Those I Met Along the Way- 2. Georgia

I didn’t like Georgia. She embodied everything I’d come to loath about American travelers. Every stereotype I worked to undo, she did back up again tenfold. It didn’t help that she was probably 10 years younger than me, and I could see parts of that younger me in her, parts I’d worked hard to leave behind.

Georgia had been following me since Honduras. You see, in Central and South America there really is a gringo trail; you’re either going down or making your way back up. There is little room to deviate. Georgia and I happened to be on the same timetable and I couldn’t seem to shake her no matter what I did. I’d leave a few days early or stay a few days later and still somehow, the next hostel I roamed into, there she was, laughing too loudly, or lazily reading Shantaram in a hammock. (I highly doubted she actually read it, rather, she just wanted to be seen reading it.  In the three months she followed me around, the book never changed, while I was on my fourth.)

It appeared to be her first big trip, probably entirely funded by mommy and daddy and probably something she would go back and tell all her friends at college about how life changing it all was.  Though, I could attest, nothing about her life seemed to change in those three months we danced along each others path. 

I’d see her on the beach for a BBQ the hostel was hosting. She’d think, because we were both Americans that we had something in common; I assured her we did not.  We’d end up in the same tours, a rum tasting here, a hike up a volcano there and each time I’d show up, excited and ready for the day and there she’d be. It seemed no matter what I did; there she was, trying to make small talk with me, while I tried to elude her.  Her seeing the only bond we had as the most important there is.

There is a certain disdain more experienced travelers inevitably feel towards newbie travelers.  It usually happens at night when, even though your earplugs are in you can still hear her obnoxious laugh coming from the common room at 1 am outside the thin door of your bunkroom. Or while out in the street one day you catch a glimpse of locals staring at her in contempt, wonder what she did, but not stick around long enough to find out.

I wanted desperately not to be associated with Georgia. If I could be like the Canadian travelers I saw everywhere and wear some sort of flag patch on my bag, ‘not with Georgia, don’t blame me,’ I would have.  In the same way those Canadians didn’t want to be mistaken for ugly Americans, I didn’t want anything to do with Georgia because I knew that being affiliated with her, would surely caste those stereotypes on me.

I believed I was nothing like her. This was not my first rodeo, I knew the ropes. I knew my role and my responsibilities and I accepted them dutifully.  Be the good American traveler, show those I met how different Americans are from what they see on the TV, or from who they had previously encountered (assuming Georgia was one step ahead of me), damage control, assure them that I did not, in fact, vote for Bush.

It wasn’t till I reached Panama and eventually made my way back up to Honduras that I lost her. I imagine she continued onto Colombia, but I didn’t give it much thought. The relief I felt from being free of her brought with it time to reflect on what really bothered me about her.

Was it that little hint of me I saw in her?  Could I really have been that jejune, that naïve? Does every traveler have their first time traveling? Of course they do. Can we really expect them to know how to handle themselves abroad when they are giddy and excited to be out in the world for the first time?
 
My first big trip was to Europe. It was your stereotypical American college student dream. Backpack around Europe for a few months; see all you can, as fast as you can. I went with my best friend. Our packs were bigger than us, and I recall a time or two on trains or subways where total strangers had to help us on with them.  I’m sure I drank too much and laughed too loudly. For a long time I was quite certain I was single handedly to blame for the French’s scorn of Americans. I’m still not quite sure I’m not.

So, of course Georgia was just being the only thing that she could be.  And yes, what irritated me about her were the similarities I saw between us and the years it took me to understand.  She would soon learn that travelers, especially American travelers, have a responsibility to behave in a way that bolsters the opinion of Americans abroad rather than hurts it.

Of course, I have doubts that she would ever venture out again. For most, traveling is simply a novelty, once you go one place, you don’t need to go anywhere else. You have traveled and you are done.  The box can be ticked. Like my father asked me when I was applying to Semester at Sea, “you’ve already been so many places, why do you need to see any more?” It seemed like the most absurd question. The fact that I had seen so many places was the reason I needed to see more. I was addicted. Wouldn’t anyone be?

I hope Georgia has continued to travel. Perhaps one day our paths with cross again. This time I might not recognize her.  We might share a seat on a bus, roll our eyes at one another as we listen to the newbies across the aisle talking loudly about their crazy time on the beach the night before, wondering what the next town has in store for them. Next time we would surely have more of a connection than simply being America’s, we would be travelers sharing the same road for a brief moment of our journey.