The Defense: As I prepare to participate in a widespread
invasion of the European mainland that, in its own obscurely unique way, may be
as epic and successful (not sure how we will measure “success” - possibly all
of us coming back to the U S of A alive, tattooles, and still never having seen
the inside of a Turkish prison) as the allied invasion of Normandy some 68
years ago, I wish to make a public defense - apology if you will - of why I
will not be the first to be, as Odysseus puts so inconsequentially lightly - “kidnapped”
abroad.
While I may indeed, and justifiably so - given some past
actions and questionable decisions - be the frontrunner for this ignoble title,
I have traveled abroad in the past and have learned some valuable lessons that
will keep me out of becoming screenwriting material for the sequel of “Taken.”
Lesson One: Avoid discussions of world wars, both one, and two,
since they almost always lead to boisterous episodes of American superiority,
pride, and arrogance and consequentially belittle every other country in the
world, including the allies.
Amuuurica, yeah you get my point. Despite my love of
history, I will be forced to bypass any conversations about two wars in which
we bailed out France and England twice, embarrassed the Italians (not hard to do
considering for half of both wars they didn’t really know what side of the
fight they were on), and overpowered the German armies, arguably the greatest
armies of all time. This talk will stay here.
Backstory - I once went to a diner with my 88-year-old
grandpa, who just so happens to ride around on a motor scooter with his WWII
bomber jacket, thick goggles, and a rolled cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
When we arrived for breakfast we sat down to be greeted by a very polite
waitress whose unmistakable voice rang ripe with an eastern bloc accent. My
grandpa picked up on it and asked the polish waitress where she was from, to
which she responded with a gratuitous smile, “Varsaw.” My grandpa took a sip of
coffee, put it down and while pouring sugar into the cup said with an
emotionless grin on his face, “Warsaw, huh? Bombed that city a couple of
times.”
Greeeat response. Maybe a simple “beautiful country” might have been the way to
go there gramps. I don’t know, just a thought. Seeing her smile turn immediately
into a bitter frown, I thought to myself: Yes, I would love some mucus in my
breakfast sandwich please, and do remember to have Rafael in the kitchen just
hawk the biggest loogey he can muster up into my cup of coffee. Thanks!
Now while my grandpa and I most likely digested a large
combination of foul ingredients that the FDA would best label as “N/A” due to
his war-induced hubris, such measures might result in some worse consequences
if that polish waitress were in her hometown surrounded by some very large and
intimidating polish men (and women, it is eastern Europe) whose wounded pride
might lead them to take some more violent retaliatory measures. Thanks grandpa,
lesson number one learned.
Lesson Two: If you do wish to engage in discussions about the indigenous
culture or country’s history, celebrate their “good” history. History is full
of shameful moments. One might want to avoid the name “Stalin” when in Russia,
“Hitler” when in Germany,” and “war” when in France. “Internment camps” when in
the U.S, the Dothraki when in any country inhabiting the generic
“Oriental/Asiatic/Eastern” area, and “Alcibiades” when in Sparta…or Athens…or
Persia.
Backstory - Given my intense love and pride in my Irish
heritage, I thought I would flaunt it a little bit when I was abroad and just
chose very poorly what part of Irish history to commemorate. My great
grandfather’s cousin was Liam Tobin - one of Michael Collins’ infamous “12
apostles” and founders of the Irish Republican Army (IRA). Although the IRA
began as a military branch advocating an Irish Republic in the early 1920s,
they soon became a ruthless terrorist force that murdered numerous innocent
people as the 20th century progressed.
So, when I arrived at “James Joyce’s” tavern in Athens two
summers ago - love how the Irish just can’t defend the stereotype that they are
all drunkards considering the most popular bar in ATHENS, GREECE was an Irish
bar - my chest was puffed out my with pride for my Irish “terrorist blood” and
my head was swimming with notions of pipe bombs, derogatory terms against the
English, and the sour aftertaste of Lucky Charms cereal. After 3 Guinness’s, 4
Irish car bombs, and a dish of Irish nachos (which I recommend to everyone -
basically nachos with French fries - I mean what is an Irish dish without
potatoes), I thought it would be great to lift up a celebratory toast to the
Irish just before taking our final Jameson shot at that bar. Everyone was
laughing and joking and I drunkenly exclaimed, “To the IRA!” I thought, that’s
okay right? Everyone’s Irish here? I’m Irish! I swear!
