Any time I’m outside of the US, I inevitably worry that I look like an American. Sure, on balance, I love this country. But so do fat, middle-aged men on bus tours, who roam the streets of Florence or Barcelona in sweatpants, white sneakers, and “God Bless Kansas!” t-shirts. And, as a result, nearly everyone in the rest of the world looks down upon my fellow countrymen enough to provide us noticeably worse service in their cabs, hotels, shops and restaurants.

So, it was some small relief that Jess and I, while in Paris, were able to more or less blend. At least until midway into any given conversation, which inevitably went like this:

Clerk: Payerez-vous par l’argent comptant ou la carte de credit?

Me: Oui.

Clerk: [Confused pause] Payerez-vous par l’argent comptant ou la carte de credit?

Me: [Blank smile]

Clerk: Je suis desole?

Me: [More blank smile]

Clerk: Ah. [Raised, disdainful eyebrow] You are not French.

Which, as Jess pointed out, likely meant that through the (often rather lengthy) first, one-sided half of conversations, people were assuming we were French, but simply deaf or retarded.

Interestingly, they still liked us better at that point than when they deduced we spoke English.