I hadn't heard what Tone had said. This must have been clear, because she repeated herself.

"What?"

"I can't dress like this for a former model!" Her words finally worked their way through her accent. Tone's english was perfect, I simply hadn't understood her. She hurried off to go dress before explaining and I, lounging on the couch while gazing lazily at the tv, decided to stay where I was. Maybe that would mean something to me later on in the evening, maybe not. I doubted the relevance, to be honest.

The life span of my television watching abruptly came to expiration, as do most things that require my attention, and I drifted about the house in search of something to do. I went out to my Aunt's beautiful back yard, complete with manicured hedges and a view of the fjord, and jumped on the trampoline for a bit. Thia, my darling cousin, came out to join me and we instead began a fierce badminton competition.

We whittled away the hours until my cousins disappeared and I was once again at my leisure on the couch. A conversation in the hallway found it's way to my spot on the couch:

"Emilie, stop eating all those sweets, we eat in 10 minutes."

"But we're having company, and it always takes forever to get to the food when company is over."

"Emilie!"

The conversation continued but was busy working its way to the other side of the house, away from my unconcerned ears. I caught the words 'work', 'client', "Persia". I sat up as the sound of a light bulb turning on resounded through my mind.

Dearest reader, you must understand: I am vain. I don't try to deny this, and I certainly don't apologize for my overt acknowledgment of such, but you should know that it's rather extreme. The only thing I hate more than Yanni is a woman who is better dressed, better connected, or better looking than I. I take all possible measures to avoid said encounters. Hence my speed as I rushed to the bathroom to make myself beautiful.

I went for the painstakingly natural beauty look. Foundation, light powder, no eye makeup except for the liquid eyeliner I applied to the backsides of my lashes to conceal the use of powder, a soft gloss on the lips. I let my hair down, threw on some casual clothing, and went upstairs.

My first reaction was annoyance with myself. I knew she would be older, but why was I competing with a 40 year old Persian American? I'm with family a million miles away from anybody I really need to impress. I need to get over myself.

Natalie was incredibly polite, and smiled widely while introducing herself. I did likewise, while happily glancing down at her expensive but regardlessly horrible jeans, the trendy magenta sash she had thread through belt loops, the plummeting neckline of her shirt and the birkenstocks. Her skin was incomparably flawless, but her only particularly striking feature was the darkness of her black hair. Though cordial and somewhat affable, her haughtiness shone through her like a flame behind fine silk that felt no need whatsoever to hide. A select few have said the same about me, and I deny this blatantly apocryphal tidbit with the same vigor Bush has shown in liberating Iraq. Rubbish.

Emilie was correct in the annoyance she had displayed earlier; the group fiddled about with introductions and small talk before sitting down to eat 25 minutes later. Little did I know I would find intrigue along with food when dinner finally came around. Natalie was positively fascinating, a big city socialite through and through. The fact that she had been a drama major came as no surprise, and her incredibly intelligent way of speaking robbed her degree from Oxford of any surprise it would normally harbor as well. I was impressed to hear of her scholarship from NYU and Oxford, though merely annoyed with her name dropping and the casual comments about the ease in which she found herself into Wolfgang Puck. She had been traveling the world since she was 17, going to school, doing documentaries, writing. All in all, she was fascinating.

I sat a little taller at that meal. When an American visits a foreign country, one of two things normally happens: either the traveler is true to form, bustling about in the haughty, proud way of American civilization, turning noses at inconveniences and the lost benefits that sit solely in the states, or either plays it low, almost embarrassed of his or her homeland, marveling at the country and the beautiful simplicity of the single bathroom. I act in the latter way. Natalie, it was clear, was quite fond of the former type of behavior.

" I swear to God, it's as if manicures are against the national religion here. In Hollywood you can get one for $7 while waiting at the stop light. New York is more expensive, naturally, but a remarkable salon is always near by if you're willing to fund such pampering...

....I miss wearing heels. In Rome, and Venice, London, Paris, everywhere else in Europe a pair of stunning Manolos are mandatory, but here they're impractical...

...Why Eric, this fish is positively amazing. It reminds me of my favorite dish from the Essex House...."

Her ostentation revolted me at times, yet surprisingly enough everyone else at the table raised eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. They had better things to worry about then Masa in New York; they were sensible people and would have found such silly places to be pathetic. I wondered, then, why she bothered to drop the names of the most exclusive restaurants and clubs in LA in New York to a table full of unconcerned Norwegians.

She was well traveled, and in many ways just what I want to be. Already, I thought, at 17 I've acquired the tact she is in such desperate need of. I glance down once again at the shirt stretched across her chest and noted I also have taste. She started to talk about her jewelry line and burst out in exclaim at her newest idea (Sandals with a 4 inch transparent heel in the shape of an icicle that light up when you walk). I laughed at my sudden desire to choke on my salmon.

Natalie left after hugging everyone, calling them by name, offering insightful comments that reflected on what they said during the meal. I was thoroughly impressed with her courtesy that extended beyond propriety, that almost made you feel like she cared. I was impressed with the fact that not once did she use the word "fabulous", but rather found adjectives that were actually relevant and original. I was impressed with the way she positively refused to cut anyone out of the conversation, and, when such action did occur, the way she promptly leapt back with a "what were you saying? The tribal civilization interested you because...."

Those around me were impressed with the posh way she mused about wine, even though she was far from the connoisseur. They were impressed with the fact that she owned her own jewelry line, though it sounded tacky and badly designed. They were impressed with her condescension, though she would do well to forsake it. They were impressed with her self proclaimed obsession with clothing, though she dressed horribly.

Her company adored her. They marveled at the work she had done, which I'll admit, was impressive, but also smiled when she dallied on about the 'vast cultural wasteland' that was the space between LA and New York. I could see it in the faces of those who listened to her haughty laugh and watched her gold jewelry flicker in the candlelight: they admired her. True, she found ways to amaze, but mostly, the admiration was for her distinctly American personality. Their eyes glimpsed down when they heard mention of the manicures they never felt need for and thought of their different, simple country.

I was perplexed; a month and a half I had spent applauding their lifestyle, marveling at the wonderful food and the slow pace, all while leaving the bustling culture of the states behind in muffled apology. Why is it that this woman, as well read and captivating she momentarily allowed herself to be, has made such a wasteful lifestyle en vogue for me once again?

To be honest, it felt wonderful. It felt great to be a Yankee, to proudly parade about in clouds of excessive technology and ignorance, too oblivious to realize I was starving myself for air. I felt trendy again. Perhaps everyone is quick to admire the panache and pomp of a culture, despite its present standing in the world. I come from the land of extremes; it's easy to make those around you gleam with envy if you illuminate the positive side zealously enough. I wonder why I've never favored the zealous propagation that could make my land the envy of those around me. I'm not shy, nor am I modest, so why am I the one in a state of awe while abroad?

More importantly, I suppose: is this wisdom or naïvety?