Amy: My friend Entela and I were out on the town yesterday and we came to this bakery that sells doughnuts – I’m talking the real thing: authentic, Sunday-morning-before-church, police-officer-hang-out, road-trip-middle-of-the-night-gas-station doughnuts. It’s 5:00 at night, haven’t had dinner yet, but of course I have to have one. It’s more than a taste of home. It’s a doughnut. We walk in and I stare at all the choices (half of which are gone since it’s the end of the day): Raspberry-jelly filled (with powdered sugar), Boston Cream-filled, vanilla frosted chocolate, coconut-frosted, etc, etc, etc. I raise my finger to point at the one I want and I hear yo, yo, yo in Albanian which means no, no, no in English. I look at my friend Entela who is sadly shaking her head. She tells me the woman is refusing to sell me a doughnut because they’re not fresh. “I don’t care,” I say, but the woman continues to tell me no. I’m willing to pay her any price, she shoots me down. “You’ll think I make bad doughnuts if I sell you these,” she tells us in Albanian. “No I won’t,” I charm, “I’m sure you make wonderful doughnuts. Besides, Americans sometimes like them old.” I turn to Entela, “Really, they’re very good old. The glaze gets all crunchy and everything. Tell her I like them old. “Yo, yo, yo,” the shopkeeper says. “Look,” I tell her “what if I buy one, and promise not to eat it.” I’m desperate and playing dirty now. She laughs. I laugh politely. I say thank you and tell her good-bye. She smiles and says good-night. I walk out, crushed.