Failing The 2nd Generation?

My generation of Black Americans was the first. Those of us born in the 60s grew up too young to know firsthand many of the pains and sufferings that came with the Civil Rights Movement raging all around us. Our concerns were limited to diapers, bottles, regular feedings and learning how to walk. As we got older using a public toilet only meant making sure we went in to the correct one for our sex, not our race. We walked in the front door of every restaurant and stayed at motels when our families were tired of driving as we went "down home" to visit relatives or drove across the country to new homes in new states. We shopped at malls named "Glendale" like any of our white friends would, often seeing them in the same stores or even traveling together so our moms could keep an eye on us. Suffering to us was going to bed without getting any candy.

Recently I was on business to Florida and was just winding up an evening at dinner with co-workers. One I dropped back at the office where he'd left his car so we could travel together while the other I'd dropped at the hotel before heading out for some last minute shopping of my own. Upon returning to the hotel I had left the car and was making my way across the drive in to the lobby when I heard the plea "Excuse me, Sir" for me to stop. This was Florida and I'm not from New York so whatever instinct I should have possessed to simply keep walking was not in my make-up.

Here comes this tallish, lanky and obviously stoned young man who began with the usual schpiel of meaning no harm and just wanting some help. Inside of a minute he'd made his plea for a couple dollars for gas to get his stalled car started so he could get home. The hotel was a reputable brand in a good neighborhood on a busy thoroughfare less than a mile from the interstate but the first rule of safety in the parking lot of any establishment is never under any circumstances open or even reach for your wallet in public. I was tired and alone and wanted to get inside to safety and upstairs to pack for the flight home the next day as soon as possible. I politely refused and proceeded inside.

In his own words this person was 19 years old and high, having just "smoked a J" before realizing his alleged predicament. Being Black American as well he was also hoping that I could "hook a young brother up." After I'd refused and gone upstairs to my room which faced the parking lot I first checked out of the window to see if he'd seen the car I had alighted from and if it had been damaged or attacked after I'd left him. The car was safe and so was I as I began packing for the flight home the next day.

A mixture of sadness and anger washed over me as I worked my way through a week's laundry along with thoughts of what had just happened. This child of less than 20 years clearly did not know or was never told of the sacrifices made to offer him a better start than many before him could have ever dreamed of. This young man who could easily have been a child of mine had no real sense of the opportunities created from blood, sweat and politics that he was smoking away with each pipe and reefer he could get his hands on. On top of that this foolish fellow tried to play me for gas when a couple of dollars wouldn't get him across the street at today's prices! More likely this young junkie who's life looked already over was short on the cost of a fix and his dealer was waiting nearby to get paid.

Did my generation fail him or did he fail himself? Either way heaven knows he's not alone.

Gotta go.

I Need Ice!!

"Yu vant dat mit eis?" the German flight attendant asked politely as she and her comrades wheeled their overflowing and rickety drink carts down the left-side aisle. I was in an aisle seat heading back to the United States from a vacation in the Middle East by way of the Lufthansa fortress hub at Frankfurt. Lufthansa is a solid airline, one of the premier carriers in the world not so much for its level of service but more for its attention to detail and its legendary cultural compulsion towards operating on time. As the saying goes, you can set your watch by the German train system and use that to hop a flight on Lufthansa just about anywhere the sun shines. Unfortunately, German culture along with the rest of Europe in general foregoes one thing most Americans like me can't live without - ice.

After ordering my Coke which, again per German preference, came with a spritz of lemon fizz, the flight attendant served an eight ounce tumbler of the sparkling beverage with, count'em, two small cubes of ice. I mean these were the kind of cubes we Yankees automatically write off the minute they hit the drink simply to begin cooling our favorite libation. Sure enough these two pitiful things began circling in tighter circles in the center of the cup and getting smaller with each rotation. I couldn't tap her on the shoulder to ask for more; true to her training and upbringing she was already three rows back and heading to the galley almost as fast as the 747 was roaring to Chicago.

I've often engaged in conversations with friends and acquaintances from several countries around Europe and the result is predictably the same. Europeans prefer all beverages except coffee and tea at room temperature. It is the natural way in which water comes, the only way to drink beer or whiskey and chilled at best for vodka and white wines but nothing ever comes "on the rocks." The Germans and other peoples around the Alps like their milk and cream as close to factory fresh as it can get which quite often means warm from the cow or at least warmed up on the stove or steamed before hitting the table. Besides, goes the final argument, the ice takes up too much room in the glass for all the money paid to enjoy the drink in the first place.

