Can you trust the locals: which Americans really are - ForumDaily
The article has been automatically translated into English by Google Translate from Russian and has not been edited.
Переклад цього матеріалу українською мовою з російської було автоматично здійснено сервісом Google Translate, без подальшого редагування тексту.
Bu məqalə Google Translate servisi vasitəsi ilə avtomatik olaraq rus dilindən azərbaycan dilinə tərcümə olunmuşdur. Bundan sonra mətn redaktə edilməmişdir.

Can you trust the local: what Americans really

When the whole world talks about Americans, their fake smile, extra-friendliness and fakeness are often mentioned. When Americans talk about their nation, they only argue about who is more fake: the West Coast or the East Coast. The main competitors for the fake championship are Los Angeles and New York. Naturally, in New York they say that Californians are not real, but in California they say the opposite.

You can talk a lot about what Americans really are. Honestly, until my third year in the States, I still knew about them only from films. So what if I served them in restaurants and shared an apartment with them (and continue to share and serve). Never before the third year did I have American friends. That all changed in October, when one American director became my friend, then he brought me into the circle of his friends for Thanksgiving, and at the end of the curtain he brought me to Florida to celebrate Christmas with his parents and relatives.

Then I started dating a guy from the Upper West Side. Then the circle began to expand.

But I really found out who the Americans are after I got into a couple of times ... let's call it adventures, and they helped me get out and not fall deeper. So, all the fans of the bright national idea of ​​what our people are sincere and helping, and the Americans do not care about you and they will send you to a psychologist, please do not rush to conclusions. I will show you that it is not.

Adventure #1. Lost Phone and New Orleans

Photos from personal archive

At dawn one May day there were no signs of trouble. Except, perhaps, the nightmare that I missed the plane. This is just a dream, I thought, and, putting a backpack on my shoulders, and taking a yellow Italian suitcase in my hands, I went to the stop to wait for the bus. There were no buses, so I called an Uber just to be sure. I got to Penstation, where I had already bought a ticket to Liberty Airport in New York. As soon as I slammed the Uber door shut, I immediately put my hand in my pocket, looking for my phone, and then my heart sank. No phone! I hastily emptied all my available pockets and made a lap of honor at the former place where the car stopped, and rushed to look for help. On the nth attempt, I found a non-tourist at the station at 4 am who had a phone with the Internet. And then, step by step, I began to see how much more effectively it is possible to solve problems with a collective mind, rather than with one’s own mind.

Brilliant thought №1. “Why call Uber when you can call your own number?” the guy with the phone told me. Indeed, well, it’s logical! And when I was stressed, I didn’t think about it at all. But no one answered the phone, so the only option left was to call Uber.

Surprise! You can't call Uber if you're a customer. Only possible if you are a driver. And if the client forgot his item there, you can leave a special request in your account. Sounds logical if the lost item is not a phone. And how do you want it to be then?

“Find another Uber driver!” I thought, running away from the station waiting room under the police shouting: “Get out of here, you bastards, the hall opens at 8 am.” Yes, but did you think this only happens here? No, in New York too. Especially on Saturday at 4am.

Photos from personal archive

I go out into the street, and there He is, the coveted Uber. I could not call the driver, as I was on the order, but he offered me to give me a lift at the airport (for free!) And call Uber after I drove my customers. I drove and called and allowed me to send sms to parents with the message that I had lost my phone. You, for a moment, imagine what your parents might have thought by comparing two simple facts: 1. I have a plane and 2. I do not make contact.

So calling Uber didn't help. 15 minutes of mocking music on the line, and then all these “this is not our department, call another, from your phone (I can’t, there’s no phone, the phone is in Uber, are you deaf?),” questions, how else can I help you? (nothing, give me back my phone!, I can’t fly to New Orleans without a phone).

I asked the driver for a number to find him later and thank him for his help. But, no matter how I tried, did not call and did not write to him later, Michael (that was his name) did not get in touch. I still remember him with gratitude and send rays of heat from my heart.

I went to the airport without a phone. And all my life remained in it, all the numbers, boarding pass, address and telephone number of the girl with whom I was staying in New Orleans. I panicked. What if this is a bad sign? What if the plane crashes? Maybe we shouldn't fly? Or fly, but tomorrow? I asked all these questions to the guy at the Spirit Airlines check-in counter. He replied that he himself was not superstitious, but trusted his intuition. “And you should,” the guy said confidently and handed me the phone. I called my grandmother and asked if it was a bad sign that I had lost my phone. Grandma said it was all nonsense and we had to fly. Well, since grandma said so, I’ll fly.

And she flew away. At the New Orleans airport, I had to figure out how to get to my destination without a phone. It’s good that before the trip I studied the city map and noted that Ashira (the one I stayed with) lives opposite the Center for Contemporary Art. I withdrew cash from the ATM and headed straight there, to the Center. I started knocking on all the houses identified as “residential”, but it was morning and no one answered me. Then I went to the Flamingo bar, located in the same block.

