“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery
I spent my junior year in college studying in Exeter, England. It was an amazing experience; living in another country immersed in a culture that, while similar to ours in some ways, was very different in others. My British friends taught me a lot that year and one of the biggest lessons came from the opportunity to step outside my own culture and see it from the outside looking in. It was 1980. Carter was president and we spent many hours in the kitchen of the dorm sipping tea and debating the attempted rescue of the 53 hostages that were held in Tehran and the merits, or lack thereof, of the foreign policies of the place I called home. It was, to say the least, an eye opener.
During holiday we traveled to the continent. I had a big red, white and blue American flag backpack that I stuffed full of clothing, film and notebooks to document the six weeks we would be exploring parts unknown. We traveled by train at night, arranging our schedules to take advantage of the free “beds” as a way to stretch our resources. We ‘d go from town to town, see as much as we could in a couple of days and then hop back on the train looking for a new place to explore. Once on board, we’d flip through our guidebooks and try to decide what town we’d visit next.
We arrived in Salzburg early one morning and quickly set out for a place to find a bite for breakfast. Our guidebook pointed us in the direction of a small chocolate shop, not too far from the train station. Despite the early hour, the place was already packed. The rich smell of chocolate saturated the air. We took our place in line behind another group of Americans, a middle aged couple who undoubtedly were fans of the same guidebooks too.
He was a big man, probably six foot two or so, made taller by the large ten-gallon hat he wore. He had brown hair, a big bushy mustache and a large, blustery way about him. When he opened his mouth to order, I guessed he was from Texas.
“Do ya’ll have any of those Mozart chocklates?” he said in his particularly loud twang when he stepped up to the counter.
The young woman at the counter smiled. “Ich verstehe nicht, Sir.” I do not understand.
“Mozart chocklates,” he repeated even louder this time. “Those things with the picture of that Mozart guy on the wrapper.”
I wanted to disappear.
The woman continued to smile. She was a petite young girl, perhaps the daughter of the owner. While she spoke some English, it was clear that the accent threw her for a loop. She picked up what she thought he was asking for and showed it to him. “Ist dieses, was Sie wünschen?” Is this what you want?
The Texan was starting to get annoyed. “Look little lady,” he bellowed loudly as if talking louder would make things clearer, “I want some of those,” and he pointed to the display in the shop’s window. He shot his wife a glance. What kind of service was this, anyway?
Little lady? Was he kidding? I stood there, dressed in my green polo shirt, tan khaki pants and Birkenstocks trying to look anything but American at that exact moment. Who was I kidding? I glanced at my friend Missy who stood beside me. Her grimace said it all. We were mortified. Thank goodness I had left the backpack outside.
As we stepped forward to the counter, I wanted to apologize, to explain, “We’re all not like that,” I wanted to say.
It was a lesson I would not soon forget. Walk gently. This is a big place, this world of ours. We would do well to keep our eyes open and listen and see what we might learn.
When I was a freshman in college, I worked for the food service, serving food on the law school campus. On my first day of work, a blind, young, male law student stepped forward and asked what was for dinner.
“We have m-e-a-t-l-o-a-f a-n-d c-h-i-c-k-e-n a-n-d p-o-t-a-t-o-e-s- a-n-d g-r-e-e-n-b-e-a-n-s...”
“I’m blind,” he said with a big smile on his face, “I can hear just fine.
Sometimes seeing doesn’t require eyes at all.