In a second attempt to befriend my American journalist housemate, I waited around to eat with her after the house cook brought in a huge pile of rice, entire chicken, soup and salad (the latter of which I avoid while my stomach acclimates). Finally she appeared, said Hey, ladled half the soup into her bowl, and disappeared back into her room to type and make phone calls. I sat at the dining table alone and ate. A few minutes later she returned and, in the 15 seconds during which she fixed a place of rice and chicken and grabbed a diet coke, grumbled that she was supposed to have her farewell dinner with friends tonight but an emergency story has come up and there goes her last evening in town. I've never once sat at that table, she said of the dining table as she walked away. Minutes later she was on her cell again rushing out to let someone she's now interviewing into the guesthouse. Perhaps I did right choosing grad school over journalism.
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