little window-shopping in London, or a stroll in a park in Sydney would rarely fetch a wayward glance. In our home countries, we often go about our daily lives as they really are: mundane and quotidian. But in China, even a simple errand is an exercise in comparative consumption. Take for example those idle clerks at local supermarkets who have no inhibition whatsoever in taking a gander at what you're planning on buying. I remember when this was wholly foreign to me, but with enough visits to the local Chaoshifa under my belt, I no longer even flinch at the prying eyes. Indeed, a part of me has come to welcome the attention, as if my milk and cereal were really something illicit. The key to living in China is to make the foreign somehow feel familiar, however impossible that might seem at times.

My Chinese friends often ask me what life would be like for them were the roles reversed, meaning if they were foreigners living in the United States. Without meaning to downplay the various challenges that Chinese do face in going abroad--from obtaining visas to overcoming language barriers--I find it hard to believe that they would receive the same amount of scrutiny over there that foreigners do here.

And when the scrutiny stops, the speaking (or lack thereof) really begins. For one, perhaps out of fear that you simply cannot understand Mandarin, normally gregarious Chinese people are less likely to speak with you at all; what's more, when I try to converse in Chinese, they often turn an instinctive deaf ear. Rather than making the extra effort to understand my fledgling attempts to get the tones right, the locals often give up before I have even finished my thought.

Yet, even when language is not standing in the way, cultural conditioning certainly is. Cultural differences go beyond the food we eat or the languages we speak, right to the heart of where we feel at home. There is an essential outsider status that no amount of time spent here will completely erase, as evidenced by the stares a foreigner draws from taking part in strictly native activities, such as speaking Mandarin or frequenting local haunts. If foreigners only lived in secluded Western communities, with their Western habits, perhaps foreigners and locals would strike an uneasy balance: one country, two systems indeed. In reality, the closer we foreigners get to living the life of a local, the further we often feel from fitting in.

Moreover, coming from a country that prides itself on being a cultural melting pot, I find that extended living in the relatively homogenous wok of China is oddly addictive. This is not to say that Chinese people do not come in many shapes and sizes, but Westerners still stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. And after receiving the notoriety of a C-list celebrity--complete with gawking, whispering, and the occasional photo--how are we supposed to go back to Western anonymity? Can we, in fact, get so used to being foreign that we forget what it means to be native?

Indeed, I do not know what I would talk about with new acquaintances if not my country. One of my favorite games to play in Beijing when meeting someone for the first time is to let them guess where I am from. This is not because I am any sort of cultural mystery, but rather because I believe myself to be the opposite. Yet time and time again, I am astounded to hear what errant guesses come out of their mouths. Surely, the average Westerner could draw no distinction between, say, Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, but I was surprised to find that the average Chinese is no better at distinguishing among laowai.

And let's not forget the most alienating form of familiarity: the chance encounter with another expat, of whom there are reputedly 50,000 alone in Beijing. First, there is the all-too-familiar moment when eyes meet across a crowded street or subway platform, as it is instinct to pick a tall, fair-haired, Western-dressed needle out of a haystack of Chinese people. This is followed by the wry exchange of knowing glances. After this fleeting moment, without saying a word, we each go on with our separate, foreign lives. I find these moments the most taxing of all, as they somehow manage to strip away the veil of my fragilely constructed myth and lay bare the cold, hard truth that, while foreign, I am not unique. Indeed, even in China, what was exotic is fast becoming commonplace.

Ultimately, we are foreign only insofar as we are from somewhere else. And as myriad nations, cultures, languages, and races descend upon the historically inward-looking land of China, perhaps it is the quaintness of familiarity that is on its way out. Foreignness and foreigners just might be here to stay.