European Etiquette Tips & Quips From A Broad
Jeannie Renée Bastian — Home 
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Webster defines culture shock as “a sense of confusion and uncertainty sometimes with feelings of anxiety that may affect people exposed to an alien culture or environment without adequate preparation.” Often we attribute culture shock to moving to a new or different region or visiting a foreign land.
After being raised in the busy and bustling ‘burbs of Chicago, to being thrust into the placid plains of rural Nebraska, I think I can genuinely say that I’m no stranger to culture shock. I witnessed curious sightings of the thought-to-be-extinct gas attendants and the timid, yet ever so polite bag boys, refusing to accept a tip because “'twas just part of the job, ma’am.” Consequently, their down-home charm and courteous manner was touching, their appalling reference to me as “ma’am” due to a common ailment of a fear of aging is a tale best told another day. But I digress …
I’d scurry along downtown streets of Lincoln in a constant state of paranoia; always looking over my shoulder for that person I was certain was following me. Clever girl, I never did spot her, but I knew she was there. She must have been awful nice though, everyone seemed to know and like her, as she was forever getting a warm smile and a kind “hello.” It couldn’t be me they were greeting so warmly. After all, I didn’t know them.
Commuting along country lanes was always perilous; monetarily panicking at the wheel each time a farmer would slow his tractor to offer me a neighborly wave. It was not the typical hand gesture this city gal was used to getting from a person behind the wheel.
Considering myself rather worldly after surviving life as a certified cornhusker, I had no idea what laid in store for me next. . . . Seven years living in Europe to be precise.
From cosmopolitan chic cities to colloquial countryside, it was a smorgasbord of shock. Spending a good portion of my life in the Midwest, "culture" was merely something I read about in the local newspaper's Art & Lifestyle section. It was only when I moved overseas that I discovered what "culture" really meant. I desperately wanted to impress on my debut on the international social scene, yet, there I was feeling like one of the Clampettes in Beverly Hills.
My stint cross the ocean officially commenced with two years in the midlands of England, where I was affectingly referred to as the “Bloody Yank.” And no, for those possessing less than a full deck of cards, that was neither a cordial nor proper colloquial address, and my reference to affection, was merely a stab at sarcasm. And if it was bad enough being the only foreigner, in an area torn between two classes I WAS the middleclass. From my Ford convertible with good ole fashion rock ‘n’ roll blaring from the radio, to my favorite blue jeans, Keds, and bouncy blonde ponytail, I could not have stuck out of the crowd anymore if I tried. Being the outcast in the rain and cold, living off a fortified diet of greasy fried fish & chips didn’t exactly kick off the European tour with a bang. But the chance to expand horizons, travel, and meet a plethora of new people from rock stars to world-class journalists was quite a thrill. And the brewed ale and cider was certainly an added perk — or at the very least, numbed the growing pains.
The next stop, three years in Belgium. And as it is true confession time, I must shamefully admit that before moving to Belgium I hardly knew the place existed, let alone that it indeed was an actual country. I merely though of it as a quaint region — location, somewhere over there. When news was uttered of the pending move, I queried, “To where? Belgium?” Then light bulb flickered and I added, “Ohhhh . . . Isn't that where waffles and big horses come from? Oh and wait! Don't they make chocolate there? Or is that the Swiss?” It was all Greek to me. Nevertheless, to give Belgium its well overdues, a modest-sized region about the scale of the state of Maryland, the country boasts some rather formidable claims to fame. It is the booming hub of international business and the home of the European Union and NATO. If that is not formable enough, might I add that it is the true inventor or what most Americans mistakenly call french fries. To those more versed, the French are equal enthusiasts of the Belgian fare, which are in actuality called Belgian pomme frites, and their secret is to double fry the spuds. And if that is not already a mouthful of Belgian triumphs, the country is indeed home of the delicious Belgian waffles, sinfully delectable chocolates, and mighty draft horses. All of which are consumed with vigil enthusiasm. (Yes, Virginia, they actually eat horses in Europe. Hence the reason I am a born-again vegetarian these days, mad cow and foot-in-mouth diseases aside).
