by Keith O’Brien

     Americans have long been accused of cultural myopia while traveling abroad. Although individual Europeans' opinions may vary regarding whether we yanks are arrogantly ethnocentric or just hopelessly misguided, one truth remains: We embark on journeys hoping to immerse ourselves in a new culture, but never can shed the rules and customs of our land. European cabbies must love picking up Americans who will fearfully overtip if the cab proves too dark to consult with their Lonely Planet guide.

     Despite my extensive time abroad, I've always found myself embroiled in culture conundrums--usually ones involving alcohol. I found the biggest form of culture shock during my trip in Paris, which (praise to the God of backpacking) coincided with the Euro 2000 football tournament finals. The tournament, comparable to our March Madness, happened to feature France and Italy in the championship match. My hosts (a couple whom my brother's friend knew) did not seem as interested in the match as the 2.2 million other inhabitants of the city who began lining the streets in the early afternoon. The boyfriend had no interest in seeing the match and told me that I'd have a better chance finding a Frenchmen ecstatic to talk to me in English before I'd find a bar where I could breathe. He, however, pointed out a park a block away where city officials erected a massive television screen.

     Here is where the cultural confusion commenced. The streets were replete with vendors (read: enterprising Frenchmen looking to capitalize on thirsty and hungry spectators) selling sausage and beer. I did not see any official-looking badges on their French football jerseys. In fact, the massive police force meandering around the park had the only badges I saw.

     By this time, I had been in Europe long enough to know that walking with alcohol on the street (although a bit uncouth) was predominately legal. Still, I could not believe that police were letting people sell beer for an inflated price on the street. I immediately contemplated legal implications and lawsuit ramifications. Realizing the ludicrous, litigious society that made me, I shook my fist towards the distance (which somehow must have been in the direction of America).

     I overcame my culture shock by observing a few people purchase beer, which convinced me that following suit would not lead to a tour of Paris's prison facilities.

     After France won 2-1, I appreciated our Puritan liquor laws for the first time in my life. Immediately, dozens of flares and other flammable objects arched through the formerly dark sky as the crowd emoted their elation. I actually followed the trajectory of one of the flares as it shimmered through the blackness and saw the poor dancing woman who would ultimately meet the torch at its final destination. Perhaps the natural anesthesia called victory made her impervious to pain because the flare making contact didn't disrupt her dance. Some of the people even danced in the fountain (perhaps to fireproof themselves) before the entire mass migrated down the street. I had visions of Paris burning to the ground as the crowd sang soccer songs. Wouldn't I be the talk of the town then? Have you been to Paris? Too bad, it no longer exists. But you can see my pictures.

     Having nothing better to do, I followed. Although initially daunted that the language barrier would prohibit me from joining the celebration, I was pleased to find out that French sporting cheers were as simplified as "Let’s go Rangers (ch ch ch ch ch)."

     So, I marched down the street with the French en masse, creating traffic impasses while singing "Ole Champion, Ole champion, ole, ole, ole, ole, ole, Champion." One of the French football fanatics (approximately my age and wearing a Zinedine Zidane) found my act believable, so he grabbed my arms and started swinging me around in the middle of the street. Backpacking alone is a strange beast. After awhile, you desperately want to feel a part of something and the fact that this man included me in the celebration felt really good. In fact, it felt so good that I didn’t even feel the impact of the car that slammed into us in the middle of the intersection. Upon retrospection, I assume the fault lay in our hands, but the man still was going fast enough for the impact to bruise my hip. I extricated myself from the pile-up and moved away from the car, while the Frenchman stood stoically or stunned in the same place (it was hard to tell in the rush of things). When the man stepped out of the vehicle, I knew that road rage was merely a rash compared to his obvious nationalistic sorrow (the man looked like a shoe-in for a walk-on on the Sopranos). France also booted Italy out of the ’98 World Cup quarterfinals on penalty kicks and, now these two Frenchies have the audacity to dance into my car? While he could find us both culpable for the collision, he chose to chase the true Frenchman down the street.

     Apparently, the French jersey my former dance partner donned angered the Italian more than my weathered, once-white T-shirt. I shrugged my shoulders at the woman in the passenger seat and continued up the road towards the Champs-Élysées. The walk felt so passionate due to the cries of joy and stunning lights lining the avenue. The streets were awash with drunken, French nutters. They jumped on each other's back and sang songs. If only they knew an intruder had infiltrated their ranks.

     Their conduct proved that everyone has the ability to comport themselves in uninhibited manner despite their nationality. Although the prevalent notion that the French are uptight and snooty reigns supreme, I saw a country with its citizens letting their hair down.

     So this culture shock comes in many forms. Maybe a society can sell beer on the street and not create the apocalypse. Maybe a society notorious for being uppity actually enjoys boorish behavior when they think no one else is looking. Maybe that poor Frenchman outran the Italian. Anything is possible.

Keith O’Brien is an itinerant freelance journalist/intern at a financial magazine. At twenty-three years of age, he is both flummoxed and amazed that he is still alive and vibrant on occasions. He has been published in Empire NY, Escape From America Magazine, It's Random, Digital Coast Reporter and other stellar publications. He has a needlepoint portrait of eight penguins hanging in his living room that he purchased from a junk shop. Somewhere the person who created that masterpiece may be wondering where it went. It went to his apartment.