I just read an article in the NY Observer entitled The New Nasty. To my surprise, it ends this way:
In Buenos Aires, images of Eva Peron’s tight blonde chignon and lilting smile are omnipresent on sides of buildings and chic little shrines and crèches. I approached the concierge desk at one of B.A.’s chicest hotels to arrange a car and driver to take me to the ultra-cool Palermo section.
“Can I arrange a driver who speaks English?” I asked.
“Ingles? For some reason we thought perhaps you were frances, señor.” The concierges looked me up and down.
“No, I am from the U.S.A.” I said politely.
“Where?”
“New York City.”
“Really?” They eye-rolled each other and proceeded to contact the car service and provide me with a small map.
“Thank you so very much,” I said as I tipped both. “Oh, but I do have one question. Why did you think I was French, as opposed to being American?” I inquired.
“Your suit has a very European cut to it,” the dashing one said.
“Oh, and I’ve heard you’re so very nice and generous to the staff,” his model-esque assistant added.
“Nice? That’s interesting,” I said, a bit confused. “Why does that mean I might be French?”
“People from New York are not like you,” they said matter-of-factly. “Plus, you look like if you put Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart and Gerard Depardieu in…in how you say, licuadora…blender.”
“That’s kind.” I smiled. “But what’s wrong with New Yorkers?”
“They are very…” He paused. “How do you say…exigente…demanding.”
“And they want everything rapido…quick, quick, quick,” added his female counterpart as she adjusted her silk scarf.
“Really?”
“And they can be very mean.” Both nodded.
“Mean? How so?”
“Yes. How do you say asqueroso…nasty? You know, complaining all the time, ‘Get this now and I want it now,’ and, ‘don’t you know what you are doing?’ etc. One wife told her husband to shut up in front of me…but I do have to say the New York peoples, they tip the very best out of anyone.”
“As opposed to?” I asked.
“The Germans are the worst tippers. They take sandwiches wherever they go in brown paper bags they buy in the how do you say…tienda de conveniencua…convenience store, so they don’t have to spend in a restaurant before they board the tour bus. But you are very nice.”
“Really? A nice New Yorker?” I raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.
“Yes, something new.” They nodded in unison. “A nice New Yorker!” They practically beamed at their discovery.
“Thank you.” I knew it was a backhanded compliment—but I also knew better than to reinforce the stereotype by complaining about it.
In Buenos Aires, images of Eva Peron’s tight blonde chignon and lilting smile are omnipresent on sides of buildings and chic little shrines and crèches. I approached the concierge desk at one of B.A.’s chicest hotels to arrange a car and driver to take me to the ultra-cool Palermo section.
“Can I arrange a driver who speaks English?” I asked.
“Ingles? For some reason we thought perhaps you were frances, señor.” The concierges looked me up and down.
“No, I am from the U.S.A.” I said politely.
“Where?”
“New York City.”
“Really?” They eye-rolled each other and proceeded to contact the car service and provide me with a small map.
“Thank you so very much,” I said as I tipped both. “Oh, but I do have one question. Why did you think I was French, as opposed to being American?” I inquired.
“Your suit has a very European cut to it,” the dashing one said.
“Oh, and I’ve heard you’re so very nice and generous to the staff,” his model-esque assistant added.
“Nice? That’s interesting,” I said, a bit confused. “Why does that mean I might be French?”
“People from New York are not like you,” they said matter-of-factly. “Plus, you look like if you put Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart and Gerard Depardieu in…in how you say, licuadora…blender.”
“That’s kind.” I smiled. “But what’s wrong with New Yorkers?”
“They are very…” He paused. “How do you say…exigente…demanding.”
“And they want everything rapido…quick, quick, quick,” added his female counterpart as she adjusted her silk scarf.
“Really?”
“And they can be very mean.” Both nodded.
“Mean? How so?”
“Yes. How do you say asqueroso…nasty? You know, complaining all the time, ‘Get this now and I want it now,’ and, ‘don’t you know what you are doing?’ etc. One wife told her husband to shut up in front of me…but I do have to say the New York peoples, they tip the very best out of anyone.”
“As opposed to?” I asked.
“The Germans are the worst tippers. They take sandwiches wherever they go in brown paper bags they buy in the how do you say…tienda de conveniencua…convenience store, so they don’t have to spend in a restaurant before they board the tour bus. But you are very nice.”
“Really? A nice New Yorker?” I raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.
“Yes, something new.” They nodded in unison. “A nice New Yorker!” They practically beamed at their discovery.
“Thank you.” I knew it was a backhanded compliment—but I also knew better than to reinforce the stereotype by complaining about it.
There's no way that's a genuine conversation.
