Braking for Americans

Jordanian manners are as polished as their almonds. While visiting Petra, several of us were trying to get a table for a buffet supper in our hotel. Seats were filling up fast. An older woman in our party asked a waiter for help. He was well-groomed, dashing, to use an old school word. In fact, every Jordanian I’ve encountered has been as dashing as they are gracious. Accommodating three millennia of colonizers—Greek, Roman, Byzantine, British—will do that. Just wait them out. They’ll go home eventually. Here, the new invaders, American tourists, were grabbing the good seats. The waiter sprang into action.

“Madame,” he said, “No worries. I will find you your table. I swear it. I will rip out my heart for you.” He clutched his chest and flung his hand toward us.

“No need for that,” I said. “We just want to eat.”

Instantly, gracious became robotic. Without another word he got us a table, sat us professionally and left. I had made a mistake. What I took for over-the-top hospitality was nothing of the sort. He was expressing his commitment to his craft and to hospitality itself. Embarrassed by his effusiveness, I had brushed it aside with my response.

I had done the American thing. To not read the room. To mistake sincerity for exaggeration. To forget history is still in the room.

Doing the American thing. Is it important to be alert to it? Always. Especially now. Countries have long memories. Travelers should too.

The American thing usually doesn't happen in museums. It happens at the table. That's where culture is on the menu—and sometimes so are we.

I once attended a very formal meal with other travel writers in a Swiss castle turned hotel. It was run by a French woman entering Catherine Deneuve territory. Impeccable manners. Coiffed blond hair. A simple tailored suit that could keep its lines in a five-alarm fire. Quite a contrast to all of us writers in our dusty travel duds.

We trooped into a candlelit dining room. My colleague seated next to me, was an Oregon writer. She had spent the entire press trip talking about food. Not what she wanted to eat. But what she couldn’t. She was a declarative vegan, meaning she declared it at every meal. Even breakfast. By the time we pulled up to the schloss we wanted her gone. Swept away, maybe, by an avalanche of lentils.

The night promised elegance. The settings were as polished as our host. Crystal glasses and goblets. Rosenthal china. Heavy silver for every course. As the starters were served, we all introduced ourselves. Our Beaver State friend piped up.

“I’m from Portland. And I’m a vegan.” She announced to the host as the waiter made his way to our end of the table.

The starter was carpaccio de bœuf, sliced as pink and as thin as a carnation’s petal.

“I’m vegan.” She repeated herself when the plate was placed before her.

Oh good, I thought. Maybe they’ll give her a turnip.

But it was not to be. This was an elaborate, artful meal planned by someone who didn’t factor in the American insistence that every individual’s palate must be indulged. Another guest would have simply let the bœuf be and await the next course. But no. Thinking our host didn’t understand that diet was a declaration of a self that must be catered to, our writer decided to be kind. She elaborated.

“I don’t eat meat.”

Our host took her guest’s measure. The damp hair, the peasant blouse, the travel bag that said “Powell's Books” draped over the small velvet chair. Then she spoke:

“I’m so very sorry for you,” She said without the slightest hint of pity. She then turned to the man at her left. They spoke in French.

The vegan wasn’t being ignored. She and her tiresome food issues had simply ceased to exist. Our host never spoke to Portland again.

It certainly had an impact. The dietary pronouncements vanished for the remainder of the trip. It was a lesson worth remembering—assuming one’s habits and expectations are universal rather than only American customs.

Faux pas are fender benders between cultures, and I love to rubberneck. Have you ever done the American thing abroad? Share your story in the comments below.