A Parisian Girl in America
“Falta,” the customs agent said as he took my passport through the window. “Do you know what that means?”
“I do not.”
“It means mistake in Spanish!” He burst into laughter, slid my passport back, and motioned for me to move through the line.
I don’t know if this was directed at me and I’d just missed the context. Perhaps it was prophetic (should I have not ordered the chicken?) Or a tactful hint? (Is my skirt is tucked into my underwear?) Or perhaps he was doling out trivia, and the next person to walk up would be offered a fact about asteroids or train engines.
Regardless, it is worth noting I’d just returned from a two week trip to countries where I struggled with that which comes most naturally to me. Equipped with only a handful of words, I misread the sign for baggage claim in Germany and wasn’t permitted back in to fetch my luggage. I didn’t need to know German to understand the security guard was furious with me. In Prague, I’d entered the wrong hotel room. In Paris, the man I was traveling with corrected my pronunciation of merci. When he accidentally let it slip that he was falling in love with me, I politely pretended not to notice.
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