Another Foreigner in His Own Country

Sometimes the shocks are reserved for coming home.
I’m an American of Asian descent. Back from a year abroad, I’d just landed in New York. I caught the free shuttle bus from one of the parking lots at JFK to the Howard Beach subway station. When we arrived at the station, the bus knelt with a pneumatic hiss and I struggled off, suitcases heavy with gifts, books, and a year’s living. In my wallet I had a wadded-up twenty that I’d held onto for the last twelve months, anticipating my arrival back in the States. But the MetroCard machines weren’t taking bills.
I asked the man in the glass booth for change.
He sighed. “Do I look like I’m here to give you change?” he asked.
“Well…,” I began, taken aback. There were piles of coins on the counter in front of him.
Before I could explain, he continued, “If I went to your country, I’d make sure I had some change on me when I got off the plane.”
Welcome to New York, I thought, reaching for my passport.

Submitted by Edward Gauvin, Writer and French Translator