For America. What the bartender assumed I wanted when I ordered una cerveza. It was probably a result of the 30 or so frat daddies in training that had walked in right before us, asking for the same thing. They were all congregating in the corner, chugging their beer (but being careful not to spill any on their polo shirts or khakis). After 20 minutes, they finally got the nerve to approach my friends and I and asked in a thick southern accent, “Hablas espanol?”. When we answered and asked them were they were from, they said “Wow! You’re english is so good.” They had thought we were Spanish.

On a similar note. The other day, a very attractive Spaniard approached me asking where Plaza de Alfafa was. So I gave him directions en espanol. I have no idea if my directions were correct, but I used my a la izquierda’s and a la derecha’s como un jefe. 

Oh, and the other day at Cadiz, these Mexicans that were sitting near us thought I was Mexican. Bam. I told y’all I had latino blood in my veins (in addition to tiger blood).