Where are you from?

I was exhausted. It was the late summer of 1987 and I had just finished eight meeting in five cities in six days. Never before nor since have I attempted such a rigorous schedule. Though productive, beneficial, and necessary the pace was simply unsustainable. I knew the trip had taken its toll. Usually I excel at name recall and personalization of discourse by using minute facts gleaned from previous interactions. This quality of recollection generally requires a genuine interest in the moment the event occurs so that the memory remains true in the recounting. Remembering correctly becomes critical because someone in your audience was also there.

In the first seven meetings I was on my game. But during the last meeting I could barely keep straight who I was. It didn't go well and it was all I could do to get out of there and get to the trains station. With joyful relief I settled into my seat for the 300 kilometer train ride home. It was already 10:30 p.m. and here was no way I was waiting to resolve my  sleep deprivation. I was going to go to sleep.

Unfortunately, I failed to purchase a ticket for a private room or a sleeper; I assumed my fellow travelers would all be interested in sleeping. I was relieved to see that everyone appeared to be a business traveler except for one family. But even that family had the children asleep before the train was underway. While my hopes were high and I had drifted into slumber, it did not last long. It was just before 11 o'clock when a gentleman, I use the term loosely, jostled my shoulder and started speaking to me.

Speaking is a bit of an overstatement. His slurred heavily accented enunciations were so jumbled that it took several moments for me to realize that he was speaking English. He was repeating over and over, "You American, No? I speak American? You American, No?" This Spaniard carried a thick Galician accent that was only coarsened by the alcohol. This was easily my worst nightmare at that given moment. I just wanted to sleep.

So what did I do. I did what many would do, I lied. I looked sleepily over and said, "Lo siento soy alemán." Which from Spanish to English means, "I'm sorry, I'm German." Thinking myself clever I was dismayed when the response came something that sounded like this, "Wunderbar, meine Großeltern sind deutsch. Wie weit reisen? Und wissen Sie, die Zeit?" The only phrase I even knew in German was useless, Das ist ein fenster. It means, this is a window.

At that point I was had, I confessed and told the man I just needed to sleep. He was drunkenly annoyed but went on his way. I felt so guilty for lying that I never did get to sleep as I replayed in my mind the things I should have done.

For future reference, if anyone asks, I'm from Iceland.