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