Taking issue with the Americans’ Francophobia
Washington DC
On the night of the Arsenal-Barcelona match, I was on the train between Manchester and London when something happened that would be inexplicable to my American compatriots. Two English couples, aged about 60, sat across the aisle. They were what Americans would call middle-class, and they were tidily dressed: sweaters and ties for the men, sweaters and necklaces for the women. They were discussing the first Barcelona goal when one of the men loudly broke wind.
This is not the part that is outside the American experience. It was rather that the guy followed up with a triumphant burst of laughter. His companions joined him. ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ ‘Oh, you’re terrible!’ and ‘Oh, stop!’ they said, as if they meant no such thing. When their laughter died down (after many minutes) the other man stuck his tongue through his lips and blew a loud, ripping raspberry. Now they went into absolute hysterics. They were choking. They were in tears.
I have been on a lot of trains in Europe since I began writing a book on immigration, Islam and Europe. There are two questions I get asked by friends whenever I go back to the United States. The first is: which country in Europe is having the toughest time integrating its Muslim minorities into national life? The answer involves so many qualifications about Swedish residential segregation and Bengali marriage practices and arrives at the answer ‘I haven’t a clue’ via such a sinuous path that everyone who poses the question regrets it.
The other question is simpler: which country in Europe has the nicest people, the kind least likely to make Americans feel uncomfortable, whether accidentally or on purpose? It’s not the Spaniards, the only Western Europeans whose anti-Americanism is unleavened by either gratitude or grudging admiration.
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