In 1986, my husband Randy and I took a trip to New Zealand. We spent a couple of days in Queenstown, located in a breathtakingly beautiful spot on the edge of Lake Wakatipu looking out at The Remarkables mountain range. The area's natural beauty has made Queenstown a popular tourist destination, so it was no surprise that upon arriving in Queenstown we saw many tourists, like ourselves, from around the world. We especially noticed a lot of Americans, including a group of Americans singing “If You're Happy and You Know It Clap Your Hands” very loudly in the Skyline Restaurant atop Bobs Peak and another group of Americans emerging from a tourist bus complaining loudly that New Zealand sure wasn't like America (“And you have to ask for water in a restaurant and when they bring it, it doesn't even have ice in it, of all things!”).

Sitting in The Cow, a pizza restaurant where multiple parties were seated together at each table, we heard some Americans at the next table complain that they didn't like having to sit with strangers. Shortly thereafter, our server came to our table and engaged us in a conversation. She asked us what we had seen and done in New Zealand thus far. After a pleasant conversation, she asked if we were Canadians. Since Randy and I at the time had more pronounced Minnesota accents, this question was not far-fetched, but it raised something of a dilemma.