Yesterday was apparently Mexican Independence Day. The first I knew about it was when the girl who does my hair asked me what I was doing for “Cinco de Mayo,” which Americans celebrate as the day Mexico rejected Spanish rule.
Why Americans celebrate another country’s independence is perplexing in the first place, but even odder is that they haven’t even got the right date. Mexican Independence day is actually 16th September. I suspect the merrymaking and sombrero-wearing of last night was merely a cynical plot to offload a few bottles of Corona, and little else.
A little over a month ago there was St. Patrick’s Day (or, as everyone here calls it, St. Patty’s Day – who knew Patricia was a saint?). When I tried to order a Guinness the barman mistook my English accent and said “Hey, straight off the boat! I like that!” There was no point in correcting him (most Americans don’t know the difference between the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, and think that the whole island is part of the UK). People were selling dyed-green carnations, which to my knowledge were symbols of the aesthetic movement, most notably Oscar Wilde, and have never been a symbol of Irish nationalism. Why is America so keen to appropriate other people’s cultures if it is only going to make a mockery of them?
I can’t wait to see what happens here for Bastille Day, which may be marked here on 14th July, or possibly some time in November, and will probably feature such authentic French specialities as French Fries and French Toast.
(With apologies to the makers of Better Off Dead)
