When I checked out, this morning in Melbourne, the clerk said, “You’re Dutch, yes?” The man — from Calcutta — who sat next to me on the plane to Christchurch said he would have guessed I was “anything but American.”

In the airport, at security, this scene: My clothing line is being confiscated. Possible weapon. Helpful security woman explains. “We even take plastic toothpicks.” My eyebrows raise. She says, “Straight in the jugular” and makes a short, expressive jerk with her hand toward her throat. Says, “You’re from the States. You should understand.” I say, “I’m from New York, and I don’t understand.”

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