Photos from personal archive

The $10 bottomless mimosa immediately caught my attention. And I attracted the attention of a bearded guy in dark glasses, sitting like a sultan on the red VIP sofas. He invited me to join the party, and I asked to use his phone. Trying this way and that to twist the chain of “six handshakes” through which I could find Ashira, Terry told me brilliant idea №2. Why not find her on Facebook? Elementary Watson! It has been said, done, and now after 15 minutes, three have enjoyed the bottomless mimosa and divine vegetable omelettes: Terry, Ashira and me. In an hour we were 8 (friends of Terry and Ashira).

Then Ashira took me to the Apple Store, where we spent half a day purchasing and installing a new phone and card. Along with my phone number, I lost access to my email (there’s two-phase authentication, damn it), and, accordingly, to most mobile applications, and to communication with Uber. All this time I called my number, but the Uber driver did not answer. I made one last attempt and sent a message to myself on WhatsApp “If you found my phone number, call the number...”. WhatsApp is the only messenger in which I left text output on the locked screen. In the rest, the text and even the name of the sender are hidden for reasons of secrecy. And then a miracle happened, the driver read my message and called. He said he would return the phone. Hooray.

That same evening I went for a walk on Bourbon Street, drunk with happiness and a bottomless mimosa. I sat down at the Carousel bar and ordered the signature “Old Fashioned” and discovered that there was no wallet. Everything inside was cold again. Hoping that I had forgotten my wallet at home and that someone had not stolen it, I hastily began to call Uber. But, on the new number, Uber required confirmation of my solvency - a photo of the credit card that was in my wallet.

As soon as I got ready to wiggle home on my heels sadly and tiredly, the taxi driver’s grandfather offered me a ride home with no money. And I drove, even though I could not believe it.

“You are amazing people, Americans. You won’t leave me in trouble,” I thought. Luckily, the wallet was at home.

Perhaps the trouble in New Orleans is over.

Photos from personal archive

At the exit: a new phone, an old phone, alligator sandwiches and new friends with whom we keep in touch.

Adventure No. 2. "Lonely" Birthday in San Diego and Couchsurfing

Do you know what couchsurfing is? If not, then this is a community of travelers from all over the world, designed to serve international cultural exchange and budget holidays. The bottom line is that you can stay for free with the owner of the “sofa” in any city in the world, and also shelter travelers at your place. Once I sheltered a German, a sphinx rat and a Ukrainian friend in my Kiev one-room apartment, and the next time I remembered this wonderful site, when I really wanted to celebrate my birthday in San Diego, but the budget was limited.

That was the plan. I arrive, go to the ocean shore to see the fur seals, look dramatically at the wave and revel in my solitude. My host doesn’t care about me, I have no friends or acquaintances, I won’t say anything about my personal life, and the time difference with Ukraine is significant. In general, the plan could not fail to work. But it didn't work. Looking ahead, it was one of the happiest and most fun birthdays of my life. Why? Thanks to fellow Americans.

I chose to host the co-surfing host by the principle that he looked like a sweet and soulful person, but without oily eyes and a long list of East European girls in reviews. I hope you understand what I mean. As a result, she chose an athlete and a traveler who is interested in psychology. His name was Brady, and as it turned out later, he lived in a beautiful cottage right on the ocean. I arrived late at night, Brady with friends met me near the fire.

Midnight, my holiday is just beginning, and I breathe in the salty air of the ocean with smoke and feel like the happiest person on Earth. Congratulations poured over the river. The whole day I traveled by bicycle along the ocean, and after that I met Kora, another Brady guest, and she turned out to be the most amazing American woman I've ever met. I told Brady that I had never been able to find a common language with the American girls, as if we were from different planets. Brady said he can't either.

But Cora is great. She told me that we were all going to a New Orleans jazz-funk band to celebrate my birthday. And off we went. Already at the bar, I found out that Americans have a wonderful tradition - if the birthday boy is hanging out with friends in a bar, his friends buy him a drink. It’s a wonderful tradition, you know, I liked it. And it makes sense. Birthday is a holiday for you. Isn't it logical?

Photos from personal archive

All in all, my vacation in San Diego would have been pure heaven—acai bowls for breakfast, beautiful places, walks along the beach and dinners with Cora, walking along secret paths with Brady—if it weren’t for yet another scrape. Suddenly it turned out that I mixed up the dates and took tickets for the wrong day. And there was only half a day left until the end of the rest.

How I got out of this story is a completely different story. Friends helped. As a result, I was in my favorite city two days longer than originally planned. Lucky! And good people surround me everywhere I look.

Photos from personal archive

Adventure #3. Wacky bike and Bronx

I really love bicycles. I even decided to buy one for myself. To do this, I went to a rental shop that sells old bicycles and rented a bike for the day. It cost a lot - 45 dollars a day. By comparison, in San Diego the same service costs $10. OK. I went from Manhattan to Randall Island, and then, as I got bored, I decided to see what kind of bird City Island was.

