On the way home, after weeks of traveling, we had become accustomed to receiving a blank response when we answered the question of where we were from.  Perhaps that was why I wasn’t prepared for the response in a shop in the Dubai airport.  They really didn’t have shoes in my size, but insisted on trying to fit my swollen feet into sleek runners.  We had a few good laughs about those clodhoppers of mine before they asked where we were from.  And I said without thinking “Israel.”  And they responded without thinking, “Palestine.”  Were we less off balance we would have expanded our answer, “Yeah, Palestine” with Ezi’s standard “Yes, I was born in Palestine.”  And maybe we would have continued the conversation.  But suddenly everything stopped.  The salesmen suddenly found new customers and we wandered away. 

Last night as I was unpacking I realized how unusual that conversation stopper was, how many times I had replied “Tel Aviv,” and how many times the questioner from an Arab country had replied “Israel? We are cousins,” or “I am from Nablus.” 

I don’t know why this particular conversation bothers me.  I want to go back just to talk to these guys.