"Y'all don't live in the desert!" goes one of my counter-arguments. Neither do most Americans but the heat of the southern United States virtually requires drinks to be as close to freezing as possible while maintaining liquidity. Who wants to drink "room temperature" water when the outside temperature and humidity can bring that water seemingly close to boiling? If the dry heat of the Southwest comes in to it along with triple-digit temperatures, if we could drink a solid block of ice we would!

The bottom line is each side views ice according to custom. When in Europe I've had table or bottled water served as is and thought nothing of it. Bottled water is cheap and tap water is free where any other drink in Europe can easily can set you back almost a solid day's pay. Besides, even grown men like me love the memories that come with warm milk in the morning - once you get past wondering if the milk was left out all night.

Not too long ago I remember a conversation with a lady who shared my passion for Coca-Cola. We traded tips on the best way to serve the fizzy confection. Hers was a bit more ritualistic than mine, requiring the placement of three cubes of ice precisely, no more no less, with the soda poured over that slowly. Mine isn't as elaborate but it left her and all the Europeans I've ever met thunderstruck just the same.

I prefer the inflight service on foreign flag carriers like Lufthansa, Qantas and Emirates but I know that, if nothing else, I can get ice on United and American. Fill that cup/glass/whatever to the absolute rim with ice, preferably crushed, and pour!

Gotta go!

All That For a Bagel?

“I just want a bagel,” the British guy in front of me at Noah’s lamented one fine San Francisco day. After making his way to the front of the line the sad exchange began.

“I’d like a bagel, please.” Eye roll immediately followed.

“What kind?” Slightly befuddled expression right behind it.

“Regular.” And so on until, after being offered cinnamon raisin, egg, poppy seed, sourdough, potato, onion, blueberry, sun-dried tomato, whole grain, seven grain, garlic, pumpernickel and low-carb, the guy turned around, looked at me nearly in tears and pleaded for help. As they say in the UK, I helped get him happily “sorted out” with a plain bagel until the game started all over again.

“What flavor shmear?” (Cream cheese)

As tourists overseas and even in different parts of the United States we face such scenarios played out with amusing regularity. A Seattle resident in Charlotte on business might have heard of grits but that doesn’t stop the What-Am-I-Supposed-To-Do-With-Those look on the face when they’re served with a stick of butter melting in the middle. Likewise visitors to Texas from England are routinely amazed that we still wear Stetson hats and boots.

As a child of the military my life was one of constant adjustment, whether relocating to the Midwest, the South or back across the sea to Germany. After one such repatriation to the States my sisters and I insisted our first stop outside of customs was a 7-11 to knock off a three-year itch for a Slurpee. When we returned to Germany a few years later we made a beeline to the local candy store for Haribo Gummy Bears!

More than food, we had to learn social customs in different parts of the world, how to greet someone, when to use formal versus informal language and what acceptable hand gestures back home could open up a world of trouble somewhere else. Our own rhythms adjusted from Germany where walking and public transportation got most things done to life back home in the suburbs. Suddenly one family car wasn’t enough to support work schedules, after school activities or simply going to the movies.

We had an advantage. Military bases overseas are microcosms of the United States only with extremely blended neighborhoods. We never lost touch with our Americanisms but regularly enjoyed travel within, shopping, dining and socializing with our German hosts and other countries nearby.

For my family it was simply a part of life. Unlike foreign volunteer work which can last a month or a lifetime, the impact on our lives of routinely living overseas and in different parts of the country evolved over time. We learned that most Americans did not vacation in Europe and that most Europeans, whatever their nationality, when they consider the United States often only see a single largely homogenous culture like they enjoy themselves. My favorite question of all time is “What is it like to live in America?”

My poor British friend at the bagel shop nearly walked out when the equally exasperated counterman asked if he wanted his regular bagel toasted. I smiled wickedly over the thought of taking him shopping for shampoo or pasta sauce.

Gotta go!

Emotions

Excitement

After months or even years of planning, an endless parade of pop-up ads, television commercials and endorsements from friends, co-workers and family about the most wonderfullest and amazing time that I'll ever have, the big day arrives. I've said good-bye to classmates, co-workers and friends in the neighborhood, some of whom gather for the big send off as my things are finally loaded in to the car and we leave for the airport. I can barely contain myself as each minute brings me closer to the exotic world of the airport, flag airlines from all over the world cooling their heels before the next day-at-the-office departure to some destination that until then was only words on a page.