I was told that it is quite cozy there, there is a green park nearby and full of cozy restaurants with fresh seafood and views of the bay. I came here, but I didn’t want to go back and it was practically impossible. After 2 hours of laboring over the pedals along a high-speed city highway, when the sun was burning at my back at all its 32 degrees, and the only cool drops fell from the air conditioners of the subway cars, which periodically fell on my head. So, after finishing the restaurant, it was categorically decided to go to the beach and swim - no matter what. I went and took a swim. And that’s it, the magical warm sands of Orchard Beach sucked me into their cozy embrace.

Photos from personal archive

But the story, of course, is not about that. After lounging on the sand, I went back to the rental. The main reason why I don’t like rentals, and they don’t like me, is that I have to stop at the most interesting vacation spot and, headlong and with my tongue over my shoulder, drive to the closing of the store. And, as you remember, I didn’t have the strength to drive at all, and, exhausted right in the middle of the highway, I called Uber.

I didn’t find the “large trunk” function or the “I have a bicycle” mark. A Toyota Camry arrived, the driver of which waved his head and arms, assuring me that the bicycle would not fit into the car and that it would not take me anywhere. I almost whimpered, complaining that I couldn’t drive and that I couldn’t choose a car either.

I threw the rucksack into the car in a businesslike manner, hooked up the phone for charging and looked at the driver with an imploring look. The volunteer sighed, went out, and we began to twist-twirl-disassemble-endure-drive the bike into the trunk. Nothing worked. We are all in fuel oil.

At the tenth minute, a passer-by joined us and showed a desire to help. Where do people even come from on the highway? Anyway. And so the three of us continued the “shove in the unshoveable” operation. The time was inexorably approaching the closing of the store. “Everything is lost,” I thought humbly, and stepped aside. But the men did not give up.

A minute later, a jeep pulled up nearby, an African-American man got out and said with the air of an enthusiast: “So, let’s push him in here, now we’ll push him in.” Indeed, another 10 minutes, the seat was reclined, the basket and seat were disconnected, the bell had flown off, and the bicycle was sparkling jubilantly from the trunk. The men happily went about their business, and I was again grateful to the kind people, noting to myself that it was time to stop abusing the help of strangers, and in general, that I was turning into an endless victim of alterations. Everything was fine, all that remained was to take out and assemble the bike upon arrival and call the rental office.

I called a rental, asked to pay a fee per day (plus twenty dollars), because I do not have time to return. But it was not there. Apparently, I have been looking for a charge of kindness from those around me for the last month (yes, all three stories happened within three weeks). So, the rental workers expressed a desire to charge me the rental price for the night, which was 65 dollars. So, renting a bike for the day cost me 110 dollars, plus 50 taxis and 20 tips for the driver for the inconvenience, and additionally buying a swimsuit on the beach. Golden went bicycle rental, however. It was possible to buy a new one. I was surprised that the employees of the rental service could not simply extend the time of the operation, but for this they were already waiting for an unflattering review on Google Maps, and, as it turned out, I was not the only one.

Such people or such karma?

Telling these stories to my friends, I heard a lot about the fact that I have good karma, or it’s because I’m a girl, or because I’m pretty, or because I’m a good anti-crisis manager myself, so they would be friends, on the road and cried in my place, and no one would help them, they wouldn’t carry them anywhere for free, and they wouldn’t let them in at all on kouchsurfing.

Well, there is some truth in this. If I looked repulsive or intimidating, there would undoubtedly be fewer people willing to help. But I don’t want to reduce everything to “because I’m a girl.”

It is easier to overcome any crisis situation not alone, but with the help of people. But in order for strangers (and acquaintances too) to want to help you, you need to help yourself and be sure to be open to the world, without indulging in stereotypes and labeling. So you can talk as much as you like about the fakeness of the American smile, but the longer I live in America and get to know them, the more I am convinced that the main thing is what kind of person it is. Americans are simply full of kind and sympathetic people. If the products are healthy and fresh, the dish made from them will be delicious. And cultural differences are just details that set off the taste, like different seasonings for chicken pie.

Read also on ForumDaily:

From the first person: what I don't like in the USA

'The Great Mother of America': the story of a Ukrainian woman who has become the pride of the United States

How do Americans relax, instead of visiting iconic places in the USA

'Nenashi' in the USA: how immigrants from different countries survive in New York

Miscellanea Americans loudspeakers life in the USA
Subscribe to ForumDaily on Google News

Do you want more important and interesting news about life in the USA and immigration to America? — support us donate! Also subscribe to our page Facebook. Select the “Priority in display” option and read us first. Also, don't forget to subscribe to our РєР ° РЅР ° Р »РІ Telegram  and Instagram- there is a lot of interesting things there. And join thousands of readers ForumDaily New York — there you will find a lot of interesting and positive information about life in the metropolis. 



 
1082 requests in 1,078 seconds.