If you've never read The Ugly American, by William Lederer and Eugene Burdick, you may think that the authors are talking about a really offensive kind of person who just happens to be from the United States. Pretty much everyone knows the stereotype, either from the movies or -- so sadly -- from real-life experience. The Ugly American is always loud, demanding, ignorant of anything cultural and sensitive, thoughtless, and just so very arrogant.
I kind of think, at least it is my hope, that I'm not this kind of American. Usually, when I travel, if someone tries to guess where I'm from, their first choice is not the United States because I don't fit into the stereotype box. While once eating in an Irish restaurant, a very loud American woman came in through the entryway. Everyone in the place knew she was there. She made her presence impossible to ignore. And, when she left, there were so many comments about "those Americans". When I could take it no longer, I said, "We're not all that way."
Silence.
I happened to be in Mexico during one of the United States presidential elections. When the results were made public, my Mexican host and another German guest fell into a heated conversation about "those Americans". In no uncertain terms, they were not at all pleased with how 4.25% of the world's population voted. I felt a little invisible. I was in the same room as these two people ranted. Finally, I said, "Yeah, those awful Americans!"
Silence, again.
My Mexican host turned to me and said, "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you're American. You don't act like one!"
I get that a lot.
And, one more little proof that hopefully settles any doubt happened in Brazil. After three weeks of mural painting, my host kind of apologized to me. (I'm not sure that is the right word.) But, she told me that prior to my visit, she didn't really hold the highest esteem for Americans. However, I didn't fit into the mold of what she expected. I ate with Brazilians. I laughed with and hugged Brazilians. I painted with them. And, most importantly, I showed them that I had a Brazilian heart. I had become family in that short visit. She never expected that.
Now, if you have read The Ugly American, you know that the "ugly" guy also didn't fit that stereotype. Our hero was a rather plain-looking engineer named Homer Atkins. His work required him to jump into projects with the local people. And, in the process, his hands were calloused and grease-covered. In Homer's opinion, ugly. It sounds a little like someone who wanders the globe painting community murals. However, I've not collected any callouses along the way. But, most certainly, my hands, arms, clothing, face, and hair have been covered with a whole lot of paint. I'm feeling slightly "ugly" right now. And, I'm so glad to be a little like Homer.
Now, I have traveled with the other kind of Ugly American. And, I want to give you some travel tips to avoid if you ever find yourself overseas. I think they also work if you never set foot outside of the good old U.S. of A. I'm going to call this person Annabeth Snodheimer. (She's one of the villians in the book I wrote, Triple Gratitude with Assorted Monsters. I'm fairly sure nobody else on the planet has ever had that name.) Anyway, I once met Annabeth at a conference. It's safe to say that my first impression of this person was just completely as wrong as it could possibly be. We exchanged emails and when I mentioned a vacation that I planned on taking one Christmas, she asked if she could join me. Again, I thought this was a sane person, and it saved me over $4,000. So, I said yes.
I won't mention where we went. But, part of the trip included a dugout canoe ride into a massive river delta. Now, I must confess, planning trips is not really a strong point of mine. Some people like to know every detail in advance. I am much more likely to go with the flow. This delta region was remote. It didn't look like anything had changed there since the beginning of time. We passed through high reeds and saw lots of exotic birds. The whole time, I wondered, "What kind of lodging could be built in something so far off the beaten path?"
The answer was none.
Nope, there was no hut. No hovel. And, certainly no hotel. We finally pulled the canoe up onto a little island in the middle of absolutely nowhere to set up camp. As long as I'm talking about things we lacked, I also hoped there were no crocodiles! Now, I don't normally ever voluntarily go camping. I'm much more of a hoteling kind of guy. But, I have learned that you have to go with the flow, especially when you are stranded on an island in the middle of a delta with no other option at hand. I also know that when you are in a remote travel situation, you lend a hand. It's what is done. Nobody had to ask me to help. I couldn't sit idly by and watch my guide set up my camp all by himself.
Annabeth had no such convictions.
And, it only got worse! As it turned out, our remote little island was a four-hour walk to the nearest point of civilization. I learned this because Annabeth wanted a Coca-Cola. She had our guide walk eight hours to get her a soft drink. What kind of person would do that? How can anyone possibly feel that entitled? Who was I traveling with?