My enthusiasm infuses even the most hardened airport worker as they see the "glamour" of travel in my wide-eyed excitement and, if only for that moment with me, get caught up in the magic once more as they move me through the system to get to my departure gate. Such strange and wonderful machines that crank out paper documents, baggage tracing tags, or whistle, wheeze, bing and pop as they x-ray my possessions and I, sometimes with Star Wars wands, sometimes with puffs of air, all part of some elaborate initiation dance in to the exclusive world of the world traveler.

Elation

The plane appears to be smiling in the sun thanks to the curve of the nose and the style of the corporate paint. A burst of sun on one of the cockpit windows winks at me knowingly: Dude, this flight is gonna rock! The smell of old coffee and lavatory "blue juice" attacking the senses as if it were "new car" smell as I find my window seat and do my best not to rock back and forth in barely contained anticipation. I feel as if riding piggy-back on a great motorcycle, my arms the wings themselves flung gracefully in to the air as we kings of the world surge in to the sunlit afternoon sky. Drinks and food for hundreds from a kitchen even a small apartment would find inadequate for the job? How do they DO it?

Boredom

Three hours of perfect stillness. The slow crawl of the land below dulls the senses, not even a bit of turbulence to shake things up a bit. I'd seen the movie and couldn't read another page of my book without falling dead asleep. I'd asked for as many sodas as I dared without upsetting the flight attendants, disturbing my neighbors with constant trips to the bathroom or worrying what Mom would say to all that sugar. Bored but still pent up with energy to burn, I fidget, unable to get comfortable because I, well, want something to happen! We're flying, I want to scream; there's got to be more to it than this?

Anticipation

The descent. The ears pop. Things outside begin to return to their normal size. A familiar landmark passes underneath announcing we have made it to our destination. The wings discombobulate themselves - air brakes deploy, flaps extend, ailerons bounce up and down and finally, the shudder and thud of unseen landing gear dropping in to position to reunite us with terra firma. I can hardly see out for the smudge of my nose against the window and the fog of my breath but I'm glued to the doings outside as the runway slips beneath us. Toes curled, cheeks clenched, we kiss the asphalt and roll smoothly to the nearest off-ramp for the parade to our arrival gate. I'm exhausted but sated. After perfunctory but profuse thanks from the crew every step of the way to baggage claim the outside world is waiting, happy to see me and that I made it safely.

Anxiety

After months or even years of planning, after the build-up towards the great day, the grand farewells and the day of travel itself, it's over. Curbside. I look back over my shoulder, wondering despite the evidence of my new surroundings if it all actually happened. Where is the fanfare for the end of the trip? I want to wave at some overworked and in a hurry employee as if to say hey, don't you remember me? We just ... flew together.

Driving away from the airport I look in to the sky as another airplane roars in to the setting sun. I close my eyes and smile. Whoever is on that plane is having their own king-of-the-world moment right then and, be it a one hour commute or a 14 hour haul across endless seas, I can't wait to do it again.

Gotta go.

Oh No, Godzilla!

The great 747 lifted in to the air from Chicago O'Hare, pulled an S-turn over downtown as if in salute to the hometown before pointing its nose to the northwest on a direct track to Tokyo, Japan. There was no more excited passenger on that airplane than myself, guaranteed. The First Class cabin was virtually empty save for myself, my traveling companion and maybe two others but the reason for my barely contained delight was the fact that this was my first trip ever to Japan. Land of the Rising Sun, nothing - in 12 short hours I was about to set foot in the Land of the Monsters!

When I was coming up Godzilla was a camp superhero, a man in a lizard suit doing a Samurai Samba through a miniaturized recreation of Tokyo in a studio back lot. My ability to suspend all belief, however, was such that I could never figure out how they managed to rebuild Tokyo so darned fast only to have the great lizard wipe the floor all over again with Monster X, Rodan, King Ghidorah, Mothra and the rest of the gang.

How did Gamera the prehistoric turtle never get dizzy from flying in circles with the four leg openings serving as both propulsion units and exhaust ports? Didn't matter. Nothing thrilled me to the Nth degree like seeing Godzilla light up the landscape and night sky with a brilliant electric blue blast of nuclear halitosis.

I loved Godzilla. I was scared to death of Gargantua, a far more sinister creature from the deep, just as big, just as compelling but intent on human consumption instead of a playful, fire-breathing jig through the Ginza. Consumed in a fight with his more agreeable brother in the caldera of a (conveniently) new volcano, it would be years after this film before I could even look at a map of Japan and not instantly shiver and avert my eyes.

