An American in Lisbon

And another one and another one and

“We’re not loud enough,” I said to Chris as we sailed past the Belém Tower in Lisbon. “We’re too quiet.”

“I know,” he muttered, “But unlike the rest of this boat, I’m not up for FaceTiming someone on speakerphone and yelling about the sunset right now. I just want to enjoy my weird snack and terrible wine and look at old stuff.”

We’d started the hour and a half long cruise hoping for a respite from the Portugal heat and crowds, but that turned out to be as out of reach as me not eating another piece of Iberian ham. The boat was packed with passengers far more interested in talking about themselves than about the landmarks and wonders unfolding in front of us.

“May I ask you another question?” the 36-year-old nurse from Arizona whose father died before she could reach peace with him about why she left the Mormon church when she was just 18 asked the 65-year-old former insurance company employee from Alberta who’d just hiked the Portuguese Camino de Santiago and was currently on the outs with one of her sons who was a heavy weed smoker but that’s okay because he has a decent job for now and anyway she’s a way more lenient mother than her own mother who always made her wear dresses. “What do you see when you look into my eyes?”

“Hmmm, probably wisdom!” screamed the Canadian. “Let’s take a selfie with your husband!”

This chatty threesome, who we never once talked with ourselves, mind you, was immediately behind us on the boat, and by all accounts didn’t seem to remember that they’d paid for a sightseeing tour. Maybe they’d signed up for a “Loudly Ask a Stranger Intimate Questions in English” tour. Who knows. But because there wasn’t any other place else to sit besides on the boat captain’s lap, we were held hostage to their non-stop exposition and fun facts.

“I have a really great jawline,” Arizona Nurse announced while we chugged under the breathtaking Ponte 25 de Abril suspension bridge that spans the Tagus River. A bridge that her husband and the Canadian didn’t see because they were preoccupied by looking at a jaw covered in streaky bronzer. “They wanted me to model.”

“Model what?” Chris hissed in my ear, before taking a slug of Portugal’s unfinest white wine.

“Shoes?” I shrugged. “Hands? Remember she had that medical issue back in 2002 so probably not lingerie.”

Our 11 days in Madrid, Seville, and Lisbon last month were wonderful, of course, but we also felt like we were on a big field trip with our American classmates. Americans were everywhere. I know, you can’t complain about the problem if you’re part of what’s causing the problem. But we pride ourselves on keeping our big mouths shut when we’re out and about in a foreign city. We’re polite. We know how to use AirPods. We communicate with each other at a conversational level. We do all of that because we want to hear the local language and sounds and immerse ourselves in the culture we may not ever experience again. Unlike the middle-aged woman dressed in Chico’s finest who chugged past me in the charming city of Sintra while bellowing to her husband.

The juxtaposition of being surrounded by gorgeous Jacaranda trees and centuries old palaces while hearing,“If she cuts me off one more fucking time, I’m going to FUCKING LOSE IT” yelled in a New Jersey accent is something even Rick Steves wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. (Also, if you’re a cruise ship passenger named Janice, watch your back, girl, and stop cutting people off.)

Too much English wasn’t the issue when we found ourselves in a cafe off the beaten path in Seville. The loud table in the place was a group of drunk Spanish women who I’d maybe have found hilarious if I’d stuck with my Duolingo and understood the jokes. They were shouting, and laughing, and having a grand old time, much to the delight of our Sevillian server.

We were not much to her delight.

She reluctantly turned away from enjoying the fiesta table, and trudged over to take our order like it truly pained her. We tried our best to order in Spanish and said, “gracias” and smiled, but she wanted nothing to do with us. Yes, I know we’re used to Texan servers named Jordan who excitedly ask, “What can I get y’all started with today? Some of our famous deep fried cheese sticks with dippin’ sauce?” but it was still jarring.

“Does she hate us because we’re American?” I quietly asked Chris as she slunk away to lean against a counter for 20 minutes.

“Maybe,” he answered. “I mean, there could have been an entire tour group from Alabama here before us. That’d do it.”

I tried to shake it off and just focus on enjoying the bowl of olives she dropped on the table like a cement block before she headed over to laugh with the fiesta table again. Tips aren’t really a thing in Seville, so of course she’s not going to knock herself out, I decided. As long as we get our food, that’s good enough. It’s cultural. She’s probably just tired. She doesn’t hate us.

She slouched over to our table a bit later holding the bottle of cava we’d ordered an hour earlier. Our before dinner drink was apparently now an after dinner drink, but that’s okay. I smiled encouragingly when she presented the label to me, and kept smiling while she started untwisting the metal cage over the cork. My grin then faltered when I noticed that she had said cork pointed directly at my face from about two feet away. She calmly stared at me while she continued to twist the top, preparing the cork to shoot out like a rocket and blind me in at least one eye. Chris said later, “That really seemed to cheer her up.”

Facing imminent danger, I cleared my throat and, still polite, was about to say something to prevent myself from being maimed on vacation when I didn’t even spring for Traveler’s Insurance, but she turned away approximately two seconds before the cork popped. “Gracias,” I whispered as she poured out two glasses then shoved the bottle into an ice bucket before taking off for more verde pastures.

“Salud. That means ‘cheers’,” I said to Chris with a raised glass.

“I don’t think you’re pronouncing that right.”

“ …”

“But yes, salud.”

Thanks for reading!
—Wendi