After stepping off the bus, my American classmates and I were instantly surrounded by a mob of rapidly-speaking Spanish teenagers. Our old Spanish exchange friends were present, as well as Spaniards we had never met before. In the midst of this reunion, I couldn’t help but feel completely out of place. Something told me that we Americans would be sticking out like sore thumbs during our trip to Spain.
If our poor usage and pronunciation of Spanish words didn’t scream “I’m American!” loudly enough, our clothes certainly did. We all wore North Face jackets, baggy sweatpants, and Ugg boots, which is quite the opposite of the European uniform of leather jackets, skinny jeans, and heeled boots (also leather).
While my Spanish madre (mother) told me my Uggs were “cute” and looked “comfortable,” I couldn’t help but feel horribly self-conscious standing next to this well-dressed woman who wore a luxurious fur coat and carried a gold designer handbag. Everyone in Spain seemed to be so focused on fashion.
After taking a good 20 minutes deciding what to wear, I finally chose an outfit for my first evening out. Grey sequined top, skinny jeans, and a new pair of black stiletto boots—I thought I was ready to hit the town.
Over an hour later, my host Laura finally emerged from her bedroom, wearing a white sweater dress, black leggings, and embellished platform heels. Another 15 minutes later, she and her mother finally decided which belt would best complete her outfit. I glanced down at my own outfit and then at hers, wishing I had time to change. But Laura told me it was time to go, so we grabbed our coats—my North Face jacket (hey, it was freezing out!) and her Burberry coat (for a street party?).
No matter where we went, Spaniards seemed to take great interest in us. Whether it was our funny clothing style, our different language, or who knows what else, everyone could tell we were Americans. Not that we did a good job of hiding it.
Even without the language barrier and clashing fashion interests, one could still identify us as tourists. A group of teenagers, carrying backpacks and cameras with their teacher giving directions and counting heads every so often while waiting at a bus stop might have given people a clue that we weren’t locals.
Our behavior was also foreign to the Europeans, at least on the bus. While most passengers sat quietly, we were loud and took photos. We were so different, and therefore frightening, that we (accidentally) scared an old woman off the bus.
We started buying European clothes—leather jackets and scarves especially—and we might have even looked European, had we never opened our mouths, walked in a pack of 20, or regrouped at McDonald’s (a.k.a. the American embassy).
But by the second half of my trip, I realized that we would never be able to blend in with the European scene. We were tourists, and I decided that it was just best to embrace this fact. We were only there for three weeks, and it was much better to just enjoy the trip as a picture-taking, North Face-wearing tourist rather than waste energy thinking about how American my classmates and I looked and acted.
Jenny Hottle can be reached for comment at [email protected].