Through the window of my Croatian apartment, I watched the sun climb into the sky, flirting with the sea as if to say, “I might head for the clouds, or I might stay and spend the day with you.”
I breathed in the silence.
“Clive!” yelled an English voice. “Have you got your umbrella? I’ve checked the forecast, and it’s supposed to rain.”
Why is it that, wherever I travel, the English always seem to turn up next door?
I tried to ignore the interruption, but the woman appeared on the patio below and launched into her second conversation of the day.
“It’s supposed to rain later,” she told the apartment owner. “I’ve just reminded my husband to bring his umbrella.” The owner nodded, likely wondering why English people always feel compelled to discuss the weather.
Through gritted teeth, I watched my neighbour sit in the garden to make a phone call. “It’s supposed to rain later,” she said. “I just told Clive to remember his umbrella.” From the enthusiasm in her voice, you’d think she was sharing the news for the very first time.
The Strangeness of Our Own Kind
I know I’m not the only one who feels irritated — and perhaps even a little ashamed — when I run into fellow countrymen abroad.
Just a few days earlier, some French guys crossed the street to avoid a group of French tourists walking the other way. “French people are awful,” one of them complained. “They’re so loud and arrogant. It’s really embarrassing.”
If you ask people why they avoid their own nationality, they’ll often say it’s because they didn’t travel all this way to meet someone just like themselves. But it goes deeper than that. We see something of ourselves in those fellow compatriots, and we’re not always thrilled about it. We go on holiday to escape the routines of daily life, and the last thing we want is a reminder of the oddities we carry with us.
On the Croatian beaches, I realized I had developed a pointless talent: I could identify an English person before they even spoke. If someone was sunburned and covered in half-rubbed suntan lotion, they were English. If someone staggered out of the sea, wincing at the pebbles underfoot, they were English. If someone asked a friend to stand in front of them while they got changed, they were English.
It’s always bothered me how much more distinguished people from other countries seem.
Are We Really So Different?
On my final day in Croatia, I spent time with some Italians on the beach. In the afternoon, a second group of Italians arrived. They were talking passionately, so I assumed they were debating something serious. When I asked what the conversation was about, the Italian next to me rolled her eyes. “They’re annoyed with the guy with the long hair. He just told them he peed in the shower.”
That’s when it hit me.
We’re only ashamed of our own nationality because we know it so well.
We see ourselves from the inside-out, while we view other nationalities from the outside-in.
That’s why we tend to praise other cultures while complaining about our own.
But enough navel-gazing, here’s the real takeaway: it did rain that day, and yes, Clive remembered his umbrella.