Listen:
All this happened, more or less. The stories, anyway, are pretty much true. A girl really did tell me she was one of the smartest people I would ever meet. A bushy-haired fellow really did convince me he was Carlos Valderam-ma. Another girl really did introduce me to her girlfriend by showing me photos of them looking rather intoxicated. And so on. I haven't changed the names because the ones I remember are generic anyway.
It was very easy to spot American tourists in Europe this summer, much like it would be most summers, I'd imagine. Instead of wearing tight lavender capris or designer clothing, Americans would walk around in Drew Bledsoe jerseys or Tommy Hilfiger attire. But more importantly, Americans are capable of speaking much louder than residents of EU nations. You could tell that Europeans enjoy the loud voices of Americans, especially Germans, who are quite infatuated with David Hasselhoff.
Meeting Americans in Europe made me think a great deal about cheese. Europe has a variety of delicious cheeses, most of which are unpasteurized.
Unpasteurized cheese was declared illegal in the U.S. because it makes Americans sick. (European laws prohibit citizens from getting stomach aches after consuming cheese.) Consequently, American scientists developed American cheese, which tastes much worse than manchego and brie because it is pasteurized and wrapped into plastic squares. The only thing Europeans wrap into plastic squares is hashish, which is unpasteurized.
Jen was from Los Angeles. She didn't have a surname that springs to mind, so she was called L.A. Jen. L.A. Jen had just graduated from the University of Southern California, where she had majored in communications. At USC, the communications department teaches you how to talk about yourself in a very meticulous manner until you have thoroughly analyzed every component of your own character. L.A. Jen was very intelligent. I know this because she had received a 3.97 GPA from USC and also because she was one of the smartest people I would ever meet.
One day she was walking around Barcelona all by herself and a young boy kicked a soccer ball against her leg. Startled, L.A. Jen turned around to see who had kicked a soccer ball against her leg. The young boy then ripped her purse from her shoulder and scurried away with every important document L.A. Jen owned. So it goes.
Carlos Valderamma was a famous soccer player from Colombia, but he spoke English like an American. When he played in the World Cup in 1994, one of his teammates scored on his own goal while playing the Americans and was later assassinated by drug dealers. So it goes. Carlos Valderamma learned his English while playing for the Tampa Bay Mutiny of Major League Soccer. Unlike L.A. Jen, Carlos Valderamma did not talk much about himself except to tell everyone he met that he was, in fact, Carlos Valderamma.
He successfully convinced a group of 25 Germans at the club. They were all tripping on acid. They spoke with remarkable grammatical proficiency but did not play soccer or football.
Jessie was a filament-thin, leather-clad lady from San Francisco. In case you didn't already know, Jessie was a lesbian. Just two days ago, she had met the love of her life, whom I had the pleasure of meeting just 18 seconds after meeting Jessie. Apparently, lesbians express their love by taking photographs of themselves falling on top of one another while inebriated and clothed. Then, instead of walking around town hip-to-hip like most European couples, they embark upon a long-distance relationship that is sustained by showing everybody else pictures of themselves acting drunk.
Jessie introduced her girlfriend to nine more strangers in the next hour. Later she slipped on a sangria-slicked floor while trying to dance to salsa and sprained her ankle. So it goes.
When I got home from my summer vacation, I thought it would be easy to write about the fascinating Americans I had met and why America was the best nation in the entire world. I thought it would make me a very rich and famous novelist, or at least get me some nookie when I went out to the 'Street.' But not many words about Americans came from my mind, so I decided to write this column instead.
And so on. I approached Kurt Vonnegut and told him I was writing a book about Americans. He told me I might as well write a book about boy bands.
What he meant, of course, was that there would always be boy bands. And that they were as easy to like as Americans.
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