Great People and Why They Hate Americans

Monday, as I was walking to the bank, I encountered a young man (I say "young" because he was probably at least a decade youngr than I) who was taking a picture across Grand. I can't say I saw the value of the composition, either from an aesthetic or tourist standpoint, but then I see the view a couple days a week, so perhaps I am jaded.

In any case, as I approached, her looked at me and held out the camera, managing to ask in fair English if I would take his picture. As I was in no hurry and since, despite what some people believe, I am a nice enough person, I agreed. He took up a position that allowed me to get a row of taxis and the bank sign in the frame (it has a picture of a bear on the sign, so it looks very "California," I suppose).

Afterward, motivated by my curiosity on hearing his accent, I asked where he was from. "Poland," he told me. I nodded as he explained her was working on a ship. I welcomed him to the city and wished him a good visit. He thanked me for taking his picture. We parted ways.

But then—and I know this is a familiar refrain, but I will repeat it here—it struck me that he had worked to be clear in his request for my help and the exchange that followed. When I have traveled abroad, I have done what I could, but I don't speak Italian or Greek (I was able to manage a little in Italy by piecing together bits of Latin, but that was for little more than directions). We ask visitors to speak English when they are here, but we expect everyone to help us by speaking English when we visit them. Who need al Qaeda when we can just make people hate us with our linguistic demands?