Anais: "You know what I mean? It was just so... awkward!"
Blair: "Anais, I still don’t think you really know how to use that word."
Anais: "Yeah, I know... but every time I do use it, I always think about you."
~A conversation between me and Anais today while walking through the pouring rain from Place des Victoires to Les Halles.

So there’s this widespread misconception in the US that Europeans hate Americans...
And this converse misconception in Europe that Americans hate Europeans...
Neither of which are true.
Obviously, that is a generality. There are Europeans who hate Americans (if I had to deal with the utter obnoxiousness of most tourists day in and day out, I would probably be one of them), and there are Americans who hate Europeans (i.e., everyone who ever asked me "why in the world I would choose to go to France?").

For the most part, though, Americans have a great awe of European culture– I think we feel as though we are not quite legitimately our own culture in comparison to the thousands of years of history you find in Europe at every corner.

Or perhaps I only speak for myself, but I know that before I LIVED in Europe, I had no idea that America HAD a culture. It always seemed to me that we existed in a vacuum of culturelessness. We pride ourselves on being a melting pot to the point that we have lost (or failed to create) our own culture. I thought.
How wrong I was.

And Europeans, for the most part are awed and impressed by American society, though they often have no idea exactly what it entails. (I am NOT saying they are jealous– that’s another misconception that runs hand in hand with "why would you choose FRANCE?") I’m constantly being asked where my ancestors came from, "because you are all REALLY Europeans in the US, right?" In my family’s case, yes– European to the core, technically, but my family has lived in the US so long that it really doesn’t matter. If you pie-charted my heritage, the largest portion of anything would only be about 10% or something, which is not a lot, but if you tell a European that your origins are technically German, they immediately suppose that you are thus, on some level, familiar with German culture, attitudes, and food, which is not at all true. The traditions my family has are all American to the max– watermelon at the fourth of July, turkey on Thanksgiving, easter baskets on Easter, shopping on Memorial Day... it’s pretty much as prototypical as you can get.

But there are two stereotypes I’ve encountered over and over since coming to Europe as a "jeune fille américaine," one from people around my age and the other from people around my grandparents’ age.

People my age always think that Americans don’t really like Europeans, and are thus surprised when I speak so highly of their country/continent and are impressed by my desire to live here for a year.

And people my grandparents’ age esteem Americans to the max– not the tourists, but those who live here and those who live in America. Perhaps it’s a lasting consequence of World War II, but people of that age group are constantly saying things about "the innate hospitality" of Americans, how friendly and warm we always are, etc. It’s nice being told things like that about the place I come from– nice to know that we have a decent reputation among some circle of the world.
~B

P.S. Today I was on the Metro, and one stop after I got on, a guy got on and sat down in the seat next to me, which was a little odd since protocol is that you don’t do that unless the other rows are full, and we were the only two in that end of the car. But I didn’t think anything of it, kept on listening intently to whatever too-loud music was playing into my ears through my headphones. But I noticed he was staring at me intently, and I started to wig out a little bit. Suddenly he leaned over to my ear and mumbled something, of which all I caught was "hrmmnyh hrrmnnuh hmm?" I jumped nearly out of my skin– I mean, seriously, if he had been American (or really if he had just been NORMAL), he would have laid off then– I wasn’t making it easy for him. So I spazz out and in the process my headphones fall off, forcing me to turn to him and mutter "Quoi?" which is roughly equivalent to "Huh?" in English. Now that my headphones are off, there is no reason to continue with this speaking into my ear thing, but he didn’t seem to realize that, and leaned over and said, "J’aimerais bien de vous connaître," which means, literally, "I would love to meet you." As we’ve already discussed that I may be the least smooth person in the world, I said, and I quote, "Thank you."

What? Who does that?

So he, having gleaned from the, like, two and a half syllables that I have uttered, hazards a guess, in French: "You are English?"

"Yes," I say, keeping my answer purposely short to disguise the fact that I am, in fact, not English.

"Where are you from?" he asks next.

SHOOT OH NO, BLAIR, THINK OF A CITY IN BRITAIN, ANY CITY WILL DO, HECK, MAKE ONE UP– AS LONG AS IT ENDS IN ‘SHIRE,’ THIS GUY WILL HAVE NO IDEA! DUBLIN– NO, DUMMY, THAT’S IRELAND! NANTES! NO, THAT IS STILL FRANCE! LONDON, LONDON, YES, London...

"Londres," I say, after the slightest pause.

"Where?"

"Londres? The capital of England?" I say, still in French.

"Oh, I love London!"
Crap.

"Where in London? SoHo? West End? King’s Crawley?"

CrapCrapCrap. YOU WOULD PICK THE ONE CITY IN BRITAIN THAT EVERYONE KNOWS– ALL YOU HAD TO SAY WAS Hampsterworcestershire and you would have been fine, but you HAD to go and pick London...

"Um, oh, you know... just London..." and he mercifully cut me off.

"Where are you going?"

"Me? Right now?"
This is how intelligent I get when I am caught unaware (keep in mind this was Sunday morning on a Metro).

"Yeah."

"Oh... I’m on my way to meet my boyfriend."

"Your what?"

"Yeah, my boyfriend, my..." and then I inserted the French word for a very serious relationship, basically a fiancee.

"Do you come to Paris often, then?"
Wow, this guy really doesn’t give up. Had I been thinking clearer, I would have given him at least a C for Effort, but instead I was really just completely thrown off.

"Yes," I said, and I swear the next words just rolled out of my mouth, in French: "Yeah, he lives here, so I come here a lot."

I said them and didn’t really even realize what I had said until after the words were out of my mouth and I thought about it. And then I tried to gather myself quickly and get out of the Metro– you can’t spend a lot of time fishing around for your bag and putting on your jacket when things like this happen, because then they think it’s like an invitation to come with you, and had that happened, my French fiancee farce would have quickly fallen apart. So I jump off the Metro, practically before it has stopped, not looking back, and wincing again at my own un-smoothness. I am SUCH an awkward person.
"I like your sleeves..."