This was at the very beginning of our two week trip. There would be more.
On the second leg of our journey, in a remote corner of another country, we found ourselves camping again. I'd traveled in this country before. In fact, I had the very same guide from a previous trip. He was wonderful. He was also so very professional. Annabeth continued to do things that annoyed me. At this point, her breathing my oxygen annoyed me. And, I vented with my guide. I know, it's not my best move. I continually try to improve my ways, but I vented. But, my guide remained so professional. He never once joined in that conversation.
Until the day he had to!
One morning, as we all rolled out of our separate tents, Annabeth had one of the cooking pots in her hands. It served a dual purpose as her potty pot during the night. She didn't want to wander out of her tent in the middle of the night to face mosquitoes or anything else lurking in the darkness. Well, my guide was fit to be tied. He'd never seen anything like this before. Neither of us could believe our eyes. So, he vented with me.
Does it surprise anyone that Annabeth and I were not talking to each other by the end of the trip? On our last night, in yet another country, we stayed in a youth hostel. In spite of our reservations, there was one bed available in a single room and one in a dorm room. Immediately, Annabeth said, "I'll take the single room." Those were the last words I ever heard from her. We never said goodbye. We never exchanged any more email correspondence. We were done. End of story.
Well, almost . . .
I know there are two sides to every story. If you ever spoke to Annabeth, she would most likely tell you what a truly ugly American I was to travel with. I'm talking about the bad kind of citizen. But, I have further proof for my side of the story. A few months later, I returned to the very same guesthouse. Now, they had hundreds, or thousands, of guests over the years. You have to do something unique to be remembered. But, one of the employees looked at me and said, "You look familiar. Have you been here before?"
I replied, "Yes, of course. I love to come here. However, the last time I was here, I came with a very demanding older woman."
She and her coworker looked at each other and exclaimed, "Annabeth!"
There was no hesitation, no competition. And, of course, Annabeth has no idea of the trail she leaves behind her wherever she goes. As for me, I hope that I will be remembered, far and wide, in every corner of the globe, for the paint all over my hands and the goodwill I try to spread with every brushstroke. That's my kind of ugly.
I kind of think, at least it is my hope, that I'm not this kind of American. Usually, when I travel, if someone tries to guess where I'm from, their first choice is not the United States because I don't fit into the stereotype box. While once eating in an Irish restaurant, a very loud American woman came in through the entryway. Everyone in the place knew she was there. She made her presence impossible to ignore. And, when she left, there were so many comments about "those Americans". When I could take it no longer, I said, "We're not all that way."
Silence.
I happened to be in Mexico during one of the United States presidential elections. When the results were made public, my Mexican host and another German guest fell into a heated conversation about "those Americans". In no uncertain terms, they were not at all pleased with how 4.25% of the world's population voted. I felt a little invisible. I was in the same room as these two people ranted. Finally, I said, "Yeah, those awful Americans!"
Silence, again.
My Mexican host turned to me and said, "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting you're American. You don't act like one!"
I get that a lot.
And, one more little proof that hopefully settles any doubt happened in Brazil. After three weeks of mural painting, my host kind of apologized to me. (I'm not sure that is the right word.) But, she told me that prior to my visit, she didn't really hold the highest esteem for Americans. However, I didn't fit into the mold of what she expected. I ate with Brazilians. I laughed with and hugged Brazilians. I painted with them. And, most importantly, I showed them that I had a Brazilian heart. I had become family in that short visit. She never expected that.
Now, if you have read The Ugly American, you know that the "ugly" guy also didn't fit that stereotype. Our hero was a rather plain-looking engineer named Homer Atkins. His work required him to jump into projects with the local people. And, in the process, his hands were calloused and grease-covered. In Homer's opinion, ugly. It sounds a little like someone who wanders the globe painting community murals. However, I've not collected any callouses along the way. But, most certainly, my hands, arms, clothing, face, and hair have been covered with a whole lot of paint. I'm feeling slightly "ugly" right now. And, I'm so glad to be a little like Homer.
