No taxation without consternation?

The amicable woman behind the desk swiped my credit card and with my $75 copay I received another view of the great fallacy of American capitalist propaganda.

In Belgium’s universal healthcare system I paid 65 euros for a similar service, then two weeks later had 63 euros deposited back into my account by my health insurance, under which a full year cost less than half of what I pay per month now. But I don’t want to talk about how America pays more money for less care than anyone else. That’s been done.

Maximalius persuades Aurelianus to pay his taxes

No, instead of talking about the Republican’s last disgrace, let’s talk about their next one: taxes.

After all, that is Right’s attack line. “Sure healthcare’s affordable there, but you paid so much more in taxes.” I thought about that as I took one of the open chairs, upholstered as usual in an unfortunate camel color. Yes, I did pay higher taxes in Belgium, but I’m going to resist the desire to list the benefits I gained from them. Again, already well done elsewhere.

Because there’s something else going on, and sadly, it makes perfect sense. Vendors charge as much as consumers are willing to pay, which depends on what’s in their bank accounts. In the US we get a higher percentage of our paychecks into our accounts, and the prices go up. Then the bill comes due for all the services we want but haven’t paid for.

Public transit? Must be nice. Who pays for that?

Most ironic analogy? It’s like we’re paying taxes before making our deductions. That is, we pay our cost of living from our gross income, instead of our net. Then we pay for a (semi)functional system after the fact and wind up broke.

I just spent a few tortured minutes comparing the cost of living in my hometown to various beautiful European and Canadian cities, then did the same for New York since people like to talk about that place. I got data like this:

Consumer prices in Vancouver are 19.82% lower than in Oakland and 29.91% lower than NY

Rent prices in Paris are 46.60% lower than in Oakland and 57.33% lower than NY

Restaurant prices in Madrid are 29.99% lower than in Oakland and 38.92% lower than NY

Groceries prices in London are 34.07% lower than in Oakland and 39.77% lower than NY

Local Purchasing Power in Berlin is 21.40% higher than in Oakland and 11.55% higher than NY

Hey Marco, what tax bracket are you in?

Try it for yourself. The Bay Area is particularly expensive and Cost of Living is a complicated thing, but it seems clear to me that we in the US have been bamboozled into believing that not paying taxes saves us money, when it doesn’t. Especially not if we then want healthcare, education, roads, etc (not to mention the entertainment of bombing everywhere and giving festively massive tax cuts to extremely profitable oil companies). And paying taxes? We call it “government stealing my money!” Europeans call it “investing in our society.”

It’s all a bit dire, and I was feeling that squirmy feeling inside, the worm of fear for (and of) my country. Good timing for the next nice lady in scrubs to come tell me my test came back negative. Which is a positive. Everything’s all mixed up these days, but I’ll give thanks for what we have and work for what we don’t. And the sun is still shining. Happy tax season, everyone!

The Secret to Europe

No photo of the boulangerie, but this was just down the street

The smell of fresh baked bread. Is there anything on earth so glorious as that smell on a Paris morning? It was Friday and the perfectly round fruit-topped tarts were glistening with sugar and the muffins with their floured plumpness were the first part of an equation whose answer was a comfortable chair, cup of tea, and a good book. But it was the freshly baked baguettes that drew me in.

The mademoiselle behind the counter was chatting with the dignified madame l’customer ahead of me, their words lilting about in that frolicsome French that seems always on the verge of a loving tut-tut.

When it was my turn I stepped forward, gave a friendly smile and nod, and said in my very best French “Un baguette si vous plait.” I was killing it. An integrated part of this morning in the boulangerie.

Except maybe not. The mademoiselle seemed annoyed by my presence. She wasn’t rude, but nor was she nice. She was curt and briskly businesslike with my bread, so different from the affectionate glow of moments before, and barely looked at me as she handed over the bag and greeted the next person in line with a friendly hello.

Maybe the old stereotypes were right. Maybe the French (or Parisians at least) really were still rude to foreigners. Maybe my inevitable accent was just not good enough for their demanding sensibilities. How terribly disappointing!

Good thing it wasn’t true. It took me some time to figure out. Countless more small interactions across the continent, but eventually I noticed the missing piece. And what a difference it made.

