Of Nationalities and Such

Today was a beach day.



Mom and I decided to walk through the vineyards to L’Esquinade. Along our travels I began to think about how different and how similar people from all over the world are to each other. We directed a car full of Dutch twenty-somethings to their destination using only hand singles, since none of us shared any languages. Scrawled upon an old cement well in the middle of the vineyards were swear-words in both French and English. Sami, the gate-attendant, tried desperately to speak French to my mother who is awfully rusty and helped me stumble along through my conversation lacking essential words.

As I spoke with Sami, I got to thinking. I always think it’s funny how he stops to lean in my car window and have a full conversation with me as I pull into the one-lane road to the beach regardless of how many cars are behind me. That’s just the way French do things. It’s like, or so I’ve been told, when you ask a truly French chef to cook you dinner he will reply, “Absolutely… as soon as I’ve finished mine.”



Regardless, I discovered that the combination of no patience and not speaking French well will get you into trouble. We were in the middle of eating our expensive lunch, overlooking the blue-green water and sipping nice rosé, absorbed happily in family conversation, when the vendors began to arrive. They have always come, peddling their gifts on the beach, and usually they’re not a bother – just ignore them or say “no thank you” and they pass. Not today.

It’s been awhile since the three of us have had the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company like we are here. I’m awfully protected by it. By the time the third vendor stopped at our table, I had lost my patience (I’m not one to have a lot of patience anyways). He came, dropped his cheap jewelry on the table and began to speak with us – as if we weren’t in the middle of eating. My father said his “no merci” and continued eating, trying desperately to ignore him and wishing him to vanish into midair. I couldn’t take it anymore. He kept chatting. I didn’t want him to be our new best friend; I just wanted him to go away so I could get back to enjoying my family. So, lacking any other potent French word, I told him “Allez” – “Go.” He didn’t like that much, and stayed longer to let me know it.

Yes, I do feel bad if I offended him. But maybe he ought to consider that it’s offensive to drop your sandy wares just inches from my dinner plate.

Regardless, on his next pass he made a point to come by and speak with me. I was lost in a conversation with my mother, so I heard none of it. But my father informed me of his presence after he left. I insulted him with my limited vocabulary and desire to be left alone, to relax – and to have a clean eating area. Sorry?

He may hate me, but one of the vendors on the beach stopped to have a full conversation with me after lunch. With nothing better to do, I chatted with him. He wasn’t too pushy, just wanted to know what life was like in the good old USA. He left me repeating, over and over, “Americans, good. Good Americans!”

I’ve found that being lost in another culture makes you appreciate what you know even more. Take my ten gay men at Papagayo from San Francisco – who bonded with me and begged to have me as a waitress, even though it was just my first night. They all gave me their numbers and promised to write, and we met up after work for drinks and dancing. Alison, my new pal that I met on the beach, became my new pal simply because we both shared something – an American heritage. We were both “ex-pats” in a way, living in a strange land. I have signed up for a website (AngloInfo) that is an online community (think Craig’s List) of English speaking people in the French Riviera. It’s a place where you can send an email to someone to meet for a drink or sell washing machines or find all sorts of information – in English. I’ve received several emails just saying “hi,” shout outs from fellow Americans overseas. My most recent proof of the bond between Americans abroad involves yet another scooter search.

I noticed on this AngloInfo site of mine that some people were selling motorbikes, so I contacted a girl who was selling a nice, large bike because she was returning to the US. She wrote an email in return that had a very friendly tone, telling me everything from the color of the bike to the accessories, excited about selling it to a fellow American girl. I was almost sad to see her go – I felt in just our few lengthy emails we could have been friends, had we had more time to know each other. I was happy, though, that she would sell to me despite all the other inquiries.