The coastline of Japan crept over the horizon announcing the end of our journey and the real beginning of my anticipation. A green patchwork of farms and golf courses spread beneath us as we crossed the beach on final approach in to Narita. The countryside looked exactly as I had remembered it from the films, a sense of compactness from the small, tightly packed houses and winding roads that enhanced both the scale of this first trip and the unimaginable size of the big guy himself.

As a full grown man I knew that monsters never existed, at least none like the contract players from Toho Studios. I was here to take care of the company's business and be sharp about it. The main gear bumped, the nose gear thudded and the reverse thrust of the engines roared our welcome to Japan. It was a beautiful Spring afternoon outside and I couldn't wait to make that all important first impression upon my Japanese hosts.

Just one last check out the window before deplaning to make sure there weren't any visible T-Rex tracks on the ground, though.

Gotta go.

Flying In The Face of Blackface

And there it is, all the proof that some need about the state of race relations in Australia. A highly offensive skit played out on national television and then sensationalized thanks to global media coverage because a celebrity judge happened to be from a country where such antics died out over half a century ago.

My heart was indeed pained to hear of the infamous "Jackson Jive" skit on Australian television. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I wrestled with the thought of canceling that portion of the trip altogether, extending my stay in New Zealand and only stopping in Sydney long enough to catch my flight to Dallas. Most assuredly others here in the United States would have done exactly that or the "Toldja So" crowd simply reaffirming their intention never to set foot in Australia so long as they live. Then I remembered something a mentor once said.

Individually we are poor, he intoned, but collectively the economic power we carry is impossible to ignore. Is it likely that the borders will be closed and ambassadors recalled between Australia and the United States? Hardly, hearty soul. The simple truth is that without individual travel and cultural exposure there is no opportunity to disprove the negative connotations explicit in ignorant, "innocent fun" such as this. In other words, without dialogue and interaction on common ground the only image they will have is the one they create themselves, as wrong and wrong-headed as it can be.

In to the teeth of this firestorm I am flying today, and on Emirates, no less, the flag carrier of the Middle Eastern nation of the United Arab Emirates. I've just wrapped up ten glorious days in New Zealand driving around the North Island and visiting old friends. My onward itinerary on this two-week vacation only includes three days in Sydney where I'd hardly spent any time previously. I'm looking forward to time on the beach, Mrs. Macquarie's Chair, the Olympic Village, paying my respects to "Dame Crackers" and exploring the music scene post-Little River Band, Men at Work, AC/DC and INXS.

A half century ago is still not all that long in the United States where such matters continue to play out in the work place, the market place and the neighborhoods of this land. Does that mean our Australian cousins are at least 50 years behind the advances realized in America? Can we or even should we use the same scale of history to assess what's going on in the land Down Under?

Again, hardly. I'm not going to Sydney, Australia with suitcases full of pamphlets, affidavits and banners for change. I haven't booked a hall for speeches and testimonials and have no expectations to hold a press conference or have a walk-on at some early morning talk show to give my views on race history and Oz-US relations. I'm a tourist bringing sensible clothing, my iPod and a camera, as any holiday maker would, along with my good character, sense of purpose and, dare I say it, irrepressible optimism!

I'll see what I see when I get there.

Gotta go!

Not From Round Here, Are Ya?

As a Black American the very first time I truly noticed I was different was probably around the 3rd or 4th grade. From pre-school through the 2nd grade I was the only Black child in my classes but kids at that age typically don't notice such things; they tend to have more important matters on their mind like popsicles and recess. The world around me began to take on color in a deeper understanding right around my 9th birthday.

One weekend I found myself part of a tour group to the Black Forest in Germany which included a stop in the ancient walled university city of Tubingen. I'm walking around like a typical tourist, gazing upwards instead of ahead of me, staring at the high walls and battlements, all the while wondering in amazement how our tour bus managed to fit on some of the streets in this town. When I finally looked down towards a normal eye-level view for a nine-year old I discovered all manner of local people staring at me.

In the early 1970s the Black Forest in what was then West Germany was the equivalent of West Virginia in the United States: hard working backwoodsmen not aware of or concerned with the outside world. The war skipped over this large tract of southwestern Germany because there was no industry here, concentrating on Stuttgart instead, a major industrial city and the gateway to the region. In the post-war years some tourists came and went for the intricate cuckoo clocks made there but not in large numbers or from particularly diversified backgrounds. It was the very first time my mother explained to me that some of them had never seen Black people before.

