Kitchen Chinese Read Online Free PDF

possible? The Claire I remember wore thick glasses and graduated valedictorian of her class. She was the first person from our high school to go to Harvard, but I don’t think anything ever erased the sting of staying home from the prom. Once she graduated from law school (Yale), her life in New York revolved around making partner at her firm and visiting our parents on the weekend. My parents constantly urged me to emulate Claire’s grades and discipline, her obedience. “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” cried my mother, casting aside my report card of straight B’s and C’s. She didn’t understand that I worked as hard at appearing effortlessly cool as Claire did at school. We both viewed the other with a mixture of envy and disdain.
    Shrugging my shoulders, I wander into the kitchen where a business card lies stark white against the black granite counter. beijing NOW magazine proclaims the logo, and below it, Ed Watson, Publisher. Chinese characters on one side, English on the other.
    I push the hair out of my eyes and sigh. Claire may have moved halfway across the world, but nothing could alter her brisk sense of order, her need to tidy everything into its proper spot. A place for everyone and everyone in her place. Her spic-and-span methods now extend to me. Apparently, I’m the mess that needs to be cleaned, the stain to scrub.
    I bury my face in my hands. I need to find a job soon—my plane ticket to Beijing used up most of my severance pay. But I didn’t come to China to work for some no-name expat rag. Abubble of resentment rises in my throat. Why does Claire constantly have to remind me that I’ll never live up to her Ivy League education?
    I leave Ed Watson’s card on the counter and stalk back into my bedroom, where I open the curtains to a smoggy gray day, turn on my laptop, and connect to Claire’s wireless. Thirty minutes of Googling turns out a bevy of e-mail addresses for Beijing’s newspaper bureau chiefs. I quickly start typing:
    Dear Simon Bank (or Mary Ellen Bates, or Kathy Woo, or Dennis
    Frank),
    I recently relocated to Beijing from New York, where I was an editorial assistant at Belle magazine. I’m interested in covering news and am wondering if you’d have time to meet to discuss opportunities at your Beijing bureau. I am a great admirer of your work at the New York Times (or Newsweek, Chicago Tribune, LA Times, Washington Post, etc.) and look forward to speaking with you soon.
    Sincerely,
    Isabelle Lee
    I fill in their e-mail addresses, attach my résumé and send off a dozen messages, crossing my fingers as they flit away.
    In the next few days I check my e-mail three, four, five, six times a day, but after a week my hope starts to fade. I wander through Beijing’s great sites, pushing my way through the crowds. Claire offered to accompany me, but her enthusiasm for the capital’s tourist spots seemed weak, and so I explore alone. At the Forbidden City, I inch into the maze of courtyards and ceremonial halls, the surrounding high walls making me feel insignificant. The sun breaks free of the pollution for the first time in nine days at the Temple of Heaven, shining with dazzlingstrength against the white marble walkways and elaborate pagodas. I tramp a steep section of the Great Wall, my legs straining with every step, until I finally survey the sweeping landscape from a stone watchtower. I stroll Tian’anmen Square’s wide concrete swaths at sunset, pausing with the crowd to watch a quartet of round-cheeked guards lower the flag. Around me people shuffle and sigh, snapping quick photographs. From the back, everyone looks the same, distilled into an indistinct black-haired head. A sudden realization shocks me: I look just like everyone else.
    After two weeks I’ve realized that silence is the new rejection letter. The fear of pennilessness hovers around me like a cloud of gnats. After three weeks Claire’s nagging about Ed has become certifiably maddening. I try to