As a black woman living in Europe I have been mistaken for a prostitute more times than I can remember. Enroute to Morocco, I decided to stop over for a few days in Barcelona.
One of my friends from the States was on a round the world tour and we happened to be in the city for a few days. Looking for any excuse for a party, he also convinced another mutual friend to meet us. So there I was in the beautiful Barcelona with two white dudes from California. While strolling down a busy promenade all three of us playfully had our arms linked.
I was in the middle, naturally: enjoying the warm night air and the company of two friends while laughing my head off. We were interrupted by a stout man holding four cans of beer. I stepped back and took a minute to observe my surroundings. As I looked around my eyes met the faces of other black women, and when I looked beyond those faces I saw other black women in the distance, on the benches, up against buildings, all having exchanges with men.
While trying to check in for a flight to Copenhagen, a young Danish counter agent took a vested interest into my traveling habits. I would visit Copenhagen every four weeks for regular relationship maintenance, accumulating a ton of passport stamps.
On examination of my passport the counter agent asked me what kind of job did I have that I could afford so many flights to Copenhagen.
