Page 13 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Receive response that does not invite further conversation so you know that you were noticed and they are a polite person.

Go about your day.

Feigned politeness was not necessarily the best way to connect with other human beings, but it was an efficient way to get through a day.

My greatest fear—that someone would hear my accent and comment derisively—was laid to rest quickly. Most of the people we spoke to briefly in greeting either did not care about my accent or responded with delighted comments. No one screamed at me for being a foreigner.

Though I had lived in two different countries and had learned for myself that one never truly knows the culture and mood of a place unless one has spent time there, I was still shocked by my first day in the U.S. I hadn’t once been treated poorly or spoken to rudely. Not once had I seen someone with a gun strapped to their waist. I was so amazed by this, that I had to share my thoughts with Peter.

He had chuckled and said: “Oh, it’ll happen. There are some real assholes here—like anywhere else. It’s just not as common as people will lead you to believe. Of course, it’s probably more common than I’ve said.”

That sounded more like the truth than anything else I’d been led to believe.

Stereotypes about countries are neither true nor untrue. Because stereotypes are generally passed along from one ill-informed person to the blissfully ignorant. Stereotypes have no life unless it is breathed into them by those they are used to poorly describe.

I found that I wasn’t certain that anything I knew about the world was true—since truth is found in experience. And experience varies based on various factors.

But I knew for certain that any experience was better if I was holding Peter’s hand.

“I’ve never done this before,” Peter gave me a conspiratorial grin.

“Really?” I asked. “I am shocked.”

He leaned into the table and chuckled.

“I’m full of surprises.”

“I am certain that is true,” I said.

At the kitchen table in Peter’s house, we sat, sipping coffee, two empty plates between us containing the crumbs and smeared remains of our slices of cheesecake we had been saving. Since we had walked so much, we both felt we deserved a treat when we got back to Peter’s house. When I had suggested that I make coffee to accompany our cheesecake, Peter had been aghast.

“Caffeine at this hour?” he had asked.

With a laugh, I had ignored him and used his French press to make enough coffee for a small cup apiece.

“Dinner was delicious,” I said after taking the last sip of my coffee. “Thank you again.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he said. “You’ve thanked me seventeen times tonight.”

“I will say it an eighteenth time if I want.”

“Ooooh, feisty.” Peter chuckled.

He licked his finger and dragged it through the crumbs on his plate, then licked his finger clean. I smiled at his hedonistic display.

“How was your first day in the U.S.?” he asked. “Is your vacation starting off well?”

I sighed happily and sat back in my chair. “It was a perfect day.”

Peter seemed pleased with my response.

“Besides tonight—obviously,” Peter asked suddenly, “what was the best meal you’ve ever had?”

I began to speak, but he stopped me.

“And don’t mention The Lazy Duck,” he warned me, referencing the meal we’d had together in Montreal, “because that’s pandering.”

“I wasn’t even going to say that.” I turned my nose up comically. “You are full of yourself. I barely remember anything of that night.”