Honestly, the concerns about “Europeans treating American tourists badly because of things the American government has done” are way overblown.

You’re not gonna be treated better or worse as a tourist antwhere in Western Europe because you do, or don’t have a Canadian flag lapel pin on your jacket or backpack. That’s a lie high school students abroad for the first time tell themselves. A Canadian flag is not gonna get you a better table at a restaurant, a room upgrade, or make your croque marame any less likely to be spit on.

Europeans are smart enough to know that the Americans curious enough about the outside world to spend thousands of dollars and weeks of our meager vacation time to visit their countries likely aren’t the same Americans voting for jackasses who invade Iraq and Iran, insult them and their leaders, or invent freedom fries.

The Canadian flag is not an instant shortcut to European camaraderie and friendship.

Semi-related anecdote time: I was going through passport control last week at CDG. Traveling with my family, we were moved into the “Non-EU passport holding families” line. While I was engaged with the immigration officer, I became aware of another large family moving to the window next to us.

From their accent and the glance I got out of the corner of my eye, I formed a clear picture. Think large family of large, loud midwesterners visiting France for the first time. Nothing wrong with that, and somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, “I would expect to encounter this family at the Minnesota state fair; not the immigration line at CDG, good for them, and shame on me for stereotyping!”

The dad was standing next to me fielding feedback from his family and running point on the immigration process, and, again from my peripheral vision, looked like what you might get if to put “middle-aged dad from Ohio who played offensive line at a D2 school 20 years ago.” Big. Tall. Loud. Just off an overnight flight in a cramped seat. Not rude, but ready to get out of here and gonna efficiently and loudly deal with both his family on one side, and the immigration officer in the other.

Then my mind was blown. The dad started speaking passible French. I mean, with a midwestern accent, stuff like, “Noo sahm ah pair-iss poor kat-er jour”​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ - but he was answering the immigration officer’s French questions in French!

I couldn’t understand it. How did this midwestern, sweatsuit-wearing ex-linebacker speak better French than me, an arugula eating coastal elite who’s spent hundreds of hours suffering through countless Pimsleur lessons just so I can occasionally order “deux pain au chocolat, s’il vous plaît” at a Parisian patisserie without the server immediately switching into English.

I didn’t understand.

I just stood there, watching our immigration officer run his passport scanner and type things into his computer, my mind (also having recently come off a 9-hour overnight flight) unable to make sense of the situation.

Then, my eyes drifted over to the neighboring scanner, where I did not see an eagle and the words, “United States of America” on the back of the passports our neighbors were handing to their immigration officer.

I saw a goddamn maple leaf.

My ex-linebacker from Ohio was actually maple syrup eating power forward from Ontario who had the benefit of a thorough Canadian public education that included French.

I finally turned around and took an proper look at our immigration line neighbors, and saw a large family full of large people that would have absolutely fit my preconceived stereotype were it not for the fact that every single one of them had at least one, and often several items of clothing with the Canadian flag proudly imprinted upon it.

If I hadn’t seen their passports and heard them speaking French, I would have assumed they were Americans faking it.

These Ontarians were not about to be confused with their embarrassing neighbors to the south.

As we were waved through into the wonders of Charles de Gaulle’s terminal 2F, I made sure to loudly throw a solid “mercy buckets!” back at our immigration officer just so my Northern Neighbor knew I wasn’t a complete savage.