I traveled to London to study abroad this semester, but it took a weekend in Spain to finally realize how far I have come. My trip to Madrid was my first outside of London, where I’m living in a flat, studying business and taking tours with an adorable lady named Angie, who I’m convinced knows everything about the city. Just when I had finally mastered the London tube, I jetted to the continent with four friends to bask in the sun and eat tapas.
My grandiose vision of a Spanish holiday was fleeting. As soon as we stepped off the Metro in Plaza del Sol, one of my friends discovered that his wallet was stolen out of his front pocket. After consoling him about his loss of 150 euros and credit cards, I was relieved to finally crash in the hotel.
Instead, my bubble, already punctured by my friend’s missing wallet, proceeded to dissolve around me. My nylon purse, which held all my valuables, was slashed across one side. Dumping its contents onto the bed, I scrambled to take inventory. Wallet, check. Passport, check. Camera, check. Nothing was gone. I was lucky, very lucky.
My luck, however, was not consoling. One wallet gone and another lucky to be around. We were targeted because we were tourists, specifically American tourists. And American tourists are, of course, spoiled and na‹ve.
I definitely was the spoiled American my first few weeks in London. But what I complained about in London (the horrible weather, the worthless washing machines, the bad pub food, the high prices) is meaningless when compared to the greatest thing I take for granted, my safety. I had an incredible time in Madrid eating lunch in the Plaza Mayor, walking through the Prado, and dancing at Kapital, one of Madrid’s hottest clubs, but I never felt completely safe. With my hand always clutching my purse, my eyes scanning the crowd for possible pickpockets, I could not attain the carefree Spanish way of life.
Many students study abroad to become more fluent in a language. I took the easy route. I went to London, a place where I believed I would more easily acclimate due to a common language. This, however, was hardly the high road. I might have been more of an outsider in Spain, but that does not mean that I am a Londoner. I was helped with my luggage by a 10-year-old in Heathrow airport, and I’ve had people on the streets yell to prevent a speeding car from flattening me. I still pull out my London street map and receive dirty looks from people when I walk down the right side of the sidewalk.
Though I now live here, I am a tourist in London, too. I might say ‘toilet’ instead of bathroom, but I say it in a Chicago accent. I am branded with my scarlet A, and it stands for American, for better or for worse.
Not that this is a bad thing. I may be a na‹ve American, but I’m becoming less so every day. I can’t prevent the inevitable shock and embarrassment that occurs when something unpredictable happens. But whether amusing or nearly devastating, these moments erode the innocent perceptions that I had of the people, places and most importantly, myself.