Wise Words from Mark Twain, Realized Anew

Mark Twain has been on my mind lately, since April 5th, to be exact. Before heading to New York to look for apartments, I visited Mr. Twain's Hartford, Connecticut home along with my friend, Marian, a Connecticut native.  I pictured a Tom Sawyer kind of place surrounded by a fence, whitewashed of course, nothing fancy, just like all the other wood frame houses along the street.  A place where Sam Clemens might have hung out as a boy, getting into trouble and running away from chores.  Had I been in Hannibal, Missouri at the Boyhood Home and Museum of Mark Twain, my imagination and the home that greeted me would have been a close match.

But the 25-room mansion on the hill was a shock!

I'll leave you to take your own virtual tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum and learn, as I did, about the man who lived 17 years of his life here.

What I took away from my visit was a quote, engraved on the wall of the museum, located beside the house.  Words that I knew to be true, but didn't know that I would learn their meaning all over again in New York City. . .

"Travel is fatal to prejudice."

                                                     --Mark Twain

I sometimes blindly congratulate myself on my "lack" of prejudice, being the world traveler that I am.  After all, I left Arkansas to work in an Inupiat village in Alaska, then lived in Singapore, Egypt and Russia, and my passport boasts pages and pages of cool-looking stamps.  I appreciate differences in people, look for commonalities, and value cultural diversity.  But it seems that when it comes to anything above the Mason-Dixon line, I might as well be living in Civil War America, as quickly as I fall back into the "us" and "them" mentality.  Why else would I, a genteel Southern belle, come to New York City, expecting "those Northerners" to be fast-talking, rude, loud, impolite, and lacking in what "us Southerners" have a monopoly on. . . hospitality?

I've stayed in downtown Manhattan for a week now and have yet to encounter that stereotypical personality, lurking near some shadowed sidewalk on Wall Street, poised to bump into me, never pausing to say, "I'm sorry,"  "How rude of me," or  "Won't you please forgive me?"  

Instead I'm met. . .
*a woman, smartly dressed in a yellow jacket trimmed in black, who stopped on a misty, windy afternoon to ask if she could help with directions, observing Marian and me huddled and confused over a city map
*a taxi driver who, without a grumble or grunt, made two U turns to position us exactly at our hotel entrance, then unloaded our heavy bags, smiled and said, "Have a good day."
*a hotel desk clerk, exuding more patience than Job on the best of days, who changed our room from a lower to higher floor, from a brick wall to water view, and from a 3:00 o'clock to noon check-in
*a young man, head totally covered with a black-hooded sweatshirt, who opened two doors for us at Grand Central Station, then stood holding them open while we pulled our bags through

The list goes on, highlighted with "Please," "Thank you," "Excuse me," "You go first,"  "Can I help you?" "No problem" niceties which I had relegated to the realm of mint juleps and magnolias.

My world expands once again.  Why am I surprised?  Did I not learn lessons of kindness, graciousness and generosity from Wafaa and Mohammad in Egypt, from Natasha and Zhenya in Russia, from people in every country I've visited?  Why should my country be any different?

The answer, of course, is that it's not.  It is in my pre-judgement that opinions remain static, that generalizations become truths.  I can hear Mr. Twain saying to me, in a wise grandfatherly tone, cigar smoke swirling between us, "You know, Twylla,

'All generalizations are false, including this one.' "