I like being mistaken for people or things that I’m not. Like a week and a half ago at Rachid’s wedding—all of his wife’s visiting relatives referred to me as “Pastor” and asked me to say a prayer at the beginning and another before we ate. Later on when they had some dancing, I was outside talking to some of the relatives when Rachid’s mom sidled up to me and said, “What, pastors can’t dance?”, pulling me in for a slow song. Moms can’t resist my clerical hottness.
It reminded me of a time when I was walking down the street by the beach in Salvador, Brazil a few summers ago, wearing my Palmeiras soccer jersey (they’re a soccer team from São Paulo). A guy who was parking cars waved at me all friendly-like, and came over as if he wanted to talk to me. After all the normal warm baiano (person from Bahia, the state Salvador’s in) greetings that even strangers get, he complimented me on my shirt and asked me if I wanted to trade. He said he had a
Now, mistaking me for a priest or a pastor is funny and makes for a good story, but mistaking me for a Brazilian? This fella knew his way to Rolf’s heart.
I still didn’t give up my jersey, though.
2 comments:
You know, there's actually a clinical term for that clerical hotness mom's can't resist. Homiliphilia: becoming aroused by the giving or hearing of sermons. I kid you not. My professor used to read some of these lesser known paraphilias out to us after our sex therapy term tests. And after he read that definition, someone exclaimed, "Can I hear an amen!"
Dude, it's because you've gone seriously native. In a good good way. Virou brasileiro!
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