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   "Where are you from?” we asked, assuming it was an innocent question. Her answer was intriguing (me to never ask her another one): “I don’t really like this question,” said she, pensively drifting into a parallel sphere brimming with wisdom and sophistication. “Here we go,” I thought. “Because … dramatic pause … what does it mean? Where I was born? Where I feel at home? Where I live?”

 

She said it as though talking to 4-year-olds, with an apologetic smile that mimicked humbleness, but force-fed us a good spoonful of condescension without being subtle about it. She was from Canada. She lived somewhere I don’t remember, was in Peru at the time and felt at home in a bunch of places. But she was from Canada. Plain and simple. No complicated backstory, just a whole lot of pretentiousness.

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From which pseudo-yoga variant did she get the energy to lay this self-indulgent monologue on us when she could have answered with a six-letter-word? She knew what we meant and she knew just as well that we knew that she knew.

 

As my travel companion Brent put it later, when I told him the story (after we had received a similar answer to the same question – “I am from the stars” – amid a drum circle and hash clouds in one of Kathmandu’s backpacker dens): “Where was your mom, when you popped out?” That should answer the question just fine in most cases.

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I don’t mean to brag, but when someone asks me the classic where-from, I tend to answer with my home country and not with how hip I am, or how close to the stars, or how far removed from dull societal norms. Funny enough, anybody I know who could actually have a hard time answering the question (like a friend of mine, who's Chinese, adopted by Irish parents, and grew up in Canada), never hesitates to give a simple reply.

 

Canada's (Swiss) friend was the perfect company for a toplofty, patronizing travel guru. She took our next (and last) question:

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“Have you been here for a while?”

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Her first answer was a narcissistic grunt. Then she elaborated by looking over her shoulder, our eyes in tow: a beaten, rectangular patch disrupted the juicy grass covering the hostel backyard to mark the place where her tent had been – a place that would miss her dearly now that she was about to leave. Finally, she took aim at us with glinting eyes and fired away:

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“Yeeeeaaah, we’ve been here for quiiiiiiite a while (casual-proud-agreeable-world-traveler-wisdom-smile towards Canada) – three weeks!”

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A standardized backpacker uniform gave the perfect shape to her transcendent existence: striped pajama pants (elephant-pants equivalent in Asia) plus an alpaca sweater with alpacas on it – handwoven by locals, but never worn by them. The Palo Santo incense stick, demonstratively lit before our eyes, underlined her rightful denial of a society to which she might have owed her being there, and belong to just as much as anyone else, and go back to three months later, but couldn’t stand for now.

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"Let’s wipe off that conceited smile, suggesting that we’re carrying an unraveled world in our backpack."

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The setting for all this smug backpacker mush was a camp site in Huanchaco, a most touristy spot, cherished by talented local surfers and those awkwardly surfing their way back to the stardust that birthed them. Three weeks are indeed a long stretch for most gringos and enough time to morph from the binge drinking backpacker-caterpillar to the colorful zen-butterfly, an embarrassment to every true hippie who’s not a brat of the 80s or 90s. For those, who have really ditched the procession along the world’s trotted trails, like Brent in his Kung Fu school in China, it is a mere pit stop though. In my definition, the main difference between a backpacker and a traveler is the curiosity of the latter to settle and immerse themselves in local cultures beyond a generic hostel journey. Which, no doubt, is fun too, and no offense, and to each his own, and bla bla bla – this is a topic for another time.

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However, no matter how local you try to go as a traveler or expat, there are limits to how familiar you can be with a place or culture. What’s more: even in the motherland we’re mostly acquainted with the socioeconomic layer we live in, even if we can explore others. If I ask a friend of mine from a Parisian upper class background whether most people in France speak English, he’ll assure me they do, confused why I would even ask. If I ask another friend from a French working class background, the opposite answer will be presented with just the same confidence. Both lived there for decades but see their society with different eyes.

 

So, if we shouldn’t jump to conclusions about our home country, then we should do so much less when living abroad or traveling, let alone after surfing away three weeks in Peru. Let’s wipe off that conceited smile, suggesting that we’re carrying an unraveled world in our backpack.

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