5 — Wednesday, June 15, 2022 // The Statement
When I was younger, I was
adamant that when my family took
trips, we were not tourists — we were
travelers.
In my brain, “tourist” was a
dirty word, conjuring up the kind of
ignorant, America-centric sightseer
who goes into another country
expecting everything to work exactly
the same as it does at home. They
don Hawaiian shirts, oversized hats,
fanny packs, socks and sandals, or
clothes with prominent American
flags, big cameras swinging around
their necks. A “tourist” is the kind
of person who expects everyone to
speak English, who comes to other
countries just for the nice pictures
and who often doesn’t take the
time to say thank you. A “tourist” is
everything that I try not to be when
I travel.
My belief was that a “traveler”
was different. They don’t push back
and don’t ask for too much. They say
thank you, preferably by learning that
basic phrase in their host country’s
primary language. They see parts
of the local culture and community
that most tourists don’t think to look
for. They view themselves primarily
as a guest, and don’t take advantage
of hospitality. They’re respectful,
patient and curious without being
careless.
I’ve been fortunate enough to travel
a decent amount, both nationally
and internationally. International
travel, however, is always incredibly
intimidating — mainly because I
always feel like I stick out like a
sore thumb. Everywhere I go, I fear
that my “American-ness” is obvious,
like a tattoo on my forehead. My
mom always jokes that it’s easy to
feel frumpy in Europe because of
what we typically wear, but I think
it’s about more than just clothes.
No matter how much I prepare, I
can’t shake the feeling that being
American makes me stand out in
a crowd — and there are dozens of
lists on the internet indicating that
I’m right. Whenever a local mistakes
our family as tourists from another
country (often Germany, because of
our blond hair), it’s a victory.
Last month, I traveled with my
family to Greece and Italy, spending
a week in each. While I was there, I
found that the trip could be easily
split into two — not just in terms of
the country where we were staying,
but in terms of how I felt about the
country I’m from. In Greece, I found
myself
self-conscious
about
my
American-ness; in Italy, I stopped
thinking about myself, but instead
became embarrassed about the other
painfully obvious Americans who
were vacationing there.
Part of this is because Greece
doesn’t get as much tourism as Italy
(though tourism to Greece is on the
rise). For much of our time in Greece,
we walked through busy streets
filled with Greek-speaking locals or
through archaeological ruins with a
local guide. Both Athens and Crete,
our two primary spots for the Greece
leg of our trip, were incredibly fun,
but I still felt like a fish out of water.
We wore our summer clothes in the
70-degree weather while the Greeks
wore long pants and jackets. Not to
mention that we only spoke English —
because, try as I might, I can’t speak
Greek. I could recognize words on
signs based on my limited knowledge
of Greek letters (which I knew only
because of physics classes and Greek
life on campus), but I couldn’t wrap
my tongue around the heavy stresses
and staccatos in their words.
Painfully, obviously
American
Painfully, obviously
American
By Kari Anderson, Statement Correspondent
By Valerija Malashevich,
Statement Columnist
I am a common woman, and I
am akin to you in many ways — yet,
what might strike you as something
of a rarity is that I’ve been a passport
holder since I was two years old.
Not American, mind you, but
Belarusian. Despite the increased
difficulty one can experience when
trying to attain a visa with a post-
Soviet state passport, I believe I’ve
traveled more than the average
airport fanatic. And since I became
a U.S. citizen in 2016, the number of
future trips I’ve planned has only
doubled.
I was traveling through Mexico
when a corrupt border cop pulled
my father and me over, demanding
we give him the remainder of our
pesos, which totaled to about $50.
I was visiting Minsk when I was,
as per usual, running late. I lurched
my hand forward trying to grasp
the handlebar that would help me
board the train when the engineer
suddenly shut the train doors,
nearly snatching my hand along
with it.
I was in the Florida Keys when
an unpleasantly blunt waiter chased
after us in pursuit of a tip, neglecting
to look behind the receipt itself,
where a modest pile of cash was
awaiting.
A car breakdown left us nearly
stranded on the edge of the Nevada
desert, bleak and brown and beige.
I’ve slept in my car for fear of
bedbugs in, well, my hotel room
bed.
And nothing can match the
embarrassment I felt as I stood
between my father and uncle, both
screeching and shouting as dozens
of onlookers at the Kiev train station
got to witness the dispute about who
actually forgot to pack the alcohol.
This is only a taste of the
experiences I’ve endured, and only
a few examples that left the most
profound and rotten taste in my
mouth. Malaises like these do not
faze me any longer, as the baseline
itself has risen far beyond my
comprehension. Finding only one
bed in a hotel suite where you were
promised two or losing an AirPod
to the hotel’s unfastidious room
service are not situations that my
mind garners as being worth the
stress.
And despite the overwhelming
quantity in which these troubling
conundrums make their way into
my life, I am never ruled by them.
I never shut down the prospect of
doing more, seeing more … getting
into sticky situations more.
The person I’ve become and the
kind and thoughtful qualities I now
possess are quite inseparable from
the experiences I’ve had abroad
— they have become something
I truly study and learn from, and
each lesson learned is something
I eagerly choose to integrate into
my understanding of the world as I
continue my journey of becoming a
better human being.
***
Ironically, I started to write this
piece on my flight to the Turks and
Caicos for the summer. I’m ripe with
joy and also shivering with fright.
I’ve simply never done something
like this before — traveling what
feels like tens of thousands of miles
to meet people I’ve never seen before
in a place that is absolutely on the
outskirts of society.
I am in a remote area of the
romantic and sprawling pearl white
beaches, a tiny town in a tiny part
of the tiny Turks and Caicos called
Cockburn Harbour. We are allowed
one freshwater shower a week, and
the area itself is lacking in reliable
internet and laundry machines. Yet,
these inconveniences do not detract
from the experience — they add.
Despite how much I value modern
conveniences like air conditioning,
5G WiFi and almost-instantaneous
emergency medical assistance, I am
not deterred from being adventurous
in challenging my willpower and
being present.
Now I am sitting writing this as
I’m being bitten by a mosquito. I am
drenched in a coating of sugar-like
sweat, and yet I’m still finding a way
to enjoy myself, however slight.
And this is my problem with many
of you so-called “world travelers,”
“globetrotters” and the like — you
fail to see that the enjoyment of a trip
does not come from the successful
fruition of the travel plans.
Traveling is much more than
just recreation — it’s a learning
experience.
It’s
a
tangible
opportunity to make yourself a
more complex individual. It’s about
gaining education in a way that
makes learning more authentic,
drawn from outside sources and
witnesses of the firsthand.
If your travels are perfect, you’re
traveling wrong
If your travels are perfect, you’re
traveling wrong
Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com
Design by Abby Schreck
Design by Abby Schreck