So when I watched three young Americans make the same mistake I had, ordering their sandwiches on the Rue Cler last time I was in Paris, and receiving the same terse Parisian response, I was ready to share what I’d learned.

That's my big mystical secret

“It helps a lot if you say hello first.” I told them (not bothering to say hello first because we’re Americans). “It took me awhile to notice it, since back home we smile and get straight to the point, but over here they really like it if you greet them before saying what you want.”

Being Americans, they were guarded about this stranger speaking to them, their defensive caution struggling against the desire to learn and enjoy their vacation.

“So if you just start with a quick ‘Bon jour madame’ in France, ‘Buon giorno signore’ in Italy, whatever, you usually get a much better reaction.” They kind of mumbled a response, still wondering when I’d demand their wallets, so I let them be and stepped up to the counter.

“Bon jour madame” I said to the mistress of sandwiches, who chirped back the answering greeting. “Un sandwich au jambon et fromage, si vous plait.” And we were best buddies by the time she passed across my lunch.

The Americanas were immersed in their guide book when I turned around, but perhaps somewhere down the road they’ll speak from experience when they whisper to someone “It helps if you greet them first.”

Happy birthday, America, from elsewheres

Roman stroller

That’s Athens out there in the haze. Spread outside my room like too much hot peanut butter, chunky with concrete and creamy with Mediterraneanity. In my camera it’s Italy on the rare moments when I had the leisure to photograph, and in my pockets it’s Paris, a metro ticket, receipt for coffee, l’addition si vous plait.

But somewhere, on this 4th of July, it’s America out there. Maybe everywhere. We’re all living in Amerika, sang a German band to my tour members while we waited in a Swiss traffic jam behind a Ford truck. Kool and the Gang came next and everything made sense anyway.

So happy birthday, America!

And what better place to be, for me you see, on the 4th of July than the birthplace of democracy? That least-worst approach that we’ve so publicly endorsed. Because from here, in the fugue and fog of travel and border crossing, where I wake at night not knowing where I am (but downright positive that I didn’t tell the group when dinner starts), from here I can see what being American is to me today.

I wonder why they call it "Painter's Corner"?
Bacharach, Germany

Being American means I can do this job, helping my brothers and sisters of privilege come to see the places where our culture came from, and learn that the divides that separate us are either fictitious or delicious, and in neither case important.

With my American passport I can move around nearly freely, taking advantage of the modern age of peace and gadgetry, perhaps before the Fall or maybe on the cusp of Transcendence, either way it’s a damn fine stage at the moment.

My citizenship can be a looming shadow behind me. Protection in many places, a liability in a few, and a cause for concern in most, where they like us so much they try valiantly to conceal how much damage this election cycle has already done to a country that was working so hard to regain the world’s respect. (And in that flux, from intelligent leader for the past 8 years to the possibility of lunatic demagogue, I fear we run fault lines through the future either way.)

Paris, where even the shopping malls look good

It means I can talk like this, say plainly that Donald Trump is a profound threat to the future of my nation, and add that I think Brexit was a huge mistake, whose price the English will pay worst, but which all of us will share a little. (And I have to wonder if Athens was a more somber city after the results came in.)

And it gives me a perspective, from where I can look at Brexit as England rejected the taxation and foreign governance through the ballot, on the day that commemorates the time when my country did the same, with musket balls and dead humans. Progress!

Looking out over Rome

And finally, my homeland gave me its culture, so much of which I choose to keep, even if it doesn’t always fit in. Because if Parisians think I’m touched in the head for smiling as I walk down the street, that’s fine with me. I’m going to do it anyway.

Because they smile back.

So I’m smiling at you today, America, over there visible through the haze. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.

Riding a theme through Europe, 3 quick photos

If I tell you a story, I’ll want to sit down. If I sit down, I’ll fall asleep. If I fall asleep, I’ll miss the next story.

So instead, I’ll take the easy way out, the modern way out, with a bit of a tap on the nose on my hurried way out, and I’ll show, not tell.

But with so many to choose from, I’ll return to an old friendly theme, whose population grows in a reliable…cycle.

Tour guide training moves to a new city, a new country, a new tour tomorrow. So for now, grazie and ciao from Rome.

