My sister came home from a New York City vacation all smiles because someone had asked her where they could find the high end jewelry stores.

It was a question posed to a woman whose most expensive jewels are chew beads--the soft silicone teething jewelry for moms (or, in her case, grandmoms), that she’s worn every day since the first grandchild arrived.

A woman who was likely wearing comfortable walking shoes along with those chew beads and headed to a book store rather than Barneys or Tiffany’s.

A Midwesterner who knows the difference between corn and soy beans, but almost nothing about carats.    

Being mistaken for someone who might actually frequent high-end jewelers or, at the very least, was a native New Yorker made her day.

I get it. I was stopped three times last week and asked questions while walking the streets and markets of Guadalajara.

“Where’s the nearest ATM?” “Where’s the house numbered D-4?” and “Where did you get the flowers that you’re holding?”

For someone who arrived in Mexico expecting to feel out of place and out of my comfort zone, being asked directions brings a smile every time.

It tells me that I’m not sticking out like a sore thumb. That I look like I belong. And that I might even know the answers.

It tells me what I’ve known in my heart for a while. That this place has become a home.