Barcelona, Spain. International Airport. 3:05 p.m.
Standing at baggage claim, awaiting my adventure in this new country and looking forward to practicing some rudimentary Spanish that I kind of remember from high school, and as soon as I think it I find myself in this conversation:
[Enter, oldish man wearing no front teeth, chapped lips, and a blue blazer. He shuffles toward Andrea, standing at the baggage belt. And says…]
“No puedo encontrar mi equipaje.”
[No response]
“No puedo encontrar mi equipaje.”
[Startled] “Oh, um, me? Um…siento, hablo sólo un pequeño español.”
[Pause]
“No puedo encontrar mi equipaje!”
“Again, um, otra sir, no entiendo. Lo siento.”
[pause]
“Usted no es de España?”
“Nope.”
[pause]
[Louder] “No puedo encontrar mi equipaje!”
[To self] “Equipaje? What the hell does that mean?”
“Um, bags? Las bolsas están aquí.”
[Gestures to baggage belt directly in front of them.]
“No, no, usted no entiende.” [Slower and louder] “¿Dónde está mi equipaje?”
“Oh, you don’t know where your bags are? Um…”
[Points to the arrivals screen.]
“Qué aerolínea? Did you fly? Where? Donde?”
“Nueva York”
“Claro. Belt tres.”
“Gracias señora. Buenas dias.”
[Man shuffles off. Andrea is left at baggage claim flustered, but smiling.]
Conversations like this happen quite frequently when I travel to Europe. In Turkey I was asked questions in Turkish, in Greece in Greek, even in New York I’ve been approached in Italian and Spanish. I guess I look Turkish, or Greek, or Spanish, or Italian. Is it my olive skin? My brown eyes? My chestnut hair? Could be. The truth is my cultural heritage is a mix of Scottish, English and German. My family’s theory is that when the Romans conquered the British Isles during the Roman Empire, some burly Roman soldier found a Scottish milk-maid he fancied and made his love “official,” thus securing my future as a melting pot person. I like it actually. I’m proud to be an American of diverse cultural heritage.
I wonder if I’ll be mistaken for Japanese on Thursday?
The View from 11.5 