#then he'd call andrew to admire his work of art

[andreilscat]

thinking about neil tickling kevin

[blooming-violets]

💔 heart break headcanon

I sat with this ask for quite a few days now. I thought it over whenever I went into my daydream world. I had about fifty ideas come and go but none stuck like I wanted.

Until tonight thanks to this picture of Andrew:

Time for some modern day, superhero Romeo and Juliet.

Let's do this!

Wilson Fisk, New York City's most powerful businessman, infamous crime lord, one of the most feared men in the state, mayor of the city...or as you like to call him...dad. He has his hands in every inch of this city and puppets it to his will. His extensive wealth is spent on spoiling his wife (your mother), Vanessa, and his only child (you). His businesses activities were not exactly something that was hidden from you. Both parents made it clear that danger followed your father wherever he went. You knew he was into shady business. One doesn't get power and wealth like he has without stepping on people on the way up the ladder.

Your life was spent inside a protective bubble. Privacy was not something you were used to. Armed guards followed you wherever you went, your internet activity was heavily monitored, and you were never allowed to have friends.

Your childhood was spent by your mother's side instead. She home schooled you, took you to museums, and gave you as much knowledge about the world as she could. She instilled her love and appreciation for art into you at a young age. Lucky for you, the city was crawling with art museums. The first place you were ever allowed to go alone (as alone as you could get with two body guards trailing behind you) was to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. It became one of your favorite places. Your happy place.

On this particular evening, you were wondering through the MET, making a straight line towards one of your favorite pieces of art work. Tonight, there was a young man standing in front of it. You pushed up beside him to admire the work together, craving any kind of human interaction you could get.

"Isn't it beautiful?" You asked him. "The Dissolute Household. Jan Steen is the master of creating the perfect depiction of domestic chaos."

The man turned his head to look at you with curiosity. His face was scruffed with stubble like he'd forgotten to shave this past week. He wore a red beanie to hide the overgrown, greasy hair poking out from under the brim. Dark bags deepened his bright brown eyes. He seemed to take in your outfit in comparison to his own. You were well dressed and put together, perfect posture, not a single hair out of place. The epitome of wealth and class. Meanwhile he looked like he shuffled in from an overnight bender and couldn't remember how he ended up in the museum but was just going with the flow to not draw attention to himself.

He gave you a weary smile, "I wasn't sure why I stopped at this one but I found it hard to look away."

"Steen is good at holding the observer's attention because there is so much to look at. That's him, in the painting, and his wife. It depicts a variety of sinful acts happening. He's lacing fingers with the maid behind his wife's back, his wife is clearly intoxicated, a bible is being trampled on the ground, there's broken bottles and food strewn about, someone is warding off the beggar at the door. Chaos and merriment all around. And above all of them hangs a literal basket full of future misfortune like a terrible fate hovering over their heads. The items in the basket promise poverty, disease, and bad luck. Steen enjoyed painting commentary into his work. Everyone always looks so happy amongst the chaos even with the darkness of reality hanging above them."

You never had chaos in your life. Everything was controlled and quiet.

The craziest thing to happen to you was when you were 13 and your mother woke you from a sound sleep. The two of you had to evacuate the house into a private helicopter and be flown to the airport. You heard shooting happening in the hallway as you ran but you never actually saw where it was coming from. The two of you then spent the next year in a beautiful home in Sicily. When you were finally able to return back to the city, your father had set up new, stricter measures of security. No one ever told you what happened that day and that kind of thing never happened again. Despite being terrified in the moment, it was the most excitement you'd ever experienced in your entire lifetime. Sometimes you longed to feel that again.

"I never really looked at art too deeply before," the man mumbled. He was quiet, speaking as if he was in a library, afraid to be scolded by a rude librarian. "At least not paintings. I'm more of a photography kind of guy."

Whoever he was, he was attractive in his own grimy kind of way. You found yourself wanting to lean in closer to hang onto every word he spoke. You'd never had a boyfriend before. Once you flirted with one of the younger guards assigned to you. You hooked up with him in a coat closet at a fancy party. That was your first and only time being intimate with someone. When your father found out, that guard disappeared from your life. You liked to pretend that he was just let go and fired but you knew the darker truth. That man was no longer alive.

