"How can you know?" I don't know why I bother asking. From the moment our plane touched down in London, it's like there's a neon sign overhead, blinking: TOURIST, AMERICAN, FOREIGNER. I should be used to it. Except that ever since I got to Paris, I felt like maybe it had toned down. clearly not.
"Your friend tells me," he says. "My brother lives in Roché Estair."
"Oh?" Am I supposed to know where this is? "Is that close to Paris?"
He laughs, a big, loud laugh. "No. It's in New York. Near the big lake.
Roché Estair? "Wow! Rochester.
"Yes. Roché Estair," he repeats. "It's very cold up there. Lots of snow. My brother's name is Aliou Mjodi. Maybe you know him?
I shake my head. "I live in Pennsylvania, next to New York."
“Is there a lot of snow in Pennsylvania?”
I suppress a laugh. “The
