Interlude: Musings in my apartment - Tourists
It’s become obvious to me that there are two kinds of tourists in the world. There are those tourists who look forward to going to a new place in order to learn about new things, experience a new culture, and meet new people. They don’t expect things to be the same as back home, they are open-minded, and when necessary, they are willing to experience a little discomfort because they understand it’s temporary. And then there is the other kind of tourist – the ones that travel to a new place and expect everything to be exactly the same as at home. You know they type: they refuse to eat anything new, they get upset when no one else speaks their language (whatever it is), and they consider anything that is different to be bad. Quite honestly, I’m not exactly sure why these tourists bother to leave home, but they do, and I’ve had the pleasure of running into just as many of the second group as the first.
I was especially annoyed when one of the latter groups showed up in my regular bar down here in Almunecar. It was during a World Cup game, and if memory serves, it was the third England game. J. was visiting, so we were out watching the game and having a couple of glasses of vino roja. Also in attendance were a variety of English tourists and transplants, many of whom I knew from earlier games. And then there was a group that I did not recognize, consisting of two middle-aged couples. One of the men in the group went up to order two more beers (dos cervezas). When Gladys, the bartender, replied by asking “dos” and holding up two fingers (the universally recognized sign for 2), the fat, pasty, balding English man started yelling “Don’t speak that ridiculous language to me!” and spouting off to his companions that he can’t believe how anyone understands anything. Because heaven forbid he should speak Spanish. In Spain! He was a general pain for the rest of the evening and I know I’m a bad person, but I took pleasure in making fun of him. In Spanish. So take that!
Luckily, there’s lots of the first group too, like Jack and Ann. They were an English couple J. and I met in Brussels during dinner. They were on a short holiday and happened to start talking to us as we were trying to decide which wine to order (we decided on the red – it was just as bad as the white). They regaled us with stories of travel throughout England and the world, they helped us out when we were speaking with the waiter (who spoke very good English but there were some moments when having a French translator was very helpful – like when I accidentally knocked over and broke an ashtray. But hey, the table was a foot square!), and they were overall very pleasant dinner companions. To be honest, I think they were quite surprised to meet some Americans who belonged to the first group too! But more about that later (the misconceptions about Americans are vast, but our bad reputation is completely undeserved)!
I was especially annoyed when one of the latter groups showed up in my regular bar down here in Almunecar. It was during a World Cup game, and if memory serves, it was the third England game. J. was visiting, so we were out watching the game and having a couple of glasses of vino roja. Also in attendance were a variety of English tourists and transplants, many of whom I knew from earlier games. And then there was a group that I did not recognize, consisting of two middle-aged couples. One of the men in the group went up to order two more beers (dos cervezas). When Gladys, the bartender, replied by asking “dos” and holding up two fingers (the universally recognized sign for 2), the fat, pasty, balding English man started yelling “Don’t speak that ridiculous language to me!” and spouting off to his companions that he can’t believe how anyone understands anything. Because heaven forbid he should speak Spanish. In Spain! He was a general pain for the rest of the evening and I know I’m a bad person, but I took pleasure in making fun of him. In Spanish. So take that!
Luckily, there’s lots of the first group too, like Jack and Ann. They were an English couple J. and I met in Brussels during dinner. They were on a short holiday and happened to start talking to us as we were trying to decide which wine to order (we decided on the red – it was just as bad as the white). They regaled us with stories of travel throughout England and the world, they helped us out when we were speaking with the waiter (who spoke very good English but there were some moments when having a French translator was very helpful – like when I accidentally knocked over and broke an ashtray. But hey, the table was a foot square!), and they were overall very pleasant dinner companions. To be honest, I think they were quite surprised to meet some Americans who belonged to the first group too! But more about that later (the misconceptions about Americans are vast, but our bad reputation is completely undeserved)!
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