You wanted to know this new stranger even with the threat of death hanging over his head. You needed excitement. You craved the idea of having someone to love. So, you introduced yourself. First name only. Last name's were off limits. He smiled. It was a nice smile. And told you his name was Peter.

The two of you spent the rest of the evening wondering around the museum together. You insisted on showing him all your favorite works. He would listen intently, like he really cared what you had to say, while you over explained every little bit of knowledge you had on each piece. You could tell he was hyper aware of the two men following behind you everywhere you went. Even if they were dressed in civilian clothes, it was obvious they stood out as your personal bodyguards. It was even more obvious when you leaned in extra close to Peter while he unleashed his own knowledge about a particular old photograph you two were staring at and a gruff, pointed cough echoed out behind you, making you immediately jerk back and take a step away from your new friend. They may be here to keep you safe and out of trouble but they were loyal to your father, not to you.

Before you left for the night, you made plans to meet Peter back at the museum next weekend. He asked for your number but you refused to give it to him. Not yet. If you wanted to see him again, you would have to do it carefully. Slowly.

It took two months of weekend museum visits before you worked up the courage to tell your mother about him. You were certain that the guards assigned to you had already informed your father you were meeting a friend every Saturday night. You wouldn't be surprised if he had full intel on every detail about Peter Parker's life neatly stacked into a binder in his office. No one mentioned it to you though so you never brought it up. Until now.

Peter had asked you out to dinner. Up to this point, the two of you had never left the MET property. That was your safe place but you both wanted more.

Bringing up the idea of dating had to be run by your mother first. She was the more reasonable of your parents. She valued romance, loyalty, and love. If anyone could help get your father on your side, it would be her.

It was over dinner in your shared penthouse apartment that you brought it up. Just the two of you...and the security standing outside the room.

"How did you and daddy meet?" You asked, keeping your tone casual.

Vanessa smiled at the memory, "You know this story all too well. I used to tell it you as a bedtime tale when you were a girl."

"I know but I want to hear it again."

"He wandered into my gallery one night. He was very entranced by a particular painting I was trying to sell. The one hanging up in our bedroom. Rabbit in a Snowstorm. I found him standing in front of it, quietly taking it in, and I knew I needed to know more about him. It takes a certain kind of man to appreciate a painting like that."

Funny how her story mirrored so similarly to your own. You pushed your food around your plate with the end of your fork as you hesitantly brought it up, "I met someone. At the museum. He was standing in front of one of my favorite paintings. We got to talking and next thing I know, we've explored the entire building. Head to toe. Every inch of of the place. He seems like an amazing person, mom. He loves listening to me talk about art and I love hearing him explain all the details of photography. I feel like we're on the same wavelength. I want to see more of him. He asked me out to dinner but I told him I would get back to him. You know how daddy can get..."

Vanessa sighed, studying your face and seeing a lovestruck, desperate look gazing back at her. You could tell you won her over with the story of your first meeting. She knew you were in your twenties and never had a chance to date before. You couldn't stay locked in your tower forever. "What's this man's name?" She asked.

"Peter. Peter Parker. He lives in Queens with his aunt. He's been helping take care of her ever since her husband died a bunch of years ago. He's compassionate and kind. He cares about other people. He had a really good heart, I can see it. Please, can you talk to daddy about it. I can't stand the thought of trying to get close to someone only for him to hurt them. I can't let him hurt Peter for being interested in me. That's not fair. I really want this to work out. Please, pretty please, will you talk to him."

And she did. With his begrudging blessing, you were allowed to date Peter.

Peter knew limited details about your life. He didn't know who your parents were or your last name. He just knew that you were the daughter of someone important and that you two needed to be careful. Strangely, he took it all in stride. He never seemed nervous by the fact he was always surrounded by loaded guns or constantly being watched. The potential danger hanging over his head never once phased him. You weren't sure if he was naïvely stupid or just really brave. You liked to think that he didn't care as long it meant he got to stick around you.

He was definitely in a different social class from your family. Peter didn't grow up with wealth. He'd never even left the state of New York before. That shocked you. Your mother and you loved to travel.

