PASS THE HAT

I vividly recall the size of his cream-colored cowboy hat. Katherine and I were cowering in a corner of the Pompidou Center in Paris, watching as a Texan corralled his wife for a photo in front of a particularly famous Picasso. We knew he was from Texas because we could hear his loud southern drawl as he explained to the museum attendant where he was from (why do people from Texas feel the need to specify their state?) before asking him to take the photo. When he continued on, at full volume, with a critique of the various differences between France and the US, we took the stairs to the next floor as fast as possible.

Having lived and studied in France for close to a year, we were painfully aware of how many Americans acted when on vacation in France, and were even beginning to understand why the French often treated them with disdain. We had learned how to speak French quietly if imperfectly, to smile a lot and to downplay our birth country. We knew that the man from Texas was exactly the French definition of the Ugly American, and we didn’t want to be judged guilty by proximity.

***

It started at a small cooking class in someone’s home. A Peruvian immigrant turned personal chef trying out her wares on a group of local international women. In addition to our host, her Venezuelan assistant, and I, there were two women from France, and one from Sweden. Our hostess demonstrated ceviche, a seafood stir fry, and an arroz con leche, all Peruvian style. What with the fresh fruity cocktails, the outdoor kitchen, the soft breezes and the samba music, it began as what everyone seems to imagine my life to be down here. Paradise.

And I loved it. As with so many social events in this life we have chosen, the class was taught and learned in a combination of Spanish, French and English, as each of us understood and spoke at least a smattering of all three. While I was thrilled that there were two francophones present, I hesitated to speak too much French, both because I was embarrassed at the state of my grammaire galloise, and because, frankly, when I try to speak French and Spanish in the same conversation my brain goes completely to mush, with the general result being that I can’t say anything comprehensible in any language.

Looking back, that was a mistake.

The pinnacle of the evening was sitting down to the meal we had cooked, again in three languages. It always fascinates me to be the only American at a dinner table. Even as someone who spent much of her master’s program studying the repercussions of being a member of a dominant culture, I still always feel a slight shift in the air, a light chime of the wind. At this table, which was my first in a long time, at first I believed it was my imagination. The conversation built around the relative safety of Costa Rica. The Europeans generally felt less safe, while to the woman from Venezuela it seemed like Disney World. Imagine, no longer worrying that your husband will get pulled out of his car and shot on the way home from work! Yes, in comparison to that, having your passport stolen was small potatoes.

One of the French women had lived in Costa Rica and worked in its tourist industry for almost a decade. She bemoaned how she used to be able to walk outside at night by herself, and how expensive goods had become. On and on she complained about how the gringo presence in Costa Rica has ruined it. What with the huge malls and the high rise condos on the beach. They may have brought more tourism and jobs but also more inequality and theft and traffic. I felt like I was cowering in the corner of the Pompidou all over again, but this time I was wearing the cowboy hat.

I wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable. Everyone else at the table was looking at me for a response. They clearly felt badly for me, but likely also wondered what on earth I could say to defend myself. Much of what she said I knew to be true.

In my experience, particularly post 9/11, most people outside of the United States have very, very mixed feelings about Americans.While they generally love Coca Cola and Michael Jackson and Converse sneakers, they are almost universally wary of American foreign policy. Not unlike the American movies of the 1980s that frequently cast the bad guys as Russians, on Costa Rican television today, the bad guys are always Americans. The caricature is the Ugly American all over again: someone who doesn’t bother to understand his surroundings, assumes that his way is the right way, and that if he just talks loudly enough in his mother tounge, everyone will listen.

I suppose there are a number of ways an American abroad could combat this image, but I have found only two to work in this particular type of situation. Language and humility. I turned to the woman, and in miraculously passable French, said that I understood that American interests were not always positive for other countries, and that all of the places I have traveled I have seen this, and that I always feel badly about it. She actually smiled at me, and the conversation moved on. Once I demonstrated that I was not the caricature, that I was willing to take a stab at her language and her vision of the world, everyone relaxed, as if she had merely been the megaphone for the entire table.

***

Some time later my husband and I visited the stunning Celeste Mountain Lodge. The lovely owner spoke perfect English, but he carried an accent and was clearly not Costa Rican, so I asked where he was from. He was reticent to tell me that he was French. I, of course was overjoyed, as my love for France is as deep as it is completely irrational. But he was shy and even slightly embarassed, “People often are nervous when they hear I am French, that I might be rude or might be too opinionated like my countrymen.” I smiled as I realized that we all have our country’s caricatures to overcome. At first glance we all wear cowboy hats or berets. Perhaps the trick is to wear them lightly, to be sure you can peek out from underneath for a better view of the world.