A week ago Friday, Brian and I were invited to a dinner party. The hostess, Paula, is an English woman and relatively new faculty member in my department. She had lived in the United States for only a few weeks before the ‘07 spring term began. For the ‘07 and ‘08 spring semesters, Paula facilitated an introductory undergrad course in speech-language pathology. Both semesters I taught two lectures for her class (Language Development and Child Language Disorders), so I was one of the first grad students she had met, and probably one of the first people in Pittsburgh with whom she had a chance to interact beyond surface chatter.

As she and I met to prepare for class and then went for coffee to debrief after my lectures, Paula shared the woes of an international move during winter months.  She and her husband had only a fraction of their belongings with them while they waited for their other things to arrive via ship. I remember her concern for the declining temperatures in January, hoping that her winter attire would arrive sooner than later so she could wear something other than the one sweater she had brought with her on the plane. She and I not only talked about moving and home improvements and accents, but we also shared ideas about teaching styles, the differences between the educational systems in England and the United States, and how society is shaping student-professor relationships. Friendly, kind, and full of perspective, it was rather easy to enjoy her company over a medium Chai tea latte with skim.

It was dreary and drizzly when we arrived at her house a week ago Friday, nevertheless I anticipated a fun, lively evening. When she said some other friends would be joining us for dinner, I tried to guess who it might be – I figured some other faculty or students within our department.  Brian and I followed this quaint, little alley by foot to her back door (the front door was inaccessible because a neighbor planted a garden on top of their driveway).

As we walked in, smiles and warm greetings graced us all, although I was somewhat perplexed to discover that I didn’t know any of the other guests. After those initial hellos, a silence fell and my excitement morphed into a what am I doing here? sense of confusion. To add to this, I caught Paula double-checking a recipe for sardines in her Fish Recipe Cookbook. Did I just get transported to someone else’s dinner party in another country? Suddenly everything felt foreign.

Introductions happened quickly… Paula and her Scottish husband, a couple from their running group, a woman who works in the Instructional Development department, and the two of us. Get-to-know-you questions came slightly forced at first and answers were fairly short and non-leading. Running group? Oh, where do you run?  How often? Ah hah, I see. Instructional Development? What exactly does that entail? Oh, okay. Cool.

Why did I say ‘no’ to my first offer of wine?

I suggested that Paula give us a tour of the house. I had heard so much about the home improvements and was curious to see what came of them. Plus, I’m always fascinated with the layout and design of homes, particularly older homes that have so much character. This 1920s home was no exception. Their updates to the kitchen and dining area were charming with a gourmet feel. The bedroom with the full staircase that led to a small loft and the other bedroom with a full staircase that once led to another floor, but now led to attic storage, were unique and full of history. Still a work in progress, but such a warm, cozy home.

Shortly after the house tour we sat down for dinner. The table was full with an exotic cheese platter, breads, gourmet salad, rice, candied almonds, tomato platter, olives, and sardines. I was so relieved to find that God answered my prayer about the sardines. As we were upstairs learning about the updates to the bathroom, the sardine smell grew more potent, so I prayed fervently that both Brian and I would like the food at dinner. My fear was that, unlike trying something new in the presence of close family and friends where I could vomit on the spot and know that they would still love and accept me, I didn’t want to have a bad reaction to the sardines and offend such a kind and hospitable Paula on our very first dinner party outing. But by an act of Providence, the sardines were a non-issue. They were not a main dish with four to eat per person. In fact, there were only four total sardines for the seven of us, because Paula predicted that not everyone would be interested in that dish.

To be clear, it’s not that I resolved to dislike the sardines without giving them a chance. Even though I am not a lover of seafood, especially the kind that can still stare at me, I would have gladly tried one of those little fishys. Without any pressure of having to eat one, my curiosity had me wanting to sample one, but I just didn’t know what to do with eyeballs and head and scales and gills, so I passed.  There was enough other delicious food to fill my plate without a sardine. Maybe at the next dinner party I will be more bold.

It really didn’t take long at the table before the somewhat slow-rolling introductory conversation evolved into this natural, comfortable, fun chatter. A fellow guest who seemed to not know what to ask me at the top of the evening other than ‘where do you live?’ touched her hand to my arm repeatedly in agreement or shared laughter as story after story was exchanged. Sure, I was not quite ready to share how I wore a garbage bag on a dare or how I have runner’s trots issues, but I was still every bit myself. I think we all were.

Our differences melted away and we enjoyed the presence of each other. It didn’t matter that I was in my early thirties sitting at the table with a Scottish man who was about to turn fifty; what mattered more was that he and I could both trill our r’s. It didn’t matter that the running group friends had children – two sons, both danseurs – who had already graduated from college and we didn’t have any children; what mattered more was that we all enjoyed live theater. Someone mentioned a bike trail that Pittsburgh is planning on building and Brian piped in that his group at work is vying for the job to design the trail. We all knew someone with health concerns, knew what it was like to get frustrated at work, and knew how to laugh in spite of life’s trials. Travels, Olympics, elderly family members, cat! stories!, bike trails,… it took three or four times of saying that it was getting late and that we should call it a night before the group actually got up from the table.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is. Perhaps it’s: Don’t judge a dinner party by the smell of sardines. Perhaps there’s some message about the commonality of us all. Everyone has a unique story, but I bet there are more connections to our stories than we usually ever bother to consider. If we would allow ourselves to get past the bumpy introductions and obvious differences between us and would be willing to sit together at the table, we might find unexpected friends at a dinner party.

Categories: Daily Grind -- Tags: , ,