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I tempered my natural instinct to automatically say yes and considered the proposition. I loved having houseguests; even though my apartment was tiny, people crashed in my living room all the time. I wished I could afford a bigger space so I could offer a bit more comfort and privacy, but for most visitors, the blow-up Aerobed was perfectly suitable for a visit of just a couple of nights. An appearance by Ngawang felt heftier, though; it introduced larger concerns than my usual worries about the size of my bathroom or the lack of a private space in which guests would sleep. The trip would be long and expensive. Could I offer to subsidize it without offending, or would I be expected to subsidize it, which would be offensive to me? Ngawang would be more of a responsibility than a typical visitor, and I’d be working and not able to squire her much. And yet the prospect of showing her around Los Angeles and where I worked was exciting. It was bound to be educational and eye-opening, and for Ngawang, maybe even life-changing—the way visiting Bhutan had been for me.

I couldn’t stay in Bhutan, I rationalized, so I might as well at least bring a bit of Bhutan to me.

So I said yes. And as soon as I got back to Los Angeles, I grabbed a piece of letterhead at the office and composed an official invitation.

11

AMERICA 101: “THAT’S COOL”

THE INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL AT LOS ANGELES International Airport is the winged, modern version of Ellis Island. Of course, the mode of transportation is plane, not boat. And there are just as many people leaving as there are arriving. Here the stew of nationalities that comprise the United States is starkly evident: People of every imaginable skin color, mingling, hopefulness in their eyes, some carting boxes and bulging suitcases of items they’re transporting to make there a bit more like here, and to replicate here what they’ve left behind there. For every five pieces of luggage, there is one box containing a flat-panel TV.

The Friday night Ngawang was to land in Los Angeles, I was so excited that I got to the airport an hour and a half before her plane was due. This was one guest I would, without hesitation, not refer to a taxi or shuttle. I didn’t expect her plane to arrive early, but I did want to ensure a prominent place in the receiving line of eager friends and family and bored-looking car-service drivers. On my way, I stopped at the supermarket to buy something I’d never bought before: a corny welcome balloon, visual reenforcement of my excitement over this important visitor.

It seemed the least I could do. The trip Ngawang had just made was numbingly long. To shave off a bit of the cost, she had traveled a more arduous route than would a typical visitor to Bhutan: seven hours in a car out of Thimphu, three days on a train across India to Delhi, then nights of bunking at the Bhutanese embassy to wait for a call from the American authorities to see if she’d even be granted a visa. My personal invitation was no guarantee. U.S. customs agents are wary of allowing in another inevitable nanny.

“This will be a kind of mini-internship,” I had told Ngawang after sending the letter, “for you to see how media companies work here. But it’s a closed invitation. You can’t stay forever.” Because my apartment was small, my job and hours ever-changing, I explained, I couldn’t house her for more than a few weeks. While it felt rude to emphasize, I knew it was necessary to be clear. As far as the Bhutanese were concerned, it was your obligation, if someone came to visit, to put them up for as long as they needed or wanted to stay. Bhutanese living rooms were lined with couches, bumped up arm-to-arm and pressed against the walls, at the ready for whoever needed to sleep on them. Ngawang assured me that she understood, that she didn’t want to leave her family or her country permanently.

The day the phone rang with news from Delhi, Ngawang’s excitement practically pulsed through the lines: “They said yes! I can come there!” Now the travel