Guten what?

    Apparently, I no longer look Russian... at least to some bankers.
    Apparently, I look German.
    Some background: I was standing in a long line at the bank where I'd gone to pay for Josep's school books (in Spain students have to buy their textbooks.) When it was finally my turn I stepped up and the man behind the counter looked at me, smiled and said, "Guten Tag."
    Without thinking I replied, "Guten Tag."
    He smiled again and quickly launched into a story that had something to do with Bavaria (the only word I understood) and so I asked him if he spoke English.
    He frowned.
    "You are not German?" he asked.
    "No, American," I said.
    "You don't look American," he said.
    "I am," I said. "From Florida."
    He looked incredulous.
    "No," he said.
    "Yes," I replied.
    "You don't sound American," he said.
    I didn't know quite what to say about that so I said nothing, just sort of stood there with a stupefied look on my face.
    "I mean," he said, "you don't have an American accent. You speak standard English, as they taught us in school. Not like Americans."
    I am the product of an American public school and state college education and, though I've traveled a lot, I lived in the United States for nearly 66 years before moving here in May. Because of that, I wasn't sure what he meant.
    "Are you British?" he asked. "Do you just live in Florida?"
    "No, I'm American, born and raised," I said. "Honestly."
    He shook his head again as if resigned to play along in a game that he didn't quite understand.
    "Okay, what can I do?" he asked.
    I explained that I was there to pay for Josep's books by depositing money into his school's account whereupon I would get a receipt that we could later turn in to actually get his books.
    "Which school does your son attend?" he asked.
    "Well," I said, "he's not my son but his mother is working in New Zealand until the end of the month and so..."
    He stopped me.
    "So, you are buying books in Spain for someone who is not your son and whose mother is in New Zealand and you're an American..." he said. "From Florida."
    Okay, so I admit, when put like that it did sound a little weird somehow.
    I nodded.
    He looked at me then turned to a colleague and said something in rapid-fire Catalan.
    His colleague shrugged and said something that corresponded to, "just take the money and give him his receipt."
    He sighed.
    "Which school?" he asked.
    I told him.
    "That's 280 Euros," he said.
    I handed him 300 Euros.
    He sighed, took the money, gave me 20 Euros in change and then rapidly filled out a form in triplicate. He stamped it, gave me one, filed one for the bank and filed the other for the school.
    "Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.
    "No, thank you," I said and turned to leave.
    "You're American? For real?" he asked.
    "For real," I said and went out, across the street and into the one Dunkin Donuts shop in Reus.
    "Classico xoxo, una grande cafe con leche, sisplau," I said.
    (Roughly, that means a chocolate-covered donut and a big coffee with milk please.)
    The woman behind the counter smiled and said, in English, "anything else?"
    I smiled back.
    "No," I said, "that's all I need right now."