Blinded By the White |
Everybody in Greece instantly knows I’m American before I even whip out my accent. Whenever this happens, I take a quick inventory of my appearance. I’m not wearing a baseball hat, a fanny pack, or a Hawaiian shirt. I don’t have a “God Bless America” pin on my backpack, or my passport strung around my neck And I’m pretty sure I haven’t been humming the Star Spangled Banner under my breath.
So why is it so obvious I’m from the Land of the Free? Do I smell like ketchup?
I finally figured out the answer recently, after a group of suntanned Australians were greeted with “Kalimera” while I got “Good morning.” It’s my blinding paleness that makes me stand out as a neurotic American. One look at my skin, and everyone can tell I’ve been frantically applying SPF 85 (just like the Surgeon General recommends, thank you) instead of doing cool European things like riding motos and being tan. My dorkiness is literally stamped on my white, unlined forehead.
I feel like Hester Prynn from the Scarlet Letter, only the A is for American, and it’s not scarlet. But let’s talk post-sunburn.
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For 52 years, we have published the world’s favorite budget travel guides, written entirely by students and updated every year. With pen and notebook in hand and a few changes of underwear stuffed in our backpacks, we spend months roaming the globe in search of travel bargains.
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