White Americans traveling to Finland for the first time won't necessarily stand out until their American English tells the story for them. How many Black Americans can say they have traveled above the Arctic Circle in Lapland, pictured here during the Midnight sun, or at least are interested in going? I've heard and read much about the ritual of a Finnish sauna with birch saplings and reindeer steaks in the dead of winter and am curious about experiencing it for myself. Maybe the good people of Helsinki have seen a person of color visiting their home town but I'm not so sure the citizens of Rovaniemi would be able to say the same.

Those types of cultural extremes, of course, aren't necessary. I've often said that simply being Black does not mean I wouldn't stand out just as much in a predominantly Black neighborhood even in the United States much less a foreign country. Most likely and at a minimum my manner of dress will be different from that of a native of Bahia, Brazil and that's before my lack of Portuguese skills gives me away completely. I'm also willing to bet that my complexion would be different enough from someone in Central or Southern Africa to indicate my being "not from around here."

Absolutely none of these differences should matter to the curious soul on foreign shores. If there is the will and the means then by all means go with the expectation that no matter the weather the welcome itself will be warm and the culture kind. Bring your best and don't worry about the rest.

Finnair runs three flights a day from Helsinki to Rovaniemi so maybe I'll bring a bottle of Texas mesquite barbecue sauce to go with that reindeer grille!

Gotta go!

Tourist! Clothing and Culture

Americans have the honor of being known as the worst dressed tourists in the world. I truly find that perception to be either mythical or fascinatingly frustrating. Then I looked a little deeper and discovered that there is more to it than mere outward appearance. It appears to be a simple case of tourists behaving, or in this case, dressing normally.

In the United States the line has largely blurred between indoor and outdoor attire; tourist money is still green even if your legs and arms have no business being seen. Conversely, Europeans bend to decorum when it comes to what can be worn and where. Here there are few places outside of the White House where shorts are not perfectly acceptable attire during the high summer. Throughout much of Europe the norm is not to wear them in just about any building over 100 years old, which takes care of nearly every museum, cathedral, art gallery and government building that is open to the public.

The “ugly” American kicks in over the personal desire, nay God-given right to be comfortable at all times versus sacrificing even a smidgen for the sake of protocol. Rather than having a humorous story to tell the folks back home about having to wear long pants in 100-degree heat but the museum was worth it, we leave behind hurt feelings and bad impressions on both sides in the wake of a pointless scene over shorts or going sleeveless.

Friends and I were touring Jerusalem and wanted to enter the spiritual sanctuary atop Mt. Olive. I had tried to warn our female companion that her fashionable choice of sleeveless top and mid-thigh shorts were not acceptable. She first accused me of being chauvinist then pitched a high holy fit at the gates when the attendants denied her entry to the site. We went inside while she cooled her heels, fuming about the male dominated culture of the Middle East. Uh…if she had at least read the guide book….

Fashion is a relative term. American and European senses of fashion have long clashed but Americans are probably the ones that treat vacations as a high fashion opportunity, putting clothes shopping way up on the list of things to do before boarding the plane. Here we come dressed to the nines in our studied, designer-label, layered “casual” look, when we’re not strutting around in scoop-necked tees and madras shorts, that is. Did madras shorts catch on anywhere other than the U.S? TOURIST!

“Over dressed, over-sexed and over here!” goes the saying. Save money by taking what’s already in the closet – no one will know or care that it was last year’s. Wear what the locals are wearing, which anywhere in France pretty much means black leather and jeans. And if the entire day is outside, strolling the neighborhoods, enjoying the parks and eating from street vendors, shorts are fine. Otherwise, long pants and long sleeves are appreciated the moment you enter any building other than a 7-11.

Gotta go!

Tourist! Overseas Aromas

The door swooshes open. Everyone to this point has minded their own business. They start to glance up from the universal posture of gazing down at their shoes or pretending to check their watches. Silently, swiftly and with deadly precision, the attack leaves no one unscathed. The clawing for air, the choking gargles, the eyes flaming red from the undeterred onslaught of....perfume.

Who hasn't been in that elevator? In this second installment on ways tourists stand out the concern here is how locals can smell a tourist long before the unsuspecting holidaymaker hoves in to view. And just as predators can see, hear and smell unsuspecting prey that strays too close so, too, can the shopkeepers smell unaware tourists and their money the world over.

