There are lots of things I love about my father.
I love the way his old suede jacket smells like Christmas. I love the way he can make anyone laugh. I love the way he can fit my hand in one of his and make me feel safe, and warm and loved.
But I really hate the way my father speaks to foreigners.
For one thing, he starts to act out everything that he's saying with large hand gestures, like he's playing a game of charades--regardless of whether or not they speak English. Next, he adopts this accent that can only be described as foreign: it sounds like a cross between Ranjeed the cab driver from How I Met Your Mother and a Tunisian fisherwoman. Even worse he starts to speak in the colloquial diction of a Pakistani street peddler: "Come here, my friend! What can I do for you today?"
Now my father does a lot of offensive things. For the past four days he's been walking around in a big black Jack Daniels cowboy hat that he bought in the Houston airport. Even in France, he speaks to all waiters in Spanish and orders french fries with every meal. But this isn't like any of those things: he has no idea he's doing it.
I'm not sure if the switch is flipped after he hears someone is not American or after he hears them speak in an accent, but once he gets going it's impossible to hold a conversation with him. The foreigner in question isn't quite sure what he's saying--they just know that they should be offended.
At home, this isn't an issue most of the time; (with the exception of the time an unfortunate party planner sat my father next to a Swiss couple at a banquet and they asked to switch tables. Mistakes were made), but here in France it's quickly becoming a big problem.
It all came to head Saturday during our D Day tour.
We had been driving for half an hour or so when our tour guide, Catherine, pulled into the parking lot of a small church.
"There was a paratrooper who landed here, and they have made a memorial for him inside," she explained yanking up the parking break. "I want you to see it."
As we got out of the car, she pulled me aside.
"Listen, have you been to Europe before?"
I nodded.
"Well, here, at a lot of the churches they are kind of...old fashioned, especially at the smaller ones like this. Usually most people are sure to wear pants or a long skirt."
I looked down. Thinking that, during our "D Day beach tour" we would be spending time on beaches, I had worn shorts. She smiled at me.
"Don't worry about it, you didn't know! But there is an old priest here who is a little...how you say...cuckoo? And he is big into modesty. He can be a bit grouchy, so we'll just make sure he doesn't see you, OK?"
We hadn't been in the church for more than five minutes when a cloaked man came out from behind the alter. Catherine turned to me, eyes wide, and started to shoo me away. I tried to hide behind a 1,000 year old pig sclupture, but it was too late. The priest had already seen me.
He turned, and made a beeline for our guide, berrating her in very angry French.
Then he turned to me, paralyzed behind the pig, and violently shook his cruicifix in my direction.
"Harlot!" he spit out. (In case you didn't know, "Harlot" is French priest for "knee flaunting skank").
It was a this point that my father, unaware of my recent condemnation, decided to interject.
"Bonjour, my friend! Ve are de Amer-aca! Yew 'ave ah bea-u-diful church, heare!"
Maybe he did it intentionally: sacraficing himself to distract the priest from me, but I seriously doubt it. He was very confused when Catherine hussled us the hell out and dropped an extra five euro in the donation basket at the door.
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