Some travellers aspire to blend in when they venture overseas. You know the type -- they devour phrasebooks by the dozen, study local customs and dress in a way they hope will not signal them as a tourist. I am the complete opposite. When I travel, I aspire to stick out like a sore thumb; I want to scream ``visitor'' from every pore. Because when I travel, I always tend to blend, sometimes with bizarre consequences.
The trouble started early. As a four-year-old at Mexico City airport, a uniformed man looked at me, at Mum, shook his head and said: ``Madam, you can go, but this little senorita, she must stay.'' Although I have very dark hair and eyes, thanks to a distant Celtic background, I also have a broad Australian accent and, at that time, was sporting a novelty sombrero. Even so, the authorities were convinced I was a Mexican child being abducted from her home country. Eventually, after tears from Mum, a flurry of paperwork and shouting in fractured Spanish, the authorities were won over and I escaped an unscheduled trip to the nearest orphanage.

At 15, I unwittingly blended again. In an Athens department store, I was set upon by a black-clad Greek granny who mistook me for a shop assistant. No matter how much I protested, she pushed her purchases, drachmas and me towards the cash register. A woman at the Acropolis insisted I was a tour guide, and got cross when I couldn't tell her the history of the Parthenon.
As an adult, it started all over again. In Turkey I was stopped constantly and asked for directions. At a hotel in Spain, I spent a week fending off requests for room service and had to explain to my fellow guests that I wasn't a member of staff. Even the real staff didn't seem to believe I was a guest and I spent days feeling guilty lying by the pool, wondering if I should get up and go to make the beds.
In Texas, I almost had another unplanned stay in Mexico when the US border patrol, looking for illegal immigrants, hauled me off a bus and demanded to see my ``papers''. In Alabama, I was mistaken for a New Yorker by an old lady. I was quite flattered until she said, ``Darlin', I just thought you were from the Big Apple 'cause you're wearing black and you talk funny.''
In Rome, a group of Italian tourists got narky when they approached me for directions. They spoke to me in Italian first and when I looked bamboozled they switched to Spanish. I held up my palms helplessly and said ``Australian''. They narrowed their eyes in disbelief and flounced off. When I left Leonardo da Vinci Airport, the guards winked and called out in Italian. I had no idea what they were on about, but couldn't be bothered explaining anymore and just muttered ``Si''.
Twenty-four hours later, I landed at Sydney airport. I collected my bags and raced to a taxi, eager to get home. Before I could speak, the cabbie turned around, smiled and said in one of those loud, slow voices usually reserved for people who can't speak English: ``Welcome to Australia, love. Where are you from?''