Member-only story
Emily Is Not Even Trying In Paris
She’s the epitome of what Europeans hate about American tourists.
When I first moved to Barcelona in 2006, I was faced with the hordes of American tourists that took over Europe in the summer for the very first time.
I witnessed toga parties by obnoxious frat boys at a camping site in Rome.
I served non-fat, extra foam, venti cappuccinos for California gurls in UGG boots and Juicy Couture terry cloth tracksuits at a Starbucks.
May I remind you it was 2006?
But the comments I sometimes heard from them on the streets of Barri Gòtic are forever carved into my memory.
Their idea of everything not American being “small” and “cute” and somehow outdated.
“Oh my god, look at this cute little restaurant.”
“Oh my god, look at this cute little street! Isn’t it just so retro?
I mean, I’m in my underwear, hanging out my clothes to dry in the window, but sure, if you see it as somehow worthy of taking a picture for your vacation album, go for it.
This is Emily in Paris.
