As I stood at the bus stop in the cold Berlin rain, a middle-aged man nearby casually tossed a question my way, like he already knew me, like I wasn’t just another stranger waiting for the bus.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I replied, my tone distant. He’d spoken Mandarin, asking, “Do you know when the next bus is coming?” But I wasn’t about to reveal that I understood. It was my last day in Berlin, the bus to Tegel Airport was late, and my frustration was amplified by the assumption this Chinese national—like many others I’d met on my travels—made, that I spoke his language because of how I looked.

I could sympathize with the instinct to seek out something familiar in a foreign land—when I travel alone, my eyes are also drawn to anyone who looks Asian. But just like a Caucasian might be French, German, or Swedish, someone with East Asian features could be Korean, Vietnamese, or even a local who doesn’t speak the language they’re “supposed” to speak. In China, such assumptions are natural (Koreans think I’m one of them too), but here, in Europe, it feels both rude and reductive to assume that everyone who looks like you is part of the same cultural group.

Most of the time, the Chinese travelers I encounter are polite, simply asking for directions. Yet, there are moments when they seem to expect solidarity—like we should band together in this foreign land because we’re all huárén, Chinese people. It’s that Sinocentric assumption that irritates me most. Yes, I’m ethnically Chinese, but I’m also proudly Singaporean.

I recall a recent trip to Zhejiang, China. My companions and I stopped in Haining, known for its wholesale leather malls. We were advised to haggle aggressively but warned that the ethnic Chinese among us wouldn’t get the best deals. And sure enough, while one of us paid 160 RMB for a bag, an Indian woman got the same bag for half the price—80 RMB—after the seller started at 800 RMB.

You’d think that being huárén would offer some kind of advantage, but no. When I walked away during negotiations, the shopkeepers would shout after me angrily: “You should be more sincere!” “That’s unreasonable!” “Good riddance, you’ve wasted my time!”

I couldn’t help but wonder—what if I had pretended to be Korean instead?