I’ll never understand why immigrants are so obsessed with seeking out people from their own country of origin. The priest’s wife pleaded with me to sit at the table with Russian-speaking parishioners. I did, and it was not pleasant. They are lovely people, I’m sure, but I have nothing in common with them. I don’t understand their jokes, I have no idea what they are saying. I sat there, silent and bored. Finally, an Anglo parishioner sat down next to me, and within seconds we were hooting with laughter over jicama and Honduras.
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In the words of a friend of mine, “If I had wanted to hang out with [Citizens of a Country], I would have stayed in [Country].”
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