I was riding on the late bus back to my house one evening in Toledo, Spain and the bus driver struck up a conversation with me and asked me where I was from.

"America," I said, eager to practice my developing Spanish skills with a native.

Oh, he knew about America, he told me, with subtle pride.

He knew the latest news about the elections (this was November, and the endless election headache had only just begun). He really liked American music. He wasn't sure if he preferred New York or Los Angeles, but he was leaning toward New York.

"I'm from Chicago," I said.

He knew Chicago — Michael Jordan and the famous lake.

One day, he confided, he hoped to move to America. He didn't want to hurt my feelings, but he didn't think he would move to Chicago. He wanted to be near an ocean. Imagine working in New York City! His eyes gleamed with the imagined glamour of his new American life.

"Do you speak English?" I asked.

Well, only a little. But he could learn, he assured me. English was the most important language to know, but it was difficult. So many confusing rules! Spanish was much easier.

We were close pals by now. I knew of his dreams and aspirations and I hadn't laughed at him; he chose to ignore my prominent American accent. We had accepted each other and the conversation was flowing smoothly. And then, as we bounced along the old streets, he ruined it all.

He turned to me with earnest eyes. "What," he asked, "do Americans know about Spain?"

I hesitated. He had made his offer, showed me what he knew, and now he waited for me to return the favor. I had to look away from his expectant face.

"Nada," I said. I stared out the window. It was true. Most Americans don't really know much about his country.

"Well, don't they want to come here and visit? Surely they must know what a beautiful place Spain is."

I didn't have the language skills to translate my emotions. I didn't know how to tell him that for many Americans, Europe meant Paris and London and Rome — and Spain wasn't usually the first stop on that proverbial backpacking trip.

Of course, some Americans travel to Spain. But few could boast a knowledge of Spain as extensive as this humble bus driver's was about my country. To know that much requires an effort that most of us aren't willing to put forth.

To some Americans, the word "Spanish" conjures up the stereotypical images of flamenco, siestas and bullfights — and those are the ones who at least have an idea. And then there are the ones who think Spanish food consists of spicy tacos, or who struggle to name even two major Spanish cities. It's not their fault; they're just citizens of the bubble that is the United States of America. Spain is far from the sole victim of our mostly oblivious nation — we know very little about a lot of countries — but living there for a semester helped me to see the reality of the situation from a Spaniard's perspective. And talking with that bus driver forced the truth on me in a way that no anti-American rant ever could.

That's exactly what strikes at the heart of the difference between an American and a Spaniard. An American can live a full and happy life and not give Spain a second thought. It's there if he wants to visit but he doesn't need to worry about it. A Spaniard doesn't have that luxury; he is acutely aware of American culture, whether he likes it or not. Our president's decisions can impact this Spaniard. If Britney Spears releases a new CD, his daughter is going to want a copy. And there's a McDonald's in every town.

The bus driver asked me again. "Don't they know what Spain has to offer?"

"The lucky ones know," I thought. Aloud, I said, "Most of them don't, but hopefully they'll learn more someday." Even as I said them, I realized how awkward and useless my words sounded.

The truth will set you free, people say. Maybe for some of us. But when I realized such an unsettling truth about my country, I wondered if that saying is accurate. I felt less free than ever when I realized how self-centered my American views had rendered me; if anything, I felt like a captive. I saw the expression on that bus driver's face when I told him that the majority of Americans gave little thought or concern to his homeland, and my stomach turned with the resulting empty air as I attempted to make amends for my country. The remainder of our conversation was strained, and I left the bus quickly.

I don't think I wanted to know that truth about the place where I lived, and I knew I would never look at America with quite the same rosy optimism.

The opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.

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