In my innumerable travels about the globe, I have gleaned a great deal of cultural information from interesting societies. Perhaps the reason I do this so much is because the culture that I am forced to experience every day is less than satisfying. The concrete floors of a public high school and the occasional “get-away” to a fast food mega-franchise leaves a little something left to be desired. Needless to say, the time-tested and tradition-rich cultures of Europe and Latin America fill the gaping hole left by the American education system and McDonald’s.
Most recently, I visited Spain for a trip with a large group of friends. We stopped for varying amounts of time in four different Spanish cities (i.e. Seville, Granada, Malaga, and Madrid). The trip as a whole was excellent, truly unforgettable. I was lucky enough to see some of the most awe-inspiring cathedrals in the world. They inspired much awe. And I had ample time to enjoy great company in another country. The trip was just perfect. The Spanish are very accommodating and sympathetic toward American language challenges. On more than one occasion, I would prepare a sentence in Spanish, recite it once over, then speak it to the cashier in my infallible accent. About half-way through my recitation, the cashier would interrupt to comfort me, “You are American, you order in English. I cannot understand your try Spanish.” I didn’t say the Spanish were at all sensitive, just accommodating.
As the trip went on and we found ourselves walking the grounds of El Escorial in Madrid, I realized something was missing. A certain element of comfort. Something intrinsically American. First I thought it was fast food, but then I remembered the Burger King we had eaten inside the night before. Then I thought it was the American cars that were missing, but as I thought that a Chevy Aveo drove by (the two-door hatchback is the Hummer of Spain — it could easily store most other vehicles in its trunk). Finally I realized, while gawking at a pair of gypsies performing on a mosaic bench that it was the fat Americans that I had been missing. The male-female duo were overweight by European standards but would have made Barack Obama look chubby. Those benches are intended to be a place for diabetic citizens of the U.S. of A. to give their horribly overused knees a much needed breather from the agony of walking back to the car. In Spain they use it to showcase traditional culture and musical talent?! Commies, I tell you. Thin, walk-everywhere-you-go, treat-Earth-responsibly commies!
I was thrown yet again when I saw a very fat, Spanish man sitting on a park bench. Somehow this did not comfort me. His midsection forced his poor belt to do the work of fifty Malaysian laborers. His shirt was tucked into his pants so as to better define his breasts through the pressed polo. By some act of God, a watch fit on his wrist though I don’t think I have ever seen that many chain links attached to one another. If the visualization has failed in conveying the central idea, this man was fat. But his obesity gave me no comfort. I thought perhaps I needed to be closer to it so I walked over and sat down on the other end of the bench which seemed to be, quite literally, at the tipping point. This did not work. I found myself in a quagmire. Using only my All-American instinct and my fellow tourists as models, I realized my problem: I saw no Americans on benches. Only Spaniards seemed to want to take breaks. American tourists were either walking around cathedrals or sleeping on the beaches (there was no action in between the two — we would teleport to the beach, not walk, ride, or fly). In a last ditch effort to soothe my aching soul which hadn’t had a proper cheeseburger in weeks, I asked a friend to post up on a bench for me. Because of him, I am sitting here cyber-telling you this story now.
Can you see the difference?
Couple performing on a mosaic bench.
Essentially the same bench. Does he scream American comfort or what?
