Everybody Hates America

“France?” She exclaimed, her eyes so wide they made her look a little dumb, “Why would you want to go there?”

“Dunno” I shrugged, picking up a sugar cube and dipping it into my coffee mindlessly. “Why not?” The sugar was slowly disintegrating until I had to drop it in or get my fingers wet. “I mean, anywhere’s better than staying here. Right?”

She looked at me incredulously. Man, I hated being American. Everywhere else people didn’t mind strangers. Here it was like being strangled, slowly. Nobody cared about the rest of the world. I mean here they wouldn’t even listen to music in different languages! Man, I hated America.

Her hand brushed mine away from the sugar bowl. It bothered her when I wasted sugar, something about calories. She could be so obnoxious at times.

“You know, going somewhere else isn’t going to solve anything. You can’t run from who you are. Remember Cohn?” There was the Hemmingway again. The only thing she knew about travel she had read in books. That’s another thing about being American, we read books about other places and believed them immediately. Why couldn’t I have been Italian or French? They aren’t nearly as ignorant.

“Yeah, Cohn was an idiot- Look, I’m going to France. It’s no use arguing with me, I already have a ticket. When I come back early because I’m still depressed, then you can look at me and tell ‘I told you so’. Can we talk about something else?”

She drank her coffee with a spoon, slurping loudly with every sip. After a few minutes, she got up and brought both of our cups to the sink.

“Lilly, are you at least going to talk to him before you leave?”

“Talk to who?”

She shook her head and began to wash the dishes. I got up and took my coat and bags. Slamming the door behind me I let out an exasperated breath. Why stay and get tortured more? I already knew what she would have said had I humored her. She wanted me to go apologize. The steps suddenly seemed tall and steep. The banister was cold and my scarf was too tight around my neck. What good was apologizing when I knew I had lost my chance? I would be happier leaving him behind. France was going to be gorgeous and warm. There would be no wind to make me regret wearing tights. I shivered and reached the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t look back up. Stalking out into the street I hailed the first cab to pass and began the drive to the airport.

I got to the airport two hours early. Security let me through without too much hassle. While I was waiting for the plane, I walked around to find a cup of coffee and something to eat. At Starbucks, next to every item on the menu, they listed calories: 450, 290, 382. We were the only place in the world where people were fat and weight conscious at the same time. In front of me in line was a couple wearing matching Hawaiian shirts with shin high socks and white sneakers. Some people didn’t even try. I looked down at my own feet and noticed a run in my tights just above my boots. French women didn’t care about holes in tights. I would fit in fine. My coffee was bitter and tasted like it had been reheated a few times.

The movie on the plane was a tragic love story about a girl who was afraid of her emotions. The boy was unattractive, and I didn’t care too much for the girl. She seemed like a wimp. Towards the end, there was this one really sad scene, and I had to shut off the screen in front of me so that I didn’t cry. I hated crying on planes. People look at you funny.

My hotel was on the left bank, in the afternoons I would take walks along the seine. There were so many Americans walking along, it always bothered me to hear them speaking so loudly. The weather was a bit nicer, and by the end of the first week I had bought new French clothing. Every morning, when the city streets were still slightly empty, and the alleys hadn’t been cleaned from the night before, I walked down to a little café and had a coffee. The croissants tasted better than anything I had eaten in America, and on the menu there were no calories. When I asked the waiter how much one normally eats for breakfast in France he clucked: “Why Madame, one just enough to keep them until lunch!”
After I had been in Paris for a few weeks, I had become skilled at taking the metro. I knew when to run for the doors, and when it was better to wait for the next train. One day, walking down the stairs, I noticed that a metro was about to leave. It seemed too late, so I didn’t think about it. I could wait a few minutes, I was in no rush. A man in the train car saw me and motioned for me to run. Looking for an excuse, I pointed at my heels. He smiled and stood in the doorway so that the door wouldn’t close. When I was seated, he came and sat down next to me.

“You know, it’s not good to hold the door for a lady. Makes it seem like she needs your help.”

He smiled and at first didn’t answer. Then when he saw I was being serious, he replied, “I do not understand.”
I made an attempt to explain to him that making a scene out of being polite to a woman made her seem weak. That it was a way of dominating women. He began to laugh.

“Cherie! If this is your way of thinking, then hugs must be sadomasochistic!”
I didn’t answer, so he tried again.

“Where are you from Cherie? England?”

I looked down, ashamed, “No, I’m from America. But I’m not proud of it.”

“Why not? America is a beautiful country! You have so much good music!”
I was a bit startled. Didn’t everybody hate America? Weren’t people constantly criticizing the way we spoke too loudly and didn’t understand other cultures? I explained to him that I didn’t like the way Americans disregarded the customs of others.

“Noobody iz perfeck!” he exclaimed in an attempt at English.
He offered to buy me a drink, and we got off at a café together. It was freezing outside, but I didn’t notice the weather. My companion was talking so much, and after realizing that I was American, he tried as best he could to speak in English. He asked so many questions. He wanted to know my favorite movie, my favorite actor, my favorite place in the world. He wanted to know what I thought about the American president, and wasn’t surprised when I said I didn’t like him. Then he asked about men. Did I have any relationships? No. Did I have anyone at home. I said nothing. Had I ever been in love? I didn’t answer. He laughed.

“Lilly! (He pronounced it Lee-Lee) You are the most un-American American I have ever met!” For some reason I wasn’t proud.

I left the hotel that day. It was cold outside but I was wearing jeans, L.L Bean Boots and a big Northface Jacket. A few people smiled at me on my way to the airport. I got there just on time. At the airport Starbucks there were Kcal numbers next to the French menu. I got a bagel and cream cheese.

I had a few minutes before the plane was going to board so I called home. The voice on the phone made me smile.

“Hullo?”

“Hey it’s Lilly. I didn’t like France too much, you were right. I’m coming home. Can you pick me up at 8ish?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll try and be there, or I’ll send someone else if I can’t.” I could tell she was smiling. She was trying not to rub it in. She was right. I was wrong. Damn her.

The movie on the way home was about a woman getting lost in the Sahara. She kept having a lot of sex and her husband thought he knew a lot about the local people. They both annoyed me but I watched the movie until the end anyways.
When I got off the plane I couldn’t find her. I looked around in the crowd, but she wasn’t there. As I headed over to sit down on a bench, somebody walked in front of me. I knew that posture immediately. He was looking me straight in the eye, not smiling, but not mean. I had expected him to be furious with me. I hadn’t returned his calls. I had completely ignored him.

“I was told that you needed a ride home?” He didn’t seem mad at all. I felt like crying, but I held it in.
“Oh, and I have a message for you.” He handed me a piece of paper. All it said was “I told you so.” And then I did cry; right in the middle of the airport.

“I’m so sorry. I guess I was scared. I love you. I really do. Is it too late to say that?”

He reached down and kissed my forehead. I smiled up at him and kissed him again. I didn’t care anymore what others would think. I’m American, and we do whatever we feel like doing.