If we are what we wear, then what about me?

Even as a kid, I didn't care much for fancy clothes.  And now, life in the US and more so in academe has spoilt me even more.  While traveling, all I seem to pack are a whole lot of underwear, undershirts, t-shirts, shorts, socks and, perhaps a light sweater.  Not even jeans anymore--they are too damn heavy!

In other words, the typical American tourist I am!

It seemed as though I could spot fellow American tourists even from a mile away while I was in Ecuador.  The Saint Michael College student I chatted with for a few minutes was obviously an American for simply the way he was attired, though his college t-shirt also helped.

I am not referring to the senior-citizen American travelers--somehow they end up wearing a lot more presentable clothes.  It is the typical 18-55 age group population that travels with this "I don't care about my clothes" attitude.

You can then imagine how fascinated I was whenever I spotted a tourist whose clothes were not shabby.  One of those sightings was at Plaza Grande.

I was seated on a bench at Plaza Grande watching people, most of whom were locals.  And, of the Quitenos who were also idling their time away, it was almost often senior citizens.  The younger Quitenos seemed to be there only to participate in some demonstration or the other.

 One of the older men walked up to me and asked where I was from.  I gave him my standard reply of the US and India.

"I have been to Bombay" he said.  "I can give you a guided tour of Quito.  For cheap."

"No, thanks."

"You want genuine Panama Hat?  For cheap"

"No, gracias."

He walked away.

I continued with my people-watching undisturbed.

And then I spotted two women who were not at all shabbily dressed.  Nor were they the local office-going women, who rushed around in their high, high heels.  These two looked like mother/daughter tourists.  And, it seemed that they were being led around by a local guide.

I was positive they could not be American tourists, only because of how proper they were!  I stealthily took my camera out, zoomed the lens as much as I could, and ... click. I was done. 

From what seemed as Asian features, I wondered if they might be from Peru and related to the Fujimoris there.  If so, then they would be talking in Spanish, I hypothesized.

I had to figure this out.  And the only way was to walk up to them, and kind of listen in.  If the guide was talking in English, then the Peru angle was off.

I wore my hat, picked up my backpack, and casually strolled by them.  The guide was explaining in English.

As I continued walking, away from the Plaza, I was reminded of an incident from a couple of years ago.

I was in India and I convinced a high school buddy, Venu, to go with me to visit with another classmate of ours at his parents' home in Bangalore.  It was a pleasant train ride, during which Venu and I caught up with each other's lives since high school.  As the train neared Bangalore, Venu headed to the bathroom and came back a changed man--he was now smartly attired in trousers and a fresh polo t-shirt.  I was wearing the same old crumpled clothes.

"What's the deal?" I asked him.  "Don't expect me to change out of this"

"You are ok" Venu said. "You are coming from America, and are a college professor as well.  You can wear whatever crap you want and people here will be ok with that."

God bless America, at least for this reason!