Nepal? Really?
"Where are you from," asks the guy.
For Pete's sake, just lemme pay for the damned sammich and get out of here. I'm having a crappy day.
"A little town nobody's ever heard of called Gatesville," I tell the guy, impatiently. I know the sandwich is going to be $5.04, and I have exact change.
"No," says the guy, and I struggle not to roll my eyes.
I know it's weird, but I hate telling people I'm Italian. Suddenly their eyes light up, because hey, it's Italy, it's popular, it's supposed to be filled with romance and intrigue. Populated with people who are smooth like James Bond, connected like the Godfather, and who all cook like Emeril Legasse (I hate that guy). So if they find out I've got Italian heritage, you get this:
- Some guy asks where you're "from."
- You tell him of a place he's never heard of, but it is inconceivable to him that you had the gall to emerge from your mother's womb in Gatesville, Texas
- So then he says "No, where are you really from?"
- and when you play his little game and say "Italy," it's inevitably followed with something like
a) "Oh, I love Italian girls" or
b) "Hey, I know an Italian guy in Oregon named Mario, do you know him?"
to which the only proper responses are
a) "Hang on, I'll get you one; what size?" or
b) "Yes, yes, I know Mario, I'll say 'what's up' to him for you at the next conference."
"No," says the guy, and I struggle not to roll my eyes. Then I take the trouble to actually focus them and see the cashier is oriental, I'd guess Korean (I'd guess wrong), which startles me. Usually they get that shit all the time, too. He smiles politely. "What I mean is, what is your origin?"
South Asian and with a slight British accent, this guy ain't the type that normally asks you this question. Slightly disarmed, I say "My grandparents are from Italy."
"Oh," he says. "I was sure you were from Nepal."
"What?" I say.
"That is why I asked," he explains. "I am from Nepal, and you look very much like you are from Nepal."
I take a hard look at the guy and crinkle the sides of my mouth. Even adjusting for our skin tones, we don't look a damn thing alike. Then I start wondering what the hell this guy's doing working in a Subway. Sounds like he went to school and his educated inflection makes me think he could finish the New York Times crosswords well before I could. Street in Tangiers, that type of shit.
"You look very much like the people from the western hill region of Nepal," he explains. "You look very, very familiar to me." By the way he says it, it's clear he doesn't mean I look like someone specific he knows, but that I look the part. "I was sure you were a countryman of mine," he adds, smiling again.
"The western hill region of Nepal," I say, almost dreamily, suddenly forgetting about my sandwich.
"Yes," he says. "They have your features. You have their features."
"No kidding," I say.
"That will be $5.04," he says.
"I know," I say. I have exact change.
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Thank God I know how to alter HTML to make online invoices say what I want them to say.
------------------------
So I think I'm through with dating. I'm becoming asexual. My penis is dying the only death that doesn't end in rigor mortis.
For Pete's sake, just lemme pay for the damned sammich and get out of here. I'm having a crappy day.
"A little town nobody's ever heard of called Gatesville," I tell the guy, impatiently. I know the sandwich is going to be $5.04, and I have exact change.
"No," says the guy, and I struggle not to roll my eyes.
I know it's weird, but I hate telling people I'm Italian. Suddenly their eyes light up, because hey, it's Italy, it's popular, it's supposed to be filled with romance and intrigue. Populated with people who are smooth like James Bond, connected like the Godfather, and who all cook like Emeril Legasse (I hate that guy). So if they find out I've got Italian heritage, you get this:
- Some guy asks where you're "from."
- You tell him of a place he's never heard of, but it is inconceivable to him that you had the gall to emerge from your mother's womb in Gatesville, Texas
- So then he says "No, where are you really from?"
- and when you play his little game and say "Italy," it's inevitably followed with something like
a) "Oh, I love Italian girls" or
b) "Hey, I know an Italian guy in Oregon named Mario, do you know him?"
to which the only proper responses are
a) "Hang on, I'll get you one; what size?" or
b) "Yes, yes, I know Mario, I'll say 'what's up' to him for you at the next conference."
"No," says the guy, and I struggle not to roll my eyes. Then I take the trouble to actually focus them and see the cashier is oriental, I'd guess Korean (I'd guess wrong), which startles me. Usually they get that shit all the time, too. He smiles politely. "What I mean is, what is your origin?"
South Asian and with a slight British accent, this guy ain't the type that normally asks you this question. Slightly disarmed, I say "My grandparents are from Italy."
"Oh," he says. "I was sure you were from Nepal."
"What?" I say.
"That is why I asked," he explains. "I am from Nepal, and you look very much like you are from Nepal."
I take a hard look at the guy and crinkle the sides of my mouth. Even adjusting for our skin tones, we don't look a damn thing alike. Then I start wondering what the hell this guy's doing working in a Subway. Sounds like he went to school and his educated inflection makes me think he could finish the New York Times crosswords well before I could. Street in Tangiers, that type of shit.
"You look very much like the people from the western hill region of Nepal," he explains. "You look very, very familiar to me." By the way he says it, it's clear he doesn't mean I look like someone specific he knows, but that I look the part. "I was sure you were a countryman of mine," he adds, smiling again.
"The western hill region of Nepal," I say, almost dreamily, suddenly forgetting about my sandwich.
"Yes," he says. "They have your features. You have their features."
"No kidding," I say.
"That will be $5.04," he says.
"I know," I say. I have exact change.
------------------------
Thank God I know how to alter HTML to make online invoices say what I want them to say.
------------------------
So I think I'm through with dating. I'm becoming asexual. My penis is dying the only death that doesn't end in rigor mortis.