I Dream of Samosas
A group of friends, including my sister, were gathered at an Indian restaurant in India. We sat at a long table, and the restaurant was sort of family style.
We were having problems overcoming the language barrier, and I was upset with how my friends were treating the wait staff. I felt a terrible anxiety that we were being viewed as stereotypical American tourists by the staff and the others in the restaurant.
One woman in the group had been living in India for a month. I don’t know her in my waking life, but she still seemed familiar. She wore glasses and her long black hair was densely curly. I was going to tell her that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t had a samosa during my trip to India, but I thought the better of it. I thought the statement would make me sound ignorant.
At the end of our dinner, I was left to settle the bill. I was handed a disorderly stack of checks and cash to give the waitress as payment, but the checks were written for odd amounts that were very difficult to add.
I wonder if this would be covered under Obama’s health plan.
