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| Schmoozing with the captain. (Not Capt. Steubing). |
Lessons learned from a European cruise (that are totally
incidental and not applicable to the American tourist as a whole, lest I be
accused of generalizing too much):
Some Americans don’t like to be in foreign countries.
They like to go home and tell people that they have been to
foreign countries.
But while they are on their luxury cruise ship, which looks
pretty much like a four-star hotel-from-home-on-water, they peek out their
portholes at beautiful European hamlets and historical waterfronts, and complain,
complain, complain, that it’s not like home.
It’s too hot.
It’s too cold.
It’s too
steep.
It’s too far to walk.
The people don’t speak English.
The food is too rich.
It’s taking too long for the harbor
officials to clear the ship for disembarking.
“Well, that’s the French for you! There are rules, and there
are ‘French’ rules.”
The tiny TCK voice in me is outraged, embarrassed, angry. “Why did you come here, if all you do
is complain that it’s not like home?”
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| Portugese Tiles. |
And lest I sound like a cynical, ungrateful be-yotch who
does nothing but gripe about an opulent, ridiculously luxurious cruise provided
by the generosity of her mother-in-law, whom she appreciates more than she
could ever say, allow me to say that I, myself, had a wonderful time seeing
places that I have to date only dreamt about. I finally got to set foot in Portugal, that exotic place
that tempted me last May but which, thanks to the buffoonery of United Airlines, I was
prevented from seeing. I was
enchanted by the intricate tile-fronted buildings in Porto and by the tiny
alleyways of Sintra. I got to
watch men building a wooden boat from scratch, and taste tawny and red Ferreira
port at the very place where it was made.
I got to wander through the white towns of Andalusia in Spain,
surrounded by rolling green hills, dotted with hundreds of modern windmill turbines. I chuckled to myself that Don Quixote
would have had his hands full battling those!
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| Mt. St. Michel |
I finally got to climb the seemingly endless craggy steps to
the top of Mont St. Michel in France.
My sister Lisa, when we lived in Belgium, had been there on a high
school field trip. I was
mesmerized by the thought of a mysterious abbey on a rock island, only
accessible at low tide, and cut off from the world when the sea came back to
the land. It was a sort of
pilgrimage for me, to stand where my sister had once stood.
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| Bordeaux |
My husband and I sat in a bistro on the sidewalks of
Bordeaux and I resurrected my French language skills to order scallops in
mushroom sauce, and a goat cheese salad.
Oh Em Gee. I don’t remember
tasting anything so exquisite.
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| On the Garonne River in Bordeaux |
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| OMG |
I stood, in the rain, on the deck of our ship as we came into port in Bilbao, Spain. When I was a little girl and we crossed the Pacific on freighters, my dad would stand with me on the deck as we came into port in Yokohama. He explained how a little tugboat would come out to meet the ship. The pilot would hop on and guide the ship through the channels safely. It gave me a little nostalgic thrill to see the Spanish pilot do exactly that.
So you can only imagine, that in light of my enchantment and
my sensory thrills, it was a little disheartening to hear my fellow countrymen griping
and bemoaning the ways of the Europeans.
My TCK snobbery was running at full tilt … it was so very hard not to
respond to the complainers.
I
tried to think of a non-confrontational thing to say, but the moments passed.
Perhaps I could have said, “Yes, but
vive la difference, right?!” or “Yes, but we need to respect their laws since
we are in their country.
We would
expect the same of them when they visited our country, right?”
On the other hand, we befriended several of the crew, many of whom were from the Philippines. When I told them I longed for some Filipino food, they cooked a spread for me, and delivered it to my cabin when I was under the weather. That, my friends, is kindness and hospitality. I even sang the Filipino national anthem with them, resulting in lots of smiles and laughter.
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| Andalusia |
Sigh … being a TCK is sometimes a curse.
Many people travel overseas only to realize that there’s no place like home. For me, wherever I go is home, so any insult of the place, is an insult to me. There is so much in the world to be appreciated and absorbed. We shouldn't waste time longing for home.
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| Gloria and me in Andalusia |
Post Script: I hit the ground running when we got home. Work is a pleasure, exhausting, but still a pleasure. My posts here may be few and far between, but I'm still here, thinking and viewing the world through my TCK rose-colored glasses. I hope you'll stay tuned.
