that I imagined would help me fit in.

If you’re traveling abroad and you want to be mistaken for a local citizen: 

Black, black, black.  Pack lots of black.  You can wear it over and over, it goes with everything, and you’ll fit right in.  I brought some colorful tops and interesting jewelry to brighten up my black pieces. This season, boots are all the rage in Europe.  My black boots went everywhere on this trip.  Bring comfortable walking shoes, but not tennis shoes.  Really.  Tennis shoes are a dead giveaway.

Wool coats, people.  Or down filled-puffy coats.  Or capes.  Or ski jackets.  But not windbreakers.  Sheesh.  We got off the Metro one morning in Paris, bound for Notre Dame, and an overweight family of four (obviously American) all shuffled off behind us.  They were dressed in sweatshirts, jeans and windbreakers, and the dad was wearing a baseball cap.  They immediately found the elevator to take them up to street level.

I felt tres chic in my basic black dress, tights with striped socks layered over them and boots, a cloche hat, scarf and wool coat.  I bet if our two families were in a “spot the Yankees” lineup together, it would have been no contest.  I was toasty warm all day, too.

Demeanor

In Paris, the locals are a bunch of low-talkers.  If you walk into a shop and mumble “bonjour” you’ll fit right in.  In Rome, the voices are louder and the conversations more animated. 

The most important thing to remember:  EVERYONE speaks some English. If you’re going to make a comment about someone’s haircut, tattoo or clothing, they can probably understand what you’re saying.  They might even be Americans trying out their own sense of European style. 

Above all, don’t get pushy, nasty or rude.  Smile. If you act like a jerk, you can ruin someone’s impression of all Americans.  And that’s not fair. 

One afternoon I was wandering through a Spanish-speaking town when a woman came barreling out of a little bodega and shouted to anyone on the street who would listen, “What’s the Spanish word for butter?  BUTTER?”

“Mantequilla,” I responded automatically.  The woman turned on her heel, not acknowledging me or saying thank you or anything, and plunged back into the shop. 

Restaurants

Last week in Paris we went out to a bistro for dinner, and were seated in an area with another American family, an Aisan couple and a pair of older women who spoke Spanish to each other.  Another couple came in, was seated, spent about fifteen minutes reading through the menu, then got up and told the hostess, “There isn’t anything on the menu that we want.  Goodbye.”  And they left.

We kinda shook our heads and tut-tutted a little.  The full menu was posted on a board outside the restaurant.  There were English translations for everything.  The menu offered a wide selection, and we all had dishes we enjoyed.   We thought it was unfortunate and rude of the other American couple to do that.  After all, there was a McDonald’s right down the street.

But it’s not always easy.  And you shouldn’t have to eat something you don’t want.  We’ve been on the other side of the situation, too.

Mike and I did walk out of a restaurant on our first trip abroad.  It was in Berlin, and the menu was not available in English.  We ended up just having a beer and moving on.

A couple days ago, we went to the Roman Forum and the Colosseum, and when it was time for lunch, we walked a couple blocks past the Colosseum, hoping to find a café where we could have a quick, relatively inexpensive lunch.  Mike picked a place that looked promising, and the hostess conducted us through the bar area, past three different dining rooms (all pretty much empty) into a larger dining room in the back.

We were presented with full menus, with entrees in the 12-17 Euro range, but all we really wanted was a pizza.  Then we noticed a couple at a nearby table being served pizza, so we asked.  The waiter sighed and brought us a smaller menu.  When he returned and we said we’d like to order a salami pizza to share, he slapped a menu down on the table, and huffed.  Mike said, low, “Oh, he’s not happy.”

The waiter said pointedly, “Sir…this is a ristorante…not a bar!” 

Mike replied, “We’ll leave then.”  He didn’t say it in a mean way.  But we didn’t want to order a fifty-dollar lunch.  We weren’t that hungry. 

We stood up, put on our coats, and exited…stage left.

Even with the best of intentions, we don’t always get it right. 

Pretty soon, we found a café and ordered three different plates of pasta, and every so often we traded plates, so everyone got to try everything.  It was just what we wanted.