Café americano

She asked, "no sugar, right?"

The woman working the register at the café where I get breakfast every morning remembered that I don´t take sugar with coffee. After a moment of surprised silence, I said "¿tú recuerdas?"
She smiled with a "sí." I took the tray on which she placed the sandwhich and walked to the next station. Standing there, waiting for the coffee, I felt thrilled. Her remembering the sugar is a small thing; it´s next to nothing. But, I felt accomplished. Every time I travel, the goal is to blend into the population; to be as inconspicuous as possible. In other words, to not be a fucking obvious tourist. In that tiny moment after her question, I felt like any other madrileño wanting breakfast. That moment held an identity within which I was as Spanish as the group of suited men to the right. I was not myself: the easily intimidated American tourist who speaks Spanish as though in a seizure or recovering from terror. My skin tingled from the experience.

A few seconds later, I realised that the group of suited men to my right were staring at me; the barista was holding out my coffee with his eyebrows raised. I snapped to attention and started to speak. The barista said "American coffee?" I mumbled a tortured acknowledgement, stared at the floor, took my coffee, and walked quickly to find an empty table. Me and my American coffee.