“In West Philadelphia, born and raised….”, I heard sung behind me as I waited in a slow-moving line to have my passport glanced over by a surly police officer at the Philadelphia International Airport. The two vocalists were the same obnoxious bozos who engaged in an in-depth discussion about how European women were not all they were hyped to be as we waited to board our flight in Paris. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as they chatted emphatically given their unsavory appearances, baggy jeans, running sneakers and an indecorous coating of potato chip crumbs down the front of their oversized sports t-shirts (which they were either saving for later or served as an accessory with their cans of beer). Call me a snob if you will, but they embodied much of what the Europeans imagine American men to be – overly macho, loud, impolite and sartorially disabled. Sure, it’s as much a stereotype as the European man-purse or tight jeans but in many cases, it’s the reality. These guys served as the first example of the awkwardness I feel being home – a place undeniably familiar yet oddly uncomfortable.
Still, I was back in the city I love. From one…
