Going American
Somewhere along the trip, most likely in the Barcelona airport, J. and I coined the term “going American.” It’s what happens when you’re tired, hungry, and just plain annoyed that no one is behaving appropriately. And I don’t mean behaving appropriately in the way of one’s own culture, but rather, acting with basic human decency towards other people. Because no matter where you are, there is no need to be rude, cut off people in line, or otherwise knock them aside and pretend you didn’t notice. In these instances, the only recourse is to “go American” and remind people that they must behave like adults. Because there are a lot of people out there who clearly forgot the rules they learned in kindergarten.
The first problem at the Barcelona airport was that even though we arrived with plenty of time to get to our flight (and search for some breakfast too), a language school had descended on the airport. Hundreds of teenagers, accompanied by parents, siblings, grandparents, and the occasional second cousin twice remove, none of whom were flying, were milling around the check-in desks as airline employees did nothing to stem the flow or people or even determine if everyone was in the right place. As we searched out a line, it became clear that there was no order involved and as the clock began to move forward, we realized that we were dangerously close to missing our flight. In a panic, we headed over to the airline help desk, where we were assured that if we paid extra money for “Priority Boarding” (an interesting European airline excuse to charge you more money), we would have no problem getting to our flight on time. So 28 euros later, we were in another line, which also refused to move. And every time there was even the slightest hint of movement in the line, a large group of Europeans would inevitably elbow us aside and cut in front of us, then look very confused when we called them on it? “Who, us” they would ask innocently. “Oh no, we have been standing here but you just did not see us because you are silly Americans.” I swear, that’s what they said in French.
As we stood behind two French teenagers who were trying to check a bicycle that was crammed into a ripped cardboard box and help precariously together with a few strands of packing tape, the urge to “go American” grew very strong. It was even worse as we were bumped into for the millionth time, only to have our “pardons” haughtily ignored. In fact, here’s how the majority of our interactions with people in our way went:
Me (using a normal inside voice): Pardon me
Them: Eye roll
Me (a tad louder): Excuse me sir/miss/madam
Them: Snort
Me (closer to an outside voice): Ahem. Pardon me, I need to get through.
Them: Eye roll and snort
Me (way louder than is polite): Get out of my way you inconsiderate jerk!
Them: You Americans are so rude!
What can I say, sometimes you just need to “go American.”
Luckily, most of the time that this happened, it was only around regular tourists like ourselves. We tried very hard to be polite to service people, as most of the time, they were just trying to do their jobs. And finally, after ignoring us for 10 minutes because of the aforementioned bike wrapped in packing tape, we finally got the airline employee to stamp our boarding passes, check our luggage, and send us through security. Which we got through without a hitch and with 15 minutes to make our flight. Until we got to the other side and found that our flight was delayed for over two hours. So off to breakfast we went.
I didn’t expect to have to “go American” any time soon, but alas, the universe had something else in store for us. Thanks to those extra 28 Euros, we go to board the flight first and got seats up front, so that we could disembark quickly. And as I happily pulled out my book and prepared to read, hoards of children descended on us. It seemed that every parent and child wanted to sit near us. And to make matters worse, two couples, traveling with three children between them, decided to put all three of the devil’s spawn in their own row (all under 8), while the parents SAT ELSEWHERE. As in NOT WATCHING THE CHILDREN!
That’s right, these two pairs of inconsiderate parents dumped their kids off in the row in front of us, parked their lazy behinds in other seats, and proceeded to read, sleep, and/or paw each other (seriously people, it was way too early in the day for that!) during the flight while the three children wreaked as much havoc as they could. I’ve never seen turbulence created by the bouncing of people in seats, but it happened on that flight. It was as if someone had given these kids a double espresso and then decided it was a good idea to keep them in an enclosed space to see what would happen. Well, what happens is that one annoyed American with just enough grasp of Spanish to say rude things to the parents starts saying rude things to the parents. Because after several entreaties to the children to be quiet and stop moving didn’t work, I decided to start yelling at the couple closest to us. And they would quiet their children down – for 30 seconds. And that’s how I spent my flight to Paris – cursing poorly behaved children in poorly pronounced Spanish. Good times.
(I would like to take this moment to point out that these children were old enough to behave – unlike crying babies, who are annoying but no one’s fault – and that if their parents were sitting with them, they probably would have behaved just fine. I have traveled with children and while a child may not have the same patience as an adult, s/he is perfectly capable of sitting relatively still and behaving quietly for a 3 hour flight. I know this because I have seen four young children behave perfectly during a 22+ hour drive over two days to Florida. THAT is a situation where a child can be forgiven for misbehaving, but this flight – clearly an indication of bad parenting.)
