Kitchen Chinese Read Online Free PDF Page B

think up a Plan B that doesn’t involve expat magazines or teaching English.
    And then, on another humid, gray morning I wake to a phone call.
    “Isabelle Lee?” says a man’s voice, clipped and efficient. “Dennis Frank from the Washington Post. Got your e-mail…as it turns out we’re looking for a news assistant. Why don’t you come in this afternoon?”
    Trying to keep my hands from shaking, I scribble down the address and hang up the phone. Thank God something finally came through. I was beginning to think I might actually have to take my sister’s advice.
    A few minutes later I am tearing at my suitcase, which has stood untouched in the corner of my room since I arrived three weeks ago. I poke around, hoping to avoid unpacking for at least a few more days, and pull out…a flower-splashed bikini, a sequined top, a tweed skirt—good grief, what was I thinking when I packed? Finally, I unearth a pale linen suit and blue silk blouse. Perfect, crisp and professional. Since it’s too hot to wearthe jacket, I throw it over my arm in the manner of a jaunty cub reporter.
    Outside, I step out onto the street, dodge a herd of bicyclists wearing scary Darth Vader–style shaded visors over their faces, and hail a cab from the tangle of cars inching their way along Guanghua Lu. The car is cool, but smells strongly of stale cigarette smoke, and the cotton-covered seat feels slightly damp beneath my back, from someone else’s sweat, I realize with a grimace. As we edge along, I try to prepare for the interview. Topics to highlight: my experience at Belle , interest in journalism. Topics to avoid: getting fired.
    “Ni shi na guo ren?” says the taxi driver, breaking into my thoughts. Where are you from?
    I answer haltingly in Chinese. “Wo shi meiguoren.” I’m American.
    He removes his eyes from the road to stare at me. “No! You’re not American!” he continues in Mandarin.
    “Yes, I am!” I bare my teeth at him in a big American-style grin.
    “Americans have yellow hair and big noses. And they’re fat,” he retorts.
    “Well, I was born in America. I grew up there.” I want to continue, but my Chinese falters. I don’t know the words for pop culture or second generation, and even if I did, I don’t know how to tell him that right now China seems as foreign and indecipherable as Mars.
    “You look Chinese.”
    “I am Chinese. But I’m also American.”
    “No wonder your Chinese is so bad,” he says acidly. “You should study harder.” He snaps on the radio with an air of displeasure.
    We creep along the Second Ring Road, one of the major highways that encircle the city. I know from my guidebook that the road is built around the old city walls, and I peer out, hoping to catch a glimpse of an ancient stone barricade or crumbling watchtower, but instead see only sleek, bland high rises, dazzling and empty, and shabby cereal box apartment buildings that seem late for an appointment with the wrecking ball. Construction sites blossom on almost every block, the bright yellow cranes a splash of color against the gray sky. The air crackles with energy, excitement, opportunity, and for the first time in months I feel hope flutter in my chest. Perhaps there’s a place for me too in this brave new Beijing.
    Before I know it we’ve clattered to a stop. “Dao le,” announces the driver. We’re here.
    “Where is…the…uh…place?” I ask in my broken Chinese.
    He gestures vaguely into the distance.
    On the sidewalk, I gaze up at the blocky buildings and down at the address in my hand: 2 Dongzhimen Nei Dajie. Hmmm…the nearest building reads 43. Are we even on Dongzhimen Nei Dajie? I pull out my cell phone. Should I call Dennis Frank’s office for directions, or will that make me look like I don’t have a clue about this city? Which I don’t. I scroll through my phone, looking for Dennis’s number. Wait a second. Why isn’t his number in my phone? I could have sworn I’d programmed it into my contacts