The Castelo dos Mouros and Being American

Under the forest canopy the filtered light looks pale green on the path leading to the Castel de Mouro.  As I hiked towards the Moorish ruins, the crowd thinned as they headed to the bus terminal or shops or back into town.  I soon found myself alone, in the hushed silence of the overgrown forest, taking pictures of ancient walls or crumbling arches.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when two young men, speaking in heavily accented English, came within earshot, I let myself linger .  “Americans.  They’re always Uh, huh, –”  He imitated the expression of someone trying to taste lemons and solve calculus problems at the same time.  The other guy laughed and cut in, “Yeah and they’re so stupid.”  I chuckled to myself.  The boys were wearing American brands, likely listened to American music and couldn’t possibly avoid the Hollywood posters that are plastered on bus stops and metros everywhere you go.  Similarly, if I thought the French were ‘stupid’, I probably wouldn’t wear French clothes and watch French movies.  So how do they make the distinction?

I headed to the ruins, where the “whack, whack, whack” grows steadily louder, a sound I couldn’t place until I saw the flags perched across each tower, whipping wildly in the wind.  I was alone again, only a dozen or people milled around the outcropping of castle walls.

I thought of the Israeli at the hostel the night before and his condemnation of America, “They think just because they give us all this money, that they can tell us what to do.  They should just let us do what we want.”  I bit my tongue.  I had read books about the conflict.  He had grown up in it.  It’s different for him.  It’s real and full of complexity that I can’t possibly appreciate.  I could defend American policy, but what was the point?  I was part of a country that equated blank checks with progress.  I was guilty by association.

After touring the ruins, I headed back to the train in Sintra.  A young Portuguese mother and her toddler son sat on the curb, waiting for the next bus.  She was smiling and he clumsily wrapped his arms around her neck.  I snapped some pictures and you’d never know the difference if I told you it was taken in Boston rather than Portugal.

It wasn’t clear to me before, but “America” is not real.  We’re a concept, a faraway land that most of the world knows best through our cinema.  We’re bigger than life, impossible and strange.  What do we think about?  What is it like to be us?  We’re the same as anyone else, and yet we hold the world at arms length, and them us.  If this was a movie, then we’d still be in Act 2, where two comically opposite characters are thrown into a high stakes situation together.  We all know how Act 3 will end.  We will find some common ground and begrudingly become buddies.  Can we skip to the end, already?