You upper class lifestyle was probably the only thing that ever shook him. He seemed to fidget and get uncomfortable the more fancy, high end places you brought him to. He preferred things to be more low key. You'd never stepped foot inside a McDonald's until he brought you there after a date to get McFlurrys. It was surprisingly delicious even if the floors stuck to the bottom of your feet as you walked.

The longer you two spent together, the more you fell in love.

Six months in, you decided it was the right time to tell him more about your life. You were sitting on a bench in the middle of central park. You liked this spot because the men following you had to stand further away and it put you two out of their direct ear shot.

Peter held your hand, his thumb brushing over your palm. You laced your fingers through his.

"I have something to tell you," you both spoke at the exact same time.

After a pause, the two of you broke into laughter.

"You go first," he offered. "Mine can wait."

"Did I ever tell you who my father is?" You knew the answer was no but you asked anyway.

He shook his head and shrugged, "I figured he was probably some politician or something. Someone important. That's why you always those guys following you. They keep you safe so that makes them alright in my book."

You nodded, "Yeah, I guess so. It sucks having them around but I guess they're useful if shit goes south. My dad is Wilson Fisk, you know, the big, giant business man and current mayor of the city. That's why those guys are always around. I thought it was probably time you knew since he invited you to attend our family dinner this weekend. He wants to meet the man I've been spending all my time with."

Peter tensed. He tried to play it off like he wasn't bothered but you noticed. His shoulders hunched and his back stiffened. You watched his jaw clench together and quickly loosen again as he forced a smile.

"Mayor Fisk, huh? He's your father? I didn't even know he had children." His voice was strained.

You slowly nodded, carefully taking your hand out of his grasp to place in your lap, you didn't like the reaction he was giving you. Something was wrong. You glanced over your shoulder to the guards a few few feet away just in case you need their help. "...Just one kid. Me. He likes to keep his family separate from his work and the public eye. There are bad people in the world who want to hurt him so he keeps my mom and I off the television and news as much as he can."

Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek. His shoulders still hadn't relaxed and he refused to look at you. "Why didn't you tell me this sooner?"

"Tell you what? That my dad was the mayor? What does it matter to you? It's not something I go shouting off the rooftops. It's not a big deal. I'm not the mayor. He is."

"Not a big deal?" He gave a stiff, dry laugh. "Do you have any idea the kinds of things that man has done? Your father has caused me-" He cut himself off with a heated grunt of annoyance.

Your brow furrowed and you leaned away from him, "What are you talking about, Peter? Why do you have anything to do with my dad?"

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, obviously thinking better of whatever he was planning on saying.

Tears welled up in your eyes at his reaction. You expected him to be mildly shocked or maybe even nervous about having dinner with the mayor but you didn't expect him to get angry as if he had a personal vendetta against your father. Even if he wasn't shouting at you, you knew what silent anger looked like. He was fuming.

"I don't know if I can do this," he huffed, still refusing to look in your direction.

You gave a soft gasp of shock, "What are you talking about? What are you saying?"

"I'm-" he glanced back at the the men who were still oblivious to the conversation being had. "I can't. I don't want to be associated with anyone who ties themselves with Fisk."

"Associated?" You voice heightened, causing your security team to take an interest in what was going on. You quickly lowered your voice again to ward them off. "The only way I'm associated with my father is when we have the occasional family dinner when he can spare the time."

Peter scoffed, "Yeah, right. You'd have to be stupid to not have any idea what shady shit he gets up to? Human trafficking? Drug trafficking? Weapon trafficking? Murder? Anything illegal, take your pick, and Fisk has his hands over it."

This was news to you. You assumed he got his wealth through shady business deals and backstabbing his opponents. You knew he had hit men who would kill for him if he asked them to. Maybe you just never wanted to think too deep about it. Your silence was all Peter needed.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just can't."

He got up and walked away, leaving you silently crying on the park bench.

You made up an excuse for why Peter couldn't attend dinner with your family. You smiled and kept the sadness out of your face. Even though he hurt you, you knew what crying to your father would mean. Your heartbreak wasn't enough to risk his life over. You weren't your dad. Revenge and violence wasn't in your blood.

And maybe Peter was right. As you sat across from your dad at the table, you couldn't help but wonder how the rest of the world saw him. You wondered if your mother knew. She had to. They were in this together. You felt like a stranger in your own home. These people you knew all your life were no longer covered by their masks.

