Dag Vandag!

A young man approaches me on the street, brisk and enthusiastic, with a clipboard in his hands. I wait patiently as he sputters his schpiel in Dutch, then the usual: "Sorry," and a point to my mouth, "English only." He nods but is not listening to details. "English and what?" he says, not grasping my cues: darting eyes and shifting feet. "English only," I repeat. He nods again. "British?" I laugh. "No, American." He smiles now. "Ah, America," he says in a sing-song voice. He clutches his clipboard to his chest, his eyes slightly gazing. "I have family there you know," he continues. "Florida...or Iowa. Where are you from?" "Texas," I respond. Time is lost but I don't care anymore. He faces me now, his eyes narrowing. "Then how come I don't hear your cowgirl accent?" he says, his own voice thick and his smile sly. On some of us it is lost, I think, so I just shrug and back away.