Now, I have traveled with the other kind of Ugly American. And, I want to give you some travel tips to avoid if you ever find yourself overseas. I think they also work if you never set foot outside of the good old U.S. of A. I'm going to call this person Annabeth Snodheimer. (She's one of the villians in the book I wrote, Triple Gratitude with Assorted Monsters. I'm fairly sure nobody else on the planet has ever had that name.) Anyway, I once met Annabeth at a conference. It's safe to say that my first impression of this person was just completely as wrong as it could possibly be. We exchanged emails and when I mentioned a vacation that I planned on taking one Christmas, she asked if she could join me. Again, I thought this was a sane person, and it saved me over $4,000. So, I said yes.
I won't mention where we went. But, part of the trip included a dugout canoe ride into a massive river delta. Now, I must confess, planning trips is not really a strong point of mine. Some people like to know every detail in advance. I am much more likely to go with the flow. This delta region was remote. It didn't look like anything had changed there since the beginning of time. We passed through high reeds and saw lots of exotic birds. The whole time, I wondered, "What kind of lodging could be built in something so far off the beaten path?"
The answer was none.
Nope, there was no hut. No hovel. And, certainly no hotel. We finally pulled the canoe up onto a little island in the middle of absolutely nowhere to set up camp. As long as I'm talking about things we lacked, I also hoped there were no crocodiles! Now, I don't normally ever voluntarily go camping. I'm much more of a hoteling kind of guy. But, I have learned that you have to go with the flow, especially when you are stranded on an island in the middle of a delta with no other option at hand. I also know that when you are in a remote travel situation, you lend a hand. It's what is done. Nobody had to ask me to help. I couldn't sit idly by and watch my guide set up my camp all by himself.
Annabeth had no such convictions.
And, it only got worse! As it turned out, our remote little island was a four-hour walk to the nearest point of civilization. I learned this because Annabeth wanted a Coca-Cola. She had our guide walk eight hours to get her a soft drink. What kind of person would do that? How can anyone possibly feel that entitled? Who was I traveling with?
This was at the very beginning of our two week trip. There would be more.
On the second leg of our journey, in a remote corner of another country, we found ourselves camping again. I'd traveled in this country before. In fact, I had the very same guide from a previous trip. He was wonderful. He was also so very professional. Annabeth continued to do things that annoyed me. At this point, her breathing my oxygen annoyed me. And, I vented with my guide. I know, it's not my best move. I continually try to improve my ways, but I vented. But, my guide remained so professional. He never once joined in that conversation.
Until the day he had to!
One morning, as we all rolled out of our separate tents, Annabeth had one of the cooking pots in her hands. It served a dual purpose as her potty pot during the night. She didn't want to wander out of her tent in the middle of the night to face mosquitoes or anything else lurking in the darkness. Well, my guide was fit to be tied. He'd never seen anything like this before. Neither of us could believe our eyes. So, he vented with me.
Does it surprise anyone that Annabeth and I were not talking to each other by the end of the trip? On our last night, in yet another country, we stayed in a youth hostel. In spite of our reservations, there was one bed available in a single room and one in a dorm room. Immediately, Annabeth said, "I'll take the single room." Those were the last words I ever heard from her. We never said goodbye. We never exchanged any more email correspondence. We were done. End of story.
Well, almost . . .
I know there are two sides to every story. If you ever spoke to Annabeth, she would most likely tell you what a truly ugly American I was to travel with. I'm talking about the bad kind of citizen. But, I have further proof for my side of the story. A few months later, I returned to the very same guesthouse. Now, they had hundreds, or thousands, of guests over the years. You have to do something unique to be remembered. But, one of the employees looked at me and said, "You look familiar. Have you been here before?"
I replied, "Yes, of course. I love to come here. However, the last time I was here, I came with a very demanding older woman."
She and her coworker looked at each other and exclaimed, "Annabeth!"
There was no hesitation, no competition. And, of course, Annabeth has no idea of the trail she leaves behind her wherever she goes. As for me, I hope that I will be remembered, far and wide, in every corner of the globe, for the paint all over my hands and the goodwill I try to spread with every brushstroke. That's my kind of ugly.
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