A week passed before Peter found you again. It was late at night. You were in your bedroom when there was a knock on the balcony door. That was unusual due to the fact that you were over 50 stories in the air and the balcony had no other entrance besides your bedroom.

You looked over, the bright lights of your room making it impossible to see out into the blackened night. You slowly stood up from your desk, your heart racing, as you grabbed a pocket knife from your drawer. You couldn't see anyone out there. It might have been a bird attempting to fly in the dark. You unlocked the door and stepped out into the crisp night air with your knife held at the ready.

There was no one.

You were alone. Your arm slumped back to your side, the knife loosening in your hand. Just as you were about to turn around to go back inside, chalking it up to your sleep deprivation, the presence of a body lowering behind you made you jump. Before you could let out a piercing scream to alert the guards, a heavy gloved hand clamped over your mouth. This was it. This was how you die.

You struggled against the mass pining your arms down but it was solid. You were no match for the intruder. A hushed voice whispered in your ear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he hissed. "Stop struggling and I'll let you go. By the time you scream, I'll already be two blocks away so I'd rather you not try it. I'm here to talk."

It was Peter's voice. You had no idea how he got up here, your mind was going a million miles an hour, and you nodded. His grip around you loosened and you pulled away, whipping around to face him. Except that you weren't face to face with the Peter you knew. The sight of Spider-Man standing before you made you almost scream but you quickly clamped your hand over your mouth.

"Wha-" you stuttered out. "Peter?"

"Can I trust you?" He asked.

You weren't sure. If there was on thing your father hated, it was vigilantes. He'd go on long rants over his hatred of people like Spider-Man and Daredevil. They were the bane of his existence, always throwing a wrench in his plans.

The more you thought it, the more obvious it was that he wasn't a good man.

You nodded, making up your mind then and there, "Yes. I won't tell a soul."

That night Peter revealed his truth. It was a hard pill to swallow. The poor, disheveled man from Queens, your first love, was your father's sworn enemy.

You had many doubts. There was no way those two men could ever be put into the same room with each. Your family and Peter could never mix. You two stood on opposite ends of the equation.

But you didn't want to give him up.

And he felt the same.

The relationship progressed as normal and you vowed to stay out of whatever your father or Spider-Man had going on. That was not your concern. Peter wouldn't ask about him and you wouldn't ask about Spider-Man.

But that knowledge always hovered over your heads. Once the truth was out, there was no way to reverse what you knew.

You were the key to tipping the scales. You could destroy Peter Parker and Spider-Man by snitching to your father. Or you could destroy your family by feeding Peter private information.

There was only so long you two could pretend to ignore the obvious.

A time would come when you would have to chose between love or family. There could only be one winner in the battle between good and evil.

And, which ever way the scales tipped, a piece of your heart would be ripped out and buried alongside the loser.

AND I'M GOING TO STOP IT HERE because it's getting too long for something that was supposed to be simple headcanons. I'm very sleepy and have not proof read my mad ramblings so please excuse any forgotten words or mistakes. I'm tired old lady just trying to do my best.

[dreamwritesimagines]

alright so it's time for me to overanalyze this whole chapter (but particularly that last scene omfg)

okay so first of all im still not quite over the sneak peak. "for my beautiful wife" (get me a benedict bridgerton i beg of you).

the teddy scene was so sweet omg!!! the way ben and clover are just acting so domestic is soooo adorable! and it's so sweet that as clover starts to be more open with ben, so does teddy. he's literally gone from hiding behind clover's skirts whenever ben is around to “looking up at him as if asking for his help", and idk, to me that just seems meaningful that even teddy (who was so opposed to clover getting married) likes ben, because it would be so easy for him to not like ben because he 'took clover away' so to speak. AND THE WAY HE JUST PICKED TEDDY UP AND PUT HIM ON HIS SHOULDERS!!! MEN WHO ARE GOOD WITH KIDS ARE SO HOT ISTG!!!!

