“You are a star!” The pretty customs girl clutches my passport as tightly as a winning lottery ticket. “Ici!” She shoves it in her partner’s face, at once their eyes bright, a flurry of French between them.
It is seven in the morning and my mullet is at its apex of ridiculousness. I am also wearing three outfits at once, unable to fit the nearly eighty six dresses I bought into a borrowed suitcase. Perhaps they think I am the lost Olsen. A third, slightly taller, far more homeless-looking one.
“Ah, no. Non, mademoiselle. Je suis une…um…” My accent rolling the words like marbles. “No, I’m not.”
“Oui!” She can’t, she won’t, believe it.
I sign a napkin, imagining the scenario later.
To her friend or confused mother, shaking their heads, incredulously agreeing that stars just aren’t what they used to be...famous for not being famous now, on top of everything else.