I lived near the multicultural metropolitan city of Brussels, where foreigners flocked en masses. Fortunate to be an area so ideally central and was able to travel to such a variety of regions, I could be in Paris in a few hours, the south of France in a half day’s drive, London just a few hours cross the channel, and a venture up to Amsterdam in two hours or less (depending how badly I was jonesing for dose a of “coffee.”) Throughout my travels and with the help of fellow expatriates, I learned to blend in more with my environment and embrace the many diversities of living in Europe.
Then another two years and yet another move eastward ho’ to Slovenia (at the rapid rate I was migrating east I feared that in no time I would be donning the babushka and drinking vodka with das comrades). Fret not if your geography fails you, as if Belgium was foreign enough, Slovenia indeed was unheard of terrain for yours truly. I never recalled spying Slovenia on the Risk game board or on my beloved light-up childhood globe — which also seconded as a night-light. “You lived where?” is ever the initial response. “Slovenia.” Followed by the expected blank stare . . . so then I am forced to break it up syllable-by-syllable, “Slo-ve-ni-a.” Then the reaction is rather mixed. Surprisingly, sometimes people actually know to where I am referring. Others feign knowledge, only later to admit their ignorance. Perhaps the two best responses were, “Is that near Pittsburgh?” and, “Isn’t that where vampires come from?” No, that would be Transylvania. Close, but not quite. Still, to play it safe, on dark evenings when the bats would swoop down from the neighboring barn’s hayloft I was rarely without my lucky clove of garlic.
Okay so where exactly is Slovenia? A quick lesson in geography would perhaps be prudent here. According to the tour book, formally part of Yugoslavia, it is “east of Italy, just next to the top of ‘the boot,’ south of Austria, and north of Croatia. Nestled between the Julianne Alps and the deep blue Mediterranean lays this small country brimming with undiscovered charm.”
And while I mastered the art of blending in when living in Belgium, where the city streets were thronged with foreigners from all over the globe, my new craft was not as useful in my relocation to the Baltics. Recently becoming a democracy near war torn Bosnia; Slovenia had yet to become a tourist hot spot, let alone an international business or trade center. Thus, as with my earlier stay in the U.K., I found myself once again an obvious outsider. Have I mentioned that I am the epitome of your typical All-American girl next-door gal? Blonde, petite (barely 5 ft., I fudged it on my driver’s license and inch or two in anticipation of a midlife growth spurt), and the prerequisite freckles flecked across my nose and splashed on my checks and. So in a land where the women were tall, dark, leggy, and oddly amply breasted, I once again had to live with the gawking stares being an evident outsider. But surprisingly my stay was more welcoming than I imagined and the area become one I grew to be quite fond of.
All and all, my travels and experiences overseas were ones I will always cherish. I was fortunate to make many amazing friends and to live in and travel to several breathtaking and unique locations. My support group — an eclectic combination of expatriates, locals, and fellow Americans — helped ease my transition from being a foreigner to feeling right at home everywhere I roamed.
During my stint overseas, I worked as a freelance journalist for various international travel & lifestyle magazines, including a hints and etiquette monthly column, which I have incorporated in this compilation of my greatest hits and misses.
In addition to my writing endeavors, I was very active in the editorial department for numerous international publications, working as an editor-in-chief of a monthly expatriate magazine published in Brussels and an editor for numerous organizations in Slovenia. I was avidly involved in many nonprofit charity organizations, helping raise funds and awareness for many well-deserved causes such as an outreach program for refugees, Medicine sans Borders, and a scholarship program to send exceptional students to the United States for educational opportunities. I also worked as a volunteer for school and sport activities. It indeed was a fulfilling and at times wild life rounded out with travel throughout many regions of Europe, amazing food and wine, and many unusual and exciting experiences.
Nonetheless, after having more than a few years to adapt, I still occasionally felt less than sophisticated, which I hope gives you heart. Whether you are moving abroad or just planning a trip across the Atlantic, I hope some of my experiences and advice help ease your "culture" shock. If you find yourself furtively glancing around a dinner table to work out which meal to order, which wine to couple, or which utensil to use, just remember: you are not alone. Indeed, if you look around a bit more scrupulously, you may notice others peeking just as insecurely at you.
Written with my quirky tongue in check humor, whether you are moving abroad or just planning a trip across the Atlantic, my hints and hardships in European Etiquette Tips & Quips From A Broad will help ease your culture shock.
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JeannieRenee.com. Website by Jeannie Renée Bastian.
