“Hi, hello, namaste, my name is Rosa Blau. I’m eight years old and my favourite movie is Barbie. I have seen it 500 times and I’m a good girl!”

George lowered his newspaper and looked at his youngest daughter as if she had two heads. “What was all that?” he asked as she stood not too far from him with her wings clasped in front of her wearing a silly grin on her face. George had been sitting on the deck of the nest looking out at the peaceful Atlantic Ocean while reading his newspaper, as he did most evenings when he came home from work. That would inevitably lull him to sleep. He was getting close to that tipping point until Rosa came outside and interrupted his flow.

“Well,” she began, “daddy, we have a new girl in class and she’s Indian from India. Her name is Anjali and she taught me to say hello in Indian.” Rosa took a deep breath and continued, “Whenever we have a new classmate, we have to stand up and introduce ourselves after they go first. She said namaste my name is Jyoti something or the other. So, I assumed namaste means hello in Indian. So, when it was my turn, I said ‘hi, hello, namaste my name is…..”

“All right, all right, young lady you don’t have to repeat it. I understand.”

“But isn’t that cute daddy? Namaste is so much better than hi or hello. English is such a boring language. Maybe I should stop studying it and begin to learn Indian.”

George gave up on having his early evening nap. He put his paper down and swung his legs over, so he was now facing Rosa. “First of all, young lady, I don’t think their language is called Indian. I think it’s called Hindi and secondly,” George hesitated for a moment. “Are they Jewish?”

“I’m not sure if there are Jews in India though.”

“Yes, there are!” Timmy had walked out to see what Rosa was saying and found himself right in the middle of a discussion between father and daughter.

“Are there really?” George got slightly excited thinking he might have new congregants and especially new congregants who were exotic. “You know,” he began again, his voice a few octaves higher, “I bet Pawo and his family would love to meet them. Think of all the exotic food we could have.”

“What’s for dinner anyway?” asked Timmy who was ravenous at that time of day.

“I think Julie is making something with eggs, replied George wishing he could be left alone.

“I hate eggs!” said a dejected Rosa, “it’s murder.”
“Rosa dear,” her father not wanting her to spoil his appetite, “there’s nothing wrong with eggs.”

“Yes, there is. With every egg you eat is one chicken that’s not born.”

“But I thought you would like that,” Timmy turned to walk into the kitchen to see what Julie was making. “Because the more eggs you eat, then less chickens will be born and then there will be less chickens for you to eat.”

Rosa was stumped for a second and it showed on her face. She was silent and looked out over the ocean thinking of a comeback. George took it his daughter giving up, so he swung his feet back on to the deck chair and lifted the paper to begin reading again.

“Julie is making a frittata,” Timmy walked back out on to the deck with that little bit of information.

“Is that Indian?” asked Rosa.

“No, that’s Spanish or French. I’m not sure which. But she’s also making French fries with it.” “Oh, that sounds wonderful!” George put his newspaper down finally coming to terms that his early before dinner nap was not happening. “So, we have a Spanish dish with French fries. How European. I’m hungry is it time for dinner yet?”

“No dad,” replied Timmy still standing at the sliding doors which led from the deck to the dining room, “Julie said it will be about fifteen minutes more.”

Rosa stood against the railing now with her back to the ocean as she began banging against it. “How many times have I told you to be careful young lady? I don’t think the railing is strong enough to stop you from falling over. It was made a long time ago and we probably should get another railing soon.”

“Can I have oatmeal?” Rosa asked as Sybil walked onto the deck having finished laying the table.

“No Rosa dear. Oatmeal is only for breakfast.”

“Not in India!” Rosa shot back, “Anjali told me they have oatmeal cooked in some sort of broth for dinner every night. Maybe I should call her and she can come over with some.” “Who’s Anjali?” asked Sybil and George explained to his wife who she was and out of the corner of his eye he saw Rosa about to begin her little speech.

“Stop!” he said raising his right wing and Rosa in a huff stomped her feet and walked past her mother into the kitchen. A moment later everyone on the deck heard Julie shout for her father. George got up and went indoors. “What’s the matter Julie.”

“Can you take Rosa away please. She’s saying something about namesake or something like that.”
“No daddy. I was saying namaste to Julie not namesake. I told her there’s a new girl in my class from India and that namaste was……..” she let her last word tail way as she could see the look on her father’s face.

“Is dinner ready yet Julie? I understand you’re making an egg dish with French fries.”

“It will be if Rosa and Timmy and mummy leave me alone.”

“Come on Rosa. Let’s go and watch the sunset.” The two of them walked outside just as the sun was beginning its majestic decline in the West over the far right corner of the ocean past Surf City. “So, Rosa dear, you never told me where your new friend and her family live.”

“You never asked me daddy.” George looked at Rosa. “No daddy. You asked me if they were Jewish, and you told me their language wasn’t Indian.”

George smiled sheepishly. He realised he had been caught up in the whirlwind of events which unfolded on the deck. “You’re right young lady, I’m sorry. Where do they live?”

“About two streets down from us on Mayberry Lane.”

“Mayberry Lane?” queried George, “I’ve never heard of a Mayberry Lane. Where exactly is that?”

“Over there,” pointed Rosa at the setting sun.

“Dinner is ready!” shouted Julie.

“Do I have to eat?” pleaded Rosa.

“Please don’t,” replied Timmy, “then I can have your portion.”

Rosa watched her entire family walk into the dining room while she remained on the deck. A few seconds later Sybil came out, “come on little one, time to eat dinner.”

“I’m not hungry,” replied Rosa pouting and crossing her wings.

“Ok,” replied Sybil walking back in, “I’ll have your portion of oatmeal then.”

“Oatmeal!” shouted Rosa, “daddy said we can’t have oatmeal for dinner.”

“They do in India, don’t they?” Sybil asked.

“That’s what my friend said.”

“In which case there is in this global meal.”

“Wait for me!” shouted Rosa running towards the sliding glass door before Sybil closed it.