Needless to say, Paris was a welcome reprieve. No matter how rude the French could possibly be to us, they could not be any more annoying than these kids (seriously, how does a 50 pound child cause an ENTIRE row of seats to shake uncontrollably). So we got on the train, guessed our stop correctly, and were soon ensconced in quite a lovely hotel, just blocks from Notre Dame. And it was all worth it when we went out to dinner and J. introduced me to her favorite French delicacy: raclete. It’s like fondue, but cooler. See for yourself:
The first problem at the Barcelona airport was that even though we arrived with plenty of time to get to our flight (and search for some breakfast too), a language school had descended on the airport. Hundreds of teenagers, accompanied by parents, siblings, grandparents, and the occasional second cousin twice remove, none of whom were flying, were milling around the check-in desks as airline employees did nothing to stem the flow or people or even determine if everyone was in the right place. As we searched out a line, it became clear that there was no order involved and as the clock began to move forward, we realized that we were dangerously close to missing our flight. In a panic, we headed over to the airline help desk, where we were assured that if we paid extra money for “Priority Boarding” (an interesting European airline excuse to charge you more money), we would have no problem getting to our flight on time. So 28 euros later, we were in another line, which also refused to move. And every time there was even the slightest hint of movement in the line, a large group of Europeans would inevitably elbow us aside and cut in front of us, then look very confused when we called them on it? “Who, us” they would ask innocently. “Oh no, we have been standing here but you just did not see us because you are silly Americans.” I swear, that’s what they said in French.
As we stood behind two French teenagers who were trying to check a bicycle that was crammed into a ripped cardboard box and help precariously together with a few strands of packing tape, the urge to “go American” grew very strong. It was even worse as we were bumped into for the millionth time, only to have our “pardons” haughtily ignored. In fact, here’s how the majority of our interactions with people in our way went:
Me (using a normal inside voice): Pardon me
Them: Eye roll
Me (a tad louder): Excuse me sir/miss/madam
Them: Snort
Me (closer to an outside voice): Ahem. Pardon me, I need to get through.
Them: Eye roll and snort
Me (way louder than is polite): Get out of my way you inconsiderate jerk!
Them: You Americans are so rude!
What can I say, sometimes you just need to “go American.”
Luckily, most of the time that this happened, it was only around regular tourists like ourselves. We tried very hard to be polite to service people, as most of the time, they were just trying to do their jobs. And finally, after ignoring us for 10 minutes because of the aforementioned bike wrapped in packing tape, we finally got the airline employee to stamp our boarding passes, check our luggage, and send us through security. Which we got through without a hitch and with 15 minutes to make our flight. Until we got to the other side and found that our flight was delayed for over two hours. So off to breakfast we went.
I didn’t expect to have to “go American” any time soon, but alas, the universe had something else in store for us. Thanks to those extra 28 Euros, we go to board the flight first and got seats up front, so that we could disembark quickly. And as I happily pulled out my book and prepared to read, hoards of children descended on us. It seemed that every parent and child wanted to sit near us. And to make matters worse, two couples, traveling with three children between them, decided to put all three of the devil’s spawn in their own row (all under 8), while the parents SAT ELSEWHERE. As in NOT WATCHING THE CHILDREN!
That’s right, these two pairs of inconsiderate parents dumped their kids off in the row in front of us, parked their lazy behinds in other seats, and proceeded to read, sleep, and/or paw each other (seriously people, it was way too early in the day for that!) during the flight while the three children wreaked as much havoc as they could. I’ve never seen turbulence created by the bouncing of people in seats, but it happened on that flight. It was as if someone had given these kids a double espresso and then decided it was a good idea to keep them in an enclosed space to see what would happen. Well, what happens is that one annoyed American with just enough grasp of Spanish to say rude things to the parents starts saying rude things to the parents. Because after several entreaties to the children to be quiet and stop moving didn’t work, I decided to start yelling at the couple closest to us. And they would quiet their children down – for 30 seconds. And that’s how I spent my flight to Paris – cursing poorly behaved children in poorly pronounced Spanish. Good times.
(I would like to take this moment to point out that these children were old enough to behave – unlike crying babies, who are annoying but no one’s fault – and that if their parents were sitting with them, they probably would have behaved just fine. I have traveled with children and while a child may not have the same patience as an adult, s/he is perfectly capable of sitting relatively still and behaving quietly for a 3 hour flight. I know this because I have seen four young children behave perfectly during a 22+ hour drive over two days to Florida. THAT is a situation where a child can be forgiven for misbehaving, but this flight – clearly an indication of bad parenting.)
Needless to say, Paris was a welcome reprieve. No matter how rude the French could possibly be to us, they could not be any more annoying than these kids (seriously, how does a 50 pound child cause an ENTIRE row of seats to shake uncontrollably). So we got on the train, guessed our stop correctly, and were soon ensconced in quite a lovely hotel, just blocks from Notre Dame. And it was all worth it when we went out to dinner and J. introduced me to her favorite French delicacy: raclete. It’s like fondue, but cooler. See for yourself:
How is it that I didn’t know about this? You get this cool heating contraption, melt thick slices of cheese, and then pour it all over potatoes and bread. It’s the perfect meal! And a great way to end a horrible trip to Paris. And as it turns out, the beginning of a wonderful experience in what is now one of my favorite cities. But you’ll have to wait to hear more about that.
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