In the beginning, the questions came with surprising consistency:
What do you mean, you’re not Australian? I thought you were from England. You sound like a Scot.
It’s noteworthy that I didn’t fool anyone into thinking I was one of them. The Aussies knew I wasn’t Australian and the Brits knew I wasn’t English. Oddly enough, the Americans believed I wasn’t American. But few were able to successfully place me or my accent.
I hadn’t planned it that way, although my newfound cultural ambiguity did give me a certain amount of pleasure. There was something romantic, adventurous, and egalitarian about being a Citizen of the World. There was also something reassuring about being an anonymous everyman, without the baggage of preconception and the insult of stereotype.
The explanation wasn’t complicated.