Leaving England two weeks ago, I was standing in the Ryanair check-in counter at Stansted Airport near London when the woman in line in front of me turned and said, “Isn’t that Uma Thurman over there?” She pointed to a tall, thin, blonde woman standing with two children in a separate check-in line about 25 yards away. Her question jolted me out of the panicky space my head was in as I was trying desperately to figure out if my one piece of luggage weighed over 15 kilograms. Those bastards at Ryan have a strict 15 kg per passenger baggage limit and I was pretty sure my bag was heavier than that. I have a tendency to pack too much and so had prepared carefully to stay within the weight allowance but my plans went awry at the last moment. Because of the recent attack at the Glasgow airport, security at Stansted was mega-tight and I had to stow the bottle of chardonnay I purchased at Marks & Spencer the day before in my suitcase instead of my backpack since there was no way they were going to let me on the plane with anything liquid. So there I was, carefully lifting my bag up and down, thinking, “Does it weigh more than a bag of cat litter? Will I have to give up my wine?” when that woman interrupted me with her query about Uma.

I looked over at the tall, thin, blonde woman and thought there was no way that was Uma. She didn’t look at all like:

Although, admittedly, she did look a little like:



Totally without glamour, and there was no movie star vibe. She was just a woman who may or may not have looked like what Uma Thurman might look like if she was a little tired and didn’t wear makeup or expensive clothing. And she was just standing around with two children, not with a big posse of handlers or hangers-on or anyone. No way was that Uma, and no way were those Ethan Hawke’s kids.

So what do I say to the woman asking me the question? If I say, “Um, could be but I don’t think so,” would that be rude? I didn’t want to make her feel stupid, especially since she had gone to all the trouble of including me in her big Uma sighting. I wanted to say, “I can’t tell, I don’t have my glasses,” but I was wearing my glasses. Hmm, what to say?

I must have looked very confused, or possibly retarded, because the woman, who was waiting for me to say something, looked more closely at me and said, “Er du norsk?”

Argh, I hate that question! Because then I have to say, “No, I’m American,” and you never know how a person is going to react when you admit you’re American. It’s a label that carries a lot of baggage, with different amounts for different people. Some people who sort of like Americans just see this:

Others see:

Still others:

So how would this woman, who was already suspecting I might be developmentally challenged, accept the news that I’m not Norwegian or English but American? I was about to open my mouth to find out when we heard a little commotion coming from the direction of the Uma-lady. We looked over to see, I kid you not, the Uma-lady telling an airline employee that she could “always do a karate kick” and then she did one. A good one, too. A great one. A totally awesome, “Kill Bill” karate kick.

My inquisitor and I looked at one another. “Yep, that’s her,” she said. “Absolutely. Very cool,” I said.

And then I said, “So, no, I’m not Norwegian. I’m American. Just like her.”

Very cool.