Hotdog

Ursula wanted to buy a hotdog at the end of a cold and windy day in Stockholm. So we stopped at the next vendor, which was staffed by a man in his 20’s. I translated the details of her hotdog options from English into French. After shivering, I tried to sympathize with the man fixing the hotdog.

“You must be cold out here all day! And you can’t even wear gloves!”

“You get used to it, and the fire helps” the vendor replied. “Are you French?”

“No, I’m from the Untied States, and she is from Chile, we live in France and teach our mother tongues, but we speak French to each other because I don’t speak Spanish and she doesn’t speak English. Where are you from?”

“Iraq.”

“I’m so sorry.” I immediately started fighting tears.

“It’s just politics.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I’ve been here a year and a half. They killed my family so I escaped Iraq.”
Ursula and the vendor exchanged the hot dog for the money. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s politics.”

The second my back was turned on the vendor I couldn’t stop crying. Ursula had no idea what was going on, and I couldn’t speak for a while. How cruel that coming to a foreign country to sell hotdogs in subzero temperatures is a life improvement. I thought it was nice of him to use the impersonal “they”. After I got back to the hostel it took several hours of quite time and journaling before I felt ready to socialize.