Guilt Trip

By Kevin Huelsmann

The Venus de Milo at the Louvre.

I must apologize to the people of Munich, Lucerne, the cities within the Parco Nazionale delle Cinque Terre and Paris, and to the employees of the trains in which I traveled.

I do so because, after spending two weeks traveling throughout a handful of cities in Europe, I am left with an immense guilt. My guilt stemmed from my extremely limited knowledge of the sights I was able to see and the places I was able to visit.

Day after day I would come across magnificent buildings and monuments only to find myself searching for any clue of what it was; scrambling to consult any guidebook I could find — a scribble of Rick Stevens’ writing, a scrap of a city guide, anything to find some information. More often than not, I would leave the sight with a broken translation of an inscription and a foggy notion of what I had just seen.

After running through this situation so often, I just felt guilty. Even at the Eiffel Tower, I found I only had a scrap of information about the background of one of the most recognizable monuments in the world.

This overwhelming sense of guilt was also fueled by my intention to do everything in my power to avoid being the stupid, insensitive American tourist. Prior to leaving for my trip, I had nightmares of being an overweight man in some foreign country, clad in a neon fanny pack complaining that no one spoke English and that I couldn’t find Busch Light anywhere.

I understood I was traveling to another culture that belonged to that country’s citizens. I was merely a guest and temporary observer or admirer. But everywhere I went, I felt I was imposing on the culture. I wanted so badly to respect the culture I had crossed the ocean to see. But when I would approach a clerk at a deli in Italy and would be unable to converse with him or her about the amount of prosciutto I wanted, I found myself feeling incredibly inept and burdensome.

At the Louvre I was confronted with a physical trace of the imposing effects of tourism. On my way to see the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo, my feet shuffled over the marble steps that lead to the galleries that house the renowned works. Although it was invisible to a passing eye, I could the feel the steps were worn. The millions of feet that had passed over them before had worn in gentle, sloping grooves. It was the first tangible effect of tourism I had found on my trip. It was a mark, however small, that gave evidence to the effects of the millions of visitors that come to the Louvre and what they leave behind.

As I continued up those stairs and made my way into the great halls containing the works of Italian painters of the 15th and 16th centuries, I caught my first glimpse of the fabled Mona Lisa. I was admiring the beauty of the great work of art when I also caught my first glimpse of a fellow tourist reaching out and touching canvases! It was beyond me how this man would think it was okay to touch these historic paintings. The man was lagging behind a tour group, listening to a guide through an earpiece, flopping his fingers clumsily on some bare canvases. It was an appalling scene.

When I took my eyes off the man, I saw the crowd around the Mona Lisa. Everyone was vying for the best position, trying to snap a photo before the security guards scolded them. It wasn’t what I had expected at all. At the Notre Dame Cathedral, I experienced a similar scene. Inside the immense church thousands of spectators crowded with cameras in hand to snap some photos of the historic church and be on their way. Everyone trod along the perimeter of the church like a herd of cattle. Every few feet someone would pause to snap a photo of an altar or of a statue. There were machines that would create coins to commemorate your special visit to the church spotted on the outside of the church as well as stands selling audio tours, guide books and church memorabilia.

Vernazza: one of the towns in the CInque Terre National Park.

When I left the church, I was partly in awe of the beautiful architecture and intricate design, but the other part of me felt cheap. The parable of Jesus casting out the people hawking goods in a church sprang to mind for some reason. The crowd of people had brought with it an opportunity to make money, even in what has historically been a sacred religious site. In each city I had felt a creeping sense that the presence of all of these backpackers and gawking tourists was eroding the culture that they came to admire. It was the paradox of the world traveler. By coming to admire something that person was also changing it and in some cases, doing so in a negative manner. I felt plagued by this question at every turn.

In Munich, I stayed at a hostel that catered to young backpackers, most of which seemed to be from the white suburbs of the United States. Eating the complimentary breakfast of toast and jam one morning, I had the sneaking suspicion I had been transported to a high school reunion. This feeling also was beat into my head each night as drunken conversations floated in through my room’s open window. Each night the drunken fights and yelling and screaming would keep me awake, paranoid that I was a part of what was unfolding outside my window. It crossed my mind that everyone in Munich, as well as the other cities I visited, had to accommodate me. They were the ones who had learned a second language to communicate with me. They were the ones who would point out the right directions. They were the ones who got me the right tickets I needed when I accidentally bought the wrong ones. I couldn’t help feeling lazy when I thought of this.

In Riomaggiore, one of the towns of Cinque Terre, I would go to a local grocery store each day to pick up some food. I would always have trouble telling this one woman the amount of cheese I wanted or how many kilograms of olives I would like. Each day I left feeling guilty, albeit with my cheese and olives in tow.

There was one day at the store that I didn’t have any change to pay for my groceries. The woman couldn’t make change and told me to come back the next day with the change I owed her. I was taken aback by the gesture, something that would almost be blasphemy in the United States. After buying some bread at a nearby bakery, I returned with the change a few minutes later. The look on this woman’s face was a mix of surprise and relief. It made me think of all of the previous backpackers who had dug through their pockets only to come to the same suggestion from the clerk: come back with the change tomorrow. Her surprise also made me think of all of those backpackers who never came back.

Seeing that woman’s expression of gratitude at my returning with the change made me realize she was a permanent resident of the town I was visiting. All of the backpackers were transient travelers. She, on the other hand, would remain in her town in her shop to weather each new round of travelers. Travelers come into her store, buy odds and ends and then move on within a few days or weeks. They turn into a blur of accents and mispronunciations to this shopkeeper. But she remains and weathers each new round. Despite acts of flagrant ignorance and disrespect, the native citizens, like the Italian shopkeeper, held their composure and handled just about every situation with poise. I was amazed at how helpful people were. There was a stereotype in my mind that all Europeans hate Americans, especially the French (think Freedom Fries hysteria). Each flashing camera was waved away and calmly dealt with in the Louvre. Each stumbling attempt to buy food from local markets was calmly directed and corrected by clerks. Each train attendant would patiently answer questions about what connecting train I had to catch to get to Neuschwanstein or how to make reservations. There was not a single moment of disgust or dismissing attitude in anyone I came across. No one lived up to my stereotype of American hatred. They only dismissed my silly notions with grace and patience.

In coming back to the United States, I have developed a sense of admiration of the cities I visited and their respective inhabitants. There was a maturity in their way of life that I don’t really see nearly as much in the United States. There wasn’t anger over someone asking directions or someone not knowing how to deal with the metric system. Understanding was abundant in the people I came into contact with. They took things in stride, with a smile and a laugh to dismiss any confused situation.

I think the Europeans, at least in the cities that I visited, savor their lives more than we do in the United States. It’s the old criticism of our fast-paced, buy, buy, buy society, but it’s true. They take things more slowly. They chew a bite of food a little slower, they sip a glass of wine instead of chugging it down, they ride their bike to work instead of screaming their way through gridlock traffic. It is a culture that has an established foundation of history and culture. Their societies have stood through the trials of time that the United States is still working through. We are still the bull in the china shop compared to their ballerina. My time in Europe made me realize that we are still working on establishing that foundation in the United States. It is going to take time for us to settle into our role as a country. We might think we are the superpower, but we are still just an infant in many ways. It’s going to take time for us to relax and grow up a little more.