The Ugly American in the Mirror

I’m just back from a trip to Europe, and, to my chagrin, the ugly American is alive and well. He is everywhere.

Let me count the ways.

Unlike me, the ugly American wears athletic apparel with Nike and Adidas logos wherever he goes. Baseball caps are de rigueur for this individual.

Unlike me, the ugly American wears shorts at religious monuments. 

Unlike me, the ugly American immediately holds forth in English without even attempting to speak a foreign language or asking whether the listener speaks English. 

Unlike me, the ugly American unhesitatingly orders a cheeseburger rather than even trying to enjoy a foreign dish. 

The barely edible but authentic dish
I ordered in Speyer, Germany

Unlike me, the ugly American carries his own toothpick and spends 20 minutes cleaning his teeth on a tour bus, in full view of others. 

Amsterdam red-light district

Unlike me, the ugly American gawks at the sex workers in Amsterdam’s red-light district and tries to sneak photos of them despite strict, explicit prohibitions against it.

Despite all this, and despite the universal disdain I encountered for having an orange idiot as president, I feel proud to be an American. We were once a great nation. The orange menace is almost universally ridiculed, except perhaps by the toothpick guy I mentioned above. He and his nasty wife screamed MAGA. 

But I myself acted like an ugly American when, in Amsterdam, I expressed disappointment at the small size of the Coke Zero I ordered. The waiter had to remind me that everything is bigger in America. And behold, a “mere” 8 ounces of soda proved sufficient.

Speyer Cathedral

I also acted pretty ugly when I told a fellow traveler, a friendly pediatrician from Alaska, that I found the Romanesque cathedral in Speyer, Germany, boring. It may have reflected the idea that people were expected only to “work, pray, and repeat,” but I’ll take my grand European cathedrals with statues, stained-glass windows, and flying buttresses, thank you.

There was a time when my French was good enough to speak with a French person without hesitation. My Spanish was passable. My German, though rough, got the point across.

As I’ve aged, my language skills have declined. The last time we were in a taxi in Paris, Joe had the nerve to tell me that my French wasn’t as good as it used to be. 

So, look out, toothpick guy. I am just a cheeseburger away from being your equal.

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