When the train draws closer to Mai’s village, she looks out the window at the rice fields and the huts squatting on the mud flats. “Do you really think it’s beautiful?” she asks me, taking another hard look at the countryside, trying to fathom what is beautiful about poverty. I reassure her that it is beautiful in its own way. American cities, I confide, are not too attractive. Lots of steel, glass, and concrete. Concrete everywhere. You have to go to a park to see dirt. She giggles into her palm. “How funny! Americans don’t like concrete. We love it. It’s special. It’s great for floors. We
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