I wrote a decently long, and, might I say, quite insightful entry about guidebooks, and when I do and do not trust them, but I just accidentally deleted it, because I didn't know the Spanish word for 'delete.'
Yet another moment of stupidity on the road.
I have come to the conclusion that the greatest skill any traveler can have is comfort with being an idiot. Because, while traveling, you will invariably be an idiot at some point or another. Just shrug, and give a goofy smile to indicate, 'I'm sorry, I am foreign and dumb.'
A few nights ago, in San Sebastian, we figured we had the tapas thing down. You just take what you want from the food sitting on the bar, then you tell the bartender how many you had when it's time to leave. No problem. But then we went to a bar with little signs on all the tapas (aka pintxos) to indicate what each one was. Christian, a Hawaiian ship navigator we had been hanging out with, took one and began to eat, when the bartender yelled at him.
"No, these are hot! I make these!" He used English because, apparently, it was obvious we were tourists.
The bartender took the pintxo and heated it up. Lee realized that it had something to do with the color of the sign, so he confidently took another one.
"No! Top row are hot. I make these!"
Aha. Top row. We're idiots.
I could go on with a hundred other examples from other trips, but this should suffice. I often feel, while I'm on the road, that I am acting like recently defrosted caveman.
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2 comments:
It's okay. I read in a Lonely Planet that your post about the guidebook was just a necessary delay and that readers should hurry through it to get to the far more exciting content of this post.
Totally.
But you're not an idiot.
I know we felt the same way in Argentina, but after several days we started to notice a pattern. Generally speaking, people behind counters are retards. It's the same as in America, but when there is a language barrier added, you immediately assume that you are the problem rather than the retard behind the counter.
For example, in Buenos Aires there is a wonderful chain of ice cream shops called Freddo. Buying ice cream should be easy -- all the flavors are on the menu, and sizes are easy words (pequeno, medio, grande). Add a polite "Por favor, quisiera..." in front of these elements and you'd think you'd be good to go.
Nope. These kids would barely be able to handle taking the order and my money, then they'd step two feet to the left and hover with their scoop over the ice cream buckets and wait for me to repeat my order because they had just forgotten it.
After similar things happening in other counter-dweller places (mcdonalds, movie theaters), we were really starting to feel down about our social skills.
But dude, get in a cab with a cabbie who speaks ZERO English, and suddenly you're trading life stories and he's telling you about the time he played his harmonica at the opera house.
What I'm saying is -- don't let the counter monkeys get you down. Stupidity knows no language and no borders.
If you really feel like someone has judged you poorly and there's no getting out of it, remember to tell them you're from Canada.
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