I had to leave America before I could embrace my own national identity.

One blistering summer, I abandoned Chicago to spend a few weeks in cooler climes — eating, drinking and hiking my way through three countries (Paraguay, Chile and Argentina). I learned how to order salad in Beef Country; I learned to stand my ground with Argentine taxi drivers; and most surprisingly, I learned how very American I am.

As a Black woman in the United States, I’ve spent decades of my life on protest lines; I view myself as an outside-the-mainstream, unapologetic, tree-hugging, human rights advocate. I criticize my government freely and sometimes at great volume (see my “Dissent is Patriotic” bumper sticker). American Exceptionalism? Fie!

When I leave the country, however, I am astonished to discover that my Americanism is more than skin deep. The irony is not lost on me.

2. I value and guard my personal space. In Latin American countries particularly, people stand too close, touch me too often, expect me to share my table, my stories, my air. Once I was flying in cattle car from somewhere to Paraguay. (Seriously, the plane belonged to a cattle rancher.) I apologized a dozen times to the elderly man next to me, as he endured my fidgeting, jostling and spilling. Finally he touched my hand. “Please stop the worry,” he smiled. “You are not molesting me.”
3. I expect everything to happen quick, faster, right now! In bathroom queues and restaurants, nobody is moving fast enough. People seem to be dawdling on purpose, just to get on my nerves.

On a connection from Asuncion to Buenos Aires, the flight was delayed again and again with no explanation or apology. The other waiting passengers simply nodded and shrugged, went for coffee or took a nap. I fumed in silence. There was no one to commiserate with except Jack Daniel — and he was $32 a shot.

1. I am always multi-tasking. Music on. Composing email. One eye on the baseball scores, while cruising Amazon for new ebooks, uploading pics to Instagram and posting pithy retorts on Twitter, all at the same time. When the flight finally left, dinner was served at about midnight. I simply moved my tablet to my lap, and added ‘eating’ to my juggling act. Listen-read-bite-click-read-bite-listen.

Everyone around me, however, including the children, took off their headphones, paused their movies, put their phones away. Stopped what they were doing. Just. Ate. Dinner.

Determined to be a Citizen of the World, not some Random Arrogant American, I decided to embrace the local thinking. The next morning, I had breakfast like an Argentine. I sat quietly in the hotel restaurant, smiling at other diners or gazing out the window. I had 2 cups of cafe con leche before I even glanced at the menu. I didn’t touch my phone once.

It was excruciating.

Finally, a waiter took pity on me and wandered over. He served me a lovely breakfast of pastry, cheese and my favorite fruit — a plummy Malbec wine.

Apparently, the Argentines drink wine the way the Germans drink beer. Which is to say, incessantly. (This became the basis for my love affair with Buenos Aires, and my go-to coping mechanism over the next month. I often had to wait hours for dinner, but I never once had to wait for a glass of wine.)

In South America, I had no choice but to slow down or stop moving altogether. To not simply endure waiting, but to appreciate it. To stop yelling and start listening.

I learned to linger. To be still. To let my frantic thoughts churn themselves into exhaustion and finally drift away.

To let strangers take comfort from my nearness and my warmth.

To stop rushing to the front of the crowd, and let the crowd form itself around me.

To release my need to steer the boat, and let the tide take me in.

8 weeks later, I arrived home to a still blistering but drizzly Chicago. I meandered over to the bus stop, smiling at random teenagers and staring at the silvery clouds. I lost my place in line half a dozen times, fascinated by a girl’s purple tattoo, or a Polish newspaper sticking out of an old man’s back pocket.

Finally the bus driver snapped at me. “You think I got all day lady? Get on the damn bus!”

Well, can I just say … God bless America.