Be Like Mike

My farewell to Italy:

I’m having dinner at a small trattoria, Gusto Leo, in the center of Florence, not far from the Duomo and just across the Via Ghibellina from the Bargello.  It’s a long, narrow room, and I’m a quarter of the way back from the front door.  I’m sitting alone at a table for two facing the door. On my right, against the wall, is another table for two and a couple occupies it. I can tell that they are speaking English, but with the din generated by my countrymen I can’t place the accents. In front of me at a table for four are three American teenagers, and behind me, sitting alone at a table for four, is another American. So far none of them have any way of knowing that I’m an American and I leave it at that. Because of them I’m not feeling a lot of national pride at this point.

How do I know they’re Americans?  Because all of them are loud and obnoxious and completely oblivious to others around them.  They seem to think that they’re in a theme park. The teens are laughing and talking at the tops of their voices about how drunk they were last night and where they had found the best deals on liquor and how wild the wildest clubs are… The American behind me is carrying on a loud, long conversation on his cell phone, growing in volume until he is shouting in the phone that he has just lost a million dollars and “do you understand who you’re talking to?”

The average American knows little about the rest of the world, couldn’t find most countries on a map without labels, knows nothing of world history or cultures, and cares even less than he knows. When he travels he forgets, or never knew, that he is a visitor in someone else’s home.  The same person who would never think of accepting a dinner invitation to a new friend’s home, eating  their food, drinking their wine, enjoying their dessert, and then, over coffee, disparaging and criticizing the host for his housekeeping or the cooking or the interior decoration– that same person has no trouble doing just that as a tourist. He goes into another’s country and carries his own prejudices and cultural biases around with him like a snail carries its shell.  He constantly compares what he experiences to home, and he does it loudly and critically and constantly. The man with no taste wants to be the international arbiter of taste.

I eat here a few times a week and know the staff. I order in my basic Italian, make small talk with Marco, the manager, and settle in to watch and listen to the show.

Finally, almost simultaneously, both groups of my compatriots leave. The room quiets immediately, and there is a general sigh of relief, felt but not heard.  I make eye contact with the couple sitting beside me and say, “Ambassadors for my country,” nodding at the door they had just exited. They both laugh and the tension breaks and we sit and talk for another hour about where we have been and what we have seen. In the sudden relative quiet I listen carefully to their accents and I ask if they are Scots and “Aye,” they are, surprised that I made the distinction. “Well, I just pay attention,” I say.  We trade names of clean hotels and suggest places to avoid.

We talk about sports and politics and Scotland and Ireland and England and America and Australia. Stephan, the husband, tells me of the small isles off the coast of Scotland, of how idyllic they look while disguising many social problems, most because there’s nothing to do– no jobs, no hope, nothing but drugs and alcohol. The young leave and never come back.  I tell him I think I know a little about small towns.

“I’ve lived in towns so small that you knew everybody’s dog’s name,” I tell him.  Stephan says, “On those isles, everybody is related to everyone else’s dog.”

When the conversation turns to international politics, I tell them my well-practiced line: “Non e colpa mia. Non ho votato per lui.” It’s not my fault; I didn’t vote for him.  (This was during the administration of a previous President.) As usual, it gets a good laugh and puts others at ease.  And besides, it’s true.

You see, it’s not Americans they dislike, it’s American attitudes, policies and politics, and it’s something more like fear than dislike, anyway.  It’s really hard to argue with them from any sort of moral high ground in light of what had been happening in the  eight years of that previous presidency.

It’s simplistic, I know, but maybe still instructive to reduce international relations to an interpersonal level to make them easier to understand.  Let me give you an example:

We’ve all known this guy– he’s the captain of the football team, the Big Man on Campus, the star of the school. He lifts weights every day and dreams of going pro, and he probably will, because he’s good. Everyone coddles him and tells him how wonderful he is, how handsome, how strong, how rich. And he is rich and pampered. He’s probably using steroids, but he gets good press for the university and helps them recruit new students and better athletes. It also helps with fundraising from the alumni.

He is completely self-absorbed, as perhaps champion athletes tend to be. A certain amount of narcissism seems to be a requisite quality for stardom.  Some people actually like him, and he likes some of them, but they all know that there is a good chance that they’re going to get in trouble or get hurt if they hang around him long enough. Maybe it will be collateral damage– he throws you out of the way to get to someone else he wants to fight, or he punches you in the arms when he gets frustrated, or he decides in a drunken stupor that he doesn’t like the way you hold a beer bottle and that he should kick your ass for the offense.

When he sobers up he never apologizes. He just thinks it’s what he does, it’s who he is. He thinks it’s funny.  He’s the guy who is bigger and stronger and tougher than anybody else, but isn’t content with just knowing that– isn’t even merely content with having you and everybody else know it– he has to prove it constantly. He’d rather act than think. He’d rather fight than talk.

He doesn’t care what anyone else thinks — He assumes that he’s right and that everybody is on his side and if they aren’t woe betide them.  They’re either with him or against him; he’s a law unto himself. He’s big and strong and fast and handsome and famous, and he deserves special treatment. And he gets it, which makes him take it for granted, makes him want more, expect more.

Eventually people start to avoid him. They check Caller ID before they answer the phone, and if it’s him they don’t pick up.  His former friends stay away out of simple self-interest: he’s dangerous to be around. He doesn’t get invited to some parties, and he takes that personally. The truth is that nobody wants him in the house. He’s started too many fights, broken too much furniture and crockery, thrown up on the floor too many times. He is still admired for his abilities and for his potential, but the reasonable and rational people don’t trust him around the fine china and crystal stemware. At best he eats and drinks too much and talks too loudly, and they suspect that he steals the silverware. If he sees something he wants at your house, he just takes it.  Is it any wonder he’s not trusted?

And this, my friends, is how very many people view America today: as a place of great potential– admired, envied, feared and distrusted. We are The Man We Would Avoid. Most of the world doesn’t necessarily hate Americans, but every reasonable person avoids a bully.

It’s essential to keep in mind that when we travel we are ambassadors for our home countries. Often a person’s entire view of a foreign country can be formed from his experience with a single citizen of that nation.  What impression of America and Americans should we be leaving behind when we’ve gone home?

My friend Bruce has suggested that America could save money and make more friends by paying reasonable people to travel, spreading the message that Americans are friendly, tolerant, rational, hopeful people. It wouldn’t take the place of formal diplomacy, of a Department of State, perhaps, but it would certainly be a step in the right direction.

And I’m not suggesting some pie-in-the-sky idealism, either, or an America of weakness. Nobody who knows me would call me a pacifist. You don’t have to be a weak to win friends.

My friend Mike is built like two kegs, one stacked on top of another.  He’s a black belt in karate, a Vietnam War-era veteran, a gifted athlete and a talented artist. He is also kind and gentle and slow to rile, but quick to defend himself and those around him. I’ve known him for over 50 years and I’ve never seen him bully anyone. I’ve never seen him start a fight.  I’ve never seen him push anybody around. I’ve also never seen anybody push him around. Just looking at him you would recognize that it would be a mistake. He’s respected and respectful, honest and honorable. He’s a good man.

I think America should be like Mike.