How to Embarrass Yourself Abroad

A note to myself. 

No matter how much reading you do before a trip, there are some bits of common knowledge you will miss. Like how parents get their kids through metro gates. 

My kids looked mortified both times I got crushed in turnstiles. The first time was in the London Bridge Station. I tapped my card, pushed Brontë ahead of me and moved too slowly to follow. Thwack. I laughed, but I bruise easily. By the evening, there was a blue and yellow line down my right side.

I learned there are family gates, so we could walk through together. 

The second time was in Gare du Nord. We’d just arrived in Paris, each wearing a backpack full of clothes. No family gates. I pushed Brontë through quickly and moved quickly after her. Thwack. The gates closed on my backpack. I was stuck. 

A frustrated, but helpful man changed entry gates so he could come in behind me and set me free. I called, “merci!” after him as he walked away, his head shaking. He didn't have to help me! I was so grateful! Next time, Brontë tapped through on her own card. And I made sure to push my luggage through first. 

One child watched in horror as I had to ask a man at Gail’s Bakery the same question three different ways to finally understand that no, they do not sell drip coffee. 

Me: I see you have espresso! But I am wondering if you sell drip coffee?

Him: Espresso is coffee. 

Me: Yes, for sure. But I am talking about…let me think what it’s called outside the States. Coffee that is brewed. Like…filter coffee?

Him: Espresso is filtered coffee. 

Me: Oh, totally. Yes. I know that. Filtering is involved in espresso making! It’s just ummmm…I am talking about brewed coffee. Like…12 ounces of coffee that is made through brewing or French press or pour over? It’s not a big deal either way…I would just ummmm order that coffee instead of espresso if you had it. 

Him: Espresso is coffee.

Me: I’ll have a cappuccino.

I could feel their eyes on me as they waited for me to read directions to myself twice before leading the way to our next stop. 

And I know one of them thought I was too quick to ask questions. Couldn’t we just figure it out on our own? Admitting you don’t know something is just so…if not embarrassing than at least…exposing.

How could I expose myself like that, again and again? How could I not know the simplest, most basic things? And then admit that I don't know the simplest, most basic things? I could feel her cringing for me, every time I had to ask a question with an answer obvious to every single person around us.

And like…I get it. I do. It is very humbling to operate outside of an understanding of basic processes - like how to get through gates, how to order drinks, which way to walk. But I am also just really used to operating this way. My processing disorders make every country feel like a foreign country, even my own. So I am humbled every day. 

At least when I am abroad, people think I am having a hard time because I am some clueless American. I don’t have that excuse when I am having another awkward interaction with a barista in the coffee shop in our neighborhood. (Who has been most patient with me? In descending order: All Parisians, The Neighborhood Coffee Shop Staff, The Guy at Gail's.)

There is also this little bit of silver lining. In my experience, embarrassment is a limited resource. The disruption between my inputs and outputs used to flood me with embarrassment. And then one day, after an interaction that should have left me soaking with embarrassment, I realized I felt fine. My well of embarrassment had run dry. 

This doesn’t mean I always ask for what I need or that I’ve conquered shame or any other super empowering thing.

It just means that when I get crushed by turnstiles, I don’t tear up because I am embarrassed. I tear up because it hurt.

And that when a man at Gail’s Bakery talks to me like I am an idiot, I can objectively agree with him while also trying to get that drip coffee question answered by asking one more time. 

And that when I can tell my kids are …if not embarrassed of me, then at least embarrassed for me, I can laugh about it. And also maybe feel strangely grateful? 

Because sometimes I think if I can’t be embarrassed for myself anymore…it might be good for like, I don't know... the balance of the universe…if someone else is embarrassed for me.

(Don't worry. I have three daughters, so I think the universe will stay balanced. If you know what I mean.)