The Not-So-Ugly American

My wife is a classical musician, and loves vintage, well-crafted, and exotic instruments. Years ago, while visiting a small town in Belgium, we discovered a museum of rare and unique antique music-making apparatus, maintained in a large, centuries old, three-storey house. We strolled up the flower-bordered cobbled path to the front porch, opened the squeaky entry door, and walked into the slightly musty-smelling foyer, where an odd assortment of stringed, woodwind, and percussion instruments was displayed on shelves, stands, the walls, and the floor. Twenty feet further into the house was a waist-high glass cabinet containing smaller instruments, tuning paraphernalia, and some yellowing sheet music. To the right was a doorway swagged with a thick, gold, tasseled rope to encourage visitors to wait in the foyer until the entrance fee was collected; the doorway opened to a grand room with many more fabulous instruments.

Alone in the foyer, we examined and discussed the display pieces for a couple minutes until a man in his seventies shuffled into the room and behind the cabinet. He bent over, extracted a dark metal moneybox from a lower shelf, placed the box on top of the cabinet, and opened the lid. Removing the wallet from my pocket and approaching the man, I commented, “You have some very interesting instruments.” He looked intently at me for a moment, and then asked in a French accent, “Are you American?” I responded, “Yes.” Suddenly, he slammed the lid back over the moneybox. We were completely startled, and I could feel a warm flush coming over my face. “In my museum, Americans do not pay!” he sternly proclaimed.

The old man expressed to us the gratitude he still held for America and the for the soldiers who freed his country from the Nazis during World War II, and how he owed his existence to the sacrifices of that Army of Liberation. Offering Americans free admission to his establishment was the least he could do in repayment. He unhooked the gold rope and happily ushered us into the next room, where he wished us a pleasant visit.

An hour later, having finished our tour, we were once again in the foyer, thanking our host for the enjoyable and unexpected experience. “May I help you with anything before you go?” he asked. “Yes. We would like to visit another museum in your town, but do not know where it is located,” I replied, and then told him the museum’s name. “I will take you there,” he cheerfully offered. We all moved outside and he locked the front door; we walked down a side path and along several small streets until we arrived at the museum building. The man said a few words in French to a young woman at the entrance fee counter, and she smiled, handed us a museum guide, and bid us, “Avoir une bonne visite.” We shook the old man’s hand, thanked him, and said goodbye.

I felt especially proud to be an American that day. The old man seemed even prouder.