The American homogenization of vacation
When Barcelona feels like Miami. The one in Florida, but also the one in Ohio.
Ten days in Europe left me with the insistent impression that vacationing abroad in the developed west doesn’t feel as foreign as it should.
That a holiday in Barcelona, Ibiza or Porto is not as dramatically different than leisure time in Miami, San Diego or San Juan.
This speaks to the sweeping homogenization of American culture, particularly among our developed allies.
But it also illustrates something more basic about the human element.
Whether you’re from Asia or Alabama, most of us on the planet have the same core idea of a successful getaway.
A body of coral blue water to be near; an array of offerings for eating and drinking; a nightclub for the more adventurous; some history – in the form of monuments, churches and museums – to peruse; and a mix of tacky and refined shops along the way to purchase a take-home trinket that will memorialize the experience for a family member or friend stuck at home.
The core of major cities around the globe are packaged to provide all of this, no matter which time zone you land in. So what are we escaping — or experiencing when we do?
In each city I roamed this trip, the most apparent cultural chasms – language, food, music – were largely accommodated to my country of origin.
Before I could finish typing a phrase in Google translate, a Portuguese barista approached me in Ingles.
Most menus were not only spelled out in English, but led with Americanized offerings. Spaghetti and meatballs and french fries were often more commonly listed than paella and gazpacho.
Outside Antoni Gaudi’s renowned unfinished but towering church, La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, I spotted a Five Guys, a KFC and a Burger King. Why, of all places, was a platoon of American hangover food sitting beside this wondrous architectural feat? The sight made me slightly nauseous.
A buddy later told me the longest line at the airport was for the Miami-based burger chain.
To be fair, one of my best meals in Ibiza on the beach was a dish of chicken curry so fantastic I finished the sauce like a soup. The wings at the airport bar also crushed.
One of my favorite drinks at a winery in Porto was a Moscow Mule with a cold brew coffee foam cream.
When I asked one server for an authentic Portuguese bar where I could find locals, he looked stumped before settling on a recommendation for “a place with a great view.” He then proceeded to remark on the humidity plaguing Porto. A very D.C. conversation! 3,500 miles away.
In Catalonia for eight days, I didn’t hear authentic Spanish music until the rental car shuttle on the way to the airport. In hotel lobbies, in bars and even cars, the Killers. Bon Jovi. Billie Eilish were the artists of choice. Often acoustic versions.
Walk around and the great American brands were plastered proudly on the t-shirts of touring foreign families.
Nike. The Yankees. Even a shirt with Denver lettering. Yes, Denver.
Sure there are differences.
They don’t bring you water over there. If you’re at dinner or cocktels, when you request agua, it’s almost jarring to them. And you always have to pay for it.
Service takes time. They are in no rush, which is fine on vacation, but can press your red-white-and-blue patience. Tipping is rare, but becoming more common.
The culture is also later. Bars keep open until 3 or 4 a.m.
The electronic music set I most wanted to see – Tale of Us – began playing around that time, straining the endurance of my travel cohort.
Siesta is real; scattered businesses close mid-afternoon, others stay open. There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason.
The cities are also denser, with a much larger number of cafes stacked on top of each other like sardines in a can along narrow streets and alleys. It makes for a vibrant intimacy that Washington’s more defined neighborhoods lack.
Nothing is on a grid, there are no direct shots getting anywhere. You can easily get lost or find yourself walking in semi-circles, but it’s pleasant journey of directional ignorance.
The stoplights don’t include a yellow blinker for a crosswalk warning. There’s only red and green to stop and go.
But the great homogenization. I couldn’t kick this feeling as I strolled the hot summer night streets in Barcelona, soaked up the Balearic Sea in Ibiza and guzzled 10-year tawny on a terrace overlooking the Douro River in Porto.
On my final night, I posited this theory to an Italian traveler I met for a drink, named Davide, with an e.
That everything is becoming the same, catered largely to Americans.
While he seemed to entertain my hypothesis, he also told me pointedly that to get an authentic experience anywhere you have to sacrifice some fun. Which means exiting the starlit cities.
“You have to get out of the yellow Google Maps square,” Davide told me inside the Royal Cocktail Club in the heart of Porto. “Sometimes I get bored doing this, other times you’re pleasantly surprised.”
He showed me awe-inspiring photos on his Iphone of a hiking trip to Ireland he took with his brother. Ireland’s never been a place on my bucket list.
But when he explained his experience – taking several hours a day to scale the breathtaking coastline through bouts of rain and sunshine before trekking 30 minutes inland to a hostel or modest hotel for the night – I was admittedly intrigued by the excitement of a path less traveled.
Which means you can’t really sit in European cities to get a pure European experience.
Instead of Barcelona, I need to try Burgos.
Instead of Porto, perhaps the move is Batalha.
Could the same be said of the USA?
That because New York offers everything to all cultures all at once, a trip to, say, Madison, Wisconsin would be a more distinct dose of pure Americana?
I made sure my final meal in Porto was authentic cuisine.
With some Internet searching, I was instructed that I needed to consume a Bifana – a thinly sliced pork sandwich that is marinated in garlic, white wine and a mix of other spices, often submerged in a light hot sauce.
Conga was the spot.
It had the flavor of upscale fast food and the table service was more attentive than some of the upscale eateries I had experienced.
My bifana was a delight and I had to temper an urging to order a second.
Still, I upgraded my bifana to include cheese and added a side of French Fries.
I was so thirsty from a day of dehydrated walking I uncharacteristically slurped down two cans of Pepsi Max soda.
Something I’d never do at home, but felt fitting as an American abroad.