"You knew you were supposed to focus on your own work but it was a bit difficult when Benedict was sitting not far from you on the floor with his sleeves rolled up, letting you steal glances at his strong arms." she's honestly so real for that, arms are hot asf. and OMG don't even get me STARTED on “So that people will get to see what true beauty looks like even after five hundred years.” because holy shit benedict bridgerton is THE STANDARD. and the way clover has such confidence in bens art!!! pls i literally love them so much i can't-

awwww and then andrew/bess/josie bit!! i was wondering when ben was going to ask about them for a couple of weeks. i love how clover was willing to just tell him without being scared he'd massively judge them or something. like of course he wouldn't but clover is super distrustful most of the time so i was wondering how open she'd be about someone who is as important to her as josie is.

“I seem to like seeing you beat around the bush, that was rather adorable,” clover you're literally so in love with him, stop being in denial already!!!!!! 😭😭😭

alright now onto lady margery. honestly when we first met her i didn't like her AT ALL because i thought she was going to be the next kitty-type girl trying to steal benedict away or something. honestly i have mixed feelings on her because i automatically don't like anyone who makes our girl feel insecure but i also find her really likable. she's this perfect representation of exactly what clover wanted to (and could have) been had she not met, and subsequently married, ben. her and clover are a nice little "what i wanted vs what i got" situation and im honestly here for it.

AND THIS - “I find the idea of marriage quite absurd if you ask me, especially within the ton. It’s the worst prison to be.” “Not for everyone,” !!!!!!! THAT IS WHAT WE CALL CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT!!! the best bit is she isn't under any pressure to say anything like that. lady margery wouldn't have questioned her if she said nothing, and there was no one there who she had to convince of anything. she just automatically defended marriage (or at least her and ben's marriage) without even thinking about it and yet she STILL DOESN'T RECOGNISE THAT SHE'S IN LOVE WITH HIM!!!??? CLOVER??? GIRL??? YOU'RE DOWN SO BAD PLS!! 😭😭😭

anyways i think im going to have to overanalyze the final scene in a different ask because this is getting way longer than i thought it was lol. (ill sign it off with a nice little mirrorball emoji so yk it's me lmao)

- 🪩

MIRRORBALL EMOJI ANON I LOVE YOU SO MUCH-

I saw this ask and I literally gasped and got so excited, I am hugging you respectfully! 🥰❤️ YOU'RE AMAZING! ❤️

Fangirling over you under the cut! 🥰❤️

Lolll Benedict went down to the garden to get those flowers all happy and excited 😂

Benedict and Clover are being such a married couple 🥰 And dare I say even parents? 😏

he's literally gone from hiding behind clover's skirts whenever ben is around to “looking up at him as if asking for his help", EXACTLY! 😍 Like, Teddy admires Benedict and looks up to him so much, and he feels so safe with him ❤️ I think it's because he can pick up how relaxed and happy Clover is around Benedict 🥰

YES OMG I AGREE WITH YOUUUU! 😍 Benedict being so good with Teddy...😍

Lolll Clover could not focus at all, she was eyeing him and his arms 😏

He is so romantic! ❤️

Clover trusts him so much, like more than he thinks she does❤️ The fact that she shared the details of Josie and Andrew's arrangement with him means a lot on her part ❤️

honestly i have mixed feelings on her because i automatically don't like anyone who makes our girl feel insecure but i also find her really likable. she's this perfect representation of exactly what clover wanted to (and could have) been had she not met, and subsequently married, ben. This is exactly what I was going for! 😍

Like, Clover won't know how to feel about Margery either 😂 She is, just like you said, a representation of what Clover was planning on, and what she thought she wanted 😏 But now that she met Benedict, it all changed -for the better- ❤️ But also there's the whole "being good enough for him" insecurity that hits Clover from time to time 🥰

DEFINITELY! ❤️😍 I was hoping that Clover's conversation with Margery would show her character development at this point in the story and IT'S SO GOOD TO HEAR THAT IT DID! ❤️ Clover had literally zero reason to "pretend" while she was with Margery, and it actually came almost automatic to her, like she didn't even think about it before she said "Not for everyone", she genuinely feels like it! ❤️

She is so in loveeee❤️

OH MY GOD I'M SO EXCITED FOR YOUR NEXT ASK AS WELL, HOLD ON-

AAAAAAAA I'M LEGIT SMILING! 😍❤️❤️

[teacherintransition]

The Ugly American...who? Me?

My wife an I have become avid travelers and the closing of countries due to Covid-19 has hit us in the heart...

