I'm Liz, and I'm proud to be an American

By LIZ MOODY

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I have ordained myself the unofficial United States travel ambassador. I work very hard in my position. I sample as many gastronomical delights from various countries as I can, maintaining a cheery disposition, even when arguing with non-English-speaking waiters, and insisting, upon returning to America, that everyone in foreign lands is wonderful and welcoming. Yes, even the French.

I defend America while abroad and do the same for other countries while here at home. It makes me angry, then, when I see anyone, from anywhere, acting as no human being should.

I'd gone to Rome to visit a friend on part two of my European spring break extravaganza. Searching for amusement suitable for our broke student selves on Friday night, we wandered over to Campo di Fiore, a square lined with bars with names like The Drunken Ship and Sloppy Sam's -- both American-owned. Not that I'm commenting. It was here, my friend Jeff proclaimed, that every drunken tourist in Rome congregated on weekend evenings. We were sure to find free entertainment.

We immediately spotted our subjects for the evening: two blond girls, both very drunk. We decided to watch them when one (we'll call her Wasted American, or WA) fell into a divider between the outside seating of the bar and the square, knocking down four or five tables like dominos. WA roamed around the bar, making out with random men as we made football-like commentary while drawing imaginary white circles and arrows. "And next," I said, in my deep announcer voice, "she's going to kiss this unsuspecting Italian -- oh, ladies and gentleman! She's down for the count! And she'd like another beer!"

As the bars began closing for the evening and the two girls began their drunken stumbling toward the middle of the square, the night quickly escalated from humorous to horrifying. My first pang of uneasiness came when WA lost her shoes and was unaware of this as her bare feet narrowly missed the broken glass bottles sprinkled across the cobblestone. When I looked over again, she was making out with an Italian -- who had her pants unbuttoned and down halfway around her butt. As he started to lead her down a dark alleyway -- her falling drunkenly to the floor every other step -- I tapped her friend on the shoulder.

"You might want to watch your friend," I said, nodding to her disappearing form. Then I turned to Jeff. "Let's follow them. Those guys aren't good ... let's make sure they get to their hotel OK."

He nodded and we walked down the alleyway, where we found a group of eight or so guys trying to haul an unconscious WA onto the back of a motorcycle. An Italian approached us. "This is your friend?" I shook my head, but he continued. "You need to get her away. These guys are -- they are bad." They were laughing and slapping her butt, which was now almost bare.

"Hey!" Jeff strode over. "Basta! Stop!" The sheer anger in his voice scattered most of the men, save for one, who was persistently pulling WA's pants down further. Jeff put his hand lightly on the girl's shoulder as she blinked back into consciousness. "Hey, I'm Jeff, I'm American. My friend and I want to help you and your friend get back to your hotel."

She exploded off the bike, fists up. Jeff jumped back, startled. "Who are you?" she shouted.

"I'm Jeff. I'm American. These guys are bad; we want to help you."

"Do you know me?" She swung and hit him square in the cheek. He grabbed both of her wrists and held her patiently as she attempted to swing at him, shouting expletives. The night didn't end until, after we made two pleading trips to a nearby police car, the officers inside slowly stubbed out their cigarettes and moseyed over.

"This girl" -- I pointed to WA, who was on the ground now, again passed out -- "she needs to go to the hospital and have her stomach pumped." Jeff got the friend, who still was arguing drunkenly with a group of laughing Italian men. We watched them all drive off together in the police car.

This, more than any event that has brought me close to death on my trips, has made me not want to travel anymore. It made me afraid to be a woman in another country, where men could act as disgustingly as the men we witnessed, and it made me ashamed to be an American if this is how we are representing ourselves abroad. Every good tourist's reputation gets ruined 10 times over with stories like these. A final message from your U.S. travel ambassador: Travel responsibly. Right now, we need as many reasons to be proud to be American as we can get.

Liz Moody, a Johansen High School graduate, is a student at the University of California at Berkeley. She can be reached at lizmoody@berkeley.edu.