Sidenote: the IRA disbanded in 1989 and have been considered
a notorious terrorist group for quite some time and a thorn in the side of the Irish
Republic’s history.
Suddenly
the music seemed to come to a screeching halt and I found myself alone atop a
stool with my glass raised in the air while the bartenders seemed to all have
their pointer fingers hovering over their lips as if to say, “No, no we don’t
talk about that here. Oh god, now you've done it." I thought I saw one of
the bartenders exclaim, "Oh shit, Sally go and calm down the big bald
headed English thug coming our way, we might have a war on our hands."
Sure enough, I was told to “shut the hell up or get out” in an Irish brogue
from the lead bartender who looked absurdly reminiscent of the white-bearded
old guy in Boondock Saints who, despite being 80 years old and standing in
plain shot of a three-man, very qualified assassin firing squad in one scene,
just cannot be hit by a bullet. Not possible. Always annoyed me. Also, just a
ridiculously dramatic scene. Anyway, point is, avoid cultural and historical
banter if you are in any way unsure if it is offensive to that country or
culture. Toasting to a terrorist group is certainly a blundering example of
just that.
Lesson Three: Just talk about soccer. Ehem, football. The first two
lessons were what not to talk about, but afterall, I don’t plan on going to
Europe to spend a week in mute solitude, no matter how impermeable the language
gap may be. Conversation has to occur if human connection has any chance of
forming (I philosophize occasionally), and the best way to communicate safely
with Europeans is to engage in a conversation revolving around football. It is
also a “free passage” card when one is in trouble. For example, if you are ever
caught in a dangerous situation in a coffee shop in Spain, just shout out the
name “Xavi,” or “Iniesta.” It does not matter if you accidentally stumbled into
saying something about the clerk’s mother or sister when you meant to simply
ask for a coffee…just name a Spanish National (or Barcelona - as 90% of the
team is composed of these players) team member and you’re golden.
Backstory - When in London, I was in a pub (so college, god
WHY am I so cool), and I noticed some Spaniards were buying shots at the bar. I
was low on money, but also low on alcoholic intake at the moment, and so,
seeing their wavering state, attempted to befriend them in the hopes of earning
a drink. Therefore, I rather impulsively shouted out the name “Pujol” -
(Barcelona and Spanish centerback). Not “Hi” or “how are you” or “my name is
John.” Nope, just a random soccer player’s name. And to my astonishment, as if
that simple name was the defining key to unlocking a drastically insurmountable
language and cultural gap, the group of Spaniards turned to me and drunkenly
shouted out “Pujol!!!” Kinda like the "Hey, We are Same. Brother!"
Miller Lite commercial.
They bought me a shot and when I said Spain would win the
Euro 2008 competition, despite not having won a major European competition in
over forty years, they bought me another shot. (Oh, and by the way, they did
wind up winning. Genius call I must say). Although the last shot almost killed
me - I think I heard the Spaniard order something akin to a “Diablo Rojo” - I
had earned their trust and friendship over the universal language of soccer.
As we will be traveling Europe during the 2012 Euro
competition, the ability to talk soccer may win us over many valuable friends
and get us out of many possibly dangerous and compromising situations. Which is
why I will teach a mandatory course on soccer players and teams when we all
arrive in Rome together. Stay tuned.
With these three valuable lessons, I will endeavor not to be
the first of us to be showcased in a future episode of “Locked Up Abroad.” I
know the bets are on, but if you choose to bet on me, you will lose money.
Let’s be honest here, this makes me maybe the second or third most likely
choice. But NOT the first.
5 days until the second wave deploys for Europe. Cannot
wait.
John Kinzer
No comments:
Post a Comment