After tramping through France for over a month, I had endured sufficient American-bashing to last a lifetime. I fell in love with Orangina, only to be told with disdain that Americans drink only Coke. After a bowl of soupe au pistou and myrt-laced fruit, I was ribbed about sacrificing fries and burgers for the night. Add to that the humiliation of America's performance in the World Cup (lost, lost, lost, out) and the then-constant revelations of some newly famous American, Monica something.
Significant other/travel partner Sam and I were even slapped by an attempt at sincere flattery when told we weren't typical Americans--meaning, we were informed precisely, that we're not Coke-drinking, overweight, loud, lazy, McDonald's-eating TV addicts who can ask "parlay-voo fransay" badly but cannot comprehend the answer.
We had tried relentlessly to convince hosts and hoteliers alike that being polite and speaking some French does not make us the exception. We envisioned ourselves as ambassadors, choosing to consciously promote our behavior as typical and change the outdated image of rude, loud, obnoxious tourists. Until Bordeaux, that is.
Subtly, in striving to be apple-pie-sweet Americans, we somehow became elitist. As we sought to replace bad images with good, we were guilty of dissociating from our compatriots. Instead of cheering the Lakers to victory, again, we swelled with pride at Barthez's blocks. Hitchhiking replaced commuting. Instead of noshing on popcorn atShakespeare in Love, we peeled peaches and danced to MC Solaar.
We felt more French than American, at least for the summer, previewing the culture shock we felt when we returned. And we started liking it, going so far as nearly accepting long-term volunteer assignments in Provence. That was our unique, momentary perspective when we signed up for a tour of wine chateaux.
Prior to forking over my 140 francs, I knew the following about wine: that it was red, white or pink; that it was made from grapes; that white was drinkable but red was for grownups or at least for people much older and more sophisticated than I. Being on far from familiar turf for two months already, I was accustomed to this complete ignorance, so I adopted my useful humble posture. To be ignorant and humble is a good survival skill in a foreign country, particularly France. To be boldly ignorant was just too brash, too arrogant, too unappealing, too...American.
I should have known I'd crossed over into country-less-ness, but I didn't. Sam and I boarded the bus, about to spend a few hours criss-crossing the Garonne River learning about the subtle variations in soil quality, temperature and humidity that produce a world of difference in vendange. The nuances of oak-barrel aging, the significance of rose bushes near vines and the value of a Bordeaux glass in wine-tasting would soon be revealed, and I was eager to learn.
