short, dumpy, and extremely ethnic.
“Scott, the White Sox played a great game last night,” says Charlie. “I caught the box score online this morning.”
“Aren’t they cute talking about sports?” Kristin crosses her arms and gazes down at me. “I just love your top. It’s so hard to find clothes that fit me in this town. Everyone’s mini, like you!”
“Um, thanks.”
“So, what do you do in Beijing?”
“I’m the dining editor at Beijing NOW .” Her brow wrinkles in puzzlement and I add, “It’s an English-language magazine for expats.”
“Oh, there are so many of those rags I can’t keep them straight—but I’m sure it’s very good,” she adds hastily, glancing over at Charlie. “Do you write restaurant reviews?”
“Yes, and features about food, fashion, art…”
“What a great job! I’m green with envy. You make me want to quit the Foreign Service and jump right into writing.”
An awkward silence descends. Kristin bobs her head up and down with a friendly smile, but I can feel her pale blue eyes probing me.
“What do you do at the embassy?” I ask. Across the table, Charlie and Scott turn their attention to us.
“Oh, I work in the Econ section,” she says vaguely. “Anyway, we’re keeping you from your dinner. We should really get going. Charlie, we’re having a countdown meeting for Senator Allan’s visit tomorrow. I hope you can come. And Isabelle, it was nice meeting you. You know,” she leans in confidentially, but doesn’t quite drop her voice, “you should be proud of yourself. Your English is really impressive, honey.”
I look down at the floor. “Um, thanks.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “But—”
“Kristin,” Charlie breaks in. “Isabelle is American. She grew up in New York.”
“Oh!” She covers her mouth in surprise. “I just thought…because of your outfit…” She stops and shrugs. “I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“No problem,” I manage.
“Well, now that I’ve put my foot in my mouth, I really think it’s time to go.” She smiles sweetly, revealing again those large white teeth. “Good-bye.” As they turn to leave, Kristin catches my eye one more time before she walks away. The look she gives me is hard and steely, like a challenge.
Charlie and I sit down again and place crisp napkins across our laps and dutifully study the menu, but though I pretend to mull over sea bass poached in a lemongrass broth and sautéed filet mignon with black truffle jus, my mind skitters. Though I’ve only been in China for a few months, has my Americanness already been erased? Or is there another reality: that no one has ever considered me American in the first place?
“How about a drink?” asks Charlie gently. He signals to the waiter and orders a bottle of Bordeaux, and I try to compose myself in the ritual of its opening, forcing myself to concentrate as Charlie swirls, tastes, and approves.
“Cheers,” he says with a smile. “Here’s to being neighbors.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip that tastes of berries and summer skies and the slow pace of the French countryside.
“This is delicious,” I say, and gulp another large sip. “Do you know a lot about wine?”
“Just a little. I spent a year after college working in a vineyard in Burgundy.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing.”
“It was wonderful…I love that region of France. I still dream about it sometimes.”
“How could you tear yourself away?”
He grins. “I’m still asking myself. After that summer, I livedin Paris for a couple of years, working at an English-language magazine for expats, sort of like Beijing NOW. But I never had proper working papers and eventually the long arm of the law caught up with me.”
“What happened?”
“I moved back to my parents’ house in Connecticut. I heard about the Foreign Service exam from a friend and took it on a whim.”
“Have you been back to France?”
“To visit, yes, but not to live. When I was in
“Scott, the White Sox played a great game last night,” says Charlie. “I caught the box score online this morning.”
“Aren’t they cute talking about sports?” Kristin crosses her arms and gazes down at me. “I just love your top. It’s so hard to find clothes that fit me in this town. Everyone’s mini, like you!”
“Um, thanks.”
“So, what do you do in Beijing?”
“I’m the dining editor at Beijing NOW .” Her brow wrinkles in puzzlement and I add, “It’s an English-language magazine for expats.”
“Oh, there are so many of those rags I can’t keep them straight—but I’m sure it’s very good,” she adds hastily, glancing over at Charlie. “Do you write restaurant reviews?”
“Yes, and features about food, fashion, art…”
“What a great job! I’m green with envy. You make me want to quit the Foreign Service and jump right into writing.”
An awkward silence descends. Kristin bobs her head up and down with a friendly smile, but I can feel her pale blue eyes probing me.
“What do you do at the embassy?” I ask. Across the table, Charlie and Scott turn their attention to us.
“Oh, I work in the Econ section,” she says vaguely. “Anyway, we’re keeping you from your dinner. We should really get going. Charlie, we’re having a countdown meeting for Senator Allan’s visit tomorrow. I hope you can come. And Isabelle, it was nice meeting you. You know,” she leans in confidentially, but doesn’t quite drop her voice, “you should be proud of yourself. Your English is really impressive, honey.”
I look down at the floor. “Um, thanks.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “But—”
“Kristin,” Charlie breaks in. “Isabelle is American. She grew up in New York.”
“Oh!” She covers her mouth in surprise. “I just thought…because of your outfit…” She stops and shrugs. “I’m sorry. My mistake.”
“No problem,” I manage.
“Well, now that I’ve put my foot in my mouth, I really think it’s time to go.” She smiles sweetly, revealing again those large white teeth. “Good-bye.” As they turn to leave, Kristin catches my eye one more time before she walks away. The look she gives me is hard and steely, like a challenge.
Charlie and I sit down again and place crisp napkins across our laps and dutifully study the menu, but though I pretend to mull over sea bass poached in a lemongrass broth and sautéed filet mignon with black truffle jus, my mind skitters. Though I’ve only been in China for a few months, has my Americanness already been erased? Or is there another reality: that no one has ever considered me American in the first place?
“How about a drink?” asks Charlie gently. He signals to the waiter and orders a bottle of Bordeaux, and I try to compose myself in the ritual of its opening, forcing myself to concentrate as Charlie swirls, tastes, and approves.
“Cheers,” he says with a smile. “Here’s to being neighbors.”
We clink glasses and I take a sip that tastes of berries and summer skies and the slow pace of the French countryside.
“This is delicious,” I say, and gulp another large sip. “Do you know a lot about wine?”
“Just a little. I spent a year after college working in a vineyard in Burgundy.”
“Wow. That sounds amazing.”
“It was wonderful…I love that region of France. I still dream about it sometimes.”
“How could you tear yourself away?”
He grins. “I’m still asking myself. After that summer, I livedin Paris for a couple of years, working at an English-language magazine for expats, sort of like Beijing NOW. But I never had proper working papers and eventually the long arm of the law caught up with me.”
“What happened?”
“I moved back to my parents’ house in Connecticut. I heard about the Foreign Service exam from a friend and took it on a whim.”
“Have you been back to France?”
“To visit, yes, but not to live. When I was in
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