Ze Germans, zey are riding zheir bicycles so fast! But not zis vun, zough,
he isht sleeping.

Ah, but mon amis, to ride ze bicycle on a night so soft, so romantique,
it would be a crime tres 'orible! We would 'ave to put you in ze Bastille!

Il Duomo a Firenze, in Italia, e molto bella, of course.
Ma anche una bicicleta puo essere molto bella, if you ask me.

Campeche nights, snakes and ebola

August afternoons in southern Mexico are punishing, but when the sun goes down off the coast of Campeche, the air takes on an apologetic softness to reward you for surviving the broiler hours. As the sky cools down and the streetlamps warm up, the colors shift from baking browns to glowing reds, under a healing blue that lays low above the Plaza de la Independencia, where people have gathered since 1541.

For a few nights I joined that gathering. Food vendors lined the periphery, selling the various corn meal permutations, fresh-caught seafood, and meat marinated in bitter orange and cooked with achiote and habanero peppers, campeche style.

I’d usually start with a tamale, test myself on something spicy, then make sure there was no shark meat in tonight’s brazo de reina (I’ll eat most animals, but those persecuted lords of the deep: no way) before buying a piece, which I’d eat under one of the large and lovely trees.

The cathedral watched over the plaza like a king at his own coronation, fundamental but removed, essential yet somewhat awkward. The stone steps were warm, almost loving, when I sat until ready for buñuelos de aire, the fritters covered with honey that made my fingers stick to my pen, or Muéganos, another fried dough delight, this one covered in piloncillo (cane sugar) syrup. Or there’s always the marzipan made from dried pumpkin seeds...

While I decided which of those best fit the night, I’d watch the locals taking their slow paseos around the park. In the center, a band thumped out traditional music from the spotless gazebo, gazed at by a small flock of kids too old to chase the balloon man, but not quite ready for the nightly soccer tournament.

Young parents pushed toddlers in three-wheelers, chubby little heads turning to follow the progress of the toy vendors, infinite infant attention fixed on the toy horses pulled on thread leashes, and I was impressed to never see a single temper tantrum or hear one wisp of whine. Eventually a flock of bubbles would drift by, and distracted delight would sweep across the wee one’s faces.

Sitting on the outer edge, I was often among the grandparents, abuelitos remembering their own days pushing strollers and cleaning scraped knees. We’d all smile at each other, no need for words. Around us, the summer’s last crop of crickets would crawl and hop across the warm stone, their song mingling with the trumpets and tuba on stage.

When I’d had enough, lids and limbs grown heavy, I’d return to the hostel, a colonial residence both dignified and personable, located incredibly right on the corner of the plaza opposite the cathedral. I’d sit in the open balcony door with a cup of tea and watch with the cathedral as the families went home, and the stars took over the music.

It was among my favorite accommodations of all time, inexpensive, clean, replete with character and right in among the authentic local living. It closed two days after I left.

It was 2009, and the Swine Flu craze had already killed most of the competition, this was among the last. I would sit on that balcony, stunned at all the people who had fled from this experience because of a disease they had a sliver’s chance of contracting. Humans are awful at risk assessment, and the news media makes the smoke of a match somehow cloud out the sun.

Memories of those Campeche nights, and all the people’s memories that didn’t have a chance to happen because of overblown fear, come back to me now as I gear up for a new career in European tourism, hearing with dismay that Americans are traveling less this year due to fear of ebola.

Ebola?!? We’re talking about Amsterdam, Paris, and Rome, not Makeni, Moyamba, and Monrovia. I understand that disease is scary, and I believe we should be supporting the areas with outbreaks and the search for a cure more than we are, but we are a long way from needing to hide in our basements.

(The other fear that is keeping Americans home, ISIS, is overblown beyond belief. Unless you’re planning a trip to Syria, ISIS will never be a factor in your vacation. I believe you’re safer traveling in Europe than you are staying home and commuting with the berserkers who hate their jobs and drive like it.)

The name Campeche comes from Yucatec Mayan Ah-Kin-Pech, which means “Place of snakes and ticks.” Sure, those both exist, just as do ISIS and ebola, but in all my time there I saw neither, and neither will you.