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Wherever I eat, I can usually get by with my phrase book. I’ll use it to either ask questions or decipher the menu. Well, by “usually,” I mean in Beijing.

Now in a much smaller city, where the number of tourists is extremely low (two English-speaking college students that I met on the train, laughed when I said I was coming just to visit), I’m finding that my phrase book isn’t as helpful and that I stick out severely. This was defined by my late lunch today. I ventured into a restaurant, that upon my passing I’d noticed had a picture menu. When I asked to see the menu and was told something I didn’t understand at all, I told the hostess I only spoke English. By the time I got to the last page of the menu, I had six staff members gathered around me pointing at the menu and telling me a million things (in Chinese). Taking a table, a new group of four staff members gathered round and listened while I tried to order a doufu (tofu) dish. After the waitress spent five minutes asking me questions by writing them on paper, she finally went to fetch someone else. The waitress she brought over spoke great English, and I easily ordered what I’d been eyeing. But it was too late; I was already the spectacle of the restaurant. The table next to me kept staring and talking about me through the entire rest of their meal. As they left, one of the two women kept watching me even as she walked through the door.

The whole incident brought me back to my first year in LA. Back then, some friends and I had celebrated someone’s birthday at the racetrack in Inglewood. After the races (and a free, nostalgic Spin Doctors concert), we decided to stop at a local Latino bar. When our car full of non-Latino teachers strode into the dark room, every person stopped what they were doing to stare at us. It was no exaggeration to say that the music skidded to a stop. There was literally a moment of dead air as we made our way to the bar and Shania Twain replaced the Spanish-language music that had played before our entrance. We were stepping onto their territory and were quite the spectacle, but they still tried to make us feel welcome. Soon a little Mexican dude approached our group and asked me to dance. I obliged, smiling. Dancing with him, I felt like I was in middle school again (we danced with his hands on my hips and mine on his shoulders, and he was a good three inches shorter than me), but it was still OK.

Later, the birthday boy, who knew I usually ignore guys who hit on me (or pretend I don’t speak English), said, “That was really cool of you to dance with him.” I told him, that it was kind of fun, but moreso, I felt a bit like I had to. We were the outsiders coming in, and I knew that the first interaction with someone from our group had to be good. I represented us all.

And that’s how I felt again today. Although a part of me wanted to stare down the other guests staring at me, I knew I shouldn’t. It’s obvious they don’t see Americans here often, and however I act will be a large part of their idea of who we are. So even though I’m treated like a freak with three heads, I have to smile and be courteous and let them stare. But at least I didn’t have to dance with anyone today.

Back when I was a wee little college freshman (see right), I was often approached by Chinese foreign exchange students. Apparently, my small-town style was similar to their Chinese fashions. In Mandarin, they would ask me questions that I couldn’t understand for the life of me. After a few months at MU, though, I chopped off my waist-length hair, decided to wear makeup every day, and discovered boot-cut jeans. After these minor transformations, the questions stopped.

That is until I started planning for this trip. From the get-go, I’ve been mistaken for a Chinese gal. The Seven jeans, Hollister shirt, and American passport weren’t enough for people to question my lack of language skills. At China’s embassy, the visa officers spoke to me in Mandarin until my blank look and, “Um, hi! How are you today?” gave me away.

And now that I’m in China, nobody will believe that I don’t speak Mandarin. On my Air China flight over here this morning, the attendant and I kept playing the “You speak in Mandarin, and I’ll speak in English” game. Which seemed bizarro to me considering she obviously understood me and she spoke great English to the American chap sitting next to me.

And despite 30 minutes of confusion and nearly 10 phone calls to information lines because I only spoke English, my taxi driver –whose English was limited — still couldn’t believe I was American. When I pulled out my phrase book to point that out to him, he shook his head exclaiming, “I thought you were Chinese!” Which is exactly how everyone I’ve run into here has perceived me.

Now, I knew I would have to learn some Mandarin, but hearing about most Americans’ trips to China, I assumed I would learn “How much?” and “Where is…?” Instead, I’m taken back to my freshman year of college, and my first phrase of mastery (which I must greet everyone with) has been “I’m American.” I had no idea this trip would make me so freakin’ patriotic.