Thoughts on Culture

We’re reading, or have read part of, a book about culture, Learning from the Stranger by David I. Smith. We’ve only read the prologue, “Relinquishing the Center,” and the first chapter, “How Not to Bless The Nations,” but I am a nerd and find it quite interesting, so I read the following chapter: “Culture and Bad Breath.” I love the way everything is deconstructed in this book—the notion of “culture,” the trouble with any one person addressing culture, the assumptions taken into “cultural experiences,” etc.—with a plethora of examples and excerpts for concepts, for words, for the concept of words . . . and of course, I love the words the author chooses—the underhand humor, eloquent and concise, the section titles (Behaving Yourself in Public, for example, or Talking Past One Another). 

Alrighty, enough nerdiness. What sermon is about to be unloaded? Look out . . . you’ve been warned. No, really, no sermon, just some little ah-has and hmms and ohs and os (not the reflexive of vosotros os but the difference between Oh! and O!)

Café behavior: the cafés here are like little restaurants. Anything less it is a café/bar, which most all are anyway, but point being, my mind goes into restaurant mode. I’ve known for some time that American restaurant service is, well, different. And generally speaking the message is “Hi, how are you, eat, drink, tip, (and leave so we can accommodate more revenue, er, guests).” There is not a high regard for letting people set and enjoy a meal unless there is a hefty price tag. This has always been an annoyance for me, even more so when whomever I am eating out with is impatient with the “slow service.” Take your sweet time, I think without a tint of sarcasm and refrain from kicking my dining buddy under the table. Anyway, I went to a café here to have, well, a café and found myself tense until I paid and left. I could have set there probably a full hour before they brought me the tab, but I happened to only have a quarter-hour to burn. It was exactly the type of environment I wish we had more of in the U.S. but there I was all balled up inside, bracing myself to get hurried along, nagged, hovered over by an anxious waiter. Despite how much I dislike such environments and wistfully wish for others, I subconsciously expect it . . . no wonder the world here is always telling me “tranquila.” I am a tense americana.

On that note: americanos. Eh? Yup, that is us. What does that mean? And what does one say when asked “are all Americans so _______?” Well, no, but I don’t know if we are all generally more so in that direction than the general population here . . . No we don’t all have guns at home. No I do not like ketchup, therefore, not all Americans like ketchup. I couldn’t make you a hamburger safely if you wanted it. Not all of our homes came out of a TV show. But it is shocking what one learns about oneself by hearing cultural assumptions based on personal habits. For example: “¡Annie! ¡Eres super timída!” The following question translated something to the effect of “Are all Americans so bashful/shy/timid?” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that one is more introverted or extroverted, but that it is written all over one’s face to someone of another culture makes one think. More on that situation—this question came from a Columbiana to an Americana in España. I just love that fact.

Huevos revueltos. Food, no I cannot write without addressing food. Sorry. Last night I taught my mamá here how to make scrambled eggs. Trust me, she is a genius in the kitchen—it is as simple as scrambled eggs are not a common food here. Eggs tend to come (in my experience) steamed on spinach, in the form of a tortilla, or hard-boiled. I did not realize my not spicing food completely to my liking was a quirk. I do not put any spices in my eggs unless I am the only one eating them, and generally I like salt and pepper on top of the eggs rather than cooked in anyway. Mi mamá asked twice about putting salt in and when I mentioned pepper she asked immediately if that should be cooked in, and I shrugged and told her I generally think it’s better to let each season to his or her own liking with eggs and certain foods. I think she found it amusing—she just grinned and said “so you really do like it that way? Each person to his or her preference . . .”

What I’m doing write now: sitting in my room on my bed typing. Completely normal. For me. I’m a cave troll. I’m either in the cave (my room) or out and about (exploring the great outdoors) or hunting (playing in the kitchen) or attending cave-troll school (popping in and out of classrooms and academic buildings at Calvin). I have to remember that my cave dwelling sends bad vibes. And I think worse here than at home. At home it’s a given—look, the troll left her cave!—but here it is an unusual level of time alone. Even if I am doing homework or reading, there is a certain amount of time everyone spends together, it is an unspoken rule (of at least this house), even if that time together everyone has their face in a different screen (Jaime watching the game in his iphone, Raquel on her laptop checking facebook and tuenti, Alicia juggling her ipad, iphone, and computer, while the TV rambles on . . .) they can look up and chat because they are together. Hmmm.

Enough un-profundity for one night. Buenas,

Annie