Mistaken Identities

I was walking down an outdoor market on rue Mouffetard in Paris yesterday when I noticed a Moroccan grocer who was selling figs and raspberries. He was trying to attract the attention of tourists by hawking his wares in their native language. When he saw me, he switched from the Italian he’d used on the couple ahead of me to Spanish. “Prueba los, señorita,” he said. “Estan deliciosos.”
One of my own countrymen thought I was Spanish.
In Persian restaurants, I always get double takes from the waiters and when they start off in Farsi I have to shake my head and say sorry. Upon finding out that my name was Laila, the Turkish cashier at Trader Joe’s asked whether I was from Ankara.
A pair of brown eyes, dark curly hair, and you could be from anywhere.

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