Hot dogs

The other day at work, when I was walking to my afternoon school, I went through the courtyard, where a bunch of kids were playing.  A few of them said, “Hello!” to me, since they all know I’m an English teacher.

One girl in particular asked me my name.  When I told her, she said, “Moi aussi je m’appelle Sarah!”  Her name was Sarah, too.  I asked her if it was “avec” or “sans” “h”, and she said it was with.  Just like mine.

In French, she asked me, “Are you English?”

Non, Américaine,” I replied.

“AMERICAINE!!!” she exclaimed.  She was so excited I was an American.  She then said, “WOW, vous avez de la CHANCE d’être américaine!”  You’re so LUCKY to be an American!  That made me laugh.

And then she asked, “Is it true that Americans eat hot dogs?”

“Yes,” I replied.  “With ketchup and mustard, mmmmm.”

She seemed satisfied with my response.  She looked at me incredulously again, and was like, “You are so lucky to be American.  I would LOVE to be American.”

It’s those types of random questions that make me laugh about how Americans are seen in the world.  She didn’t say any other reasons why I’m lucky to be an American.  But to a 9-year-old, I’m at least pretty lucky to eat hot dogs.  And if that’s one thing it means to be an American, I’m okay with that.  I like hot dogs.  Don’t forget the pickle relish!

(Picture from Food Recipe here!)


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