“I hate buffets,”  she said,  tugging on her dark skirt.

On her plate the broccoli and the jello had found each other at last.

“When I think of the Netherlands in English, I think of the Red Light District.”

She frowned at the jello.

“When I think of the Netherlands in Mandarin I think of Windmills.”

“The bruise?  I got it playing football.”

For the rest of the day I was confused until I realized she meant soccer.