Profoundly American

I feel profoundly American when I travel to Germany.

I was only a few hours off the plane when I started to notice it. Someone in our group at Don Giovanni had to sit next to a stranger, a big conundrum for my German party. I couldn't care less, so I left my clump of conferring Germans and took my seat, gave him a smile, and forgot about it. Then we had questions about the second half of the program. The group went back to conferring over this difficult problem. I strode over to one of the program attendants, said a small prayer to the god of the English language, then asked her all of our questions. She gave me all the information in English. Later, at a restaurant, one of our group was suffering from the loud music. I suggested we could ask them to turn it down. The sufferer shook her head, that would be too much. I asked the waitress if they could turn it down. She did. 

Americans have an innate and certain feeling that others want to help them.

This can of course manifest in entitlement—I remember a father yelling at a Mexican airport worker over and over "Where is the bus station?" louder and slower, thinking that the language barrier could be overcome by volume and pace.

But I also have seen it, and have deployed it, in a way that reveals something else: the unique American confidence, enthusiasm, openness, and warmth.

Some people don't even know they want to help you until you ask. You can shock them into it. They end up feeling called to be more than they were a minute ago. That you believe in them. That you trust them. The program attendant didn't look like she got asked very many questions, and she seemed quite enthusiastic to have a chance to discourse.

Yes, I'm a young woman, and I'm sure this helps. But I've seen jolly American middle aged men pull this off too. The trick is the warmth, openness, and confidence. You singled them out because you believe that they uniquely can help you locate the cornflakes, the train station, the best restaurant around here. In your country, people talk to strangers, and you can show them how to do the same.

---

\

People do not always want to help you. Then you'd better hope there is another American around. You'll hear them before you see them. You'll understand why other countries think we're stupid. But you'll be so relieved to hear that flat, loud, warm accent. To know that one of your countrymen is coming your way — and that they will help, because of course they will.

I was in Chemnitz, previously named "Karl Marx City." It was east German in geography and disposition. No more Americanized Berlin service. I was at a grocery store the day before New Year's trying to buy some essentials, including fireworks. I needed a lighter or matches, which were not apparent. The Germans, customers and workers, were glaring me down. They either did not speak English or weren't going to reveal they did. They were having none of my broken German either. I was holding up the line and there were shaking heads.

Then, I heard a Texan drawl.

A smiling man appeared, as American looking as he sounded, cowboy-esque. He was thrilled to see me and took me on a tour of the fireworks, then deployed his slightly more deft German to acquire a lighter and matches from behind the counter. He was an opera singer—opera, and things like it, being one of the few industries where Germany offers a better market. He'd lived in Chemnitz for several years with his family. He warned me that NYE was one of the very few times where Germans really let loose—that and the World Cup. I thanked him profusely and headed back into the frigid air with my fireworks, egg liquor, matches, and lighter.

---

There are many plausible explanations for this expectation of aid from strangers. Perhaps our passports make us feel the Pax Romana—we are protected, special, and untouchable. Or perhaps we come from a high trust society with enough of a mixture of people and low enough crime that we're used to striding up to just about anyone. Or we were simply raised to be bolder, louder, and uncowed. Or we view Europe as an amusement park, and of course there would be attendants to cater to our needs.

My little brother has traveled a fair amount and we all believe that he is watched over by the god of travelers. He gets taken in, fed, transported. When I meet strangers now, I think: this is somebody else's little brother. This is somebody's lost daughter who shattered her phone on the way to an appointment. The help you give comes back around, or it doesn't, but that is not the point.

I am very pro asking for, and giving, help. It makes people feel less lonely. Provided the interaction goes well, it strengthens the tissue of trust that makes cities livable and travel possible. The same faith that makes us approach strangers is the faith that settles continents, starts companies in garages, believes the future will be better than the past. We assume the universe is basically friendly, or at least that it can be made so. We are often wrong. We have also often been right.