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hear from him again.
    Downstairs, I am relieved to find one of the many Starbucks outposts that dot the city. I treat myself to a latte, in the hope that the smell of ground coffee and their familiar little wooden tables will somehow comfort me. My iced coffee tastes reassuringly familiar but does little to solve my problems. I’ve gone from being unemployed in New York to being unemployed in a country where I can’t even speak the language.
    Well, at least I can make more of an effort to study Chinese, maybe try to learn a new word every day. I dig around in my bag for my pocket dictionary. Let’s see…here are the N’s…nuclear nonproliferation… bukuofan hewuqi.
    Oh, for heaven’s sake. What the hell am I doing? I barely know what nuclear nonproliferation means in English, let alone Mandarin Chinese. I swallow the last of my cold coffee along with my pride and dial Beijing NOW ’s number on my cell phone.
     
    B arely two days later I once again regard myself in the reflective doors of an elevator. At least today I’m clean and cool in dark jeans and a crisp white blouse. After my disastrous interview with the Washington Post, I crumpled my soiled linen suit into a ball, shoved it to the back of my closet, and rejoiced when Ed said the Beijing NOW office was casual. The elevator lifts me with slow majesty to the tenth floor, where I find a portly, curly-haired man smoking next to a grimy window. He shoots me a curious glance, and I venture, “Ed Watson?”
    “Yeah, that’s me.” A sunny Australian accent warms his vowels.
    “I’m Isabelle.” A blank look crosses his face, and I quickly add, “Claire Lee’s sister?”
    “Isabelle! Of course!”
    “I’m sorry I’m late…”
    “No worries,” he says with a bemused smile. He blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and stubs out his cigarette in one swift motion. “Come on, let me show you around.”
    From the dim hall, he ushers me into a large room that’s bright with fluorescent lights and the stir of people. “The newsroom,” says Ed. “I think the mismatched furniture and scuffed walls add to the charm.” The eyes of the room glue to me, and I manage a soft “Hi.”
    “Hey mates, this is Isabelle. She’s an ABC from New York.” American Born Chinese. Ed is obviously well-versed in his expat lingo. “That’s Lily,” he says, pointing a thick finger at a slender girl in the corner, who smiles shyly before tucking a silky black strand of hair behind her ear. “She covers fashion. Gab is from New York too,” he says, nodding at an Asian guy on the phone, short sleeves hacked from his T-shirt to reveal wiry arms cuffed with tattoos. “He writes about the local music scene. His Chinese is amazing.” Gab nods briskly and smiles a hello. “Over there, that’s Tang Laoshi.” Ed gestures at a balding Chinese man with thick glasses and a stare that oozes suspicion. Teacher Tang. “He’s our censor,” Ed hisses out of the corner of his mouth.
    “And I’m Geraldine,” says a voice behind me. “Welcome,” she says with a warm smile.
    “Geraldine is our food editor and resident fashion model,” says Ed as we shake hands and I note her intriguing East-meets-West style, the Japanese-print miniskirt she’s thrown over dark jeans, the thick twist of golden hair held in place by a carved red lacquer comb.
    “I’ve got a brain too, Ed,” she says with a laugh, though there’s a smooth touch of sarcasm in her voice.
    “She’s moving to the culture page,” says Ed as we move away from the center of the room to his office.
    Inside, the door closes with a flimsy snap. I perch on a one-armed chair while Ed settles his stocky bulk behind a tiny desk and eyes me speculatively. “I’m not sure how much Claire has told you about our magazine…”
    “Not a lot,” I hedge politely.
    “Basically, we’re a weekly English-language magazine for expats. We cover the local art scene, live music, new bars and clubs, restaurants. Our