The time at home has given me chance to read about travel and given me pause to re-evaluate my behavior while abroad in the past and for the future...

The Ugly American, a novel written in the late 1950’s and which was a The New York Times Best Seller, was written by political scientist Eugene Burdick and writer and former U.S. Navy captain William Lederer. The book took a much needed look at the behavior of Americans traveling abroad; from the rugged backpacker hiking India to the field State Department personnel actually presenting the “official face” of our country in the international community. Prior to World War 1, most international travel by Americans was done by the wealthy elite among society. The “common” man through the tribulations of war, was given the opportunity to experience European culture and a yearning for seeing the world was fostered. If fact, there was a saying after WWI, “how you gonna keep Johnny on the farm after he’s seen Paree (Paris)?” The travel bug... wanderlust was born in the hearts of the middle class and gave rise to this phenomenon in film and in books written by Jack Kerouac, Cheryl Strayed, Ernest Hemingway up to contemporary writers like Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Sean Greer and Elizabeth Gilbert. Even Rick Steves who has become a knowledgeable source of traveling information with his travel guide series, has presented an informative open minded view of travel abroad.

All of these written treasures of traveling the world unveils to readers the magic that is to be found by stepping out your front door. The Ugly American presents a scathing look at how the “American” while overseas, displays an arrogant , intolerant, dismissive view of cultures far older and in many cases, more refined than ours. Burdick and Lederer’s book is set within the intrigues of international diplomacy and how that uniquely American view creates failure in the establishment of effective foreign policy. The authors listed and many more besides, instruct their readers to varying degrees to take more note of the intricate nuances a traveler should pay attention to and to show respect and admiration for the centuries of history and culture that exists all around us and that is not American. There is a common thread throughout all their works about what is missed when we stand outside and dismiss the uniqueness of every nation we might visit, instead of immersing oneself and appreciating it in a culture not our own. The “ugly American” has become a mythos of how Americans respond critically to anything that is not “MURICAN!”

Several other factors besides short sighted American foreign policy have contributed to the yoke placed on Americans traveling: cutthroat business practices while dealing with European, Asian and African countries; missionaries whose demonstrate a dismissive view of spiritual practices that have existed for millennia and, quite honestly, the behavior of tourists while abroad. Many experienced travelers draw a clear distinction between the tourist and the traveler. Kathryn Walsh differentiates the two in the following way:

Tourists

It's usually easy for locals to spot a tourist among them. A tourist may carry a camera, guidebook and map at all times and wear the same clothing he'd wear at home. Tourists tend to stay in their comfort zones a bit; they may speak only English instead of trying to learn phrases in the local language; stick to major cities instead of venturing to smaller towns or off-the-beaten-path locales; and stay in areas where the amenities are similar to what they have at home.

Travelers

Generally speaking, someone who considers himself a traveler will try to immerse himself in the local culture rather than standing out. If you're a traveler, you may try to explore the less-traveled areas and explore locations where tourism doesn't drive the economy. You'll interact with locals. Your goals for a trip will be to learn and experience new things, rather than to take a relaxing break from everyday life. A traveler may consider a trip a journey rather than a vacation.

The traveler presents a deferential, respectful and admiring view of the nations they are visiting and adopt the wise phrase from antiquity: “when in Rome do as the Romans.”

There is nothing wrong with being a tourist, often it is the less expensive approach to travel, unless you become the arrogant American tourist then perhaps you need to reassess. Travel is a big part of my retirement plans and goals, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. Two highly anticipated trips with two years involved in planning were rescheduled due to the Covid-19 pandemic, a disappointment we shared with thousands of tourists and travelers alike; and further postponements may continue to confront us. Perspective is needed in such a situation as being denied travel is far below other struggles this event has presented all of us. That being said, it has been a terrible disappointment down to my bones. We’ve missed much needed fellowship time with great friends, the excitement of seeing new places, the immersion in the culture and history of the locales, and, for me personally, our yearly travels have been my muse and inspiration for so much of my art. It’s akin to being very thirsty and having only a few drops to suffice. Introspection is the course of action when hopefully contemplating the possibility of the trips occurring.

