The waitress gazed at me, sure that I was one of them. One of the Thai. She asked me a question casually, and I squirmed on the cheap plastic chair, the plastic swaying with the motion of my body. I could feel my facial muscles contorting with unease and confusion. Her reaction was immediate, one of suspicion - tapping her foot and clicking her tongue with impatience. She, like many others, thought I was messing with her. Soon she would come to the conclusion that I was either slow or incredibly stand offish - that was the only explanation for my alien response.

"Ch?n pôot tai mâi bpe” I said, with perfect pronunciation. Her eyes became daggers. “Waht yew want owdoour?” “Gaeng Hoh” but instead of a cold reply, I smiled.

She stood there for a moment inspecting me, and I was relieved to see her eyes soften a bit as she left. As a half Thai girl who had grown up in America, it was hard to get a break. Most found it odd or infuriating that I did not know my native language. Did the contours of my face not betray my true identity? There I sat wishing that my nose were more prominent, the cheekbones higher, my eyes bigger and more round.

The waitress returned with my food, but this time she smiled. “Shpicy - verr shpicy” The care of her warning lingered - and felt more intimate than some of the full length conversations I had with those back home. The desire to look more western vanished as soon as it had arisen, and I took comfort in the fact that I wasn’t home at all.

The girls in Los Angeles could not stop talking about the most irrelevant topics - all revolving around themselves, endless dances of drama and show. Words meant nothing - they were only mechanisms to boost self assurance that the world did indeed revolve around them. I found myself trapped in a loop of endless conversation with them, chit chat about how a man should treat you, how much money you made, how so-and-so had worn her jeans the other day. The thought made me sick, and I suddenly snapped back into the world I was in presently as soon as the chiles hit my tongue. The spice was a jolt of electricity - hot yellow and orange coursing through my veins.

As I finished my dinner, my friends began to arrive. A few expats from England, and a few of my native friends. My native friends spoke little English, and the Brits and I spoke little Thai, but we did not need to converse that much. As we raised our shot glasses together, we also transcended above the spoken word - a bond of mutual understanding and care formed by the arching of our arms. We were here - in Chiang Mai, bathed in color and life, toasting to a night of adventure and possibility.