I am ashamed. . .

Embarrassed. (<-- curse you extraneous consonants.) Abashed. Chagrined.
Humbled even.
I have become that which I scorned.
I have become an American who lives abroad.
And drinks. . . americanos.

What's an americano? Basically a shot of espresso diluted in a cup of hot water.

Wikipedia elaborates: One popular explanation for the name is that it was originally intended as an insult to Americans, who wanted their espresso diluted. During the Second World War, American occupational forces in Italy searched for the "cup of joe" they were accustomed to at home, which local baristas tried to emulate for them.[1] If this is the case, many American coffee drinkers are either unaware of or unfazed by the derogatory nature of the name, even in some cases going so far as to misinterpret americano as being a uniquely American way to drink espresso

Except that Wikipedia errs. I am fazed by the derogatory nature of the name. When I worked at Starbucks, I was horrified to discover that the drink named after our country was in fact basically espresso tea. I almost spit it out the first time I had a sip. It's everything that's bitter and harsh about espresso combined with everything that's boring and pointless about hot water. It nowhere near approaches the happiness that is a cup of actual coffee.

I quickly put two and two together and figured that the name probably arose from some European hotel barrista trying to approximate drip coffee for picky American tourists. And I swore that I would not perpetuate this slander, this myth that an americano bears even a passing resemblance to actual coffee. And, even worse, that my weak American taste buds can't handle real coffee unless it's diluted tenfold. And it just seems so lame, so typical to be an American ordering an americano.


And then it happened. I had been on-call the night before, delivering babies, saving lives, the usual. Okay, actually just delivering babies. I was too tired for tea. Couldn't handle the thought of another capuccino or nescafe (Israeli instant coffee) and my friend in line in front of me ordered an Americano. And against all better judgment, when it was my turn I found myself saying, "I'll have the same."

And I put a teeny bit of milk in, pretending it was normal coffee. And then, to my shock and horror. It actually kind of did taste a little bit like actual coffee. Bear in mind that I have not had actual coffee in about ten months, so my sense memory may be moderately distorted at this point. But it was kind of yummy. Not too milky, not too strong.

And this has become my drink of choice. And I cringe a bit inside every time I order it and try to use my best Israeli accent which doesn't fool anybody.

My name is T. I am an American. I am an americano drinker.
Sad.