To satiate the urge, we’ve read and watched travel programs in the interim and have evaluated our connection to the Ugly American concept? Are we ...them? In our past travels, have we appeared at all dismissive of the people and practices of the places we’ve visited? My wife and I have always been in awe of our travel destinations, so I feel fairly confident that we have not displayed the aforementioned arrogance of many American travelers. The thought that then arises is how much we have not allowed ourselves to be immersed in the culture; which, in the long run, is a detriment to us more than anyone. Our minds are open and willing to become part of the places we visit, but if we eliminate the brusque nature of so many Americans while overseas, what is the stumbling block that draws such distinctions when traveling? I fully concede that most Americans feel they have little to learn from many places on this planet, more is the pity, and there is much flawed thinking that goes into this mindset; but what fundamental differences exist between the cultures? I came across a very enlightening blog article written by Alain Veilell that was spot on in identifying the differences. Veilell simply observed that we run on different clocks. Not literal clocks but a “clock” obsessed with structure and deadline.... hello Americans! Veilell notes that Europeans start late and end late, while American and many Asian cultures start early and end early. Americans tend to view the un-regimented approach as being akin to laziness. I coached soccer and baseball for many years and many of my Latino players would not be as punctual as my other players. They were as talented and competitive, but their homes weren’t ruled by the seconds on a clock. Dinner started later, lasted longer, the dishes could wait... the priority was the quality of interaction with the people your with... ah, there it is ... sort of.

The average American meal last twenty minutes, while the average meal in Spain, for example, lasts two hours. They certainly don’t eat as much as Americans so why all the extra time? Why should time even be a factor so often? It’s the conversation and fellowship that is the priority not timing. While without question, the structured regimentation is a contributing factor to the American commitment to financial success, it also contributes to hypertension, stress, anxiety, depression and conflict that might be avoided with having an extra glass of wine and talking and not worrying if dinner is on schedule. Taking a little more time, enjoying the moment, letting serendipity reign may not be part and parcel of the Puritan work ethic; but it plays a helluva big part in realizing “La Dolce Vita.” This perception of time throws the rhythm off for many American tourists and makes us the ones to call the front desk complaining that the folks in room 210 are just too loud at 9:30 pm. The local population may just be getting ready to start dinner at that time. Remember, “when in Rome do as the Romans?”

While traveling, often American tourists view differences as a personal affront. “ I have to ask for ice?’ “What, no air conditioner?’ “They call the restroom the toilet?’ “Ugh how vulgar ... and a bidet? You must be kidding?” Truth to tell, Americans also suffer from mischaracterization from travelers from abroad as well. If I had a nickel for ever foreign exchange student who thought that all of Texas was a giant ranch with everyone riding horses and wearing cowboy hats. I think though that visitors to our country more often than not allow themselves to be pleasantly surprised than to have their feathers ruffled. It seems that we allow the “ours is better than yours” mentality to outweigh the magic of the unknown and the different. Every spiritual guiding ethos advocates living in the moment, treasure what is happening right now, greet the unknown with hope not hostility. The ugly American leaves no room for such an upbeat approach. Superiority mentality leave very little to treasure in this magnificent world other than what is yours and that limits learning, excitement, growth and just the pure joy that comes from trekking this world.

Is this assessment of mine a blanket judgement? No, not at all but there is some truth to it and there is something to be learned. As I self analyze, I found that I may harbor some of these traits and it’s good that I have time to stand back and look ...to learn. The worthy goal of being an affirming member of this global community is a purpose that I seek; and the rewards are far beyond just being intrinsic but rewards the cultures you visit with an admiration and respect they deserve. As these thoughts have been put down, it reignites the hopes that the planned journeys come to realization with the anticipation of more to follow. No more ugly Americans, British, Japanese or what have you, just eager travelers wanting to see and experience all that this world has to offer. Happy travels my friends.

Burdick, Eugene Lederer, William; The Ugly American ; Norton Publications; 1958

Veilel, Alain; “Why don’t Europeans Travel to Cancun?;” Quora; October 8, 2020

Walsh, Kathryn. "Differences Between a Tourist and a Traveller" traveltips.usatoday.com, https://traveltips.usatoday.com/differences-between-tourist-traveller-103756.html. 5 April 2021.

Photo from https://www.myheritage.com/

Photo from https://openlibrary.org/authors/OL13640A/Ernest_Hemingway