Gringos in Paradise

In the summer of 1979, just before moving back to New York after our one quick year in Michigan, my family and I had a vacation in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Obviously, this was long before I knew I would marry into that country and become a "Dominicano honorario."

The weather was beautiful, of course, and I remember enjoying everything about the Hotel Santo Domingo where we stayed. There was a big pool, tennis courts, and a guy who made you as many perfect omelets as you wanted every morning for breakfast. My father respectfully did his best at speaking Spanish, which was pretty good, as I remember, instilling in me that same wish to make the effort when traveling to countries where English is not the primary language.

In addition to these pleasant memories, there were also a couple of ugly moments. This part's a little hazy, but I remember a flight in which we had to change planes in Haiti. One of the planes we were on was a tiny one, which was pretty bumpy and scary, and my mother was completely freaked out. Being a smoker, she dealt with her fear by lighting up. I remember Haitian women seeming pretty angry as they told her to put out her cigarette in Creole. My mother played dumb for a few puffs, before finally putting it out. Not a good international moment for our family.

The other uncomfortable moment came when we took the shuttle bus from the hotel to the zoo. We were greeted upon arrival by a large group of boys who were asking for money. Our guides told us not to give them any, which we didn't, and in response, they yelled, "Gringos fuera! Gringos go home!"

I was 16 then, and it was the first time I was really aware of our image as Americans in the rest of the "developing" world, and that our tourism, and the American dollars that go with it, are both loved and hated at the very same time.

I've been to Santo Domingo a few times as an adult, and it's a different experience for me now. For one thing, I'm fluent in Spanish, which helps the situation. In addition, I no longer stay in hotels; my in-laws built a house that is only a few miles away from the Hotel Santo Domingo. (In fact, my brother-in-law had his wedding reception there.) I enjoy my visits there, but despite my honorary status, I've never fully lost the awareness I gained on that trip in 1979 -- that as an American, I symbolize many things to people, and I know it is important to keep this in mind, wherever I go.