How is it they know? I am an American. Is it my quick, tunnel-vision walk? Is it my request for decaf? Is it the white that peers from under my pant leg? Is it my t-shirt that lacks a fake jersey number? Is it my hair, cut short and without bounce? Is it my untattered edges, clean from manufacture? Is it my sunglasses, diminutive and ungarish?
How is it they know?
Even the pigeons know. They recognize an outsider. They recognize opportunity. Their aggressiveness grows. My meal, still in process, becomes the prize. I think it’s the Fanta. Pigeons love Fanta’s orange fizziness.
At first I am embarrassed that they know. And then, somehow, unknowingly, I have changed, and I am mistaken. Not always, but sometimes. Mistaken for native, for knowledgeable, for things I am not. And I realize the safe embarrassment I once enjoyed, the ease with which one escapes responsibility and consequences as an American tourist. People assume you are stupid, which is nice, because you really are, or for the safety of all, you should be treated as such.
Although back in Hong Kong now, I have several posts that I have been working on since my time in Portugal. This is one of them.
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