Two Broads Abroad | U.S. tourists prompt humbling experience

Acacia O'Connor Columnist

After five semesters of Italian language classes and two trips to Italy, I had accumulated a certain amount of pride in my ability to function as a student and not solely as a tourist.

During my recent weekend visit to Rome, I stayed with an American Council for International Studies Tour Group from my hometown of Syracuse, N.Y. The tour group was led by my high school soccer coach, who had also taken me on my very first Italian tour years ago when I was 16 years old. That tour gave me my first taste of gelato, real pasta, and Michelangelo, and set me on my course to Junior Year Abroad. Now, almost five years later, it was fitting, if not ironic, that I became a tour guide of sorts for this new group.

However, for the most part, I had some difficulty swallowing my pride. It didn’t matter that I knew the difference between “scusi” and “scusa,” I was in an American tour group; I was a tourist.

Before you start calling me out for what a snotty jerk I am, please let me say that I know what a snotty jerk I am. I tried not to let the other’s Italian botchings and stupid behaviors bother me—I thought it was cute to begin with, because I know I botched and continue to botch things myself. But have you ever been with an American while they are speaking slowly and loudly to someone foreign in an attempt to penetrate whatever language barrier there may be? That is the sort of embarrassment that affects the American abroad whenever they hear their fellow nationals drawing attention to themselves with their loud voices saying silly things. It brings with it a burning moment where you ask yourself, “Am I like that?” and then try not to cry.

A couple weekends ago, a Vassar friend and I went to see The Decemberists playing their only Italian tour date. As you might imagine, most of the concert-goers were American college students. Loud, giggling, obnoxious Americans. They started whining and hollering when the band was late coming out, then tried to push their way to the stage in front of Italians who had been standing there for over an hour. These same Italians would turn and stare, then whisper inaudibly to one another.

“Stasera, siamo canadesi,” my friend and I decided. That night, we were Canadians.

Another time, at a local gelateria in Bologna called Gelatauro, the air was filled with the deafening laughter of my fellow nationals. One went up to ask where the bathroom was, but knew absolutely no Italian, and kept repeating “bathroom?” loudly and pointing. I visibly grimaced in embarrassment as a grin appeared on the face of the bartender.

“I’m not one of them!” I wanted to say to him. But considering that I had mispronounced my own order minutes before, I clearly was no different.

During my weekend in Rome, there were only so many times I could hear “Grazie” (graht-zi-eh) pronounced “graat-zeeeee” in heavy guttural American vowels without dying a little inside. It’s like going to a $100-a-plate restaurant and watching the person you are with pick up their dinner and eat it with both hands—not exactly subtle or chic. And as much as I wanted to solve any questions by asking an Italian in Italian, I got more confused or disgruntled looks in response to my speaking than I ever had while alone in Bologna. Romans would either cut me off mid-statement or respond in English.

I’m filled with a sort of self-loathing at being so hard on fellow Americans who wish to broaden their horizons. After all, it is by no fault of their own that they aren’t fluent in Italian. I don’t consider it any fault of mine that I don’t speak Chinese.

But I have to ask myself, should there be any unwritten requirements for international travel? What are the codes of conduct and what constitutes a transgression? I have heard many Americans (typically with several generations of American bloodlines behind them) express annoyance at immigrants or naturalized citizens who can not or do not speak American English. But those same Americans will visit other countries to effectively consume their cultures without being able to say “thank you” in the native tongue.

I don’t claim to have any answers to these dilemmas, but they have been on my mind as I navigate my way through a foreign landscape. As a person who would probably call herself an intellectual of sorts, I can’t help but think that maybe the openness to learning is at least a good first step. I was encouraged that the group asked so many questions about the culture here and seemed to retain that information. I came to realize how much patience language teachers, and all teachers in general, must have for those who are entirely ignorant on a subject.

While I can now carry on a decent conversation in Italian, my interactions with my hometown comrades visiting Italy showed me that I, too, have not learned everything there is to know about humility and acceptance.