But then there was a sudden reversal. A smiling young man in a white Armani shirt came up to our table and introduced himself: “Hi, I’m David from Murska Sobota. I was so happy when I heard you speaking our language.” Then we began to talk; he said he had landed in Mexico City a month before, he was traveling from south to north, in a few days he would be flying out of San Francisco back to Slovenia. David had said he was happy to hear us speaking “our language.” That language of ours was one of those spoken in Yugoslavia. But that country had long since fallen apart. In our shared country, David’s language, Slovene, had also been “ours.” Once, long ago, there was a world in which we called different languages “ours.”

Whenever I’m in the company of strangers and speak in a way that reveals my Slav accent, the question follows: “Where are you from?” I always reply politely. It’s very important to me that I say exactly where I’m from, and explain where that place is in case the person I’m talking to has never heard of my country (“in Europe, near Italy”). I suppose that’s a need in me to feel accepted for what I am. Furthermore, I have a belief in the importance of conversation, something sacrosanct that comes from a conviction that there is beauty in our remaining in the memory of strangers, particularly when we first meet, knowing we’ll never see them again. Showing one’s true identity means showing myself the way I really am; I want to be sincere. But what does sincerity mean? People gladly engage in conversation not out of mere curiosity, but from caution. They aren’t interested in who you are, they want confirmation that you’re normal and don’t represent a threat. That’s the sincerity in you that interests them. They’re afraid.

I found a fallen eyelash under your lower left eyelid and picked it up, holding it between my fingers, but you were tired and refused to imagine a wish and didn’t want to blow at my fingers. We developed this ritual in your earliest childhood: whenever we found a fallen eyelash, one of the two of us would hold it tightly between our thumb and forefinger, and then we would each blow—three times, taking it in turns, our eyes closed, each imagining a wish. Then we would choose, and if you guessed the finger the lash had stuck to, you had the right to have your wish come true. The lash would be carefully tucked under your shirt collar or pajamas, beside your heart so as not to be lost, to be close to you, so that your dream could come true. Those were the rules. But if you guessed wrong, then the lash would be mine and slipped inside my shirt to serve my wish. I ask: “Do you remember any of your wishes? And if you do, did any of them ever come true?”