Perhaps the most difficult challenge so far has been trying to become more comfortable in my surroundings--to make Carmarthen feel like home. However, I know that it will never be completely possible. For the first time in my life, I feel like a complete outsider. Everything about me—the way I dress, I walk, and especially how I talk—brands me as an American. It is an eye-opening experience to say the least. I am learning so much more about what it means to be an American here than I ever did back at home. I know that I cannot avoid being American, since the culture has been a part of me for the past 20 years, but I would like to be able to free myself of the glaring stigma that marks me as the obvious American tourist. Currently, I am failing miserably.
When thinking about how I have been acting in my first two weeks here, certain stereotypes about American tourists jump to mind. I must have committed every faux pas that travel books warn you about. For example, it seems that everywhere that I travel, whether it be visiting the lovely town of Tenby or just riding on a bus, I have my camera firmly grasped in one hand just in case I come across something that I have to take a picture of, like a herd of cattle blocking the road as they are led to pasture. I am slowly weaning myself off of it, but I am still so afraid of missing something spectacular, that it might require nothing short of surgery to remove.
My attempts to get around town are even more revealing of my being an American. Anyone watching me cross the street will know right away that I am an American. Attempting to cross the street is just deadly. I have to remind myself to look left first rather than right, but usually that though occurs to me just as I put my foot onto the road and a car comes careening past, missing me by only inches. The only way to be even remotely safe when crossing requires one to sprint, full speed, until reaching the other side. I must say that I have had more than brushes with death trying to cross a busy street. (The only people whom I have seen actually sprinting across the road have been fellow Americans. The Welsh seem to think that the roads are quite safe and cross them at a nice, leisurely pace) Navigating my way around the actual town also brings me quite a lot of attention considering I stop to gawk at street signs every five feet desperately searching for something as simple as the post office. Usually, I end up getting myself more lost than before I started looking. When I ask for directions, the people are more than willing to help, but most of the time their accents are difficult to understand, so I have to ask the same question two or three times. Soon, their patience runs short, as would anyone’s, and again, I am left feeling like a stupid American. I am not used to feeling so utterly lost.
However, there is hope for me yet. With a little more time, I am sure that cows will lose their photographic appeal, that cars will stop moving so fast, and that the post office will stop hiding from me. The more time that I spend in Carmarthen, the more confident I will become with the area and with myself. Although I will never stop being an American, I will be more than just a tourist. At least I hope so. Once I get past this honeymoon stage, I think that Carmarthen will be another place that I can call home.