Hygiene is always a good thing but all those layers of soap, shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, mouth rinse, body powder, lotion, cologne and Desenex just SHOUT uber-groomed American tourist! And that's before donning a wardrobe reeking of Mountain Spring Tide, Lavender Clorox bleach, April Fresh Downy and Vanilla and Jasmine Snuggles dryer sheets! But I digress.

In plain English the French may have created the modern industry but few cultures spend as much money on toiletries as we proud Americans. Fewer still manage to wear all of them at the same time all day long like we do. In trying not to offend our own senses we fail to realize that everyone around us is breaking out in hives from the clouds of Shower to Shower and the rose and sandalwood vapors rising in waves from our very pores.

Less is more people: It’s ok, ladies, to put your “casual” face on but make it “Day With the Kids” and not “Night at the Opera.” A little lipstick, soften the eyes, even the skin a tad and head for the door. Dragon lashes and cheekbones are always after dark anyway so hold off on the mascara running in to the foundation thing until after sundown.

Guys, a good long shower, 2-3 swipes of deodorant and go. If you’re taking longer than she is to gel-mousse your hair then it’s not a vacation anymore but a job interview. Remember the days when a wet comb did the trick? It still works!

I had to learn a while back that there is no real purpose in wearing cologne during a day of touring. Part of the full experience of a musty museum or cluttered cathedral is the smell of the building itself, right? Excessive colognes and perfumes not only repel most locals and damage artwork but attract bugs to say nothing of the vultures lurking in the gift shop doorway. Leave the spray bottles for after a second long, hot shower right before a well deserved night on the town or a quiet, evening swaddled in terrycloth and slippers.

Wanna blend in? Start with the basics and ix-nay on the White Diamonds until sundown.
Wanna find the tourist? Follow your nose, it always knows.

Gotta go!

"Outhouse" courtesy of Flickr.

Toursts! Behaving Normally

“Blend in,” they say. “Don’t dress, act or look like a tourist.” Travel agents, guide books and even the government are constantly harping on ways for people to get along overseas. In this first of a six-part series on the different ways tourists stick out no matter what, Rule #1 is never expect your daily routine to be the rule of thumb anywhere other than your own home town, even in your own country.

Everybody is a tourist when they leave home but I kind of feel that nobody ever acts like a tourist. Rather, they simply act like they’re at home and then get confused when overseas brochures describe a destination as a “home away from home” or encouraging tourists to “make themselves at home.” That said, the rude foreigner shoving a camera in someone’s face and forcing them to pose is a bit much but what, or rather who, makes a rude tourist?

"Time" magazine reported on a survey conducted by Expedia recently to determine which country could claim the worst behaved citizens abroad. This time around it was the French who were called out for the third year in a row by 4,000 hoteliers around the world for being cheap, arrogant and not willing or able to speak the host language.

The French! Japan, a culture world-famous for manners and saving face, whose people wouldn’t dream of embarrassing themselves as guests or hosts, ranked the best.

Yahoo! picked up the story where it reported that the survey further suggests that perhaps the problem is the French, some 85-90% of them, rarely leave home. Home? That’s just nuts.

Air France flies just about everywhere on the planet and I’m pretty sure not just for foreigners. Further, if only 10-15% of the population flew, how do you justify the size of Air France's global network on the less than 10 million French that do travel?!

The survey’s own findings also show that the average Frenchman gets 37 days of vacation yet budgets his funds to cover all of those days. The average American, on the other hand, barely uses all of his 14 days but throws money around big time when he does. With 37 days and a global airline at their disposal it appears that the French travel more than the survey gives them credit for. How else could they be so memorable?

Why the French get a bad rap seems easy to see. Everybody wants to go to France, the number one tourist destination in the world with over 90 million visitors a year. When the French do go abroad they probably travel most often to places where the language and customs are exactly the same as they are back home. "Home." There's that word again!

French influence touches every corner and climate of the planet: Caribbean colonies, Quebec, from Cote d’Ivoire and Morocco in Africa to Lebanon, over to Vietnam and Laos and across the Pacific to New Caledonia and Tahiti. All over the world tips are automatically included in the bill, there is a high service culture and everyone speaks the language. Even southern Louisianans know how to cuss in Creole, right?

The comeuppance is that even with the convenience of a former empire the French apparently need to get out a little more and leave their comfort zone at home. As do we all.

Gotta go!